leave on the light for meeeee

Dustin—who had stumbled into Family Video over half an hour ago alongside Max to try and convince Steve into letting them rent an R rated horror for the party’s weekly movie night—laughs loudly, causing Steve to groan into his hands before resting his head against the cool countertop in defeat.

“I’ll just go alone,” Steve grumbles against his arm. “I’ll just look like a sad, sad loser going to alone to a wedding and—”

“What about Max’s sister?”

Steve can’t help it. He lets out a snort of disbelief before standing up straight.

He doesn’t miss the look of annoyance Max shoots his way.

“What’s wrong with my sister, Harrington?” She asks pointedly and Steve’s ears turn red.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with you per se. In fact, Steve had very briefly considered asking you the moment that he had gotten off the phone with Juliet. But there was just one small problem—

“Nothing!” Steve says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Absolutely nothing! She just—”

“Hates his guts?” Dustin offers.

Max rolls her eyes in exasperation, folding her arms across her chest as she looks from Dustin to Steve.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Max insists. “She just—she just thinks you’re an asshole and would prefer not to be in the same room as you.”

Steve swallows. Something that felt like shame swirls in his gut. Of course, you had every reason to dislike him and Steve would be the first to put his hands up and say he probably deserved it. You two had very much gotten off on the wrong foot after you had overheard him call Billy’s family—and by extension your family—’trash’. It had been in the heat of the moment and he had only said it because Billy had been pushing his buttons all day. The moment he had realised that you were within earshoot, he had regretted saying it. But because he was stubborn and, at that point in time, cared more about what others thought of him than doing the right thing, and so he didn’t take them back. He didn’t apologise.

He later tried, after the first dance with the Upside Down together, after you had stopped Billy from almost killing him in Byers’ home with a syringe but you had scoffed and walked away like you didn’t buy it. You had made it very clear that you didn’t want to accept his apology, that you had made your mind up about him despite the fact your sister could not care less about the comment. He understood why—you were her big sister and you were protecting your family. Especially after Starcourt, especially after Billy died.

And so, Steve wasn’t exactly convinced by Max’s insistence that you didn’t hate him.

“There is no way she’ll go with me,” Steve says with a shake of his head, arms folded across his chest. “She hates—”

“—she will,” Max says with a knowing smile. “She owes me a favour.”

Steve blinks, looking from Max to Dustin and back again, as if waiting for one of them to shout ‘April Fools!’.

When neither of them does, Steve raises a brow at Max.

“What for?”

“She broke my skateboard,” Max explains. “I was gonna make her buy me a new one but making her go to a wedding with you sounds more interesting.”

Dustin laughs and the corner of Max’s mouth twitches but Steve looks thoroughly unconvinced.

“Gee, thanks Max,” Steve mutters, eyes shifting down to the pile of tapes stacked in front of him that he was meant to be rewinding. “But I really don’t think she’ll agree.”

And so, Steve spends the rest of his shift rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to his aunt when he called her to tell him he would be attending the wedding tomorrow, minus his plus one. 

Five minutes before his shift was due to end, Steve was carefully rearranging the candy selection just as the bell above the door sounded. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Of course—it was just his luck that a customer had decided to waltz in five minutes before his shift ended. He would put money on the fact it was a group of teenagers who would refuse to leave, teenagers who would mess up the horror display he had spent forty five minutes rearranging, teenagers who pick up the tape for Body Heat to try and convince Steve that they weren’t fourteen.

“We’re closing in—”

“—in five minutes. I know. I can read a clock, Harrington.”

Steve’s stomach turns at the sound of your voice. His head whips around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t hurt himself. He certainly dropped all of the bars of candy that he had been holding. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Steve asks, blinking as he watches you approach the counter with a schooled expression. “Robin has the flu if that’s what you—”

“—I’m here to see you,” you interrupt, eyes flicking down to the peanut butter bopper still clutched in Steve’s hand before you look back up at his face. “Max told me about your—your plus one situation.”

“Oh,” Steve says, the tips of his ears reddening as he looks down at all the candy bars he had dropped, the ones he had been lovingly arranging for the past ten minutes. “Yeah um, that Juliet cancelled on me. She’s cat sitting or something so can’t um, make it.”

You quirk a brow and Steve can tell by the look on your face that you want nothing more than to make a comment, to crack a joke, perhaps even tell him that he had very clearly been stood up, that there was no way Juliet had actually cancelled on him to cat sit. But you don’t, instead you seem to take a deep breath before you say. “I’ll do it.”

The bopper in Steve’s hand falls to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up before looking back ar you.

“Seriously?” He asks, his eyes wide as he tries his best not to look too hopeful. “You—you’re not—this isn’t a prank, right?”

You frown slightly. “Why would I do that?”

Steve blinks before he shakes his head because really, he knew you would never do anything like that to him. 

“I—I dunno—I just—you know this is a wedding, right?” Steve asks you. “Like I’ll be in a suit and you’d wear—”

“—a dress,” you finish. “I know, Max told me. I have a dress if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Steve swallows, the bopper that was back in his grip starting to melt in his sweaty grasp. “I’m not worried about that, it's just—are you sure? Like, are you sure about coming to this wedding—with me?”

You exhale, looking away from Steve momentarily to look around the store, almost as though you were bracing yourself for something big.

“Yes, Harrington,” you say finally. “As a favour to Max, I’ll go to this wedding with you.”

Steve looks back at you for a long, long moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or that you weren’t going to tell him you were joking. When he realises that this wasn’t a dream and you say nothing, he starts to smile.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much. This means a lot. My family are—yeah—this is just, it’s really great of you to—”

“—but I’m not dancing with you,” you cut in quickly, fiddling with your hands as you look away from him. “Or doing anything remotely touchy feely. I’m just your plus one. That’s it. That’s all I’ll be.”

“That’s fine!” Steve says quickly, wiping his clammy hands over his jeans before setting down the bopper onto the countertop beside him, the wrapper crumpled and the chocolate inside a little gooey. “Makes sense. Yeah. Um, totally. No dancing. Limited touching. Ju—just my plus one.”

You look at him for a beat before finally, you nod. “Good. Glad we got that covered,” you say before you lean down to pick up one of the candy bars he had dropped and tear open the wrapper.

“You know you need to pay for th—”

“See you tomorrow, Harrington,” you say, smiling before taking a large bite from the chocolate bar and walking straight out of Family Video.

“Could you sit still? Just for two minutes?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Max looked back at you blankly in the mirror before shaking her head, returning her attention to your hair, ignoring you.

You huff but you don’t question her further.

You didn’t want to admit it to yourself but as it drew nearer to ten in the morning—the time that you agreed to be ready by with Steve late last night when he had called you in a slight panic, having forgotten to tell that the wedding was over an hour away—you found that you were starting to feel nervous. 

The pale green satin dress you were wearing—the one you had been saving for Max’s graduation—hugged your body in a way that you weren’t used to. Max and your mom insisted that you looked beautiful but you didn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Especially knowing you’d be spending the day and most of the evening on the arm of Steve Harrington.

“Is it too late to back out now?” You ask Max hopefully, setting down the blusher you had been applying while she was focused on your hair. “I mean—I could say I got the flu from Robin or—”

“—absolutely not,” Max snaps at you. “Just give him a chance? Alright? He’s not the asshole he was in high school.”

You hum in acknowledgement at her words but you don’t respond. You had heard that sentiment plenty of times before, you just couldn’t allow yourself to believe it.

By some miracle, you were ready just before ten o’clock. After slipping on some silver kitten heels, you stand up straight and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror next to your bed. It was hard not to smile at how pretty you felt.

“Still wanna back out?” You hear Max ask from the door of your shared bedroom, one of your mom’s nice silver purses she only used for special occasions clutched in her hands.

You look over your shoulder at Max before your eyes flicker back to your reflection, at the hair Max had lovingly styled and the makeup you had delicately applied but mostly at the dress that gave you a fluttery feeling in your stomach. 

“No,” you say with a small shake of your head before you turn to look at your sister. “I made a promise so I should stick to it.”

Max looks at you before she smiles. “You look really pretty, by the way.”

Your face warms a little at the compliment but you try to hide it, walking over to Max to take your mom’s purse from her hands. “Not bad for a last minute wedding.”

The corner of Max’s mouth twitches before she walks over to you to carefully adjust one of your hair clips. “You promise to be nice to Steve? Give him a chance to prove himself?”

“Max—”

Max cuts you off with your name and you look back at her carefully. “I’m serious. I want you two to get along. You’re important to me, he’s important to me.”

You feel yourself soften, just a little. Because if something mattered to your little sister, it mattered to you too.

“Just don’t—don’t tell him I said that,” Max adds.

You fight back a smile. “I won’t.”

It was five minutes later when there was a knock at the front door. Your stomach turned nervously as Max ran to answer it.

“You look great,” your mom smiles reassuringly. You smile back—not entirely knowing why you felt so nervous. This was just Steve. Just Steve—the guy who just last week you had yelled at for breathing too loud. Just Steve—the guy you were now going to a damn wedding with.

You take a deep breath before bidding your mom goodbye and following the voices of Max and Steve out of your room.

“—is the tie the right colour?” You hear Steve ask Max, a nervous edge to his voice. “‘Pale green’ was right of vague, I had to—”

“—you don’t need to match with her dress, it’s not prom, Steve—”

“—but I thought—”

You walk into the open plan living room and suddenly, Steve stops talking.

In fact, Steve Harrington seems to stop breathing as he looks at you.

He was looking at you in a way that took your breath away for a few short seconds before you remember just how infuriating you thought he was. But for a brief moment, you allow yourself to look at Steve—really look at him—and admire just how nice he looked. He had always been good looking, even you could admit that, but right now with his wide hazel eyes, parted lips and the suit he was wearing—the tie of which almost perfectly matched your dress—he looked stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that made your stomach tighten.

The moment the thought enters your mind, heat spreads throughout your body. You determinedly ignore it.

“You’re late,” you say by way of a hello, hoping your voice doesn’t give any indication that you felt nothing but apathy for the man in front of you. “You know it’s rude to show up after the bride?”

Steve blinks, seeming to snap out of whatever momentary trance you had sent him in so that he could frown at your words.

“It was the tie! And there was some construction near the—”

“—still. You’re late.”

Steve seems to bite his tongue with whatever retort he had ready to go, his eyes flickering over to match who Max watches the exchange, thoroughly entertained. 

“Ready to go?” Steve asks you, choosing to ignore your remark as he steps towards the door.

You nod, opening your mom’s purse to check you had your lip gloss and some extra hair clips before looking back at Steve. “Yeah. Ready to—”

“—wait!” Max exclaims and you know what was coming before she even opens her mouth. “Let me just go grab the camera. I want this moment framed.”

Neither of you stop yourself from groaning loudly at that.

The drive to the wedding venue took a little over an hour and the car ride with Steve was almost completely silent, save for the radio that seemed to be the saving grace of the journey. 

It dawned on you that you hadn’t ever really spent one on one time with Steve before. Sure, you two had been through a lot together when it came to the upside down, but you had never hung out, not really. But now—you face the prospect of spending the entire day together. At a wedding, no less.

One thing you quickly learned about Steve was that he hummed while listening to music. A lot. Like it was beginning to grate on you kind of a lot.

“Do you have to hum while listening to music?” You ask him in a terse voice after almost thirty minutes of biting your tongue.

You watch Steve stiffen slightly out of the corner of your eye, watch the way his knuckles tighten around his steering wheel and you register the instant ceasing of his humming.

“It’s my car,” Steve points out. “I can hum in my car if I want.”

You open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him that his humming was incredibly annoying and to tell him to stop. But then you thought of Max, you thought of your promise to her that you’d try to be nice to Steve, that you would give him a chance. You find yourself pursing your lips, carefully considering your options before you decide to let this minor annoyance slip. 

Baby steps.

But when Steve pulls his Beamer into a church car park that was swarming with pastel coloured dresses, fascinators and expensive suits, it felt more like diving headfirst into cold water than tentative baby steps.

“Are you ready for this?” Steve asks you gently, sensing your apprehension as you make no move to leave the safety of his car.

You swallow nervously, soothing down your dress as you nod because suddenly, you were acutely aware of the fact that your dress cost less than thirty dollars and that your heels were scuffed, owing to the fact you had bought them secondhand from a thrift store.

“Yeah,” you lie because Hawkins was over an hour away and both you and Max had put too much effort in your appearance to turn back now. But as Steve’s hand moves to open the door, you add, “it’s just—I’m not—I’m not great with family.”

Steve’s hand stops mid-air, inches away from the door handle as he looks over at you carefully before the corners of his mouth lift into something akin to a smile. “That makes two of us,” Steve tells you. “So don’t worry. My parents hate everyone. Just don’t take it personally and you’ll be fine.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

To his credit, the moment that you finally stepped out of his car, Steve was right by your side. His hand, though tentative, rests on the small of your back as you walk towards the church, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You were already regretting the heels.

As you walk by throngs of Steve’s relatives, he gives you a very quick run down of who’s who while you try to keep up.”

“That’s my uncle Simon,” Steve tells you, nodding to a man in a suit that looked so expensive that you briefly wondered if you were even allowed to look at it. “Been married like three times. Doesn’t seem to understand what monogamy is.”

You bit back a laugh.

“That’s my great aunt Sara—”

“—great aunt?” You repeat, looking at the women Steve had subtly pointed to who did not look old enough to even be considered a great aunt. “Are you sure she’s—”

“—she had a face lift,” Steve explains and you nod slowly. “Well, we all suspect she’s had a face lift. She’s never actually said. She just keeps saying it’s because slathers herself in honey or egg whites every morning.”

Another laugh you had to fight back.

Steve was just telling you about some falling out between his grandmother and cousin as someone calls his name. Steve stops talking mid-sentence to look over at who had called out his name and smiles.

“And this,” he murmurs to you as a woman with a kind, heart shaped face and bright smile approaches. “Is my aunt Edith. She’s a bit much but—”

“Stevie! Oh, look at you!”

You watch in fascination as Steve Harrington—the guy who had been known as King Steve, the guy who had once held a keg stand record for almost three years—turns bright red.

“Edith—”

“—what?” Edith beams at the sight of Steve, carefully adjusting his blazer and fusing over his tie. “Is it a crime now to say hello to my favourite nephew?”

Steve doesn’t respond as even the tips of his ears turn red but his aunt doesn’t tease him any further, instead her soft eyes shift over to you.

“And who is this beautiful young lady?” Edith asks, her gaze so warm and friendly that you couldn’t help but smile at her. “Steve, is this your—”

“—friend,” Steve says quickly and with a quick glance over at you. “Just a friend.”

In any other circumstances, you would have corrected Steve if he referred to you as a friend but you let it slide. Baby steps.

“And a friendship is a beautiful foundation for a relationship,” Edith says to a blushing Steve before she looks back at you. “I’m only teasing him, honey. Don’t look so worried.”

You let out a breathy laugh before shaking your head. “No, go ahead. Tease away. I didn’t know he could turn that shade of red.”

Edith laughs and despite Steve rolling his eyes, he lets out a reluctant chuckle. 

“Oh, I like her already.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches before he tells Edith your name and you can’t help but notice the flash of recognition in her eyes when she hears Steve reel off your last name. You can’t blame her. The surname Mayfield and the names of your family had been splashed all over the newspapers after Starcourt, Billy's death.

But Edith doesn’t say anything, which you appreciate.

“You two should probably head inside,” Edith tells you with a nod towards the church. “Or you might be in danger of being run over by the bride.”

You let Steve guide you inside, his hand still on your back as you enter the church.

“Sorry about Edith,” Steve says as you walk towards the church pews. “She’s really—”

“—she was lovely,” you tell Steve. “Really. She wasn’t too much at all.”

Steve nods but you can see the look of quiet gratitude in his eyes.

You sit down in the pews beside Steve, becoming acutely aware of his thigh pressing against yours, of the way he was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh as his eyes darted around the church. You knew without asking that he was looking for his parents.

“By the way,” Steve murmurs after a moment, his eyes shifting back to you. “I forgot to say earlier but you look—”

But Steve was cut off by a sudden swell of music that signalled the arrival of the bride and whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue.

As Daisy met her soon to be husband at the altar and the ceremony began, you tried your very best to remain present. But as your eyes flickered around the church, something swirled in your gut. The realisation that the last time you had been in a church—albiet, nowhere near as extravagant as this—had been at Billy’s funeral.  

Despite the fact you hadn’t been very close with Billy nor had you even remotely liked your step-brother, Billy’s death had affected you more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just because of what had happened to your family in the immediate aftermath of Billy’s death, when your step-dad had left Hawkins and took every bit of stability you had left with him. It was also the immense guilt and complicated things that you found yourself feeling that had made Billy’s death difficult to navigate, guilt that you felt for surviving Starcourt when Billy didn’t, guilt for also feeling so much resentment towards Billy when he had been alive for making your and Max’s life miserable but deep down, desperately things had been different for him.

But most of all, the thing that had been the most difficult about Billy’s death? It was seeing how it had affected Max and the crushing realisation that came the moment you had heard her scream out Billy’s name—was that, try as you might, you couldn’t protect Max from everything.

And so, as you sat beside Steve Harrington in the pews you were barely listening to Daisy and her soon to be husband Dale exchange their vows. And you even miss Steve sniffling quietly beside you.

After the ceremony—of which, you remember very little—you and Steve make the short journey to the reception which would be held at a magnificent farmhouse outside of which there was a beautiful rose garden. You would have thought it a truly breathtaking sight if you still weren’t so in your own head, still thinking about Billy, of the funeral and Max.

Though he wasn’t saying anything, Steve could tell something was wrong. The small rapport you had built before the ceremony had vanished, you didn’t even complain when he had ordered you the wrong drink by accident.

“Okay,” Steve sighs, looking at your expression carefully after pulling you to the side of the bar. “You gonna tell me what’s up? Did I do something or—”

You blink, looking at Steve as though only just seeing him properly for the first time. 

“I haven’t—I haven’t been in a church since—” you stop yourself, averting your eyes in favour of watching a few of Steve’s smaller cousins running around to distract yourself from the slight burn you were feeling behind your eyes.

You miss how Steve’s eyes soften, how his expression shifts and how he half raises his hand as though he had to stop himself from reaching for you.

“Oh,” he says softly, so softly that you barely recognise his voice and you have to look at him just to be sure it was really Steve. “I didn’t—I didn’t even think. I’m sorry. I—”

“—it’s okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face as you look back at Steve. “I’m okay. It was a really beautiful ceremony.”

Steve looks at you and there was a brief moment where you thought that he was just going to drop it. That he wasn’t going to push you to talk but he said your name in that new, soft voice and you knew you weren’t going to get away that easily.

“—I know I’m not your favourite person in the world but you know you can talk to me about—”

“—Steven! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

You watch as Steve’s face almost completely drains of colour.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters to you as your peer over his shoulder to see a couple—who were undoubtedly his parents—striding towards to two of you. “Okay. It’s just my parent’s. It’s just my—”

“—oh, you must be Steven’s girlfriend!” Steve’s mother exclaims happily as both she and his father approach. You were so taken aback by the hug she pulled you into that you don’t even try to correct her on the fact you were not Steve’s girlfriend and Steve makes no attempt to correct her. Instead, his face reddens and he shoots you an apologetic smile.

That son of a—

“He had told us you were pretty but I don’t think you’d be—”

“—mom,” Steve mutters, his face now burning as he avoids direct eye contact with you, clearly not wanting to give away the fact that you definitely were not his girlfriend. But you didn’t care about it that much anymore, not when you had just learned that Steve Harrington had told his parents that you were pretty.

Steve introduces you to both his parents and, like Edith, you see the flash of recognition across their faces at your surname but unlike Edith, Steve’s parents didn’t let your name pass without acknowledgement.

“Oh dear,” his moms says kindly, placing a gentle hand on your arm that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. “I thought I recognised your face. Billy Hagrove was your step-brother, right?”

You don’t trust yourself to talk and nor do you look at Steve as you nod.

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” his father says to you solemnly, though his expression does not change in the slightest. “Awful accident.”

You smile in acknowledgement but you aren’t quite sure what to say. Thank you? Everything you knew you should say when someone offered their condolences would sound insincere. Unnatural, even. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for you, Steve’s father continues talking.

“And for his father to leave the way he did, leaving your family, a single mother to struggle and live in a trailer park of all places—it must really be awful for your family. Being amongst drug dealers and god knows what else in that park!”

You swallow. It had been awful but you didn’t think much of Danny Harrington’s tone—of the fact he sounded more sorry that your family were living in a trailer park than grieving. You still had Max and your mom—even if she had started drinking to cope—and a roof over your heads. It was all you needed.

But before you could tell Steve’s father any of this, before you could even consider politely standing up for yourself, Steve Harrington got there first.

“Dad, let’s not—let’s not go there, okay?” Steve says, placing a hand on your back as if ready to steer you away from the conversation.

Danny Harrington, for a very brief moment, looks taken aback by his son’s words but had enough sense to understand the topic of Billy Hagrove and the Mayfield family was off limits.

“Very well,” he says with a small nod and a tight lipped smile. “Enjoy the evening, both of you.”

The moment his parents leave you and Steve standing at the side of the bar, you feel immense relief.

You breathe a sigh of relief, not even noticing how tense you had felt for the past two minutes as you turn towards Steve. “That was—”

“—I’m really sorry,” Steve cuts in, his hand leaving your back in order to scrub over his face. Before you could even ask what he was sorry for, he continues. “For making them think that you’re my girlfriend. I panicked a little and didn’t know what to say—”

“—Steve, it’s—”

“—and I’m sorry for butting in like that. I know you can stand up for yourself and you didn’t need me to—you know. I just—my dad he just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t just let him talk to you like that. Like he—”

“—Harrington.”

Steve swallows, looking back at you as though he was bracing himself, ready for you to yell at him for doing something for you that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself. But to his utter surprise, you start to smile at him.

“It’s okay,” you tell him gently. “I—I appreciate it. Really. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Steve looks at you as if to make sure that you weren’t lying, his eyes on you making your stomach turn in a way that you weren’t used to around him. 

“Okay,” Steve says with a grateful smile. “Okay. That—that’s good. I thought you were going to lose your shit at me for a second.”

“No,” you say, stopping yourself from smiling back at him. “But the girlfriend thing though, still undecided about that.”

Steve can’t help it, his face flushes a warm pink and before he knows it, he was laughing and you find yourself joining in.

Baby steps.

He says your name then and you look at him, the expression on his face as he looks at you makes the world around you feel a little fussy, makes your stomach flip and your cheeks grow hot.

“Yeah?” you reply in a voice that you hope doesn’t give away just how slightly flustered you were feeling.

“I wanted to—I forgot to say this earlier,” he begins, scratching the back of his neck as though he was nervous, despite the fact you didn’t think it at all possible for Steve Harrington to be nervous. “I think—you just—you look beautiful, Mayfield.”

You weren’t entirely sure why those words had such a monumental effect on you, but they did. Your breath hitches, your face feels ten times hotter and you were almost positive that Steve could hear your heart beating out of your chest because of those words.

“You look pretty good yourself, Steve,” you say with a small, barely there smile.

Steve blinks and then—

“You just called me Steve,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting.

You shrug, you pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

Baby steps.

It was hard not to smile watching Steve twirl not one but two of his little cousins around, especially when their laughter was full of unbridled joy as they begged him for just one more spin around the dancefloor.

You sat at the table you and Steve had been convening at for the past few hours. The table where you had sat for the reception dinner with a handful of his cousins, where you had struggled to hold back tears at the speech by the father of the bride and Steve had placed a warm, comforting hand on your arm. Your skin was still tingling from his touch.

“Please Steve!” the youngest of his cousins, maybe five or six, pouted up at him. “Just one more!”

“Later,” Steve promises with a quick glance over at you. “Later, I promise!”

You were fighting back yet another smile at their whines of protest, at Steve ruffling their hair to make them squeal before walking back over to your table.

“What are you smiling at?” He asks, sitting down in the chair beside yours before taking a long swig of his beer.

“Nothing,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth of your cheeks. “Just—you’re really good with kids.”

Even the colourful disco lights couldn’t conceal the impressive shade of red that Steve had turned at your words.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” Steve murmurs. “Kids are much easier when there’s no Upside Down involved.”

You laugh, which over a few courses of dinner had become something of a common occurrence with Steve. He had made you laugh a lot, more than you wanted to admit. You were beginning to think that Max was right, that perhaps you had been a little too harsh on Steve over the past few years and you even started to feel bad for not giving him a chance sooner. Not that you would ever admit that.

It’s quiet between the two of you then. You watch Steve’s fingers gently drum against the beer bottle in his hands and as he glances over at the dancefloor. You can’t help but look over too, remembering that you had told him no dancing. You found yourself suddenly regretting that part of the deal.

“You want another drink?” Steve asks you, setting down his now empty bottle of beer. “I can get you another—”

“—do you want to dance?”

The words slip out before you could second guess them and you feel your stomach tighten in apprehension. If Steve said no then you would surely have to move far, far away and—

“Yes,” Steve says quietly and with a nod. “I’d love to.”

You look at him to see he was smiling at you and you hate the fact his smile makes your stomach feel a little fussy inside.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you tell him with a faint smile as you stand up from your chair, Steve mirroring your action only a few seconds later.

“I’ll be a gentleman,” Steve tells you with a smile that makes you wonder why you had ever disliked him in the first place. “Promise.”

The moment you and Steve were finally on the dancefloor together, the rest of the wedding faded into nothing. From Cyndi Lauper, to a-ha to Elton John, you and Steve Harrington danced until your feet began to hurt. He spun you around, he laughed when you stumbled over your heels and you laughed when a drunken uncle of his had spilled whiskey all over his blazer. Your laughter quickly died when Steve had thrown his blazer aside, leaving him in his white shirt that he had unbuttoned while loosening his tie, giving you a peak at the hair that adorned his chest. Your throat felt a little try at the sight. 

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Steve begins, smiling at you as Heaven Is A Place On Earth fades into Come On Eileen, “or are you checking me out, Miss Mayfield?”

You laugh like it was funny despite the fact you definitely had been checking him out.

“No,” you deny it with a laugh that causes the corners of Steve’s mouth to twitch. “Course not, Harrington.”

“Oh? Are we back to Harrington, now?” Steve asks in a teasing voice that makes you feel so hot it feels as though your stomach was suddenly made from molten lava. “What did I do? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman to you, Mayfield.”

It took you a moment to realise that he was flirting with you and as soon as you did the heat in your gut began to burn. 

“Just keeping you on your toes,” you tell him, your eyes seeming to sparkle in the light as you look back at him. 

Steve hums, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face as he looks at you. “Misson accomplished.”

There was something in his eyes that seemed to hold you captive, you couldn’t move, could barely breathe and in that second, his eyes dip down to your lips.

“Mayfield, I—”

“—Steve!”

It was the voice of his younger cousins’, the ones he had promised another dance with. You watch as he has to force himself to look away from you, his eyes flickering back for a brief moment to apologise.

“It’s okay,” you tell him with a smile, ignoring the pang of disappointment that had taken refuge in your gut. “I’ll um, I’ll go get another drink while you—”

You gesture towards his younger cousins’ who were both tugging on his arms impatiently, demanding Steve’s attention. He shoots you one last apologetic look before he bends down to pick both squealing girls up with one only arm. You couldn’t deny the way your heart doubled in size at the sight. 

You make your way over to the bar, passing by his parents who you avoid eye contact with while you order yourself another glass of wine and Steve another beer. You tap your nails against the wooden top of the bar, your eyes finding Steve dancing with his younger cousins’ easily. 

“He’s always been great like that with kids.”

The sound of Steve’s Aunt Edith’s voice makes you jump, very nearly spilling Steve’s beer.

“Sorry honey,” she chortles, steading the bottle as you look away from Steve and over at her. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a genuine smile because unlike Steve’s parents, Aunt Edith didn’t make you feel even remotely nervous. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Becuase you were too busy staring at my nephew?” She offers with a wry smile.

Your face warms but you don’t even try to deny it.

“You know, I’ve seen my nephew with a fair few women over the years but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any who could make him blush like you have over the course of the evening,” she tells you.

You couldn’t stop the look of shock from passing over your face, your body buzzing with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I’m just saying,” she continues when you say nothing, your fingers still tapping nervously against the table, “that I think, as his favourite auntie, that you’d be pretty grear together.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say and perhaps Edith knew that because she smiled at you kindly before walking away.

Edith’s words play on your mind as you continue to watch Steve and his cousins. You couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny that the evening had made you see Steve in an entirely different light. It had also made you rethink the Steve you had been so rude to over the past few years; the Steve that always dropped Max back home without a second thought, the Steve that never drove off without ensuring she was safely back inside the trailer, the Steve that had some sort of stupid handshake with Dustin Henderson, the Steve that had brought you tea and made Max lumpy tomato soup after Billy’s funeral. Something inside you twisted as you remembered that fact you had never said thank you to him for doing that.

“You’re looking awfully pensive over here, Mayfield.”

The sound of Steve’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts but his presence does nothing to the swirl of emotions you were feeling.

“Just thinking,” you say finally, turning to face him with a small smile. “Here’s another beer, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Steve grins, taking the bottle from you. Your fingers brush against his and your body feels alive with something you had never had thought you would feel around Steve. “Need it after running around with those kids, I’m too old for this shit.”

You laugh and shake your head in amused disbelief. “You’re twenty one, Steve.”

“Twenty one going on seventy.”

You can barely contain your laughter at that and soon both you and Steve were laughing. You miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips as you laugh, the way his cheeks flush a shade or so darker when you look over at him as the beginning notes of Heaven by Bryan Adams starts to play.

“I know you just got us some drinks,” Steve begins, setting his bottle down onto the bar and gently prying your own glass of wine from your hands. “But I really want to dance with my date.”

The way he said it, the look in his eyes, it was almost too much.

“Plus one,” you correct him, biting back a smile.

“Synmatics,” he says softly, smiling at you before he holds out a hand, palm up, for you to take. “Dance with me, Mayfield.”

There was no other answer but yes.

You let Steve pull you towards the dancefloor, the fluttering in your stomach making you feel almost dizzy as he wraps his arms around your waist while your arms loop around his neck. It was the closest you had ever been to Steve and all you could think about was how incredible he smelled, how you wanted to trace each and every mole that kissed his skin, how truly gorgeous he looked and how alive you suddenly felt in his presence.

“Ever thought that you’d be slow dancing with me?” He asks with a smile that very nearly takes your breath away. 

“Not even in my wildest dreams,” you tell him, trying to cover up the fact your heart was beating so loud you were beginning to suspect it was trying to escape from its home in your chest. “But—I think today may have helped me change my mind about you.”

“Yeah?” He asks with a hopeful smile. “Or maybe you just finally realised how irresistible I am?”

You laugh and Steve smiles so hard that you were surprised that it didn’t hurt. 

“Something like that.”

You and Steve didn’t leave the dancefloor for a long time after that. Even when the song changed to something more upbeat, you didn’t leave Steve’s arms. You slow danced to Madonna, Bruce Springsteen and Prince as guests left the wedding in their droves—the bride and groom sneaking away hours ago.

“You wanna head back?” Steve murmurs against your hair as you sway to Fleetwood Mac, the dancefloor around you significantly less busy as you pull back to look at him.

“Not really,” you admit quietly, trying to ignore how one of his large hands was resting on your lower back, how his touch had set your skin aflame. “But I think we’re about five minutes away from being kicked off the dancefloor.”

Steve chuckles, looking away from you for a moment to glance at the last few stranglers remaining with you two on the dancefloor. They were all incredibly drunk and you can see the amusement in Steve’s eyes as he looks back at you.

“C’mon,” he murmurs before he pulls himself away from you, though his hand remains on your back. “Let’s go for a walk.”

You follow him without hesitation, walking out of the farmhouse with Steve’s hand still on your back and your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I really thought you weren’t going to say yes, by the way,” Steve tells you as you walk over the path, between the red and yellow roses that were illuminated by the glittering lights strung up ahead. “To be my plus one, I mean.”

“I owed Max a favour,” you tell him. “Broke her skateboard. By accident.”

“She mentioned that,” Steve smiles fondly. “I think she thought going to a wedding with me was more tortuous for you.”

You shake your head as you stop in front of the soft pink roses to face him. “Twenty four hours ago, I might have agreed with her but, tonight—I have to admit, it’s been pretty good.”

“Just good?” Steve asks, head tilting to the side as he looks back at you with a smile. 

“No, much better than pretty good,” you say. “Maybe something closer to…pretty incredible.”

“What? Me or the wedding?” Steve asks with a hopeful look back at you.

“Undecided,” you tell with a whisper of a smile.

Silence falls as you continue through the rose garden, the colourful flowers catching your eye as you pass by. But Steve’s eyes remain on you, thought you don’t see it—on the dress that he was sure to dream about, of just how fucking beautiful you looked and how glad he was that you had broken Max’s skateboard.

“For the record, I’m really glad you said yes,” Steve tells you, the hand on your back dipping lower for just a moment and making your insides turn to goo.

“Me too,” you admit. “I um—it made me realise how silly I was—for um, not giving you a chance before. And for you know, not being all that friendly with you.”

Steve says your name and you know by the look on his face that he wanted to tell you that it was okay, that it didn’t matter but you continued talking before he could do so.

“I think I’ve realised that Max may have been right when she said you really were a good guy. I just—I’m her big sister, you know? And—I get my back up a little when people talk bad about my family and I just—I struggled to let go of what you said.”

“Because it was cruel what I said,” Steve begins, slowing down until he stops walking completely, his hand on your back making you do that same. “It was cruel and stupid and I’m sorry. Like, really fucking sorry.”

“I know and—”

“—and if after this you want us to go back to normal then I totally understand and—”

“—Steve!”

“Yeah?”

You smile, shake your head and say, “I don’t want to go back to ‘normal’ after this.”

“Then what do you want?” He asks, hazel eyes twinkling beneath the lights.

You tilt your head to the side, considering him before you say, “another dance?”

Despite the fact there was no music, despite the fact you were in the middle of a rose garden and it was fast approaching midnight, Steve does not deny your request. Instead, he pulls you into his arms like he had on the dancefloor, his body so close to yours that there was barely an inch of space between you and you were very aware of his hand resting on your lower back.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Steve asks in a voice so soft and gentle that you had to lean in to hear him.

“You did,” you whisper back with a barely contained smile.

“Well, I wanna tell you again. You look fucking beautiful, Mayfield. The moment I saw you I thought—fuck, this wedding is gonna be torture.”

Your face warms and you laugh, leaning into Steve so you could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest. 

“Because I’m annoying?” You offer with a teasing smile.

“No,” Steve says quietly, one of his hands reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear carefully. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day, Mayfield. That’s why.”

Everything seems to slow around you. Time, the roses gently dancing in the wind beside you. You can barely believe the words coming out of Steve’s mouth but the way he was looking at you told you that this wasn’t a dream—that Steve Harrington had really admitted to wanting to kiss you.

And it was crazy because twenty four hours ago, you were tossing and turning in your sleep over the idea of today, of the prospect of spending an entire day with Steve at a wedding. And now, you were desperate to feel his lips against yours.

“Then kiss me, before I change my mind.”

Steve blinks, as if to make sure that he had heard you correctly before he pulls you even closer with one arm around your waist. The proximity to Steve makes you feel almost lightheaded, his woodsy, vanillary scent filling your lungs and the hand now cupping your cheek making your body thrum with need.

“As you wish,” he murmurs before he leans in and presses his lips against yours. That first brush of his lips against yours was so inviting, so intoxicating that you felt almost every nerve in your body come alive from the feeling. His mouth was warm, his lips soft and he was kissing like there was nowhere else he would rather be than right here in the rose garden with you.

You kiss him back with no hesitation, warmth seeping through your veins as he gently tilts your head back, coaxing your lips apart with his tongue and making you forget how to breathe. You could have kissed him all night, until the early hours of the morning if you could. Especially when his tongue brushed against yours, making you whine against his lips and tug him even closer.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips, your mouths moving together in an almost desperate sort of way as your fingers curl into his shirt. “You’re gonna ruin me, Mayfield.”

You don’t know how long you stayed there, making out with Steve Harrington in the rose garden but all you knew as you finally pulled away from each other was that your lips were bee stung and his were wet and covered in your lip gloss. He had never looked so good.

“So much for keeping my hands to myself,” Steve grins as he reaches up to swipe his thumb across your swollen bottom lip. You roll your eyes and can’t help yourself—you pull him into another kiss that makes him groan against your mouth. The sound makes you feel incredibly glad that you had broken your sister’s skateboard.

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You were there, he knew you existed, but there were so many other planets that revolved around him. Ones that he gladly gave attention to, and because all you’ve ever known how to do was orbit Steve, you continue to sit at the lunch table and give him a pencil during Algebra only wishing you could be more like Mercury, wishing to be so close to him that it burned. 

And you had become accustomed to that for so long that you had convinced yourself that this was all you were ever going to get from Steve. Fingertips that brushed as you passed him a pencil. The smell of his cologne as you stood next to him in front of Lisa Keller’s house for homecoming pictures with his hands on Mercury’s waist. His laughter at the lunch table, that brief moment of eye contact when he catches you laughing too, and the smile he shoots your way that makes your heart do a traitorous thing. 

You think how lucky Mercury must be to have him like that all the time and you wonder if maybe one day once you’re out of Hawkins and no longer confined by his gravitational pull, that you’ll find a new star to orbit. One that would love you even if you are Pluto. 

That all changes though on a chilly November night in 1983 when Will Byers goes missing and you find out that Hawkins is not what it seems and that your orbit is not as far away from the sun as you thought. 

As the months and years pass and with each new battle Hawkins seems to find itself in Steve and you only grow closer. So close in fact that you don’t know where he ends and you begin and it becomes obvious that you’ve lost your original orbit. The thing about your orbit was that it kept you steady, kept you from becoming all consumed, but god if you didn’t love the feeling of hurling through space. 

For the longest time you’d imagined what it would be like– to be Steve’s. In December of 1985 during a closing shift at Family Video he let’s you know he also wonders what it would be like to be yours. 

It’s a Tuesday night, an hour before closing, and the bell that hangs above the entrance hasn’t chimed in the last two hours. There’s still a substantial amount of snow blanketing the ground and roads from the storm that rolled through Sunday and that only added to your usual lack of business after the sun set in the winter time. If it was up to you this place would close at eight, but you weren’t the boss, and admittingly you did like having the alone time with Steve. Even if you were sorting through old tapes and reshelving the horror section per Keith’s request. 

“Maybe horror for our movie night this week?” you suggest, holding up a copy of Amityville. 

Fifteen year old you would have died knowing that only three years later you’d be having weekly movie nights with Steve. That the King Steve, whose fall from grace was anything but graceful, was your person. Granted King Steve had been long gone for some time now and sometimes it’s hard to believe that the boy who stands in front of you with a green Family Video vest and a crooked name tag adorned on the front of it is the same untouchable boy from those years ago. 

Steve looks up from the stack he’d been kind of going through on the cart and flashes you that smile that still makes you feel like you're that fifteen year old girl. “If you want to cuddle with me you don’t have to use the excuse of some lame horror movie to do it.” 

That teasing, flirting, the sly smirk on his face, it’s times like now where you realize his old habits do die hard and that there are parts of King Steve that still live in him, but it’s the good parts. The parts that make you giddy and the butterflies in your stomach to kick with such force you feel your stomach flip. The boy that stands in front of you is the same person as the older version you knew of him, but just more himself in the best way possible. And everyday you thank your lucky stars that you’re able to have Steve in your life like this. 

“Right so when I have to turn on the lamp again because you thought you saw something in the corner of the room I’ll be sure to hold you extra tight,” you tease, slotting the movie into its correct place onto the shelf. 

“It was one time!” 

Your soft laughter eventually dies down until all that fills the void is the buzz from the overhead lights and the ticking of the clock on the wall. The two of you work in silence, wanting to actually get this done before you have to leave, not wanting to hear Keith complaining about you two being lazy while he’s got cheese ball dust caked under his fingernails. 

The clock ticks louder on the wall, like a constant reminder that your time with Steve for the day is running out, and you think that you’ll never get enough of Steve. That he could crawl under your skin and live there and you’d still want more of him. Especially when you can feel his eyes flickering over at you every so often, lingering long enough for you to feel it, but not long enough for you to catch him in the act. It’s embarrassing to say that it’s making you blush slightly, but you quite literally used to look forward to Steve asking you for a pencil during class just so you could feel the slight brush of his fingers against yours and then savored that feeling until the next time. So, blushing over him playing eye tag with you was not the most embarrassing thing you’ve done when it came to Steve. 

About ten minutes before close Steve mumbles something about being right back. When the bell above the entrance rings you know exactly what he’s doing and a few seconds later you hear your car start out front. You focus on transferring the last few tapes from the cart and back onto the shelves, trying to ignore how the blush on your cheeks has now spread throughout your body. 

The bell rings again and you can feel the cold air rush in just as fast as him, like he doesn’t want you to know what he’s done, doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Steve just does things like that so effortlessly– without a second thought. You notice very early on in whatever you want to call your relationship with him that he only does stuff like that for you. Even in school when you hyperfocused on every little thing he did with Mercury he was never as attentive with her as he is with you and it makes your head spin. 

Eventually the clock strikes eleven and the neon light in the window fades to black as Steve locks the doors behind you. The cold winter air bites at the apples of your cheeks and the snow crunches beneath your feet as you walk at what could be considered a snail’s pace to your car, with Steve alongside you of course. He was adamant about walking you to your car when you two closed together, even though you two literally parked not even ten feet away from the store. You clearly didn’t mind it, greedily taking advantage of every second you could get with him. 

“You know you don’t have to do this for me,” you say softly as the two of you linger by your car. 

“Do what?” Steve questions with that sly smirk on his face that you love more than you should. 

“Oh right sorry– I keep forgetting that my car magically starts on its own.” 

“That’s a real fancy car you got. Don’t know how you can afford it on $3.25 an hour.” 

You roll your eyes at him, but there’s no real malice behind it, if anything it’s fondness. “Thank you Steve– for real.” 

He shrugs his shoulders, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. “It’s no big deal, but you’re welcome.” 

On any other night this would be the moment that you would tell him that you’d see him tomorrow, get in your car, and drive home. Your hand is already on the door handle, the cold metal doing nothing to help your already freezing fingers, but something in you is telling you to stay for another minute. To turn around and stay out in the cold for just a little bit longer. Maybe it’s a sign from above protecting you from a horrible car wreck or maybe it’s the feeling of Steve’s eyes burning into the back of your head, like he’s trying to tell you to stay without really saying it, but either way you turn on your heel, the snow crunching underneath your sneakers, and come face to face with Steve. 

Wind whips through the barren parking lot making the cold settle deeper into your bones and you can see that it's already turned the tip of Steve’s nose and the tops of his cheeks red. He lets out a long exhale once the two of you make eye contact, like he’d been waiting for you to turn around, hoping that you wouldn’t get in your car and leave him standing here. 

Steve can’t believe he’s about ready to ask you this in the middle of the Family Video parking lot, but you've turned around and willed his thoughts to come true, so now he has to follow through with it. He’s chickened out one too many times before and god help him if this was where he was supposed to finally work up the courage to ask you, then so be it. 

He’s rehearsed this a million times, thought about it at night until his alarm clock read an obscenely late time, and now that the time has come everything he’s wanted to say goes right out the window and is reduced to six words. 

“Have you ever thought about us?” 

His question hits you like a tidal wave and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears makes you feel like you’re caught in that wave, constantly being held under by the rip current, your chest burning from having to hold your breath. The feeling sits there for an uncomfortable amount of time and it’s not until you see Steve start to turn in on himself, embarrassment written all over his face at your lack of reply, that your head finally breaks through to the surface gasping for air. 

“Have you?” 

You’re turning the question back on him, but you can’t help it. Even though you know Steve isn’t the same golden boy you shamelessly fawned over for years, the boy who you never thought would give you the time of day, there is still that part of you that fears this is all too good to be true. That there’s no way Steve could ever feel the same way you do about him. So, instead of making a fool of yourself when it turns out his words didn’t hold the same meaning you thought they did– you force him to answer first. 

“Yes,” he answers simply and then with an airy laugh continues. “All the time actually. Can’t get you out of my head.”

You find yourself leaning against your car, not trusting yourself to be able to stand on your own. At fifteen you had convinced yourself that you were fine with admiring Steve from a distance, that as long as you could have those small interactions with him you were content. At sixteen you convinced yourself that you were fine with just being best friends with Steve, that as long as you could have him close you didn’t need to actually have him to be happy. Now at seventeen you’re trying to convince yourself that Steve Harrington does in fact feel the same way you do about him and when you continue your questionnaire everything you thought you knew blows up in your face. 

“How long?” you ask quietly, like you two are in a crowded room and not in the middle of an empty parking lot. “How long Steve?” 

“Are you asking how long you’ve been consuming my mind? Or are you asking how long I’ve thought about what it would be like to be yours?” 

He asks it so casually, like this confession isn’t changing things forever between the two of you. 

“Both.” 

He inches closer to you, close enough that he can reach out and take his warm hand in your freezing one. The feeling of his hand in yours, the way his big hazel eyes seemingly stare straight into your soul– it makes your head spin.

“I’ve always noticed you Y/N. I’ve always thought you were so pretty and funny in a way not many people appreciated. That day your freshman year when Heather invited you to sit at our lunch table was a day I’ll never forget. And everyday since then when I would I catch your eye or heard your laugh it put such a funny feeling in my chest.”

Steve shakes his head, pausing for a moment as laughs to himself slightly, like he can’t believe that he’s admitting all of this right now.

You sure as hell can’t believe he’s admitting it either.

He takes a deep breath, squeezes your hands in his again and then continues.

“I mean fuck did you really think I didn’t have a pencil on me almost every single Algebra class for that year? I was just using it as an excuse to have any little bit of interaction with you, but I never specifically seeked you out because I didn’t think you were interested in me. Didn’t think you’d like the kind of guy I was back then. But then all the shit with the Upside Down happened and we got thrown into the mess together and now I can’t imagine my life without you in it. If I thought my thoughts about you before were all consuming then I don’t even want to know what they’d be considered now.”

Steve realizes he’s rambling and reels himself back in with a sheepish smile.

“I just– what I’m trying to say is that I’m an idiot who’s had feelings for you for way too long and I’m finally admitting it because I can’t stand to just have you as a best friend when I want you as something much more than that.” 

It’s not just the cold air that you’re breathing in that is making your lungs burn– it’s you realizing that you never needed to be more like Mercury. The Sun saw you even when you felt like you were the furthest you could be from him. 

“I was going through an astronomical amount of pencils that year, but I’d say it was worth it,” you reply with a big grin stretching across your face. 

Steve mirrors your expression, the weight on his chest lifting when he sees you smiling. “Yeah?” 

“The amount of times I went into Melvalds for pencils was a little concerning. At one point Joyce asked me why I was going through so many and I lied and told her I was writing a novel.” 

The laughter that ripples through Steve’s chest is like music to your ears and a little part of you still wants to pinch yourself to see if this is real. 

“Is that so?” Steve questions. 

“I couldn’t let her know that I was buying them out of pencils because the boy I had a massive crush on would ask for one like every day and I never wanted to not have an extra on me.” 

Steve’s heart swells and he wants to punch himself for waiting so long to do this. 

“Well how could I ever repay you for all those pencils?” his tone is slightly teasing as his hands rest on your hips, gently caging you against your car. 

“Hmmm. I think I might have an idea.” 

You kiss Steve Harrington for the first time in the middle of the Family Video parking lot. There’s snow on the ground and your fingertips are freezing, but the fire that ignites in you when you feel his lips on yours has you feeling like it's the middle of July. 

And you realize that this is what it finally feels like to be close to the Sun. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Being with Steve is everything you could have imagined and more. He’s attentive and caring and honestly everything you could have ever asked for in a boyfriend. He makes life easier and when shit hits the fan again in Hawkins he’s right there beside you the whole time.

And you don’t know if it’s because you two are faced with what is the most challenging fight you’ve had yet or the fact that Steve suffered his worst injury and you’re both a little scared that maybe you won’t make it out of this one alive. But the topic of your future together gets brought up and when Steve mentions something about having a brood of children the idea doesn’t scare you. Alright, maybe his idea of six is a little extreme, but you could see yourself in the future having little versions of him and you running around. You in a white dress with a shiny ring on your finger, the people you love most bearing witness to such a sacred ceremony of true love. 

In a stolen RV on the way to what might be your inevitable death you come to the conclusion that doing those things with Steve– getting married and having kids. It is something you would want with him. 

But then Hawkins gets put in lockdown and well your future is stuck in limbo. College is put on hold for the foreseeable future and you think that maybe it was a blessing in disguise because even though you had been accepted into Indiana University and had plans of getting into their school of medicine– those plans were never really yours. It’s always what your parents had wanted for you and you’d never been one to really know what you wanted in life, so you went along with it, wanting to make them happy. But as the years in high school passed and the idea of what you were getting yourself into became more of a reality, well you felt like a rat in a cage. The lockdown helped ease the panic for a little bit, but the thing about a caged rat is that it never stops feeling caged and the walls built around Hawkins weren’t big enough for what you realized you wanted for yourself. 

The crawls, smuggling in contraband, relaying secret messages through the radio station that Steve and you seemed to live at– this wasn’t how you imagined your early adulthood to look like. Sure you loved playing apocalyptic house with Steve and in the grand scheme of things you two had only grown closer over those eight months, to the point where once all of this was over he’d thought about just renting that RV he talked about and getting a head start on your future together. 

But when it’s all said and done and Vecna and the Upside Down are gone and real life quickly funnels its way back in you realize that Steve and you are in two very different stages of life.

It starts as pillow talk and before you know it there’s tears streaming down your face and a horrible feeling in your gut that maybe what you thought would be forever with Steve would only turn out to be a chapter. When you tell him that in six months you’re planning on going to NYU instead of IU you should have known he wouldn’t take it very well, in fact you knew he wouldn’t take it well, and you’d prepared yourself for it. You just hadn’t prepared yourself for the inevitable realization that your orbit around the sun might have swung too far out and there’s nothing there to pull you back in. 

All you’ve ever known is Hawkins and for the longest time all you’ve ever known is Steve. He’s your safe space, the person you love and trust the most. You two have been through hell and back multiple times and you think maybe that’s why this hurts more than it would if it was some other boy you met in high school. Because you two have a bond that goes deeper than anyone could imagine. 

At the end of the day it’s put in front of you very clearly. 

You want to find out who you are outside of Hawkins, want to make a life for yourself that isn’t your parents dream, and you still love Steve. 

Steve hates the idea of leaving Hawkins permanently because it’s all he’s ever known, he’s more than content with living the life he’s imagined for himself (and you) in the fixer upper on the corner of Sycamore and Vine that he’s been eyeing since December, and he still loves you. 

And because Steve loves you he’s never going to hold you back from doing what you want to do. So, you two try to make long distance work. It’s hard, even with your parents funding your flights home the distance takes its toll, and when you come home for Christmas break you two break up. 

You saw it coming, knew it was inevitable, and honestly it wasn’t just the miles between you that contributed to the breakup, it was feeling like you two were on different paths, and maybe some other things you weren’t ready to address yet internally. It hurt more than you could ever describe because even if you two didn’t want the same things– you still loved him. 

You’ll never not love Steve Harrington. 

And even when Pluto is casted out as a dwarf planet and no longer considered a major planet– she still orbits the sun anyways.

That following spring you don’t come home for the kid’s graduation and when your Mom calls you that following morning to check in like she always does on Sundays she of course lets it slip that she ran into Steve at graduation. She claimed he was doing well and that he even got a job at the school. You tell her that’s great through gritted teeth and a searing pain through the still fresh wound on your heart. She asks when you’ll be home, you say you don’t know and that’s the whole conversation. You put the phone back on the receiver and wish that the universe in your heart would be swallowed by a black hole. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

On August 3rd, 1993 Steve walks to his mailbox like he does every morning and retrieves his mail. He mindlessly sorts through it– junk mail, his outrageous electric bill, his neighbors water bill, coupons for Bradley’s, and then his eyes land on a crisp white envelope. He nearly does a double take, confused as to who is sending him something so official and fancy. 

Mr. Steven Harrington  465 Park Street Hawkins, IN 46952 

There’s no return address, but something in him already knows who this is from, and part of him has the nerve to not even open it and just throw it in the trash. He doesn’t though, he slowly walks back up his driveway, back into his house, and it’s not until he’s safely sat at the kitchen table that he opens the envelope.

PLEASE JOIN US IN CELEBRATING THE WEDDING OF  CHRISTOPHER CARTER & Y/N Y/L/N

Saturday October 17th, 1993 At 3 o’clock Laurel Hill  5395 Emerson Way Indianapolis, IN 46226

There’s a ringing in Steve’s ears that resembles all the times he’d taken a particularly hard blow to the head during his years of trying to save Hawkins, but he thinks another beating from Billy Hargrove would hurt less than how he feels right now. The news shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, he’d heard from Robin a couple years ago that you were seeing someone and then that you were engaged and well that was a rough pill to swallow. And of course in true Robin fashion she always gave out more information than Steve would have cared to know.

This guy– he’s everything your parents would have wanted for you and more. Comes from money, majored in political science at Columbia, also from Indiana which explains the wedding being back home, and to top it all off Robin claimed he was really nice. Which made Steve feel even worse because Robin just didn’t go around saying that about every person she met.

The fact that everyone else in your ragtag group of friends had met and apparently approved of this Chris didn’t help the ache in Steve’s chest either. Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and you all being a couple hours from each other kept you all close, while Steve felt like the outcast of the group back in Hawkins. And yes he knows life happens, people move on and grow up, but the fact that all four of you still kept in touch and the only one he talked to was Robin hurt more than he’d like to admit. 

In fact Steve hasn’t talked to you in five years. 

Five years of failed relationships, meaningless hookups, and looking for you in every girl he sees. You’d left such a lasting mark on him that it was starting to get pathetic and you’d clearly moved on– so why couldn’t he? 

The proof of your heart belonging to another man was in his shaking hands and he still couldn’t help but think about what life could have been like if he hadn’t let you go, if he tried to make things work when you came home that Christmas. 

He’d like to think it would be his name next to yours on that invitation, but that’s a dream that’s already been tarnished. 

The clock on the wall reads 10:02 a.m. 

Robin picks up the phone at 10:03 a.m. 

“I need you to tell me this isn’t real. Tell me she’s not getting married.” 

It’s real. He knows it is. He knew you were engaged, but holy fuck if he wasn’t holding on to the smallest bit of hope that it would fall through. 

“Steve….” 

“Robin.” 

There’s static on her end, a sigh, and then. “It’s real Steve. She’s getting married to Chris. I’m sorry.” 

The old wooden dining chair creaks under Steve as he slumps against the back of it, the invitation still gripped tightly in his other hand. “Why did she invite me?” 

“Believe it or not she still cares about you. Still asks how you’re doing from time to time. When she asked me whether or not she should invite you– I told her yes.” 

“And why the hell would you do that?” he bites back at her. 

“You don’t have to come, but I honestly think she’d like to see you. It’s been five years Steve.” 

It’s been five years but Steve swears sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday. 

His eyes glance back down at the invitation in his hand as his finger traces the embossed lettering of your name. All he ever wanted was for you to be happy and he always thought he’d be a part of that happiness, but he’d let you go. He let you go find yourself and in the process you found someone else that made you feel the same way he used to.

“Does he make her happy?” 

Robin doesn’t respond for what starts to be an uncomfortable amount of time and then finally with a sigh she tells Steve what he does and doesn’t want to hear. 

“Yeah he does. He makes her happy.” 

Something twists in Steve’s chest– sharp and painful. The invitation gets tossed onto the table with the rest of the mail and he gets up from the creaking chair with an urgency he hasn’t had since he was fighting demogorgons.

“Glad to hear. I’ll talk to you later. Gotta get to work.” 

It’s August 3rd. School doesn’t start for another couple weeks and it’s also ten in the morning meaning Steve would have been extremely late for work. All things Robin knows but doesn’t get the chance to comment on because Steve’s slamming the phone back on the receiver so hard that it nearly comes off the kitchen wall. 

Steve’s not mad. He's upset. He’s got five years of unresolved feelings bubbling to the surface over a fancily addressed envelope and seeing your name next to another man’s– inviting him to come bare witness to your eternal love. 

His hands haven’t stopped shaking and he finds himself rummaging through the cabinet for that dark amber liquid that could numb the feelings he didn’t have the capacity to handle right now. He doesn’t even bother grabbing a glass. If he was going to drink at ten in the morning then he might as well be as uncouth as he can– choosing to bring the bottle straight to his lips and letting his chosen vice begin to work its magic. 

Steve eventually finds himself in his room. One hand still has an iron grip on the neck of the whiskey bottle while the other haphazardly shuffles through the clothes once neatly hung in his closet. He lets out something that resembles more of a grunt than a hum once he finds what he’s looking for and then tosses it onto his bed. 

The formal suit stares back at him, taunting him in ways only he could understand. He isn’t drunk enough to talk back to it yet. So, he brings the bottle back up to his lips and takes a long swig while his eyes are still locked onto the article of clothing. 

He mumbles something incoherent at it, something he isn’t even sure he understands, and then sits down on the bed next to it. Which is where he spends the rest of his day drowning his sorrows. 

The next morning he mails back the RSVP with a splitting headache. 

Please Respond RSVP by September 1st, 1993

Steven Harrington  accepts with pleasure      declines with regret  Plus one?  YES   NO

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It was easier to blame the pit in your stomach and the crushing weight sitting on your chest on the flower fiasco (because the florist arriving with red roses instead of white would ruin everything at least in your Mom’s eyes) instead of addressing the real reasons. 

Today was your big day. The day that you’d been planning meticulously for the last year– the color of the napkins, if you should have chicken or fish, red velvet or vanilla cake, what font should be used on the name placards and if they should coincide with the color of the table cloths they will sit on.

Everything was planned out down to the tiniest detail and save for the flowers, which were not the massive deal your Mom had made it out to be, everything else had gone off without a hitch. It looked beautiful, like something you could only dream of. 

And that should help calm your nerves at least a little. 

Right? 

You were marrying a good man. Chris made you happy, your friends liked him, and your parents loved him. He made you feel safe and a future with someone like him was something girls were more than envious of. 

So the fact that you were on the verge of a breakdown with less than an hour left until you were set to walk down the aisle was a little concerning. 

Your dress– the one that had been hand designed by some French lady who flew into New York courtesy of Chris’s Mom– felt like it was two sizes too small and every time you tried to take a breath it kept getting tighter. Your bridesmaids had left you alone in the dressing room not even ten minutes ago and in those minutes you’d worked yourself up into a panic attack. 

These feelings though hadn’t just popped up suddenly. They’d been bubbling under the surface for weeks now— ever since you got a certain RSVP back in the mail. You thought that inviting him might tie up some loose ends you still have internally, but receiving his response had only unraveled them. It had been five years since you spoke to Steve and now the first time you were going to see him since you had broken up was going to be on your wedding day. 

The day you’d once hoped to share with him. 

No. You can’t think about that right now. You can’t think about how you’ve only ever imagined marrying one man and that it wasn’t the one on the opposite end of the building getting ready right now. 

You smooth the front of your dress with your sweaty palms for the hundredth time and try to take a deep breath, try to talk yourself off this very dangerous ledge to be dangling from right now. You don’t dare catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, knowing the moment you see yourself trying to keep it together, the less than thrilled look on your face on what is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, it will break the dam of tears you’ve so tactfully held back. 

This was something every bride went through, it was just a little bit of cold feet, at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. 

There’s a soft knock on the door and it makes you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this, but then you see your Mom peek her head in and the breath you’ve been holding in shakily comes out. 

“Hi honey,” she says softly as she closes the door behind her. “How’s my girl? Feeling a little nervous?” 

You were far from nervous. The incessant pounding of your heart against your ribcage and the heavy feeling of impending regret that floods your nervous system was not just you feeling nervous. 

“Mom I don’t–” 

Your dress is suffocating you and you’re to the point where you reach behind you and start clawing at the corset Robin had so expertly laced up earlier. Your perfectly manicured fingers slip past the silk each time you grab at it, unable to free yourself from the rib crushing material. 

It’s a sight to see– you panicking like a rat stuck in a hot cage whose only way out is to dig through your metaphorical stomach while your Mom stands there watching you. 

A cry of defeat slips past your lips once you finally give up, your arms aching and sweat beading at your brow. 

“Mom,” your voice cracks something awful and the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. “I can’t do this. I can’t marry him.” 

“Yes you can,” her reply is instant and sure, like there’s no other option that could have crossed her mind. “This is all just some wedding day jitters. You just need to take a deep breath, maybe have a little drink. You want some wine? I can get you a glass of wine and it will take the edge off real quick.” 

She’s already turning back towards the door and it makes you even more manic. 

“I don’t want wine!” 

If you needed alcohol to get you through what is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, well then that’s a sign right there that you shouldn’t be doing this. 

She stops dead in her tracks at the sharpness of your voice, but doesn’t turn back towards you yet, she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I want to take this dress off. I need to take this dress off because I’m not getting married today.” 

You watch as she turns toward you slowly and the look in her eye is something you’ve seen one too many times before. It makes your already rolling stomach flip in ways you’ve never felt and her gentle touch on your arms does nothing to bring you back from the ledge. 

“Honey, you’re going to get married today. You’re going to take some deep breaths, have a little wine, and I promise you’ll feel so much better.” 

You can feel your bottom lip starting to tremble as you shake your head in defiance at her. 

“You love him Y/N. I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re with him. He’s good to you and he can provide for you. I’m not going to let you regret ruining your future again over such a rash decision– over feeling a little nervous. This is what you’ve been planning for the past year, what you’ve been looking forward to, what Chris has been looking forward to.” 

Her hands fidget with your hair for a moment, always making sure you look your best, before they intertwine with yours. “Trust me baby,” she squeezes your hands like she’s really trying to get you to listen to her. “You want this–you just have to get out of your head.” 

The first tear falls from your eye and drags a path through your once flawless makeup. 

This was never what you wanted. This was what she wanted– what your parents wanted. 

For someone who had left all they’ve ever known to escape the crushing weight of feeling like you needed to live the life your parents had planned for you. It’s quite ironic that you’ve landed yourself back under their thumb. You guess moving seven hundred miles away will never get rid of the little girl who always wanted to make them happy, who wanted to trust that they always had her best interest in mind. 

It’s funny that you’d thought you were a rat in a cage all those years ago back in Hawkins, because that was a cardboard box compared to how you feel now. 

This wasn’t college, this was a commitment to another person, and as lovely as Chris was– you could not spend the rest of your life with him. As horrible as it sounds, you don’t think you’ve ever really loved him. Not in the way you should. Chris was good to you, really good to you, he was the kind of guy that would rent out the fanciest restaurant in New York on a Friday night for your one year anniversary kind of good. The let’s fly out to Paris for the weekend kind of good and the you’ll never have to work another day for the rest of your life kind of good. 

The lavishness of everything was amazing, but you’d found yourself getting wrapped up in it, choosing to forget that marrying a man like Chris came with obligations. Ones that you know would slowly wear you down until you were a shell of a human, a ghost of your prior self. Chris may have been born in Indiana, but he hadn’t grown up the way you had, barely spent three years of his life in the Hoosier state before moving to New York, and sometimes it’s glaringly obvious that you two come from very different worlds. 

Yet even with your differences Chris had never given you a reason to doubt his love for you and his family was so welcoming, claiming they were glad Chris had settled down with a girl like you. Even going as far as paying for the wedding and your dress wanting your special day to be everything you could have ever dreamed of. 

Except this is nothing you’ve dreamed of. 

When you accepted Chris’s proposal you’d thought that maybe this was the moment that you’d stop orbiting the sun. That the part of your heart that was still reserved for that hazel eyed boy who you fell in love with all those years ago would unlock itself and let Chris fully in– let him be the new sun you’d orbit– and for the longest time you’d convinced yourself that it had happened. You hadn’t seen Steve since you two broke up– five years to be exact. So, finally fully moving on, creating this life with Chris should have been the final nail in the coffin for whatever you felt towards Steve right? 

Wrong. 

If anything, getting engaged to Chris had only made you think more about Steve. 

You’d thought more about Steve during this past year of being engaged than you had the first year after your breakup. He always seemed to be in the back of your mind and you’d find yourself asking Robin about how he was doing, breaking the cycle of Robin being the one to mention him every time you asked how things were at home because even after all these years you still associated him with home and Robin could always tell when you were homesick. 

You thought about Steve when Chris’s Mom was helping you decide if you wanted a live string quartet or when his sister helped you pick out the Swarovski toasting flutes that cost more than you could ever imagine something you drink out of costing. It was all so out of your depth and fancy and all you could think of when you were choosing between one extravagant thing or another was that this was not what you’d ever imagined your wedding looking like. 

In fact you know if Steve was still in your life he would have been poking fun at you, telling you that this wasn’t anything close to what you wanted– that it wasn’t you. And he would have been right because you never wanted anything extravagant. A late night pillow talk session back when your future was up in the air had revealed that all you had ever wanted was a simple wedding, one where your love was the main attraction and not an ice sculpture of a swan. 

It makes your stomach twist to think that you’d left Hawkins– left Steve– for the sole purpose of wanting to find out who you were outside of all you’ve ever known and in the end you’d found yourself living a life that half the time didn’t feel like yours. 

Like you were an imposter– living the life of some NYC socialite when all you were at your core was a girl from Indiana that loved sunsets and driving backroads in a maroon BMW with the only boy you’ve ever truly loved. 

The same boy you’d invited to your wedding. Telling yourself that he more than likely won’t come as you drop his invitation off at the post office, but you should have known that Steve of all people would be one to attend. Because he’d only ever wanted you to be happy and what better display of happiness could be shown than marrying someone? You tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything, that it had been five years, he’s surely moved on, but the NO that he’d marked on his RSVP for a plus one made your heart do a traitorous thing.  

You’re marrying another man and yet your orbit still hasn’t strayed from your sun. It may have been weaker over the years, but the proof of your eternal love for Steve Harrington was here on your wedding day, wishing he’d show up after five years of no contact and tell you that you didn’t have to do this. 

“Mom, I don't want this. Chris is a good guy, but this isn’t the life I want for myself. Please don’t make me do this.” 

You’re pleading, tears streaming down your face as your Mom stares back at you with such a stoic expression that it makes you panic even more. There’s no remorse or motherly love staring back at you, just a face that tells you exactly what’s going to happen and it’s not what you want. 

It’s sad that even at twenty five you still feel like you have no control over your life– that you can’t work up the nerve to walk out that door yourself. The part of you that your parents have tainted with the idea that this is your only option and that you’ll never live a life better than this tries to reason with the other part of you when you realize that the one person that was supposed to protect you is not on your side in this.

It’s a back and forth battle in your brain and you know that if you do walk out of this venue right now that you’ll be on your own. Your parents will cut you off and you’ll probably end up sleeping on Robin’s couch, which isn’t the worst thing ever, but it’s also not just you that will be affected by this choice. 

Chris will be too. 

He didn’t deserve this, his family didn’t deserve this, especially after the astronomical amount of money they’d spent on everything. You know you wouldn’t want to be left at the altar on your wedding day, but you also don’t want to marry a man you know you don’t love like you should. It’s a double edged sword and unfortunately your hands are gripped tightly onto it. 

“This feeling will pass. A couple months from now you’re gonna be able to look back on this and laugh, knowing that you were just overreacting. You’re going to be living the life that woman would die for darling, be greatful, especially since you’re getting it with such a handsome and nice man like Chris.” 

Her touch is cold as she wipes away your tears and you know she’s thinking of what excuse she can tell everyone as to why you’re going to be late walking down the aisle, you can see the gears turning in her head. It’s all methodical with her, always has been, and when she presses a chaste kiss to your forehead you know you’re marrying Chris today whether you want to or not. 

“I’ll be right back,” she whispers before quickly turning on her heel and exiting your dressing room with urgency. 

The door clicks shut behind her and you absolutely lose it. 

You stumble into the little bathroom, your hands gripping the sides of the porcelain sink with such fierceness that you feel like you could rip it right off the wall. The first glimpse you get of yourself in the mirror is terrifying, your mascara is streaked down your cheeks, your eyes are bloodshot, and your chest is red and splotchy– borderline breaking out into stress hives. 

There was no way you could make it down the aisle and look presentable in an hour– yet you knew it was going to have to happen. 

You try to talk yourself down from off this metaphorical ledge that you’ve been walking with one foot dangling off the side of ever since you woke up this morning, but it’s easier said than done. You tell yourself that maybe you could learn to love Chris like you should. That maybe once you go back to New York and settle into your new life that you’ll look back on this and laugh like your Mom had said, but you shouldn’t have to learn how to love someone. It should come naturally and while you do have love for Chris it isn’t the eternal kind. 

You’ve only ever had that with one person and you threw it away for what? A life you don’t even want? To be sobbing on your wedding day? To be right back under your parents thumb? 

You guess you were always meant to be a rat in a cage. 

The door opens, you can hear the clicking of your Mom’s heels across the wooden floor, the sound of what is undoubtedly a glass of wine being sat down at the vanity, and then her voice echoing through the room.

“I’m going to go get Robin. You’ll get all fixed up and then everything will go as planned.” 

You don’t respond, you just wait for the sound of the door closing again before slowly exiting the bathroom. You find the wine glass sitting next to your favorite blush as you sit down at the lit up vanity and the girl that stares back at you in the mirror is unrecognizable. It’s a girl with no back bone– a chronic people pleaser. A girl who wishes that her knight and shining armor would come and save her, but this isn’t a fairytale and Chris isn’t an ogre. So the only thing you needed saving from was yourself. 

You sit there and stare at yourself for a long time until you eventually start wiping away the remnants of your makeup, your silent tears aiding you in the process, but nothing can remove the stain on your heart. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The second Steve pulls up to this place in his pickup truck he knows this is way out of his comfort zone. He may be in formal attire, but this is something you’d see in the movies or on the cover of some celebrity magazine at the doctor's office. He knew this Chris guy came from money, but not this kind of money, and Steve feels like the smallest guy on Earth, feeling like a fool for ever thinking that he could provide for you back then. He still could barely afford to pay his light bill on time some months and here you were marrying Mr. Money Bags. 

A gentle knock on his window startles him enough that he’s cursing under his breath and his hand shakes an unnecessary amount as he cranks the window down. 

“Sorry to startle you sir, just the valet,” a guy probably around his age states, who is also dressed in formal attire.

Valet. Right. Because that’s the type of wedding he’s attending where you can’t even park your own vehicle. 

Steve puts the truck in park, takes the ticket from the worker, and slowly gets out of the vehicle. The trek up the stairs to the entrance is lined with extravagant flowers and Steve finds himself having to remember how to walk, having to take one step at a time. There’s a lady with a clipboard standing at the top of the stairs by the front entrance that watches him the whole time, how his hand grips the railing like he’s an eighty year old man who’s taken on too many tumbles.  

“Hello! Name please?” The lady asks with a little too much enthusiasm once Steve finally makes it up the stairs. 

“Um– Steve,” he replies. “Steven Harrington.” 

The lady’s eyes scan the clipboard and then with a smile on her face she makes a little check by what he can only assume is his name. “Ah yes. Mr. Harrington!” She then looks back up at Steve with that same smile. “The Carters are very happy that you could attend.” 

Steve forces a smile back at her and tries to act like her referring to you as Carter before it was even official didn’t make his chest ache. 

As soon as he passes through the threshold he feels like he’s been transported into another dimension. He’s never been to anything this fancy before in his life, the excessive amount of flowers, the crystal chandelier, the live string quartet. If this was just the ceremony he could only imagine what the reception would be like. 

It’s so in your face and reeks of wealth and Steve can’t help but scoff because this is so not you. You two would have made fun of a wedding like this, claiming that anyone who felt the need to do something so extravagant was over compensating for an already failing relationship. 

But that was back then and Steve hasn’t talked to you in five years so hell for all he knows this is something you wanted. Maybe this was who you were now and it makes his stomach twist to think about how there’s a whole nother version of you that he doesn’t know a single thing about. 

There’s so many people here that Steve is actually kind of grateful for it, he can blend in and not feel like the obvious sore thumb he is– the ex at the wedding. Granted he’s not sure how many people here actually know who he is besides the handful of people from home, which is more than enough for him. He keeps asking himself why he ever thought it was a good idea for him to come as he tucks himself in a corner, sneaking sips from the flask he’d hidden in the breast pocket in his suit jacket. 

He thinks he might be a masochist– wanting to torture himself by watching the only girl he’s ever loved marry a man he could never measure up to. He doesn’t know why he’s throwing himself a pity party, he’d let you go, thought he was doing the right thing all those years ago, and sometimes late at night when he’s had a little too much to drink he wonders why his love wasn’t enough for you to want to stay. 

He knows you two wanted different things back then, that making long distance work was harder than either of you could have imagined, but he swears if you’d asked him to move to New York with you when you came home that Christmas he would have. Instead you’d broken up and Steve hates himself for not fighting harder for you, for rolling over onto his back and exposing his belly for you to carve into. He knows things were hard for you and maybe you felt like you didn’t have the capacity to love him and figure out who you were, but Steve didn’t really know who he was back then either and still doesn’t if he’s being honest. But it had never wavered his love for you because if there was one thing Steve was certain about it was how he felt about you. 

Steve’s eyes catch sight of your Mom hurriedly walking through the crowd of people and up the grand staircase– a glass of wine perched in her hand. She still has that same methodical ambiance about her, carries herself with such perfectionism and control that Steve understands why you moved to the other side of the country. 

“Look what the cat dragged in.” 

The familiar voice rips his eyes away from the older woman who disappears somewhere upstairs and onto the one person who he’d only ever seen wear a dress one other time, back when the tight feeling in his chest was from an alternate dimension entity murdering teenagers and not from attending a wedding.

“You look nice Robs.” 

He really means it, but he can tell she doesn’t care to hear his compliments. 

“Yeah– the things we do for Y/N,” Robin states with a soft sigh as she looks out into the crowd of people and then as if she realizes what she’s implied her eyes shoot back towards Steve. He’s already looking at her with an expression that says tell me about it, but he doesn’t say anything. He just slips his flask out of his pocket again and takes another swig, fully knowing Robin might judge him, but not caring anymore. 

If this was any other setting Robin would have said something to him, but over the years Robin had learned the importance of time and place, and as long as Steve didn’t get sloppy sad drunk before the ceremony even started, she’d let him be. She also feels partly guilty about Steve’s current mental state, she should have never told you to invite him, should have never told him that you wanted to see him, because no matter how much she wanted you two to get back together it would never be that easy. This wasn’t like the romantic comedies that Nancy would make her watch, this was real life, two real people with real feelings. 

Although Robin has a feeling that Steve would have shown up anyways without her telling him that. Steve would push down every horrid heartbroken feeling he had if it meant you got to be happy, if he got to see you be happy, because to Steve the happiness and safety of the ones he loved meant more than his own well being. It’s something she learned very quickly that summer she slung ice cream for a living with him. When their 4th of July was spent thousands of miles underground and how at only age nineteen Steve had taken the brunt of the horrors they experienced down there just so there wasn’t a scratch on her. 

Robin knows Steve has experienced so much hurt in his life for only being twenty seven and yet she knows him watching you get married to someone else will undoubtedly be the worst pain he’s experienced. 

She wonders if maybe in some twisted way this is closure for him. 

In the same twisted way she hopes it’s not– for either of you. 

“Did I tell you I’m walking down the aisle with the son of the man who invented Pop-Tarts?” Robin rambles, trying to make conversation, which is something she never has to force with Steve, but she guesses there is a first time for everything. 

It gets a slight smirk out of Steve though and so she’ll take it as a win. “Let me guess Michael Jackson is officiating the wedding isn’t he?” 

“Well now you’ve ruined the surprise!”  

Steve can feel himself falling back into the familiar back and forth riffing he does with Robin and for a split second a real smile graces itself onto his face, but it’s gone as fast as it appears. 

“Robin! There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” 

Your Mom suddenly appears next to Robin and Steve swears her presence alone causes a change in the air pressure. Her eyes lock onto his for a second, gives him a tight lipped smile, and then focuses her attention back on Robin. 

It wasn’t that your Mom didn’t like Steve. In fact your parents loved him as a person, but they didn’t love the fact that he hadn’t gone to college and that he was working at Family Video as a full time job when you two had started dating. Your parents would never come out and say that they wanted better for you back then or at least their terms of better, especially considering your parents were friends with Steve’s, but when you two had broken up it was obvious that your parents weren’t the least bit sad. 

“Honey I need you to go help Y/N. She had a little mishap with her makeup and I need to let everyone know we might have to push the start of the ceremony back just a teensy bit.” 

She says it so casually like it’s no big deal and Robin and Steve share a concerned look. 

“Is she okay?” Steve asks immediately, surprising both himself and the two women who stand in front of him.

Your Mom gives him a small smile, already halfway out of this conversation and onto the next task at hand. “Oh she’s just got a little wedding day jitters. She’ll be all good by the time she needs to walk down the aisle.” 

She’s gone before Robin or him can ask anymore questions and something settles deep in Steve’s gut. Something he can’t ignore and maybe it’s the liquid courage that he’s been nursing ever since he arrived or maybe it’s just pure concern, but he finds himself doing something he knows he shouldn’t. 

As soon as your Mom had left Robin was brought into another conversation by one of the groomsmen asking if you’d be mad if one of their ties might be a slightly darker shade than the rest of the guys and Robin wants to say ‘how the fuck could they be a different shade you all went and got them together’ but she doesn’t. She tells him it will be fine because frankly she has bigger fish to fry and that fish is you who she knows is undoubtedly a mess up in your dressing room. 

You’d been off for months now, but this morning while she was helping you get ready she could tell right away that your demeanor was not one of someone with wedding day jitters. She’d tried mentioning it in a not so obvious way, asking if this was something you still wanted, but you were always so quick to shoot her down. Your thousand yard stare quickly turning into a smile, reassuring her that this was what you wanted, but she could see the lack of sparkle in your eyes, and she hated that you felt like you had no way out of this. 

Once the groomsmen is shooed away Robin turns back towards Steve to tell him that she probably won’t see him till after the ceremony, but his corner is no longer occupied. Her head whips around in every direction, eyebrows drawn together in confusion and a little bit of annoyance because if she knew being a maid of honor meant putting out this many fires she would have never accepted the role. 

(Yes she would have because she loves you, but future Robin will take this day into consideration if anyone ever asks her again. Unless of course there’s a wedding in the future that might include her two favorite people and well then maybe she’d officiate it instead because how could she be both the maid of honor and the best man?) 

Her eyes finally lock on to someone with shaggy brown hair ascending the grand staircase and she just stands there– watching him. She makes no effort to stop him and when she sees him disappear down the hall she turns on her heel and heads to the other side of the building. 

This tie fiasco could ruin the wedding and Robin surely doesn’t want that. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve’s legs seemingly carry him down the hall, the same legs that have carried him through the tunnels under Hawkins and through the Upside Down multiple times, but the trek down this marbled hallway feels far more scary than his times spent in alternate dimensions. 

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, knows it’s only going to make things worse for him, but god dammit he needed to make sure you were alright. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since Steve’s seen you, if you haven’t been his for five years, or if you were about ready to get married to another guy– he was always going to care about you. 

And he shamelessly wanted to see you. Even if he knew it would absolutely tear his heart to shreds, he wanted to see you one last time, because after today Steve was going to have to let you go. 

At least that’s what he keeps telling himself, but how is he supposed to let go of the girl who was and probably always will be the center of his universe? 

The once amplified sound of what seemed like hundreds of people talking and music playing has now settled into a muffled buzz in the distance as Steve stands in front of a double solid dark oak door. He can see his distorted face reflecting back at him in the golden door knobs and the Mrs. Carter sprawled across the center of the door on some sign that probably cost more than what he makes in a week teaching middle schoolers about puberty makes him want to reach back into his breast pocket for that security blanket once more. 

He runs his hand through his hair, takes a very shaky deep breath, and then with a whispered fuck it– he knocks on the door. 

“Robs?” 

Steve’s heart embarrassingly skips a beat over just hearing your voice. It had been five years since he’d heard it, the first time he’s heard it since you looked at him with tears streaming down your face telling him that you’re always going to love him before ending what was the best thing that had ever happened to him. 

The fact that he can tell you’ve been crying–  even through the door. God it makes his head spin because you never truly forget what it sounds like when the woman you love is hurting. He knows you may very well tell him to fuck off and to get out, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take if it meant seeing you. 

His hand shakes as it hovers over the door knob and before he can seem to lose the courage he wraps his large hand around the cool metal.  

On the other side of the door you’re oblivious that it’s anyone other than your best friend coming to help you and you don’t think of the implications of what you’re saying or the fact that it could be someone else– you just desperately call out to her as the door creaks open.

“Robin, I need you. I don’t know what to do.” 

Your face is hidden in your hands, still sitting at the vanity, not knowing how the hell you’re supposed to walk down the aisle in less than an hour and marry Chris. All you do know is that you need your best friend to talk you down off this ledge and maybe possibly help you figure out how to get out of this. 

“Robin?” you question once you realize the door had opened, but she hadn’t made her presence known.

As you’re lifting your head up Steve finally peaks his head in from around the corner and when you two make eye contact in the mirror you swear it feels like Pluto has flown off its orbit and collided directly into the sun– imploding itself and the entire solar system. 

A buzzing silence fills the room and you stare back at him in the mirror for the longest time, waiting for him to disappear, thinking that you’ve had a psychotic break and you were hallucinating him being here. You slowly turn in your chair and with unsteady legs you get up to face him, your hands gripping the back of the chair for support. 

“Steve?” 

It comes out so broken, but what should you expect when you’re broken yourself? 

Steve feels his knees go weak under him and he tries to casually lean against the table to his right, like his knuckles aren’t turning white from how he’s have to hold himself up. It’s embarrassing and his cheeks flush over how his knees had nearly buckled under him at the sound of your voice. 

Over the sound of you saying his name. 

“Hi angel.” 

The old pet name slips off Steve’s tongue with such ease no one would have ever guessed it had been five years since you two had been together. Steve doesn’t even register that he’s said it, he’s too mesmerized by how beautiful you look. How you’re standing there in front of him looking like a real life angel in the white dress that he’d imagined you in so many times. It takes his breath away in such a heartbreaking way because all those dreams were never going to become a reality and the proof was right in front of him. 

Your heart does a traitorous thing when you hear him call you angel and it does nothing to help ease the ache in your chest, if anything it makes it worse. Your hand still grips the back of the chair like a lifeline as you stand there staring at him, taking in the man you haven’t seen in years. He’s changed so much yet not all in that time and your stomach churns over the fact that you once knew every single thing about him, but now there’s half a decade of Steve that you know nothing about. 

When you’d left him he still had some of his boyish features, but now at twenty seven he’d grown into himself. His hair wasn’t as long as it was back in high school, but it was still long enough in that classic Steve way. There were crinkles around those all too familiar hazel eyes and you remember Robin telling you he coaches little league and you wonder if they’re from him being out in the sun. You could also tell that he’d gained some weight, filling out his suit in a way that had your eyes trailing all over his body. The slight pudge that made its presence known over his belt. It looked good on him and it didn't slip past you the way the fabric on the arm of his suit jacket strained when he lifted his arm to run his hand through his hair. 

He looked good. 

He looked too good. 

And you shouldn’t be thinking that about someone else on your wedding day. 

Steve could tell from your tone of voice through the door that you had been crying, but if he hadn’t been able to, well he could definitely tell now. Your mascara was still smudged slightly around your bloodshot eyes and your skin was red and splotchy– a tell tale sign that you were stressed and or upset. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask softly, not trusting your voice enough to not crack again. 

A little smile tugs at his lips, like he’s trying to make things less awkward, “Well I was invited…full government name and everything.” 

You give him a look– a look that he still knows very well and knows that now is not the time for jokes. 

Steve glances down at the floor, his bottom lip tucked securely between his teeth. The idea of admitting that he was coming to check on you, that he wanted to see you, made his stomach twist. Because he knows he doesn’t really have the right to do those things, feel those things, with you anymore. 

He hasn’t for a long time, but old habits die hard. 

He moves closer to you, just enough that it’s noticeable, but not enough that you’d feel inclined to step back– not that you would anyways. 

“I heard your Mom say the start of the ceremony was being pushed back and I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” 

His eyes wander up from the floor to you and the way you’re looking at him, eyes all round and lashes still damp from your tears, it makes Steve throw all his restraint out the window. 

“And I wanted to see you,” he states, like it doesn’t crack something deep in his chest. “I wanted to see you one last time.” 

Your fingernails dig into your palms, trying to stop yourself from breaking again, to stop your already watery eyes from leaking again. It’s funny that you thought inviting him would somehow make things easier for you, to close off that chapter in your life once and for all. You should have known it wouldn’t work like that, should have known that the moment you saw him again everything would come rushing back tenfold, that your orbit around your sun could never be severed. 

When you don’t respond Steve finds himself taking a deep breath, trying to not let your silence over him wanting to see you again bruise his already very fragile heart. He knew it was a little forward, but what did he have to lose? You were already standing in front of him wearing a wedding dress that another man was going to help you out of later. 

The smell hits you instantly. As soon as the air leaves his pretty pink lips you’re met with the overwhelming smell of alcohol. There wasn't any alcohol available to anyone until the reception, which means Steve either snuck some in, or drank before he got here. It’s then that you really take in how glassy his eyes are and how messy his hair really is, he was always one to constantly run his fingers through it when he was tipsy, never knowing what to do with his hands. 

His speech wasn’t slurred yet, but you could imagine if he’d found you any later he’d be on the cusp of it. 

“Why have you been drinking?” you ask abruptly. 

Steve wants to say– because I can’t get through watching you marry another man sober. 

Because ever since I got that invitation in the mail I’ve been drinking to cope. 

Because I’ve looked for you in every woman I’ve been with since you left. (which isn’t a lot)

Because I know after today I’m going to have to let you go, even when I haven’t had you for years.

Because I don’t know if I can ever move on from you even if I tell myself to let you go. 

Because it’s been five years and my Mom has been starting to ask when I’m going to find someone to settle down with. 

Because I’m hoping that maybe you still feel the same and maybe this won’t end with me at a bar tonight. 

Because I still love you. 

Instead, he turns the conversation back on you, not wanting to dive into his own personal issues, and asks. “Why have you been crying?” 

You narrow your eyes at him, annoyed that he’s trying to avoid your question by bringing up the obvious elephant in the room. There’s so many things you want to tell him, so many things that would ultimately determine if you were going to be walking down the aisle shortly, and you wonder if you asked Steve to sneak you out the back if he would. 

He would without a second thought. 

Do you tell him the truth? Do you tell him all the reasons that have been swirling around in your brain as you stand here in your custom made wedding dress staring into the glassy eyes of the man who would light the world on fire if you asked him to. 

You could tell him your red rimmed eyes and smeared mascara is just because of nerves.

But what you really want to say is – it’s because my special day is nothing like I ever expected it to be.

Because I feel like an imposter. 

Because the man that will be standing across from me at the altar isn’t a five foot eleven hazel eyed boy from Hawkins. 

Because my parents want this marriage to happen more than anything in the world, even at the expense of their own daughter’s well being. 

Because I realized that moving away and leaving you was never going to fix me and that I was never trapped in Hawkins. I was running from something much bigger than myself. 

Because seeing you here is killing me and knowing you’ve been drinking is making it even worse. 

Because you’re always going to be my sun and my orbit around you still hasn’t strayed even after all these years. 

Because I’ve thought about you showing up like this a million times and now that you’re here I can’t work up the nerve to ask you the one thing I need you to do for me. 

Because I wonder if you still love me even after I left you like I did. 

Because I still love you. 

But none of that comes out of your mouth– you lie straight to his face instead.

“I’m just nervous,” you respond. “I think every woman cries a little bit on her wedding day if we’re being honest. I mean there’s a lot of people out there. What if I trip walking down the aisle? Or what if I forget my vows?”

It’s all bullshit and you can tell as Steve’s eyes flicker across your face, taking in your wrecked features for the millionth time since he stepped foot into this room, that he knows it too. He’d always been able to tell when you were lying, when something much bigger was bothering you than you’d let on, and it’s times like this when you realize he probably knew about you wanting to leave Hawkins way before you did. 

He doesn’t say anything right away and lets your response linger in the air. He isn’t really sure what to say, he’d heard you crying out for Robin through the door, can clearly see the stress hives on your chest, this wasn’t just a little wedding day nerves. This was you freaking out and Steve doesn’t know if it’s because of your Mom or if it’s something else. 

He selfishly hopes it’s the something else, but if it was, how would that even play out? You’re supposed to be marrying Chris in less than an hour and what if this is all just nerves? Does he risk making a fool of himself by insinuating what he thinks is going on with you? What he hopes is going on? He doesn’t really have much to lose if he does, but there’s still something holding Steve back. 

It’s been five years since he’s seen you and in that time, not only has he changed, but so have you. Say he does put everything out on the table, asks you if you really want to marry Chris or just straight up tells you not to marry Chris. Who says you’d even want to be with him? Or if things would even work out. In a month you could regret ever leaving him today and Steve would be painted the fool. Hell, he doesn't even know if you still have feelings for him. The irrational side of him though, the side that still holds on to what you told him when you left years ago, tells him it’s a possibility. 

The rational side– it tells him to let you go.

You’re both not teenagers anymore, fighting demogorgons and saving your podunk town for years on end. You’re adults with real life responsibilities, and jobs, and 401k’s that Steve still isn’t really sure he understands. Things are so different from what they used to be and Steve can’t help but think about how when things got real– when all the adrenaline from years of being on edge had finally worn off– you left. And maybe that’s a sign that you two weren’t meant to be together in the real world, facing normal people problems that now seemed much harder than defeating Vecna ever was. 

His irrational side takes over long enough for him to break his already fragile heart. 

“Do you love him?” Steve asks, his throat constricting as the words come tumbling out. 

His question steals the air from your lungs and you swear you can feel the corset backing on your dress tightening again. This is what you had wanted, you’d wanted him to question things, wanted him to come save you, and you can’t get yourself to say the words you need to. 

“I–” 

Tell me not to do it Steve. 

“I love him,” you reply with what is the most uncertain tone coming from a woman who’s about to marry said man. “I love him enough.” 

Tell me not to marry him. 

“You love him enough?” An ugly feeling settles deep in Steve’s chest as he wrestles with the realization that your love for him was clearly never enough for you to stay in Hawkins, but you apparently love Chris just enough to marry him. 

The tears you’ve been holding back finally break past their barrier and then they come down harder when you realize that the man who’d wipe them away as soon as the first one fell wasn’t even moving an inch towards you. 

“I–no–Steve–” your words come out wet and broken and you have no fucking clue to what even say anymore. “That came out wrong–” it came out exactly like you wanted it to. “I’ve just got a lot going on in my head right now.” 

Say anything. Say anything at all and I won’t marry him. 

Steve can feel his emotions starting to get the better of him and he knows he should just leave the conversation at this because the longer he stands here and watches you cry the worse it’s going to get for him, but he’s got to get one last thing off his chest. 

“Do you remember what you told me when we broke up?” Steve asks, holding out hope that you’d held on to the same thing as him after all these years. 

You sheepishly shake your head no at him, there was a lot of things you’d rambled to him that night, and maybe if you’re brain wasn’t fucked up beyond belief right now you’d be able to decipher what he was alluding to. 

Steve tries to swallow down the giant lump in his throat, he should have known you wouldn’t remember, should have known every question he would throw your way would only hurt him, but fuck it he’s got a little bit of whiskey left in his flask, so he might as well continue. 

“You’d told me that you’d always love me,” he can see the broken realization on your face, but he continues. “And for the longest time I held on to that, hoping that you’d come back to me, and you never did. Which I should have expected, but I showed up to your wedding, came into this room, with the idea that maybe you still loved me even just half as much as I still love you.”

He shakes his head, eyes flickering back down to the floor in an act of selfpreservation.

“I don’t know what I was expecting to happen. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this right now, but I’d held on to those words for so long that there was part of me that had hoped you’d see me and everything would go back to how it used to be, but I know this isn’t a fairytale. This is real life and you’re marrying another man and I have to accept that.” 

This is where you tell him that you still love him. This is where everything changes and you can feel like yourself again– with the only person who ever really understood you. This is where relief should be flooding your nervous system. 

Instead you stand there with tears streaming down your face and paralyzed vocal chords.

You can see the first few tears cascade down Steve’s cheeks and you want to reach out and wipe them away, remember how his skin feels under your touch, but you can’t. 

Steve wipes away his own tears and looks back up at you, clearing his throat before continuing to break not only his own heart, but yours too. “I’m choosing to believe that what’s going on with you is just nerves because if it was something else you would have told me. And I’m sorry for springing this on you but I couldn’t–” his voice cracks and he stops, shaking his head in annoyance at himself. “I’m happy for you and Chris seems like a great guy. I think maybe being nervous is a good thing, yeah? Just shows that you want your special day to be everything you imagined.” 

“Steve,” you finally choke out. There’s so much you want to say to him, so much you need to say to him, but you can’t get it out. You don’t have time to get it out. Because as much as you want him to run away with you, as much as you’re looking at him with pleading eyes, trying to get him to just take your hand and run out the back. 

It’s not going to happen. 

He’s too good of a man to do it and you’re too chicken shit to tell him. 

How you’re even standing right now is beyond you– you’ve got no backbone. Never have. Probably never will. Hopefully in the plethora of gifts that your Mom was boasting about earlier– someone has given you one. 

It’s clear that you’ll marry Chris because he’s good to you and because it will make your parents happy. You’ll also let Steve walk out of this room and hope that maybe the universe would give you a third chance in the future, because even if you’re married, even if this is Steve’s way of letting you go. 

How can Pluto ever stop orbiting its sun? 

His hand reaches out and you let him intertwine his fingers with yours, relishing in the feeling of his skin on yours for the first time in years. Electricity travels up your arm and directly into your chest– blooming something achingly familiar in your heart. You don’t want to let him go, don’t want to have to forget the way it feels to do something as simple as holding his hand or hear him call you angel again. 

You squeeze his hand as you look into those doe eyes of his and for a split second you feel like you’re seventeen again in the Family Video parking lot. The frigid winter air nipped at your skin back then as you leaned against your car, but you never even felt the effects of it because you had your sun right in front of you. Which is how you feel now, even for just a minute, having him here in front of you, it dulls the ache in your heart. 

Steve takes a shaky deep breath and you know this is the end, this is where he’s going to let you go, and you wonder if this is how he felt when you left him standing in his bedroom that Christmas. You feel his grip loosen just a tad, but you hold on tighter, not letting him leave before he’s said goodbye. 

He reaches up with his other hand and cradles the side of your face, his thumb gently wiping away your tears. It makes your breath hitch in your throat and the tears fall even harder, but you shamelessly lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut, trying to savor this fleeting moment. 

Even after everything, this was still your Steve standing in front of you. Still the same caring boy who’d put himself between you and too many life threatening situations to count, who would always bring you over free ice cream that summer he worked at Scoops and you worked at the Gap, who threw you a graduation party when Hawkins going into lockdown had ruined everything about the end of your senior year. Five years had passed and he’d fallen back into old habits like nothing had happened, like both of you weren’t hurting.

“I'll always love you Y/N, but I’ve got to let you go.” 

His words hit you square in the chest, like you’ve gotten the wind knocked out of you, and to make matters worse you feel his touch evade you. Clearly drawing the line in the sand with not only his words but his actions. As you slowly blink open your eyes you’re praying that this has all been a bad dream and you’d be back in your bed in New York, but luck has never been on your side, and Steve stands before you with round wet eyes that will haunt your dreams tonight. 

Steve wants to tell you a million other things, wants to stay holed up in this dressing room with you for eternity, but he knows he can’t. Hell he’s surprised your Mom hasn’t busted down the door wondering why you weren’t ready to walk down the aisle by now, but either way he knows his time with you is limited. 

He’d seen you, told you his feelings, and now he was going to watch you marry another man. 

“You know,” Steve shuffles back a bit from you, starting his exit plan. “I always thought you’d make a beautiful bride and it’s nice to know I was right.” 

He finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, trying to not let himself cry again as he walks backwards towards the door. 

You open your mouth to say anything to get him to stick around, but nothing comes out, and you’re internally screaming, pleading for him to not leave you. 

It seems to play out in slow motion as you watch his hand grip the door knob, the sound of the door opening ricochets off the walls, and then in a split second your sun leaves you and takes every bit of warmth with him. Silent tears stream down your face and when Robin walks in seconds later you’re none the wiser to the fact that she’d been eavesdropping in the hallway to hear at least the worst bits. 

She guides you to sit down at the vanity while she grabs some things from the bathroom. Time doesn’t seem to exist to you right now, and you don’t even realize she’s exited the bathroom until you feel her pressing a cold washcloth to the back of your neck and chest, trying to get you to calm down. She doesn’t say anything to you, which you’re eternally grateful for, but when you make eye contact with her in the mirror as she stands behind you, you know she knows. 

She knows you’re back in the Family Video parking lot, except you’ve locked your keys inside your car, and Steve is nowhere to be found. 

Forty-five minutes later and only a half an hour past the ceremony start time, Robin and you exit the dressing room hand in hand, leaving behind your conversation with Steve and an empty wine glass.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───                                                                                                                                     The moment the live string quartet starts playing Canon in D and everyone stands Steve wishes the floor would swallow him whole. As soon as the giant double doors open he hears a gasp from the crowd and he wants to punch himself for sitting in an aisle seat. He wonders if it’s too late to ask Lucas to switch seats, but then he locks eyes with you as you start coming down the aisle and whatever he was thinking goes out the window. It was one thing to see you in your dressing room, but this was different, this was real, and he feels his chest crack wide open. You looked like an angel, so breathtaking, and he’d imagined this day so many times before, what you’d look like as you walked down the aisle towards him, he just never thought he’d be in the crowd and not at the altar. 

He doesn't have Robin to lean on right now, just a very judgemental yet caring Max next to him that can definitely smell the whiskey on him, but doesn’t say anything. Mainly because Max is just observant at twenty-two as she was at fifteen and she knows that Steve Harrington is still very much in love with you. She knows he’s been struggling, knows this has to be the worst day of his life and she’s surprised he even came, but he was here and that has to count for something. 

Max feels a slight pang in her chest as she looks up at the man that has saved her life more times than she can count. He looks broken, far from the bat-slinging teenage boy she once knew, and she finds herself reaching out for his hand hanging idle at his side. Without a second thought she wraps her hand around his and gives him a reassuring squeeze, letting him know that she’s here and when he turns his head towards her and gives her a smile that says thank you, she gives him one back. She gently bumps his shoulder with hers like she’s telling him you know it’s no big deal, and he squeezes her hand back.

Their hands stay intertwined the whole ceremony and when the officiant says those famous six words, Max feels Steve grip her hand to the point where it hurts, but she knows that twenty seconds of pain is nothing compared to what Steve is feeling right now.

The guests cheer and holler and clap, but all Steve can hear is a constant ringing in his head, like he’d rung his bell too hard again. He watches as Chris and you walk back down the aisle hand in hand with big smiles on your faces. It makes Steve’s chest burn with such fierceness that he can’t catch his breath. The groomsmen and bridesmaids follow in tow of the newly married couple and he doesn’t miss the sympathetic look Robin shoots his way, it makes him feel even worse, like he’s the pathetic ex that showed up to the wedding just to ruin the vibe. 

The crowd eventually trickles out of the room and he hears Max and Lucas asking him something from behind him, but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t follow the crowd into the ball room. He just keeps going straight and lets the entrance doors slam behind him as fresh air finally fills his burning lungs. 

The thing about Spencer was that he remembered everything. Most people found that impressive, however you found it comforting. You could mention something once and Spencer would remember it months later.

A favorite author.

A movie you loved as a kid.

A food allergy.

A random story from college.

It all stayed somewhere inside his mind. One afternoon you were searching your desk.

Spencer looked up from a file.

"What are you looking for?"

"My charger."

"It's in conference room B."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You left it there after the briefing."

"How do you know that?"

"You forgot it."

"As opposed to?"

"You forgetting it somewhere else."

You laughed, what made Spencer smile. The room collectively watched. Then looked away before either of you noticed.

A month later the team was flying home from a case. You fell asleep halfway through the flight. Nothing unusual.

The unusual part happened afterward, when the jet landed. You woke up covered with Spencer's suit jacket. Garcia nearly bit through her lip trying not to smile. Luke immediately looked toward Rossi. Rossi silently updated the betting pool.

You simply handed the jacket back.

"Thanks."

Spencer looked almost embarrassed.

"Of course."

Like covering you with his jacket was the most natural thing in the world. Which, to him, it was.

The problem wasn't that Spencer was subtle.

The problem was that he treated you differently in a hundred tiny ways, that only became obvious when people paid attention.

He always sat beside you during briefings, partnered with you when possible, saved you a seat on the jet, noticed when you were tired or stressed, or hungry, or upset.

The rest of the team noticed.

You didn't.

One afternoon Emily walked into the bullpen and stopped. Spencer was talking and you were laughing. Neither of you seemed aware that everyone else had stopped working. Your eyes blurry with tears, Spencer vividly gesticulating as he was telling you an old story about prank war he had with Derek, years ago.

Luke slowly slid into the chair beside Emily.

"How long do you think?"

Emily sighed.

"At this rate?"

"Yeah."

"Six months."

Luke nodded thoughtfully.

"Optimistic."

Across the room Garcia was already adding notes to the betting spreadsheet.

The funniest part was that Spencer thought he was hiding it.

Everyone knew. Everyone. Including suspects, witnesses, local police.

Once, during a case, a detective looked between you and Spencer and casually asked how long you'd been together.

You nearly choked. Spencer looked like he forgot how talking worked.

The detective immediately apologized.

The team spent three days making fun of him. Spencer never recovered.

The jealousy started by accident.

At least that's what Spencer told himself.

The team was interviewing witnesses at a local bar. You were speaking with one of them. A very attractive witness. A witness who was clearly more interested in you than helping with the case.

Spencer was trying not to stare.

He failed. Spectacularly.

The witness leaned closer, what made Spencer hate him immediately.

The witness said something and your smile vanished.

"Oh no," Luke muttered beside Spencer.

"What?"

"The poor idiot crossed a line."

Sure enough, you folded your arms.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

The witness smirked. Spencer couldn't hear his response. Whatever it was, he didn't need to.

Your eyebrow lifted.

Three minutes later the witness looked like he'd lost an argument with a lawyer, a professor, and a disappointed mother all at once.

He practically fled.

You walked back toward the team.

"What happened?" JJ asked.

"He told me I'd be prettier if I smiled more."

Emily winced.

"Oof."

"He also suggested women usually aren't greatat this job."

Luke barked out a laugh.

"Well, he deserved whatever you said."

You shrugged.

"I simply informed him his confidence was unsupported by evidence. And that if he thinks me smiling more would help finding the killer, I'm glad his job is cleaning tables."

Rossi laughed into his coffee.

Spencer tried to hide his grin and failed. You caught it immediately.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You look pleased."

Spencer shrugged.

"I enjoy watching arrogant people get embarrassed."

Your smile widened and Spencer forgot how breathing worked.

The breaking point came another two months later. The team was flying home after a case. Everyone was exhausted. Luke was asleep with his head tilted back. Garcia was scrolling through her phone. Emily and JJ were discussing paperwork. Rossi had somehow fallen asleep the second the jet left the ground.

You sat across from Reid.

He sat with a book open in his lap. Supposedly reading. You knew he was reading because he always read.

What you didn't know was that he'd been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes. Because you were sitting directly across from him. And because he was trying very hard not to think about how good you looked. He was failing miserably at that.

You sighed and stretched.

"Can I ask you something?"

Spencer glanced up.

"Of course."

"Why don't you date?"

A few seats away, Emily immediately looked interested. Luke cracked one eye open.

Spencer tried to focus back on the book.

"That's a broad question."

"I mean, you're smart."

He turned a page. The wrong page.

"Kind."

Another page. Still not reading.

"Funny."

The book lowered slightly.

"And ridiculously attractive."

Reid nearly dropped it.

Across the aisle, Luke looked ready to choke.

You continued obliviously.

"Anyone would be happy to be with you."

Spencer stared at the page, not reading a single word. Then he said, almost casually:

"Well, you don't seem interested."

You blinked.

"What?"

The words came out before he could stop them. His eyes widened slightly. The entire jet suddenly felt very quiet.

You stared.

Spencer stared at his book, very intensely.

Like maybe if he focused hard enough he could disappear into it.

"What do you mean?"

He swallowed, slowly lowered the book and looked at you.

"I mean..." He hesitated.

For once, Spencer Reid seemed completely unsure of himself. Then he gave a tiny shrug.

"You don't seem interested in dating me."

The silence was immediate. Absolute.

Across the jet, Luke's eyes snapped fully open. Garcia looked up from her phone. Emily stopped pretending not to listen. JJ pressed her lips together. Rossi looked awake all of a sudden.

You simply stared. Because surely you hadn't heard that correctly.

Spencer realized exactly what he'd just admitted. A faint blush spread across his face.

"Oh."

He looked away.

"That wasn't how I intended to say that."

You were still staring. Because suddenly everything made sense.

The coffee.

The jacket.

The attention to detail.

The jealousy.

The way he always found you first.

"Oh my God."

Spencer let out a quiet laugh.

"Yeah."

"Oh my God."

"I know."

You pointed at him. Completely horrified.

"You're flirting with me?"

Luke physically buried his face in his hands. Garcia made a noise somewhere between a scream and a laugh.

Spencer finally smiled.

Warm.

Fond.

A little smug.

He tilted his head.

"For like... two months now, thank you for noticing."

"Two months?"

Emily snorted.

"Try six."

Spencer groaned.

"Emily."

"What? She deserve the truth.

You looked confused.

"You knew about it?" You looked at everyone, trying to figure out what exactly is happening.

"Technically Rossi had the betting pool."

"I financed the betting pool," Rossi corrected.

You looked back at Spencer, furrowed brows, thinking. Analysing.

"You really like me?"

Spencer's expression softened immediately. Like the answer was obvious.

"Considering I haven't stopped thinking about you for almost a year?"

Your heart completely stopped.

"A year?"

Spencer closed his eyes.

"Please stop repeating that."

"A year?"

Luke laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his seat.

Garcia was openly crying.

And Spencer looked like he wanted the jet door to open so he could jump out.

"Yea" he admitted quietly. You smiled, not taking his eyes off of him.

"That's good" you said eventually and that made him curiously look at you.

"Good?"

"Yea. Because I like you too. For quite some time" you admitted, smiling fully now.

"You do?"

"Yes. Thank you for noticing" you couldn't help but mock him, as you intertwined your fingers on the small table inbetween you.

Garcia already started planning your wedding. JJ and Emily exchanged looks, knowing smirks. Luke just silently handed Rossi fifty bucks, mutting something that sounded like "one week too soon".

warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.

word count: 43.2k

a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.

            Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.

            Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.

            “Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.

            “Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.

            Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.

            “Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.

            “I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.

            “Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.

            “Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.

            “I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”

            “Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.

            “I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.

            Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.

             Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.

            “A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”

            “You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.

            “I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?

            “The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.

            “I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.

            “You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”

            “I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.

            “I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.

            When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.

            The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.

            Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.

            “I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”

            Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.

            “The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”

            As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.

            “Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.

            “Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”

            “What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.

            “We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.

            “We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”

            It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.

            “Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.

            “I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.

            “Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.

            “I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.

            “Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”

            You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.

            Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.

            “It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.

            “Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.

            “Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.

            “Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.

            “Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.

            “It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?

            Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?

            He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.

            In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.

            “What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.

            “You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”

            “Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.

            “At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.

            “What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.

            “You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.

            “You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.

            “I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.

            “And I should? What do you want me to say?”

            “Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.

            “It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.

            “It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.

            “It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”

            “It’s not Sharon.”

            “Bucky—”

            “It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”

            His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.

            “You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.

            “You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.

            “What?”

            “I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.

“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky—”

            “It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.

            “You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.

            “I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”

            You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.

            “Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?

            “What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.

            “Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.

            “What the hell does—”

            “He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”

            “Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.

            The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.

            “You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.

            “Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”

            “You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.

            “So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.

            “My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”

            “Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.

            You can’t stand him.

            Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.

            “I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.

            “If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.

            “I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”

            “There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”

            “That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”

            “I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.

            Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?

            Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.

            He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.

            He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.

            He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.

            Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.

            He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.

            “Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.

            You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.

            You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.

            Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.

            He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.

            When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?

            Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.

            “You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”

            “Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.

            You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.

            “Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.

            “Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.

            “Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.

            “Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.

            Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.

            “Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.

            “I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.

            “I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”

            “I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.

            “I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.

            “Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.

He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.

“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.

            You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?

            As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.

            The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.

            “You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.

            “You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”

            “I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.

            “A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”

            “Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.

            “Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.

            “Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”

            As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.

            “I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.

            “Why are you looking at me when you say that?”

            “You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.

            “You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.

            “You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.

            “Aren’t we all?”

            Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.

            As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.

            “I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.

            “I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.

            “Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.

            Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.

            “They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.

            “Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.

            You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.

            The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.

            “I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.

            Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.

            Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.

            Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.

            Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.

            “Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.

            “What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”

            “Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

            Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.

            But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.

            “Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.

            With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?

            “Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.

            “You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.

            “You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.

            Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.

            With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.

            Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?

            As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.

            You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.

            “I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”

            “Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.

            “No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.

            “You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.

            “You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.

            “I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”

            “Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.

            “You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”

            Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.

            “Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”

            With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.

            Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.

            You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?

            The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.

            It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?

            Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.

            She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.

            The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.

            “We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”

            “Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.

            “Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.

            “Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.

            Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…

            “I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.

            “You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”

            As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.

            You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.

            Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.

            “You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.

            “But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.

            “Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.

            “They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.

            “Say it isn’t enough.”

            “Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.

            You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.

            Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in.  You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.

            He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.

            Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.

            “Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.

            “Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.

            “Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.

            “There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.

            “You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.

            “My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.

            “Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.”  You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.

            “Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.

            “But it looks so damn good on you.”  He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.

            “Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”

            “I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”

            “You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”

            With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?           

            You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.

            Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.

            One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.

            When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.

            Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.

            You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.

            Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?

            You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.

            When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.

            If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.

            Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.

            The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.

            Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.

            You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.

            Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.

            “We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”

            “It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”

            “As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.

            “Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”

            “They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.

            It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?

            “Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.

            “Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”

            “Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.

            “Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.

            “It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.

            “I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.

            His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.

            “Three, two, one…”

            With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.

             Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.

            She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.

            “Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.

            The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.

            “Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.

            “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”

            “Not at all.” You respond honestly.

            Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.

            The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.

            “Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.

            “What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.

            “I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.

            “Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.

            “Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.

            Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.

            You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.

            You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.

            “Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.

            “What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?

            “I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”

            “Can’t be?”

            “I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.

            “I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.

            “Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.

            “You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.

            “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.

            “He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.

            “He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.

            “You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”

            “I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.

            “I know.”

            “Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.

            “I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”

            “Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.

            “Like what?”

            “You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.

            “The lines have been blurred for a long time.”

            “Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.

            “I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.

            “That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.

            “How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.

            “Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”

            “You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.

            “The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?

            Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.

            Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.

            It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.

            “Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.

            “It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.

            Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.

            “Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.

            “If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.

            “I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.       

            “Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”

            As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.

            When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.

            “Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.

            “If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.

            “I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.

            “You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.

            “I was just thinking.”

            “About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.

            “Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.

            “That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.

            Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.

            “Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.

            Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.

            You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.

            You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow.  Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…

            A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.

            You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.

            “I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.

            “Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.

            “I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”

            “Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.

            “How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.

            “How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”

            “Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”

            “Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.

            “I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

            “We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.

            “I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”

            “You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”

            “I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”

            “You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.

            “Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”

            You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.

            “It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

            “Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.

            “You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.

            “Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.

            “Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”

            “Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”

            “Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”

            “No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.

            “You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”

            “I do not.”

            “That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”

            Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.

            There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.

            As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.

            You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.

            Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.

            Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.

            “You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.

            “You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.

            “Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.

            “I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”

            “That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.

            Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.

            “Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt.  “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.

            Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.

            “What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.

            “He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”

            You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.

            “It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.

            “You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.

            “If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.

            “Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.

            “He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.”  A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.

            “Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.

            You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.

            “Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.

            “Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.

            “How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.

            “I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.

            “You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.

            “Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.

            “I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.

            “How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.

            “Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.

            “Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.

            “Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.

            “I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.

            “Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.

            “Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”

            “Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.

            “That’s not an answer.”

            “It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.

            “Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”

            Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.

            You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.

            Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.

            “You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.

            “I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.

            “Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”

            “Peggy—”

            “Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.

            “I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.

            “I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”

            “My problem?”

            “You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”

            “You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.

            “It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”

            Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.

            “They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.

            “How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.

            “It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.

            He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.

            “Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure.  The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.

            “Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.

            “Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”

            “Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.               

            “I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.

            “You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.

            “I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

            “And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”

            “With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.

            “Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.

            Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.

            It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?

            Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?

            The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.

            “She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”

            “You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”

            “I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.

            “You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.

            “It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.  

            “If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”

            “Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.

            “I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.

            “How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.

            “Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.

            “Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.

            No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.

            “There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.  

            “Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?

            “Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.

            “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

            “You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.

            “You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.

            “You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.

            Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.

            You taste like honey.

            You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.

            “What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.

            “Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”

            “That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”

            Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?

            “Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.

            “He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.      

            “Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.

            “What makes you ask that?”

            “I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”

            “It’s different for me.”

            “How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.

            “It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.

            “You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”

            Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.

            When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.

            “The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.

            “I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.

            “Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.

            “Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”

            “How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.

            “Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.

            “It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”

            “That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.

            “He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Yeah, he did."

            “No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”

            “Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.

            “That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.

            “I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”

            You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.

            Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.

            “He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”

            It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.

            “That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.

            “You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.

            “I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.

            “Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”

            “I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.

            “What?”

            “I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.

            “No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.

            You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.

            “Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.

            “What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.

            “Sit.”

            The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.

            “You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.     

            “Why not?”

            “Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"

            “But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.

            “Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.

            “Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.

            “I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”

            Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.

            “You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.

            “Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.

            “Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”

            Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?

            Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

            “I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.

            You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.

            “He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.

            “Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.

            You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.

            Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.

            “Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.

            “What?”

            “Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”

            Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.

            “Bucky—”

            “You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.

            “Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.

            “If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”

            “Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.

            “This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.

            “Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.

            “Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.

            “It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”

            “I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.

            “I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.

            “You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.

            “That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”

            Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.

            “You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.

            “Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.

            “I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”

            Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.

            “I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.

            “You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.

            “I can’t, but still…”

            “You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.

            The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.

            “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”

            “Bucky, I love you.”

            He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.

            His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.

            “If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.

            “You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.

            “Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”

            “I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.

            “That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.

            “Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”

            “I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.

            “I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.

            “How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.

            “Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”

            As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.

tag list

Nobody wanted to take on a six-hour side mission—three hours there, three hours back—to speak to the ex-wife of this week’s unsub, yourself included. So, naturally, Rossi had raided the local PD of their toothpicks, snapped the ends off of two of them, and presented them to the team with this devilish smile that said I know exactly how this is going to go. You don’t even know why you agreed, if we’re being honest, because you too knew damn well what would happen when you plucked that toothpick from his conniving hands.

You pulled the first short straw, and you got to watch in silent, not at all surprised frustration as Spencer pulled the second one. You had had half a mind to take your stupid toothpick and jam it into Rossi’s eye, but you restrained yourself; after all, you’re supposed to be the better, more mature half of your duo with the world’s most idiotic genius. He had tried to protest, arguing that he was too valuable of an asset to essentially abandon the investigation, but the team were quick to throw the two of you out of the police department and into an SUV that had spent all day boiling in the Louisiana sun.

That leads us into rule number two: never trust an SUV.

After three hours of suffocating in that cursed car, choking on the thick, oppressive air, you had arrived at the home of the mysterious ex-wife. Another hour-and-a-half of questioning later, you were free to embark on your journey back to the team.

Tragedy struck not even an hour even into the drive. The car stuttered, screeched, and stopped dead in the middle of traffic. You’d tried just about everything you could to breathe life back into the overheated corpse of the SUV, but it was no use; you had broken down. 

And just like that, the dam broke and the tense, carefully maintained silence between you and Spencer shattered into pieces.

Standing there, on the side of the road, Spencer had yelled at you—or you had yelled at him; you don’t remember who started it—until you were red-faced and people in their functioning vehicles were craning their necks to watch the scene unfold as they drove on by. 

You called Hotch. Spencer dialled triple-A. Both phone calls crushed whatever remnants of hope you dared cling to.

On your end, Hotch informed you that the unsub had just taken a hostage—surprise! The BAU needed every bit of information you had gathered from the ex-wife, and they needed it now. He barked orders at you over the phone, telling you to check yourselves into a motel and call him back ASAP, and abruptly hung up.

On Spencer’s end, triple-A had kindly told him that the car was fucked—hurray! Something was wrong with the engine, apparently, and you needed to wait for roadside assistance to bring their tow truck. 

But you didn’t have time to wait, not when there were lives at stake. So, you dialled Hotch’s number right there and began relaying everything you had learned over the sound of cars speeding by: details about the unsub’s failed marriage, his childhood, and—

Spencer had snatched the phone from you the moment you dared stumble over a word, damn near tearing your arm off with it. He promptly appointed himself leader of your botched hostage negotiation, and he left you to explain the situation to the very confused—and rightfully a little concerned—roadside assistance workers.

The negotiation continued into the back of some good samaritan’s car, and the two of you were dropped off at what looked to be the shittiest motel in the entire state. It was at that point you stole the phone back and ordered Spencer to speak to the receptionist whilst you walked the team through the safest way to approach the unsub.

In the motel room, you were finally able to put the team on speaker. You set the phone on the desk and, after two hours of anxious pacing, the unsub was finally detained.

And that brings us to the present, and to rule number three: never expect the BAU to come to your aid, no matter how desperately you may need it.

You’re lying face-down on the bed, listening to Hotch’s static-laced voice as he informs you, in essence, that all is well. Spencer is still standing, hands stuffed into his pockets, nodding along with everything being said.

“When can we expect to be picked up?” he asks.

The pause that follows his question is a damning one. A death sentence delivered through thick silence.

“The two of you will be staying at the motel for the night,” Hotch says. You can hear it in his voice, a slight awkwardness; he knowswhat he’s doing, yet he’s doing it anyway.

It’s fine, though. It’s just one night in a shitty motel. Really, it could be worse—

“But I only booked one room.”

Your head shoots up so fast you’re sure you almost break your neck. You scramble up onto your knees, already shaking your head in disbelief—refusal to believe.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

Spencer looks mortified.

“Reid,” you warn, “tell me you’re not serious—”

He huffs, like you’re somehow the idiot in this situation, and crosses his arms. “I didn’t think we’d be staying here!”

“You didn’t— oh my God. How?” You bark out a hollow laugh. “How are you so fucking stupid?”

The phone speaker crackles, picking up the faint sound of Morgan’s laughter.

Spencer’s cheeks are starting to turn red. “I just assumed that—”

“IQ of 187, they said” you mutter, exasperated. “God help us all.”

“I’ll— I’ll go to the front desk.” He’s already heading for the door, raking his fingers through his hair as he walks. “I’ll get us another room—”

“The front desk closed thirty minutes ago.”

“...oh.”

You take a deep breath, turning away from him as you redirect your attention to the phone. Your lifeline. Clearing your throat, you put on the calmest, most amiable voice you can manage and say, “...Hotch?”

“You’re two hours away,” he says plainly.

“Please.”

“By the time we get you back here it’ll be almost three in the morning.”

“I’m begging you.”

“The answer’s no. The two of you will handle this like adults, and we will see you tomorrow.”

Just when you think he’s about to hang up, another voice comes through the speaker. Morgan’s.

“Have fun, lovebirds.”

Spencer scoffs so loud you’d think he was choking on something. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing!”

The call disconnects just as he lurches forward to grab the phone. He holds it in his hand for a moment, staring down at it with frustration that amounts almost to rage, before tossing it to you with a strangled huff.

“I can’t believe this.”

“I can’t believe you only booked one room,” you counter. “Seriously, what did you think was going to—’

“Alright, I get it. I’m an idiot.”

“Mhm.” You flop back onto the bed with a sigh, letting the silence hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Hey, at least we did it.”

“We?”

“Uh…yeah?”

Spencer pulls this face. Disgust mixed with disbelief. It would be comical if it weren’t directed at you. “You barely contributed.”

“Oh, come on—”

“You spent half of that negotiation just…lying around whilst I gave all the information—”

“Information that I got from the guy’s ex-wife.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me speak to her.”

“Because you don’t know how to talk to women.”

Spencer’s pacing ceases, and he turns to you with a scowl. “Sorry?”

“I was doing you a favour.” You look up at him with a mocking smile. “You would’ve embarrassed yourself if you’d spoken to her.”

His lips curl at the corners, and you’re sure that he’d be shooting lasers from his eyes if he could, zapping you into oblivion. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then opens it again to say, “You are such a—”

“A what?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

And he closes his mouth once more.

Sitting up, you shuffle to the edge of the bed and cross your arms expectantly. “Go on.”

You can see the tension in his jaw, the way he’s grinding his teeth subtly. He spends a good few moments just staring at you, probably trying to explode you with his mind, before he turns away with a sharp, catty huff. 

“I’m never agreeing to anything like this again,” he mutters.

“Good. Me neither.”

There’s nothing provocative about your words—you’re actually agreeing with him, for once—yet Spencer spins back around to face you all the same. 

“You’ve been nothing but irritating all day,” he spits.

“And all you’ve done is complain.”

“At least I’m not incompetent.”

“Beats being an arrogant little bitch.”

Again, Spencer turns on his heels and begins walking away. “That’s it,” he announces, “I’m taking a shower.”

“Running away. Real mature—”

The bathroom door slams, and you swear it shakes the very foundation of the motel room.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath. Try to calm yourself as the reality of this horror movie-worthy situation catches up to you. You’re to share a room with Spencer Reid—share a bed—because of his stupidity, and he had the gall to call you incompetent. 

The shower turns on. You can hear it through the paper-thin wall, and part of you wants to barge into that bathroom, drag him out by his hair and leave him, naked, on the side of the road. It’s the only way you’ll get any semblance of peace tonight, that’s for sure.

But what would that say about you? That you’re just as childish—as petulant—as he is? You’re supposed to be the bigger person here, the better person.

So you resign yourself to lying in wait, dreading whatever bullshit the next twelve hours have in store for you.

—

Thirty minutes later, Spencer emerges from the bathroom muttering about the disgraceful state of the bathroom. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care, that you aren’t listening to him; you’re frankly too distracted by the state of him. His hair is still wet, and his white shirt has been left untucked, held closed by a total of two buttons. Your gaze lingers, rather unapologetically, on the curves of his exposed collarbones.

Whilst he was showering, you rummaged through your go-bag and pulled out whatever pyjama-esque clothes you could find. You are, as Spencer is always so keen to point out, terribly disorganised; your bag hasn’t been restocked in over a month, and there are more “complimentary” hotel toiletries hidden in there than there are clothes.

In the end, you settled on a plain black compression top that you don’t remember owning, and a pair of grey sweatpants that you’re sure can’t be yours on account of the fact that they are far, far too big for you.

You watch as he unzips his own go-bag—no doubt perfectly organised, alphabetised, colour-coded, and packed with enough supplies to last him weeks in case of an emergency—and raise an eyebrow.

“Calmed down yet?”

Spencer spares you a single, fleeting glance out of the corner of his eye before exhaling sharply through his nose; a punctuated, silent no. But then he seems to pause. Seconds pass as he stares at his bag, unmoving, before turning his head slowly to look at you again.

You’re splayed out diagonally on the bed, taking up as much space as possible as you flick listlessly through the same beat-up book you’ve been nursing for over a month now. In your peripheral vision, you can just about make out the way his focus strays to your clothes. To the thin sliver of skin visible between the hem of your top and the waistband of your sweats. And then he clears his throat.

“You’re paying for the repairs,” he mutters stiffly.

You set your book on your chest and turn to him with a frown. “I am not—”

“I paid for eleven of your coffees last month,” he says.

“And I covered the bill for that stupid Doctor Who edible experience bullshit you took me to the month before.”

“You still owe me a dollar for that.”

“Forty-nine cents,” you correct. “We agreed to round down.”

“No, you insisted that we round down. I told you I wanted the change.”

“Are you really that broke that forty-nine cents makes all the difference?”

“No,” he mutters, pulling a folded pair of pyjamas from his bag. “Are you?”

“No.”

“Then you can pay for the repairs.”

You scoff. “There’s a big difference between some pocket change and a busted car, Reid.”

“The Bureau will reimburse you.”

“Then why can’t you just pay?”

“Because,” he unbuttons his shirt and, honest to God, throws it at you, “it’s your turn.”

“You—” You groan as his shirt lands on your face, and you throw it back at him. “You are such a child.”

Spencer catches the shirt with a cold, sarcastic laugh. “Really?” he asks. “Because it seems to me I’m the only adult here.”

You roll your eyes as he continues changing, but you can’t help but let your gaze wander across his body; his bare neck and chest, now free from the usual confines of his shirt and tie. You’d quite happily take a bite out of him if you thought you’d live to tell the tale.

As he pulls on his pyjama shirt, you sigh. “How much is it gonna cost?”

He shrugs, methodically folding his work clothes before tucking them neatly into his go-bag. “Timing belt replacements typically cost between four-hundred and one-thousand dollars.”

Your face contorts in disgust at his words and, for a moment, you think he may be joking.

Unfortunately, he isn’t.

“Fuck off,” you say. “I’m not paying that.”

“Neither am I. I wasn’t the one driving the car.”

Somehow, your expression manages to sour further. You cast your book aside and prop yourself up on your elbows. “So this is my fault?”

“Is that what I said?”

“It’s what you implied.”

“A timing belt doesn’t just break out of nowhere,” he says, perching himself on the side of the bed. He speaks slowly, clearly, like he’s explaining something to a child. “There are signs—”

No sooner has he sat down do you stand up, effectively swapping places with him. “The check engine light never came on.”

“Still, you should have—”

“Sitting in the driver’s seat doesn’t make me omnipotent, Reid,” you snap, crossing your arms as you glare at him from the other side of this much, much too small room. “You had just as much information as I did—”

“It isn’t the passenger’s responsibility to check for faults—”

“So you didn’t notice, either?” you ask. Not my responsibility is just Spencer-speak for I’m a hypocrite refusing to admit my own oversight. “You’re the one with a fucking PhD in Engineering, you know—”

“And? I’m saying it isn’t my job to notice—”

Oh, and he’s doubling down. Amazing. 

“Oh my God.” You’re talking over him now, raising your voice as you rake your fingers through your hair. “Grow up. You’re a federal agent, Reid. Act like one.”

Spencer snorts. “That’s rich coming from you.”

You really wish you were making this up. You wish this were some frustration-induced hallucination, but it isn’t. You’re actually standing here in some run-down, shitty fucking motel, arguing with a genius who was too stupid to book two rooms. You’re sure you’ve seen this be used as a set up to a straight to DVD romcom, for Christ’s sake.

You have half a mind to walk back over there and smack him across the face, but it would only make this worse.

“Maybe,” Spencer continues, entirely unprompted, “if you treated me with the slightest degree of decorum, I would act in kind.”

This is Hell. The car crashed, you died, and this is Hell. It has to be.

“And maybe if you respected me,” you snap back, “I would act—”

“There’s nothing to respect.”

The laugh that escapes you in response to that statement isn’t a pretty one. It’s somewhere between a cackle and a murderous screech. You have to laugh; you’d kill him if you didn’t.

You’re sure that, in the animal kingdom, a laugh like that would be heeded as a warning—and a serious one, at that. A real don’t fuck with me or I’ll kill you noise; a universal language.

But Spencer Reid isn’t of the animal kingdom—at this point you aren’t sure he’s from earth at all—because, in spite of your warning, he keeps talking.

“You’re unprofessional, aggressive, short-tempered, bitter, frustrating—need I go on?”

“You forgot smart and sexy—”

“There is nothing about you worth respecting,” he declares, “not when you’re…on my ass all the time.”

It’s the way that he still hesitates before saying ass, even though he has said far worse things to you in the past, that momentarily clears the resentment clouding your mind. Spencer Reid, genius supreme, the man who apparently hates you more than any unsub you’ve come across, can still barely bring himself to curse. 

…and it’s the way he’s implying that you are somehow the perpetrator in all of this that has that resentment rushing back tenfold.

“I’m on your ass?” 

“Yes,” he says. “You are. It’s infuriating.”

“Infuriating, right…”

“You do nothing but antagonise me,” he adds. “You’re pestiferous.”

“Mhm. And you’re a fucking saint.”

He shrugs. “I think most would agree I’m better than you.”

You purse your lips into a tight smile, letting your gaze wander across the room before returning it to him. “And if they knew you were fucking me?” you pose. “Would that tarnish your pristine reputation?”

Just like that, Spencer’s cocky, confident attitude vanishes in an instant. He scoffs, visibly recoiling at the mention of your relationship as his expression morphs into something half-disgusted, half-defensive. “That’s—”

“I mean, the team are already calling us lovebirds, but what if they knew?” you continue, ignoring the way his cheeks are beginning to flush. “What if the BAU knew that their obnoxious golden boy was sleeping with someone so unworthy of respect?”

When he doesn’t respond, you step closer to him.

“You know it’s funny, actually, that you say that,” you say, “because the only person on this team who doesn’t respect me, Spencer, is you.”

“You don’t respect me, either,” he mutters.

“Why the hell would I?”

You sound almost amused as you cross the room. You close the space between you, drawing closer until you’re standing right in front of him.

Spencer raises his head, arms crossed, to look up at you. He’s glaring, or trying to, but his gaze spends only a fraction of a second on your face before it begins to wander. Lingering on the outline of your chest visible through your top, and then on the waistband of your underwear that peeks out over the top of those baggy sweatpants—embroidered, ironically, with the word sweet.

You watch the way his jaw works, chewing on whatever insult he has lined up, as he finds himself painfully distracted by the sight of you before him.

And you straddle him.

“Why would I respect someone like you, Reid?” you ask as you settle into his lap. 

He makes no effort to push you away (why would he?), but he doesn’t exactly welcome you with open arms, either. He tenses up, heat rushing to his face despite his attempts to appear perfectly neutral.

“Tell me,” you purr, placing a finger under his chin so he’s meeting your gaze, “why would I respect someone so— what was what word you used? Pestiferous? Someone who goes out of his way to piss me off, even when I haven’t done anything wrong…and for what purpose, hm?” You rest your other hand on his chest and lean in close, brushing your nose against his with a barely suppressed smirk. “You wanna know what I think?”

“...not really,” he says stiffly.

“I think you like it when I’m pissed off,” you say. “I think that my short temper, and my aggression, and all those other flaws you listed, are all things you like about me. Am I right?”

“No,” he mutters. “Why would I—”

“Because you’re pathetic, and you’re a shit liar.” Smiling, you shift slightly, pressing yourself down against the tent in his pants that has been there far longer than he’ll ever admit. “And your, um, body has ways of giving you away. And I bet you’re real glad the rest of the team aren’t here, right?” you murmur, leaning down to ghost your lips along his jaw. “Because that means we can make as much noise as we like.”

You feel him suppress a shudder as you press a gentle, open-mouthed kiss to his skin. He tenses, but only briefly, as your hand moves into his hair, cradling the back of his head as you trail kisses up his jaw, and it doesn’t take much for him to melt. One hand settles instinctively on your hip, keeping you pressed against his erection, but the other tries, gently, to push you away.

“What’s wrong?” you murmur. “Can’t handle a bit of—”

As you raise your head to mock him, Spencer’s lips collide with yours. He kisses you with a kind of desperate hunger that sends a rush of heat straight to your core and, for a moment, you find yourself wanting to drop the act completely and let him have you—but where’s the fun in that? 

So you pull away, pressing your thumb to his needy lips as you don a sarcastic pout. He releases your hip, and his hands roam your waist and stomach, working their way up to your chest. You can’t help but admire him even as he’s feeling you up; he already has that look in his eyes. Weakness. Soft and pretty in all the ways that drive you crazy.

Your throat tightens. Contracting around something terribly familiar and wholly unwanted. Something you’re bound to choke on if you sit with it for too long.

So you pull him into another, harsher kiss, letting a moan slip into his mouth as his thumbs graze your clothed nipples, and it’s a sound that he mirrors as you slowly start rocking your hips against his. His hands drop down to the hem of your shirt, and you pull back long enough to let him tear it off over your head before your lips are on his again.

You set your hands on the back of his neck, gluing the two of you together as you grind yourself against him. You feel the way his breath hitches with each roll of your hips, and you’re certain you could make him finish just like this, without needing to lift a finger, but that would be far too easy on him. It would be merciful, almost, and that isn’t what you’re here for. 

Before you can start formulating your evil plan, Spencer pulls away. His lips latch onto your neck, peppering the skin with feverish kisses as he works his way down to your collarbones before dipping down, further, to your chest. Your fingers weave into his hair as his teeth graze a nipple, and you pull hard. Hard enough to make him moan as your mouth meets his and you catch him in another bruising kiss. His hips buck up into yours, shamelessly begging for more friction, but all it does is make you withhold it.

So, with impatient hands, he forces your hips down, rubbing your aching cunt against his cock through the layers of fabric separating them. You break the kiss with a sharp gasp as a violent heat twists in your core, and you push him away.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest as you catch your breath—it’s hypnotic, almost—before meeting his gaze with as calm a look as you can muster.

“I’m gonna go grab a towel,” you say, keeping your voice equal parts soft and firm. “When I come back, you better not have any clothes on. Got it?”

Spencer nods eagerly and without question. You lean back, admiring him for a moment longer before you finally dismount him and disappear into the bathroom.

You take more time than you should, deliberating between two identical motel towels as you listen to the faint rustle of clothes as Spencer strips himself of his pyjamas. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, shirtless, red-faced, and you feel that familiar pang of self-awareness in your stomach. The kind strong enough to re-awaken your voice of reason, and that voice tells you that this has got to stop. 

How many more times are you going to fall into bed with him before this blows up in your face? Before you fall further into this grave you've dug for yourselves, and find yourselves utterly unable to climb back out?

Being the bigger person is a myth. It always has been. It's just a lie you tell yourself—the same one that he's probably been tellinghimself—to further stifle the latent realisation that you are, undoubtedly, just as bad as each other. You're no better than Spencer is, and he is no worse than you are.

You can tell yourself that you're the bigger person, that you're more mature, more sensible, but that doesn't erase the reality you're in. You're standing, half-naked, in a grotty motel bathroom waiting for your coworker to strip himself bare. You're terrible.

And you can’t imagine being anywhere else.

You return to the bedroom with all the confidence in the world and find Spencer sitting, naked, on the edge of the bed, caught somewhere in the space between nervous and excited. He’s wringing his hands, trying to avoid tending to his persistent erection as he awaits your return. Hugging the towel to your chest, you watch him for a moment and let your gaze wander shamelessly over his exposed skin, savouring his anticipatory silence. His still-wet hair sticks to his forehead. Dewy collarbones shine like gold in the dim, yellow-toned light.

You feel it again. A slight tightness in your throat. The beginnings of something awful. But it’s overpowered by the palpable rush of need that takes hold of you as you gaze at him. It’s enough to drive you mad.

Tossing the towel onto the bed, you slot yourself between his legs.

"You're awfully quiet," you tease, carefully brushing his hair out of his face as he looks up at you. You could drown in those eyes, if you let yourself. 

His gaze hardens slightly. "Nothing to say." 

"You always have something to say."

"False."

He's running his fingers along the waistband of your sweats, barely grazing your skin as his eyes trail across your body.

"True."

He shoots you a glare. "Do you want to keep arguing?"

"Not particularly," you murmur, smirking. Gently, you reach out a hand to touch his cheek. "I'm just surprised. You're being so good—"

Spencer swats your hand away instantly.

"Don't," he warns before returning his attention to your body.

You cross your arms. "You don't like praise?"

"I don't like being mocked," he corrects.

He presses his thumbs against your waist, watching with great interest the way the soft skin yields to his touch.

"Who said I was mocking you?" you ask, feigning innocence.

He scoffs. You feel it against your skin, hot, before he presses a kiss to your hip. "You're always mocking me."

"Not always."

It takes strength to keep your voice steady when he’s doing this; appreciating your body in silent ways whilst navigating a half-hearted argument, like it’s second nature to him. And it is second nature, you suppose. He could probably fight with you in his sleep.

He looks up at you again with this dull, almost bored kind of scepticism purposefully forged to hide something deeper. Something realer. Something that has a weight to it and is far too heavy for this. For you. He tugs gently at the drawstring of your sweats, and the knot comes apart with ease under his touch. The fabric sags, barely clinging to your hips, and all it takes is a gentle tug for them to slip down your legs, leaving you in just your underwear.

His lips meet your skin again, trailing kisses down from your navel to the embroidered elastic of your waistband. His gaze finds yours, just for a moment, in a fleeting request for permission that sends a fresh pang of heat to your core, right where his lips hover. You nod, wordlessly, and he makes quick work of removing your underwear, peeling the soaked fabric away from your needy cunt as you try not to clench your thighs. 

He drops them at your ankles, and his kisses continue. Following their path down until his mouth is dangerously close to where you need him to be. Before he can get too carried away, you thread your fingers into his hair once more and pull him, gently, away.

The second those eyes are on your face, something violent turns within you. Your fingers still in his hair, caught between moments as you bury the urge to mount him right then and there. It's not like he would complain. 

His thumbs brush over your hip bones, moving in perfect sync as he watches you quietly. Studying your micro expressions, probably, searching for a crack that he can exploit; a way to piss you off, turn the tables, put himself in control. But the more you look at him, the more you realise that this isn't what this is. He's just…waiting. Eagerly, sure, but patiently. 

He's waiting for you to tell him what to do. He's read the situation, read what you want out of this, and he's moulded himself to it without question—without needing to be told. It's perceptive. Considerate, almost. How he's letting you have this; how he knows you well enough to know that you want this. 

And that? That pisses you off.

"Sit back," you say, keeping your voice soft, "against the headboard."

He moves immediately, scooting into position without question. However brief, you feel weirdly cold in the absence of his touch.

Once he's comfortable, you join him on the bed. You settle, on your knees, between his legs, keeping your gaze on his face as hisgaze roams freely across your body. A compliment tries to crawl its way up your throat—an earnest one—because God, he looks perfect. But you clench your jaw, keeping your words at bay; compliments are for couples, and you aren't a couple. 

But the words fight back. Compliments converge on your tongue, crowding your mouth, until you have no choice but to pull him into another kiss. Pouring all the things you daren't say into him, as though he may somehow understand without you needing to say any of it out loud. His hands come to rest on your jaw, not your body, and he cradles your face like it's something precious, pulling you closer and closer until you're practically on top of him, one hand braced against the headboard and the other trailing, slowly, down his body.

His breath hitches as your fingers grasp his cock. You feel it jolt in your hand, and one of Spencer's hands moves to the back of your head, hardly giving you room to breathe as he kisses you. The adrenaline, the sheer need with which he touches you, it's all starting to make you feel dizzy. He's stealing the oxygen from your lungs but, in return, you get to steal a stifled moan from between his lips. That's more or less an equivalent exchange, in your books; to have him at the mercy of your hands. To have that stupid mouth of his occupied with something that isn't just insult after senseless insult. 

He shifts his hips with a soft groan, bucking up into your hand as you continue to tease him. And he groans again—louder, sounding more like a whine than anything else—when you refuse to change your pace.

What you do instead is pull away. You hover there for a moment, breathing into his open mouth as he tilts his head up, wanting more, and you bask in that delicious, desperate look in his eyes before sitting back. You continue working his cock, slowly, as you wipe the saliva from your mouth with the back of your hand. Spencer doesn't bother tending to his moistened lips; he just watches you, eyes wide like he's seeing you for the first time. Awestricken and gorgeous and—

That noxious dizziness lingers even as you catch your breath. It breaks down your thoughts, loosening the fibres until you're sure your brain is naught but mush. Held together by the low crackle of static that grows louder with each second you spend looking at him. 

You realise far too late that you're looking at him the same way he's looking at you. Like a complete fucking idiot.

It's the kind of self-consciousness that hits like a freight train, flattening you before you even see it coming. It throws you off balance in the worst way and you feel vulnerable. exposed. More than you've ever felt in your previous encounters. You've been in far worse, far more vulnerable positions in the past—physically, at least. When you've been under him, or bent over a desk, or at his mercy on your knees.

You're in control here. And yet this is the first time you've felt truly vulnerable. Emotionally vulnerable. 

So you do everything you can to counteract it, before it leaves you seriously compromised.

You release your grip on his cock, ignoring the way he whines in protest as you move to straddle his hips. His hands settle, firm, on your waist, moulding themselves to your curves as you kiss him again. Partly to shut him up before he says anything that'll further tangle the static-laced wires in your brain; mostly to shut yourself up before you say anything you know you'll regret. You'd rather choke on your own tongue—or his tongue—than let a single, adrenaline-driven, foolish word slip out before you have the chance to scour it for cracks, for any chance that it may contain feeling.

You grasp his chin, ensuring he’s looking directly at you as you pull back. Your other hand works its way down until it's grasping his cock, lining it up with your entrance.

"You're so pretty like this," you murmur, hot breath filling the minimal space between you as you lower yourself, just slightly, so his tip kisses your entrance, "you know that?"

You almost can't believe your own words—seriously, you had one job—but the look on Spencer's face kills any trace of regret you’d dare have. His breath stutters, you see it catch in his throat as he stares up at you with this wide-eyed expression. Surprised, yes, but voracious. Like you've flipped a switch he didn't know he had. 

"I mean, you're always pretty. Too pretty. But this—" 

A sharp hiss escapes you as you lower yourself onto his cock. The pain is familiar, not unbearable, but it's there. A stubborn reminder of the importance of foreplay when you're too tight and Spencer's dick is too damn big. 

But you can take this kind of pain. When it's controlled, like this. When you can feel your body yielding to him and the pain steadily blooms into pleasure. 

You feel him tense. He goes deathly still, muscles straining with the effort it takes not to thrust up into you as you sink, slowly, onto him—that would actually hurt and, worse, it would piss you off.

Carefully, you push through the resistance, letting gravity do most of the work as you continue speaking even as your breath comes in uneven gasps and your voice starts to shake. "When you're all quiet like this, when you aren't…being a fucking nuisance, I could just—"

His fingers anchor in the soft skin of your waist. He throws his head back, eyes shut tight as you take him to the hilt. The noise you make is somewhere between a guttural groan and a needy whine as he stretches you out, and you cup his face with both of your hands, keeping him close as you touch your forehead to his.

A weak, breathless "fuck…" is all he can manage as he exhales a shaky, barely held together sigh. You can feel the tension in his jaw under your palms. The electricity that thrums, wild, under his skin.

You give a tentative shift of your hips, testing the waters, and you feel him shudder beneath you. You pull back a little, enough to get a good look at his face; the tiny twitches of his brows, his eyes, as you move against him. 

"That good?" you murmur, letting your hands trail down from his face to his chest, tracing the curves of his collarbones as you settle into a slow rhythm.

Spencer nods, humming in quiet approval as he closes his eyes. You watch the way his lashes flutter, the way the crease between his brows deepens with each rock of your hips, and you bite your lip.

"Say it."

"It—" He flexes his fingers, as though he's just remembered he has them, and his hands drop to your hips, encouraging your movements as he tries to keep his breathing steady. "It feels good," he whispers. "You feel…so good."

His words have you clenching around his cock, hard enough to elicit another soft, pretty little moan from his lips.

"That's it…" you whisper, tone sickly sweet as you lean down to press your lips to his neck.

Instinctively, Spencer leans his head to the side, allowing you access to the sensitive skin as those hands of his grow a little more confident and begin working their way back up to your chest. He cups your tits, and you feel him press his lips to your shoulder before murmuring, "there are condoms in my bag, if—"

You hum against his skin, shaking your head as you nip at his neck. "Don't need them."

"But—"

"I went on the pill," you admit. Quickly, but reluctantly. Like ripping off a band-aid. Like you’re confessing to something that runs far deeper than a simple birth control prescription.

Spencer's hands freeze mid-squeeze, and you know immediately that he's picked up on every implication you were hoping to brush over. "You— what? When?"

"After last time." you raise your head with a sigh and meet his gaze. When he tries to speak up again, you're quick to press your thumb to his lips. "Unless your next words are thank you, I don't wanna hear them."

For a moment, he looks as though he's about to protest. Five weighted words were all it took to pull him from the moment completely, it seems. His eyes are wide, frantically searching your own for something you can't let him find. 

But then, instead of probing you with any more questions, he just nods. You can't be sure if this is him giving up, resigning himself to staying on his side of your emotional walls, or if he doesn't even need to try anymore—not when you've made it all so damn obvious. The optimist in you, wherever she may be, is hoping for the former; there'll be less fallout that way.

“So just keep that pretty mouth of yours shut,” you add, slowly re-introducing that thick, mocking tenderness to your voice as you raise your hips, “okay?”

He nods again. Sharper. Eager.

You know he'll find a way to bring this up later—in the middle of the night, probably, when the air feels too heavy and neither of you can sleep—the way he always manages to bring up the things you don't want to talk about. The touchy things. The things that are bound to spark an argument, because you're uptight and he's intrusive and you both loathe each other, and you can't get along unless your tongue is down his throat or his dick is inside you, and even then you still find yourselves bickering. 

An impatient shift of his hips is all you need to know that, unlike you, a future argument is actually the last thing on his mind right now. His hands have started working again, mapping out your body like he doesn't already have it memorised as his gaze remains fixed on your face—and, really, you'd rather he be looking anywhere else. 

You raise yourself until it's only the head of his cock that remains inside of you and then, after another agonising moment, you drop back down, swallowing his length in one quick, smooth motion. He gasps, you groan, and all thought of that hypothetical argument vanishes as he thrusts up into you, burying himself deeper as your walls pulse around his cock.

Curses tumble, unrestrained, from your lips as you move against him. His hands guide you into a steady rhythm—firm, but not forceful—and you tilt your head back slightly as the tension that has been stringing you together begins to dissipate. 

Spencer takes advantage of the exposed skin immediately. He nips at your neck between messy kisses. His breath against your skin is enough to make you whine as you thread your fingers into his hair, and you raise his head just enough to bring your lips down on his, catching him in a disgustingly heated kiss. His hands stray from your hips to your ass, feeling you up with the kind of desperation that never fails to drive you insane as he moans shamelessly into your mouth.

The break in the kiss is abrupt, leaving Spencer nothing to drown his senseless whines in as you trail your lips along the edge of his jaw. You aren't sure what it is, maybe it's your breath on his skin, or the way your hand rests gently on his neck, pressing ever so slightly against his throat as you rock your hips, but something is bringing him closer to the edge. You can feel it in the way his breath catches, the way his hands begin to tremble, the way his sweet moans start to devolve into unsteady whimpers.

You kiss your way to his ear, nip at the lobe as his shoulders start to shake. "You close?"

He swallows hard. You feel it under your palm. "…mhm."

"Good. Now look at me— Reid, look at me." 

You keep your voice impossibly soft as you work your fingers into his hair, tugging on the chestnut strands to keep his head up as he tries to hide his face.

He's already a mess. face red and glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he's waiting for you to dive into him again, but you don't. You make him hold your gaze, keeping one hand in his hair as the other cups his jaw, and you don't stop. Not until his face is contorting in those deliciously familiar ways and he has no choice but to close his eyes because he is so, so close.

And then you stop.

Your hips come to a brusque halt, stopping just as he is about to find release. You watch him blink, confused, before he meets your gaze with this adorably desperate expression. His chest heaves against your own, and you don your most charming smile.

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

The softness of your voice seems to fool him for a moment. Sugary words fail to register in his sex-clouded mind. You lean in a little closer, brushing your nose against his.

"You're not gonna come until I say you can."

That registers. His eyes widen, and he's shaking his head before he can even find the strength to speak. The words follow shortly after; a string of breathless nos that are about as useless as they are desperate. It's cute, how he thinks he might be able to talk you out of this—as though this hasn't been your plan from the start.

"I think it's only fair, after all the shit you've given me today," you continue, pouting as you brush your thumb against his cheek, "that you learn a little…respect, no?"

"You…" tension seeps into his jaw, and it isn't the pleasurable kind. His expression hardens, just slightly—probably as much as it can given the circumstances. "…are such a—"

"And that starts with being nice." You cut him off, still maintaining that smile as you look down at him. "If you start calling me names, Reid, then this is only gonna get a hell of a lot worse for you, and better for me. Understand?"

Spencer grits his teeth. His gaze flicks between your eyes and your lips, strays briefly to your body, to where his cock is still nestled inside of you, before returning to your face.

"Unless you want me to stop?" you pose, leaning back.

You don't give him enough time to respond before you're easing yourself off of his cock, but his hands find purchase on your hips and push you back down, burying himself inside of you once more with a force that makes both of you gasp.

"No." he says quickly. "N-no, don't…"

"Thought so." Smugness seeps into your voice before you can stop it, and you cock your head to the side. "So be good for me, and I'll let you finish."

Your mocking tone isn't well-received. Spencer huffs, flexing his trembling hands as he tries to act unbothered. "…I hate you—"

"Ah," you cut him off with a click of your tongue, shaking your head as you cradle his face. "Come on, honey, you're smarter than this."

Those words must be laced with something. A sedative, maybe. Something equal parts sweet and toxic. Because they quell Spencer's protests immediately. His throat runs dry. He tries to blink it away but it's no use; his mouth moves wordlessly, and he stares at you, dumbfounded, like you've cast a spell on him. 

Honey. Who'd have thought that would be his weakness?

You aren't much of a pet names person yourself, but…if Spencer is into it, then you might be open to changing your mind. 

…let's not think too hard about what that says about you. Like the birth control, it's one of those things that you're better off notlooking too deeply into—for your own sake.

"You good to keep going?" 

He doesn't seem to hear you.

"Reid."

"Yes," he says, brain finally kicking back into gear as he gazes up at you.

"Good."

You reward him with another kiss, muffling the angelic noise he makes as you move your hips. Slowly, at first. Easing him back into it so he doesn't unravel immediately.

You fall into a dance, of sorts. A sick, somewhat cruel dance, but a thoroughly enjoyable one—for you, at least. You murmur praises in his ear, fanning hot breath over his skin as you fuck yourself on his cock, bringing him closer and closer to release until he's a babbling mess and you can feel him twitching and pulsing desperately inside of you, and then you stop. You deny him. You mock him. You let him catch his breath. And you continue.

You do this two more times, and with each instance of denial Spencer grows more frustrated. More overstimulated. More pathetic. He ruts into you, or tries to, but it’s sloppy. Too weak to make any difference. Futile, because he stops as soon as you tell him to. 

By the time you even consider letting him finish, he's inconsolable and you're exhausted. But the ache in your legs is nothing; a small price to pay for having him like this. Trembling in your arms. Clinging to you for comfort even though you're the very cause of his suffering. It's terrible, really. You should be ashamed of yourself for getting off on this as much as you do; it's sick, but by God is it cathartic.

Maybe you're power-hungry. Maybe you're desperate for any semblance of control. So frustrated with your own lack of control that you've resorted to taking it out on him. It's nothing he doesn't deserve; it's his fault you feel so out of control. He stirred these stupid emotions within you; it's only right that he be the one to face the consequences—and it's not like he wouldn't benefit from being put in his place for once.

"I-I can't— I can't…"

"Yes, you can."

Spencer's face is buried in your neck, shaking his head desperately as he mumbles nonsense between dulcet whimpers. You keep your voice low as you stroke his hair, babying him in a way he'll probably kill you for later—but it'll be worth it. 

His voice is thick, strained, sounding almost as though he's about to cry. And as you gently coax his head up, that's exactly what you see. Dark eyes glazed with tears. They sit heavy on his waterline. Unshed, but there.

You'd probably feel bad, if it weren't the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen. 

"God." The word escapes you in a breathless sigh. Awe-struck. You cradle his face in your hands, rubbing soothing circles into his burning cheeks as you admire him. "Look at you. So pretty."

What you wouldn't give to snap a photo of him like this. You'd carry it around in your purse; a trump card that you could whip out every time he dared to get on your nerves.

He's still shaking his head. Words reduced to incoherent mumblings as you continue working his poor cock with your cunt. Your legs—thighs, knees, hips—are screaming at you in protest, they have been for a little while now, and your core is impossibly tight; you've been so focused on Spencer, on keeping him on the edge, that you've all but forgotten about chasing your own release. You'll be limping tomorrow, no doubt, and the team will mask their suspicion as concern when they ask if you're okay. You wonder if you'll be able to get away with telling them Spencer hit you with the car; it's not like he'll be able to argue otherwise.

You press your lips to the corner of his eye, kissing away a tear before it can escape down his cheek. 

"You wanna come?"

The string of frantic, broken yesses that fall from his lips is enough to make your fucking head spin.

"Yeah?" You tilt your head, ghosting your lips over his as you continue the steady rock of your hips. "What do you say..?"

All you get in response is a choked whimper. One that sounds dangerously close to a sob. He's gripping your hips so hard you're sure he’ll leave bruises, ten of them, mapping where his fingers were anchored in your skin. 

"Reid." You're beginning to falter yourself. Your voice is starting to shake as you near the end of your rope—and your patience. "Come on, honey, just—"

"I love you."

It takes you a moment—an eternity, it feels—to understand what was just said. Three words, uttered with such an undeniable clarity yet you're sure you've misheard him. You must have. 

But he's burying his face in your neck, hips bucking wildly as he repeats those very words. Whispering them into your skin like a prayer. Over and over. I love you.

Shit. 

Shitshitshit.

He was supposed to say please.

When your hips stutter, uncertain, he moves them for you, bringing you down onto his cock repeatedly as his whispers devolve once more into incoherent whimpers. It's enough to knock the thoughts right out of your head, and you're left with nothing but moans to choke on as you try to reorient yourself.

"That's— fuck, that's it…" you murmur, breathless, in his ear. "You can come…"

Spencer sobs—loud and raw and fucking intoxicating—into your neck, and you feel him break immediately. His self-control shatters and he finishes inside you, emptying himself into your needy cunt as you whine and writhe in his lap. But even when he's spent, he keeps going. His hips move mindlessly, feebly fucking his seed into you as he whimpers incessantly.

"Reid." His name comes out in a shaky whisper, in the space between breaths as your heart pounds and your head spins. You cradle the back of his head, holding him close as he trembles in your arms. "Reid, honey…that's enough…"

You hear him sniffle, and you hold him a little tighter, unsure of whether he's even heard you until his hips finally give up. He slumps forward, leaning his weight on you as he finally lets himself relax—lets himself breathe. You place a hand on his back as you allow yourself to do the same, and you melt into each other. 

Your fingers trail, gently, up and down his back, tracing the curve of his spine as you rest your head on his shoulder. It's too tender of a gesture. Too kind. Too loving. You know that, but you do it anyway. 

He needs this. Comfort. Reassurance. And you're ready to provide for as long as it takes for him to—

"…fuck you."

…come back around. 

He mutters those words, quietly, into your skin. The same place he had whispered I love you just minutes ago. 

Those juxtaposing sentiments react in your stomach, twisting your insides until you’re full of nothing but tense, aching knots. You bark out a weak, exasperated laugh. You have to laugh; God knows what you'd do if you didn't.

Spencer raises his head and meets your gaze, bleary-eyed and exhausted. And soft. Perfectly, painfully soft. And beautiful. He looks like you could love him.

It could be adrenaline. Heightened emotions. Embers of lust that reignite the second you lay eyes on him. Whatever it is, it has you kissing him again. Pulling him in with such urgency you almost miss his lips entirely. Some deranged part of you wants to hear him say it again. And again. And again. Until it's the only thing he knows how to say. The only thing you know how to hear.

Finally relinquishing his grip on your hips, Spencer's hands move to your face without thought, and he kisses you with everything he has. When you try to pull back, he whines. Pulls you in closer. Refuses to let you go even for a moment. You have to reach out blindly in search of the towel. You feel around behind you, leaning back as far as he'll allow you to until, at last, your fingers graze the soft fabric.

And then you feel yourself falling.

You topple over, pulling Spencer down with you as your back hits the mattress. He groans against your lips and pulls away to find you still reaching for that damn towel. He grabs it for you and, before you can get a word in, kisses you again. You raise your hips, hoping he still has enough brains to understand what you're asking of him, and he positions the towel underneath you. 

Pulling out feels like a dam breaking. Punctuated with a wet pop and followed by a gush of something warm. He whines, you shudder, and you don't stop kissing each other until you forget how to breathe. When his lips finally leave yours, his breathing comes ragged. He sits back, kneeling between your burning thighs, and takes in the sight of you with this dazed, almost drunken look that has you throbbing despite your exhaustion. His gaze trails down your body until it settles on the mess between your legs. 

"…Reid—"

By the time you're able to find your words, his face is already level with your cunt. He spreads your folds and watches, transfixed, the way it leaks out of you. He licks up your slit, gathering his own release on his tongue, before diving into you. You're so caught off guard you don't think to try and stifle the outrageous moan that tears through you, and you promptly clamp a hand over your mouth as your head falls back. 

No amount of oh Gods and expletives can account for the expertise with which Spencer Reid uses his tongue. If he isn't fucking you with it, he's circling your clit with it, teasing and sucking on the overstimulated nub until you're writhing so much, he has to pin your hips down with one hand and finger you with the other. 

You're seeing stars before you know it, hurtling towards an orgasm so fast you can barely form a coherent thought before you're there. And you think, for a fleeting moment, that he may keep you there. That is his revenge. And you have never been gladder to have Spencer prove you wrong. Your back arches off the mattress, and you're moaning things that you can't make out through the haze of an aggressive orgasm. It could be his name, a prayer, a curse, or something worse—you don't know.

Your fingers are numb. Your toes, too. They tingle with a static that persists even as your orgasm subsides. You feel Spencer shift. Feel the weight of his head as it rests against your hip. The heat of his breath against your skin.

For a moment, it all goes quiet. Thoughts give way to white noise. Feelings evaporate into a gas that cannot be weighed down by labels.

But peace only lasts as long as it takes for the fog to clear. You return to your sweaty, exhausted body just in time to be swept off your feet by a tsunami of feelings. Anxieties. Emotions that shouldn't exist.

You aren't sure when Spencer and you drifted from the shallow end to the deep end. You aren't sure when things changed. When you crossed that line and cast aside your life jacket when you know you don't know how to swim.

The only thing you're sure of now is that you're drowning. And the only thing keeping you from sinking entirely is the fact that Spencer hasn't noticed yet. 

You nudge him with your foot, navigating your way around the lump in your throat to grumble "needthebathroom", or something vaguely along those lines. Spencer rolls off of you, mumbling something equally incoherent—or maybe you just don't care to hear it—as he rubs his eyes. 

It hurts to move, but you do it anyway. You sit up, trying not to wince as your entire lower half screams in protest, and drag yourself to the edge of the bed. Spencer asks if you're okay, you think, and you give him a vague hum in response. 

Your trembling legs barely manage to carry you to the bathroom, where you collapse with your back to the door and breathe out a long, shuddering sigh. You'd probably scream if you thought he wouldn't hear you. 

I love you.

Immediately, you're dismissing those words. Waving them away like an unwelcome guest. You tell yourself he doesn't mean it. That he can't have meant it, he just…he just…

He wasn't thinking straight. He wasn't thinking at all. Hell, he probably won't even remember it. It's insignificant. Unimportant. 

That’s what you tell yourself, at least. And you really, really hope you’re right.

And if you aren’t...then this might just kill you.

You wake with a start, gasping as you blink the dream from your eyes, chest pulled tight with panic.

The train rumbles below, vibrating softly through the cushion of your makeshift bed.

Even though you just woke up, you feel it, hovering in the room and making it impossible to breathe.

The tension between the two you of is suffocating.

Sandwiched into a single compartment, you've each claimed a bench, Bucky the right wall and you the left. With barely a three foot gap of floor between you, it somehow feels more intimate than sharing a bed.

You're lying with your back flat against the seat, legs curled up to make yourself fit. It's cramped and uncomfortable, every bump a fight not to spill over.

Bucky fills out the other bench, clearly just as uncomfortable. His long body is overflowing off the sides of his cushions. One leg hangs down, resting flat footed on the floor while the other is bent against the wall, anchoring itself there as if to offset the sway of the train. His shoulder hangs over too, metal fingers teasing the floor as they dangle over the edge.

The space between you feels like a canyon. Narrow yet deep and intimidating. It's covered with carpeting that's probably older than you are, dense and stained from years of travelers and luggage.

"Nightmare?" Bucky's voice breaks the silence, pulling you the rest of the way out of sleep.

He keeps his gaze on the ceiling, the only reason you know his eyes are even open are his lashes. the shadow they cast across his cheek as he blinks.

"Yes." You admit, voice hardly above a whisper.

"Every night?" He asks. You hear his arm whir across the space, shifting as he lifts it to rest under his head.

"For as long as I can remember." You tell him. It's the truth, every time your eyes close it's like you're there. Running through the woods or a never ending hallway. Or on the really bad nights, staring down the barrel of a gun.

"I get them too." Bucky confides. He doesn't sound embarrassed, although you guess you're far past that.

You can't help but turn, your body moving on its own accord to face him.

"Are they always about the same thing?" You ask.

He shakes his head, turning his neck to meet your gaze. "Yours?"

"Kinda. Same night- different parts." You explain, "At least I think it's all the same night."

"The attack?" Bucky guesses.

You nod, "Maybe." You wish you were sure, that you could be certain that what little is left of your mind doesn't lie.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" He asks. He turns his body this time making you face to face, eye to eye.

His almost glow in the dark, you noticed it last night too. When you'd hardly slept in a shitty hostel, generous with it's communal shower and two twin beds in single room.

The journey has more or less, sucked.

Since the results, you've been on the receiving end more threats than you can count. Too many detailed, threats to travel alone, never mind travel by plane.

All of it has made for a slow crawl to Paris. In an effort to keep a low profile, your journey has been limited to traveling by car, passenger train, and your least favorite, foot.

You don't mind, grungy rooms and winding roads aside, the company hasn't been half bad.

Sent over by the 'New Avengers' in a half-assed attempt at PR, Bucky Barnes has been an okay companion.

He's quiet, but so are you.

"Do you know they found me in the woods?" You answer, side stepping his question. "In the middle of a blizzard."

Bucky lets you escape, merciful and understanding. Something you've grown to learn about him.

"I fell off a train in one." He offers.

"Okay you win." You joke.

It's a little game you started. Somewhere between Vienna and Munich your conversations shifted. From small talk and one word answers to stories.

One of you offering a piece of your past in exchange for one of the other's memories.

"Do you know I was drafted into World War Two?"

"I was raised by nuns."

"Okay yeah, you got me."

Whoever was worse off wins.

Morbid, twisted, the kind of jokes only amnesiacs get.

Bucky hasn't told you much about the fracturing of his mind. You know enough between news stands and sensationalized headlines. If those didn't give it away then the stares he gets would.

But you do know about his cat, white, fat and absolutely spoiled.

You know about how he refurbished his motorcycle himself.

How his prosthetic, is fitted with a safeguard in-case he needs to be disarmed- literally.

You know he absolutely hates the Val lady who signed him up for this job- 'No offense.' He'd added after the admission. 'I just try to avoid Europe.'

You know you're both haunted by cold, an aching chill set deep in your bones. His comes late at night, usually with the dreams and the creaks in his scar tissue. Yours burns brightest in crowds, pulls tight in your chest whenever you dare to let someone close.

You blink at each other across the divide, sharing the comfortable silence.

His eyes are still glowing, as if lit by moonlight.

They go right through you, chilling your body to the bone and pulling tight on your lungs.

So familiar.

They're haunting you more than any dream, constantly nagging at the back of your mind.

How the hell do I know him?

Bucky doesn't know, you've tried to pry it out of him.

"My mind is just as scrambled as yours." He promised, "But I don't think I'd forget your face."

Still, you can't shake it.

Tonight thought, under the shield of darkness you admit something else that's been bothering you about his eyes.

"It's otherworldly." You tell him. "Just how blue they are."

Bucky's brows pull together, "What?" He asks.

"Your eyes."

Bucky stills. He doesn't answer, doesn't move.

So you keep going.

"They're so expressive." You explain, "Like you're feeling a thousand things at once and all of it is in your eyes." You sit up, accepting that sleep is a lost. You turn to face him, stretching your legs into the space between your bodies.

Bucky follows your movements his legs laying out beside yours. Close enough for your knees to bump as the train sways, far enough to hide your nervous fingers in the shadows.

"I got them from my Ma." He says, simple and cutting. It's the only answer you guess.

You wonder what you got from your mother.

Is she the faceless shape holding your hand as you run? Is she the one ushering you through a cellar door and telling you not to look back? Do you have her eyes, or just her blood on your hands?

"I've never seen anything like them." You admit, soft and unflinching.

You think Bucky's going to leave it at that, turn onto his side and pretend to sleep. Let you stew in vulnerability until another nightmare claims you. Except Bucky never does what you think he will, at least that's what you're learning.

"I've never seen anything like you." He counters.

You laugh, a broken huff of air punched out of your lungs. "You don't have to say that Bucky-" You try to reason, three different excuses of why he doesn't need to be kind on the tip of your tongue.

"It's true." He says, cutting you off. His gaze doesn't falter again, one slow blink but it doesn't cut the weight of his focus.

You break, turning over onto your back. You find a spot on the ceiling, a stain from water damage. It's not particularly fascinating but it doesn't stare like it can see right through you.

You don't answer, fingers twisting together as you bring them to lay on your stomach. The silence hangs between you like a pendulum, swinging back and forth with the rhythm of the train car.

Then a crash down the hall, the shriek of breaking glass followed by a scream.

Before you can even turn your head toward it the train is skidding to an abrupt stop, brakes groaning with tension as the entire thing screeches to a halt.

The force of it throws you forward, headfirst off your bench and into Bucky’s chest.

His instincts kick in before yours can. With no hesitation, his arms lock around your waist, holding you upright and helping steady your balance.

Another scream echos down the hall and Bucky's grip tightens.

His breath tickles your temple as he mutters a firm command, and his tone leaving no room for argument. “We have to go.”

Despite his urgency Bucky waits for you to respond. His hands burn around your waist, between his touch and your nerves all you can muster is a speechless, panicked nod.

Then he's snapping into action, pulling your bags from where they had been neatly stashed below the benches. You watch as as he swings each one over his broad shoulders with a determined huff, head snapping back and forth as he checks the corridor.

You want to help but it's as if your feet are glued to the center of the compartment, fear materializing like concrete blocks around your ankles. That familiar sinking dread, it's frigid tides rushing higher and higher until it begins to lap at your throat—

It’s Bucky’s grip on your wrist that snaps you from the spiral. There’s a gun in his hand that you didn’t even notice him pull out. You’re not sure if the sight of it makes you feel better or worse.

All you know is that the sight of his finger rested over the trigger is enough to make your blood run cold.

“Go,” he insists, pushing you in the direction away from the crash. “I’m right behind you.”

You can't tell if the screams you hear are actually from the train or your own fractured memories seeping through. The panic, the forced calm, the tightness in your chest. It's all the same.

"Walk." Bucky instructs from behind you, "Too loud to run."

You settle for a speed-walk, frantically whipping your head around to check over your shoulder. All the while panic claws up your throat until your breathing is reduced to ragged pants, the coppery taste of anxiety on your tongue.

The only thing keeping you tethered to reality is Bucky trailing a few feet behind. His back is turned to you, gun raised in the direction of the chaos.

You feel like your ears are bleeding, body getting hotter with every passing step. Panic creeps up your neck like a rash, itchy and claustrophobic. Fear bites at your heels, making you pick up the pace.

You’re getting close now, only twenty or so more feet away from the end—

Everything explodes.

Boots, at least three heavy pairs fill the car from the other end. You can tell from sound alone that they’re running, mad steps and long strides that make the ground shake.

Gunfire booms.

As shots crackle through the tight space, you can’t even tell if it’s coming from Bucky or your pursuers.

A window next to you shatters, glass exploding over your head as a bullet passes through the lights above you—

Your ears are ringing, too loud to think, to breathe. As bullets rain down, sparks flying, you can’t make sense of anything.

All you can do is run.

An uncoordinated sprint to the door, shoulders slamming into compartment doors as you fight your way to the end.

Your whole body is trembling by the time you reach the door, tears prickling your eyes. You slam into the surface, elbows buckling as you sway on unsteady feet, delirious from terror pumping through your veins, numb from adrenaline.

You twist the knob, frantic only to find it's locked.

You try again anyway, twisting hard until the metal bites into your palm- “Bucky!” You scream, before you can think better of it.

As you turn to search for him, you find by some miracle that he has already caught up to you. His shoulders are squared, legs spread wide, as if attempting to block your line of sight down the corridor.

You find the carnage anyway, fear blown pupils looking past him and locking onto the pile of men lying in the direction you just came from. Their eyes are vacant, expressions gaunt and twisted, blood already staining the floors beneath. It’s only then you realize the shots you’re still hearing are further away, echoing through the other cars.

It’s Bucky’s fingers that finally pull your gaze away, his thumb and pointer finger redirecting your chin so your eyes focus on him instead. A silent order, don’t look.

“Cover your ears.” he instructs gruffly.

You obey both commands.

Bucky gives the door a quick once-over before raising his gun to shoot the lock. It pops off like plastic, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

As if sensing the panic still bubbling beneath the surface, he gives you a reassuring nod. All you can do is watch in horror as he levels his shoulders and then uses his right side to slam into the door.

 The door gives way easily, flying off its hinges into the dark.

You peep out through the gap it left with a nervous swallow, bitter air biting your cheeks as you lean out to try and see.

It’s pitch black, too dark to see more than a few feet in front of you, even if you could, you're deep enough in the forest that the only thing for miles in either direction are trees.

Bucky jumps down first, easily three feet onto the track.

Bucky turns around, holding his arms out to and you know there's only one thing you can do.

Jump.

A chill washes over you, threatening to knock you over where you stand in the door way. The frost nips at your skin, cold, cruel, and gut-wrenchingly familiar. As if to twist the knife-

It's snowing.

Undeterred, Bucky takes a step closer.

Whatever fate awaits you out there, you say a silent prayer that its kinder than the barrel of a gun.

You step into Bucky's hands, letting him take the brunt of the impact as you bend your knees and abandon the shelter of the train.

Bucky holds your hips for a moment longer than necessary, giving them a gentle squeeze before letting go.

"Walk in my foot steps." He tells you, voice just loud enough for you to hear over the wind. He's already digging for something in one of the bags, arm bent back to shove his hand through its the zipper.

You're too busy trying to remember how to breathe to make sense of what it is. A small black rectangle. A burner? A radio? You can barely make out his silhouette through the snow, can barely feel your own nose.

You're practically dizzy with deja-vu. The adrenaline, the cold, the panic.

The blood.

A twisted encore.

You shake it away, forcing yourself to focus on matching Bucky's stride instead.

Right. Left.

Right. Left

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

The further you get from the train the higher your panic climbs. Even as the glow of its lights fade out of view, swallowed by distance and snow, your chest pulls tighter and tighter.

Your body moves on auto-pilot following Bucky's steps and staying just close enough to keep him in your line of sight, vision blurring as you fight to stay where you are. You pants turn into heaves, lungs waging war against the pull of your fear.

The memory stitches itself together, beginning to play every time you dare to blink.

The fire, its heat catching your skin as you sprint through the maze of hallways.

You try to shake it away just to hear more gunshots, the ones from the train. How the tight space amplifies every pop and bang.

You shut your eyes and instead of disappearing the two scenes marry themselves together.

The same rapid fire, the screams of men as they watch bullets enter their bodies. The guards. You can see them. behind every tree you pass, in Bucky's hulking silhouette. They way they crumbled, landing on top of each other as they fell.

The clack of a silencer as it eats the gunfire of your assailants.

That's new.

You can see a shadow every time you turn around, casting itself on the walls as it threatens to turn the corner and find you. Every time you try to shove it away and focus on Bucky's figure ahead it just gets stronger, pulling black spots to the edge of your vision.

You can feel the snow on your knees when your legs give out, melting through the material of your pants and sending it's chill directly to your bones.

You can hear a shout of your name, the shifting of fresh powder as feet rush back to you.

Then it all goes black.

Your dress is heavy.

Something formal. fine fabrics tailored to exact measurements. Layers of velvet and tulle tangling around your calves as you try run. It slows you down, like wading through water.

You mother's palm is sweaty, her grip iron clad as she pulls you through door after door and down corridor after corridor.

You can almost remember her voice, a sing-song tone as she teasingly asks your father- "What on earth are we supposed to do with this much space? You could get lost here."

You think that's exactly what she was trying to do.

Screams have a way of echoing in castles like this.

A cacophony of terror that bounces off of every wall and every time you try to look back towards it she tugs on you harder. Every guard you pass pushes you ahead, stepping together and forming a wall between you and your pursuers.

You hardly get fifty feet away from them when their gunfire starts, only for it to quiet just as quickly.

Down a flight of stairs, moving fast enough to lose both your shoes as they catch on the steps. Then a second flight, dropping at the in the corridor of the staffs' quarters.

You mother doesn't slow. She doesn't falter. She keeps going, taking you with her and around one last corner when a door slams.

With only a hundred feet to the door, she stops.

She turns to you, taking your other hand and in hers and crouching down to your height.

Her face is covered in warmth, a soft, sad smile playing on her lips as she presses her forehead to yours.

"You need to be brave for me, okay?" She tells you, tears starting to gather at her waterline. You nod, confusion swelling as you watch the first drop spill down her cheek.

"You're going to go out that door." She instructs, "And no matter what you hear you can't stop running."

Her eyes are clear, set with a love only mothers can feel and a fear only known by dying women.

You must answer, say something that makes her shake her head.

"No honey," she cradles your head, smoothing your hair as she speaks. "You have to do this alone."

She stands back to her full height, her tears are steady now, falling one after another.

"I love you so much, please remember that."

She bends, just enough to press press her lips to your forehead. You can feel them move as she whispers: "Now go."

Just as she starts to stand, another shot -the closest one yet- goes off.

You jolt awake just as her body hits the ground.

A sharp inhale punches your lungs as you open your eyes..

Slowly, between loud heartbeats and careful exhales, the world comes back into focus. A blanket over you, thread worn and tired but cozy in the way all well-loved objects are. A bed beneath you, thin enough that you're not even sure it can be considered a mattress,

Bucky's lips against your forehead, exactly where your mother's phantom kiss still lingers.

His hand is on the blanket, fingers wrapped around its fraying edge as he pulls it over you.

It's like you're interrupting something, a quiet ritual you didn't even know existed. Bucky's careful movements as he steps away.

With sleep still clogging your eyes he must not notice that they were open, turning his back to you and walking towards another part of the small cabin.

The rest of it reveals itself, a small fireplace where a steady flame warms the room. A dust covered bookshelf and the barest necessities of a kitchen. Your bags are set by the door, ready for a quick exit. On the floor sits a flat pillow and a blanket even more tired than yours.

You don't hesitate.

"You're not sleeping on the floor."

Your voice is still groggy, rough from sleep and screams.

Bucky doesn't startle, doesn't turn to face you.

So he did know you were awake.

"I'm fine." He promises, voice not unkind, just tired.

"You haven't slept in two days." You say, as if he needs the reminder. 

"You need the sleep more." He argues, finally relenting and turning back to you. He takes the few short steps back towards the bed, standing at the side of it once more. Close enough that the light from the fire casts his shadow over you. "No arguments."

You sigh, sitting up and scooting yourself over to the far side of the bed. With a lazy hand you pat the newly created space next to you. "See? Plenty of room."

It's really not, only a few feet, hardly enough space for Bucky to lay down with his shoulders pressing into yours.

So you turn onto your side, laying with your back to him. As if you're completely unbothered by the concept of being so close. As if the feeling of the bed bowing with his weight doesn't make your heart stutter.

Your nervous system has already been through so much today, so what the hell, sure.

The lamp on the end table is flicked off, plunging you into near darkness once more.

Its minutes before speaks, voice low as he whispers, "You okay?"

You want to laugh. Are you? You don't know what okay feels like anymore.

Instead you turn, a slow shift onto to your other side until you're facing him.

Bucky is flat on his back, blue eyes trained at the ceiling, shoulders rigid as steel.

The tension you felt on the train creeps back in, rising up your legs like goosebumps and settling in the cavern of your chest. You're almost in the same positions too, only this time there is none of the distance that kept you safe earlier.

Bucky turns his cheek to the pillow, finally meeting your gaze as he waits for your response.

"Yes." You whisper. "Thanks to you."

You'd stopped trying to thank Bucky for saving life half-way through your first day together. When he'd explained his mission, his purpose, and told you that at the end of the day this was just him doing his job.

What happened on the train felt different though. Protection is one thing. The look in his eyes when he put his body between yours a bullet is another.

Bucky shakes his head,and instead of his usual nonchalance, he slices through your soul with something else entirely.

"I'd do it again." He says, turning onto his side to match you.

The movement leaves hardly a foot of space between you.

His words hang in the air, heavy and charged. The last part is unsaid, but implied when for just moment a his eyes dare to glace at you lips.

I'd do it again, for you.

It makes your nerves sing, skin turning warm. For the first time in years you don't feel that ever present chill.

You dare too, blinking down to his lips, close enough to see their chapped curve and his tempting cupid's bow.

When you find his eyes again he's still staring. Glinting at you as if you hold his future in your palm, dangling it just out reach. They're heartbroken in the next blink, as if you've already taken it all away.

You wonder how you look to him.

Unmoored? Leveling out like a ship that's finally docked. Desperate? Clinging to any sense of safety you can get your hands on. Broken? Can be see the fractures that splinter your soul beyond memory?

Of course he can.

And that should scare the shit out of you.

What scares you more is that it doesn't.

You're not sure who reaches across the divide, what body caves first but you finally meet in the middle. Lips pressed to lips, heads resting on one shared pillow. Hands fighting through layers of blanket to finally reach out and touch.

Yours his neck and shoulders, one hand under his jaw the other where metal meets flesh. Bucky's find your hips, large palms encasing them and then using his new found grip to pull you against him, not stopping until a hearts meet.

Bucky's arms curl around your back, holding you to him as if you could disappear if he doesn't hold you tight enough.

It feels safe and secure, serenity settling over you like a blanket.

The kiss is… different than you would have ever pictured. 

Bucky kisses like it's repentance.

Plush lips that press against yours with the hunger of a man begging for forgiveness. You don't doubt that if you asked, he would get on his knees. Reeking of earnestness in the way he tilts his head, nudging his nose against yours to press even deeper.

It's clumsy in a way, teeth clicking together when you try to deepen it. Your grip on him tightens, fingers digging in when Bucky laves his tongue inside your mouth, entire body tingling with delight when he hums at your taste.

Your legs tangle themselves with his, one meaty thigh slotting itself between your own and then pressing up.

The gasp you let out is a quiet thing, breathed against his mouth in half-shock and half-pleasure.

He does it again, firmer this time. Knee pressing against your cunt with purpose, a clear goal as he rocks it against you. You can't help the whimper, hips wiggling against him in an attempt to get even more friction. It makes Bucky's chest vibrate, his lips press against yours just a little harder.

The room spins until your back presses into the mattress, Bucky rolling onto of you and resting his weight on his forearms beside your head. He pulls back with a ragged breath and blown pupils, plush lips blushing red where your teeth snagged them.

He looks wrecked, like your kiss blew a hole through his chest.

He looks like he wants you to do it again.

The conversation is silent. A soft nod, guided hands, the sound of buttons coming undone and sleeves pushed down arms. Your shirt is lifted over your head with Bucky's help, pants slid down your legs and tossed onto the floor.

Your bra and panties join in shortly after.

You pull Bucky's shirt up, deliberately dragging your nails over the sensitive skin of his chest as you do so. Watching with pleasure as the carved muscles in his torso dance.

He deals with his own pants, belt unbuckled with one hand and tugged through the loops in one swift movement. Until finally all that's left is bare skin.

It's almost comical you think, how quickly You've gone from end of the spectrum to the other. From jumping at the slightest touch to willingly laying yourself bare to him.

Bucky's gaze lingers when he's done, dragging slowly up your body.

He follows the lines of your hips, the gentle swell of your ribcage and the way it charts a path to the underside of your breasts.

It makes you squirm.

"Been a-" you clear your throat, mouth suddenly dry. "-awhile." You gesture down your body as you say it, as if warning him.

Bucky scoffs, obviously offended by your implication, as if he could find something wrong with the flesh you've offered him.

He flattens himself over you, lowering his body until his chest presses tight to yours and you can feel his length against the inside of your thigh. Hot, aching, and already weeping just from a few kisses.

"Me too." He promises, sealing it with another press of his lips to yours.

It makes you preen up into him, a delighted hum echoing through your throat as you arch into his touch.

Your shelter under the covers heats up quickly, the air trapped beneath it turning muggy. It threatens to cackle with electricity, a charge passed back and forth with every kiss.

Your hands appreciate his bare chest, roaming over his pecs and across the expanse of his ribs. You drift further down to the lower curve of his abdomen, thumb rolling down to play with the trickle of hair beneath his belly button.

It send a shiver up his spine, a stuttered breath exhaled against your lips as his hips jerk.

"Sensitive." You whisper, carding your hand through his hair instead, a small act of mercy.

Bucky huffs a laugh.

His own hands start their own exploration, one sliding underneath you back while the other reaches between your thighs. Fingertips meet slick heat, coating themselves with wetness as he takes an experimental pass through your folds.

You cant your hips toward his hand. Body instinctively reaching for more of his touch.

Bucky obliges, deft fingers drawing through again.

"Eager." He counters, a boyish smirk painting his face a red shade of smug.

A whimper escapes, small, pathetic and entirely too honest. You can't find it in your self to care, too busy chasing the electric pleasure that comes with every nonchalant pass through your folds.

Bucky either reads your mind, or takes pity on your worked up cunt, because finally he finds your clit.

Or more accurately, finally aims for it.

With deadly precision, he pushes the hood up and then flattens the pad of his thumb against it with deadly precision.

An embarrassing amount of slick floods your cunt. Your body reacting two fold to his ministrations. It drips down to your inner thighs, shining between them like a secret. Then it goes even further, pooling beneath you in the sheets and leaving an ugly wet spot.

Bucky's breath catches at the sight, his thumb still working your clit with slow circles as he takes in your ruin.

"God," he sighs, kneeling back onto his haunches. The movement places him squarely between your legs. Before you can even think to be embarrassed, his free hand grabs one of your legs and pushes it aside, giving himself a better view.

"When was the last time someone took care of you?" He asks, breathless.

You turn your head into the pillow, too embarrassed to speak. The words hit harder than just sex. They reveal more than just desire. Because in truth, you can't remember the last time someone took care of you. Period. When someone made you feel safe, never-mind made you feel wanted. The emotion catches in your throat, welling into a lump and leaving you with no recourse.

"Been a while." You echo, voice thin enough to break.

The dull ends of Bucky's fingertips press at your entrance. Two, his index and ring finger.

He pulls his hand away from your thigh, leaning back over you and grabbing your chin with his hand forcing you to look at him.

"Gonna let me?" He asks. His movement on your clit never wavers, letting the sensation cool from sharp and inspected unexpected to a gentle thrumming beneath your skin.

You wonder if he means just your body.

You hope he means more.

You nod, fervent and desperate to find out .

Bucky's fingers push inside you without much resistance, your body immediately clamping down as if to keep them.

He sucks in a sharp breath, blinking in disbelief as he watches your cunt swallow his fingers.

"So tight." He whispers, nearly awed. "Fuckin' perfect."

Your body preens from the praise, cunt squeezing down on him in delight.

Bucky smirk widens, bordering on a full smile. He crooks his fingers, as if testing your reaction to that too.

It sends a shock up your back, his index dragging over a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. Its earth shattering.

"Bucky!" You gasp, hand flying to his hair as you desperately reach for anything that can ground you. "Need you," You pant, pushing your hips onto his hand, trying to take him even deeper. "Please."

A moan falls from his pretty lips, wrecked and deep. It makes your gut twist.

"You sure?" Bucky asks again anyway, despite the fact that he's currently wrist deep in your slick.

You could cry, body wrought with want so bad it nearly hurts.

"Please." You whine, tilting your chin up just enough to place a mean kiss on his lips. More teeth and tongue than anything else. You nip at his bottom lip, hard enough to have him groaning into your mouth.

Bucky pulls his fingers out, not bothering to wipe them off when he uses the same hand to grab your chin. His grip isn't mean, but tight enough to keep you in place. Forcing you to hold eye contact as he uses his free hand to notch the head of his cock at your entrance.

Then, just as he starts to ease himself in, he kisses you. The roughest he's dared, lips claiming over yours as he uses his own mouth to pry your open. It lets him swallow every noise that escapes as he works himself inside you. Inch by inch he inhales every moan, whimper, and gasp like its oxygen.

In return he feeds you his, exhaling back choked grunts and pleasured sighs. Even as he bottoms out you stay connected, mouths parted against each other as you share the same lungfuls of air.

You're so full, cunt spasming around his cock as you stretch to take him. Its the deepest anyone's ever dared to reach, the hottest your body has ever managed to feel. From the inside out Bucky burns away your ice.

Slowly, your bodies start to make their own rhythm, your hips pulling up, nearly trying to escape just for Bucky's to chase them, angling until he's hitting even deeper than before.

Methodical rolls of your bodies hardly dramatic enough to be considered thrusts and yet here you are, whimpering every time Bucky pulls close enough to press his pelvis to yours.

Eventually lips part, the torture too much to bear. They become a press of foreheads instead, Bucky's forearms coming over to rest beside your head as he finally gives into his baser instincts.

A slow pull, dragging his cock out to the tip. Tortuous enough to let you feel every vein and curve that decorates it. He holds there, gasping as you clench around nothing but his head.

The push back in however, lacks the same self-control. A quick push until he's bottomed out one more, punching the air out of you with a well aimed thrust just over your g-spot.

You writhe, pushing your chest up into Bucky's as your hands reach around to his back, nails digging in just to drag down when he starts to pull out again. Despite your better judgment you know they're hard enough that he'll be decorated with scratches in the morning.

It only spurs him on, another thrust just like it, followed by another, until all you can hear is your own heartbeat and the slapping of skin on skin.

You're so close, driven closer to the edge but also to delirium. It's as if you're floating, leaving your body behind on the sheets as Bucky takes you apart piece by piece.

If you were any more coherent you would see he isn't much better off.

Frantic whispers against your skin, incomprehensible to your pleasure-drunk mind.

"God so good." He pants, one hand finally reaching back for your clit, two fingers fumbling until he finally manages to find it again. "So perfect." muttered when you drag your nails down his back again.

"Can't-" He gasps, hips stuttering as you start to break around him. "Don't deserve this." Right before one last messy kiss.

"I'm sorry," nearly sobbed as you finally cum.

"I'm so fucking sorry." When he does.

You come back to earth unaware of it all, blissed out and smiling as you wait for your heart to steady. Bucky is still inside you, softening with every passing second and yet you have no desire for him to go anywhere. Chest to chest- heart to heart, for the first time in years you feel truly utterly calm.

Across the room the fire cackles, a loud pop disturbing your peace.

You can't help your jolt, a brief flash of panic at the sound and sudden wave of heat. It startles both you and Bucky, makes you clench around him and his dick startle in return.

You seize for a moment, before relaxing back into the mattress, a giggle bouncing off your lips.

Bucky presses one last kiss to your forehead, and finally pulls out, hissing at the air when he does. Gently, he falls back to his side of the bed, fixing the blanket so it lays properly over both of your bodies.

"Sorry." You groan, turning into his chest with embarrassment. "I get a little jumpy around fire."

"Can't say I blame you." Bucky chuckles, his arm curling protectively around your back. "You were right where it started. I'd be pretty jumpy too if I was that close."

You're already drifting, eyes falling shut as Bucky says something else. Some thing about being lucky that you didn't have any burns, and even more so frostbite, with how cold it was that night.

Bucky must realize you're dozing, a soft press of his lips to your forehead as he whispers against your skin.

"Goodnight Princess."

You're too tired to realize it's the first time he's called you that. Too tired to wonder why it sends a chill up your spine. Too tired to remember that you never told him about the fire.

Your mother crumples to the ground at your feet, spraying you in her blood and revealing her last act of heroism to have been pointless anyway.

He's already found you.

At the end of the hall, the man who's been trailing you since you started running.

Black tactical gear, a carbon mask and mysterious long hair. The rest of his face is distorted by shadows, hiding the rest of him from view. His gun, a short thing with a silencer over the barrel, is already pointed at you.

Frozen in place, you're unable to move, scream, or even cry. It's all too much, your mind abandoning your body completely and leaving you trapped in a never-ending staring match.

You're not sure how long you stand there. Nothing between you and death but ten feet and a puddle of blood.

At some point you reach up to brush your face, palm pulling across your cheek in hopes to pluck a plan free too.

Instead all you manage is to sneak blood from your chin to your ear.

You're sure it's not yours.

Suddenly, a window bursts behind him. Sound explodes into the hallway, a tortured scream married with the sound of a raging fire. It heats the hallway, casting its light onto the man and illuminating the last piece of his identity.

His eyes, ice blue and empty.

Eyes you know too well.

Detached, as if looking at you through the scope of a rifle. Finger hovering over the trigger. As if killing you wasn't apart of his plan, as if he had no instructions for you.

His eyes flicker, between you and the door, and then to your mother's corpse at your feet.

The flames lick closer, temperature rising with every passing second. With one last packed glance, your assailant lifts a hand to remove his mask. It drops to the floor, revealing the bottom half of his face without ceremony.

"Go." He instructs, tone emotionless and firm. "Now." He nods to the door.

With no choice but to listen, you body finally responds.

You run, hard enough to leave an echo as your feet stomp towards escape.

He stalks you to the door, stopping in its arch after you barrel through and onto the snow covered ground outside.

You look back one more time, eyes turning glassy as you try your best to commit his face to memory.

"Goodnight princess." He says, and with the force of an earthquake, he pulls the door shut, letting the loud thump echo through the night.

You hear the locks turn from the other side, effectively trapping himself in.

Frozen in the in the snow, you watch in horror as the flames spread higher and higher, until they're bursting out of every window.

A scream echoes, possibly your own.

Finally, you start to run.

Morning comes with a vengeance.

There's no startle when you wake, no gasp for air or blinking of sleep from your eyes. Only sick dread.

The bed has long gone cold on Bucky's side, empty sheets and his abandoned pillow. The only proof of last night is the marks on your skin, all the places where those loving touches had lingered. 

The cold has crept back in, fire long burned out both in the hearth and your soul.

Bucky's only a few feet away, standing at the stove with a pot of water boiling. "Thought I'd make tea." He says, his tone is jovial, his posture the straightest you've seen it.

Your clothes are folded at the end of the bed, and with no sureness in your movements, you slowly put them back on. Your body is stiff, aching but not with that sweet, morning after ache. No these are sharp, stabs that come from betraying yourself.

Your mind races.

Maybe I made it up.

It can't have been him.

Yet every time you blink you see it. Bucky holding the gun. Bucky closing the door. Bucky killing your mother, Bucky Bucky Bucky Bucky.

Bucky was there.

With stiff joints you stand, even as your mind swims, you walk towards him.

A mug waits for you on the small table, steaming and ready to ease your chill. You could drink it. You could forget. If you tried hard enough you could blame this all on poor memory and blue eyes.

Then you look at him.

Smiling at you like you've hung the moon, joy oozing out of every pore. The same arms that made you feel so safe last night crossed neatly over his chest. His eyes waiting impatiently for you to meet them.

When you do, you realize there is no other option. The room blurs, replacing the cabin with stone walls and the lips that you kissed with a mask.

A cold breeze rolls through you with a whisper.

"Goodnight Princess."

You sit at the table, and take a small sip, unable to break the eye contact even as it threatens to break you completely.

Bucky sits across from you, setting his own mug next to yours as he speaks. "Thought maybe we could spend a few days here." He says, light and excited. "We're only a couple hours from Paris, thought you might want to enjoy privacy while you still have it."

Last night you would have jumped at the chance, jumped him.

Instead, the chill rises, pressing up to your chin.

"You know," You change the subject, choking on every word you can muster. "I'd never traveled before this."

"I only travel." He offers, "Can't remember the last time I felt safe enough to stay in one place."

You hum through another sip of tea. Letting it burn down your throat before you answer.

"You win."

The air hangs tight between you, slow blinks as you both hold the other's gaze.

"Do you know-" You push again, voice turning hard "-that before this test, I had no idea what my actual name was."

It's true, there was nothing on you that gave away who you were other than a fancy dress and jewelry. Even that was hardly enough to go on to start throwing around words like princess. So they chose something all the nuns liked, gave it to you like second hand clothes.

Bucky swallows, looking down at his tea for a moment before back to you.

"I didn't know that." He says. He opens his mouth again, ready to drop the pretense of the games but you interrupt.

"Do you know they told me they were sending someone else before you? A woman, someone Russian. Things changed last minute because you asked to come."

You didn't think anything of it at the time, too busy trying to come to terms with your lineage to wrap your head around security and who wanted to be where. It's only falling into place now.

Bucky's gaze turns, his shoulders curling in on themselves as he avoids your gaze. You can see him swallow. throat ticking in anticipation of whatever you'll say next.

"Do you know-" You bite one more time, standing up from your chair. "-I slept with the man who murdered my family."

Bucky freezes, entire body pulling taut with tension. His face falls, but not into shock, no something worse.

Resignation.

"Do I win?" You ask, spitting the words at him.

Across the table, Bucky nods. 

Collab Masterlist

Main Masterlist

This fix had haunted me since November, I love it and I am so glad it’s posted because now I never have to look at it again. 🩷 anyway I love you all!!! say it back!!!

also don't worry guys, you go to Paris alone, safely and meet a very handsome rich man who didn't kill you mom. Bucky goes to therapy <3

Taglist: @avgdestitute @miraclediviner @clarknsun @helloimokaynow @hailmary-yramliah @j23r23 @after8hore @phoenix-in-writing @3lectric-hearts @chateaubarnes @whatwonderful-world @barnesgirlx @spinningyarnsandshame @mistressofallthingsgeeky @trtltot @herejustforbuckybarnes @hayles004 @kk2006-1594 @bbyanarchist @kriscr0ss @cottagecorebaby @unificsation @wildflowersandvibranium @its-in-the-woods @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @heldbybarnes @tw1sters @superbassbuck @flockoff-featherface @earthsmightiestbenders @tw1sters @mrs-katelyn-barnes @theworstwolvie @tw1sters @lindsey-lana @mrs-katelyn-barnes @obxobsessedbitch1 @serenityrdj @iamthatonefangirl @54nboo @abstain-jpeg @buckysdecaflove @mandoloriancookie @onyx8514-blog @buckybsdoll

You don’t like the way he answered. Casual. Or as close to casual as someone can get while fighting for breath. Like this isn’t weird. Like a whole year hadn’t passed since the last time you were in a room together. Like you’re still his girlfriend, entitled to a serious response to every “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”-esque question.

“Well that’s sad,” you say.

Matt shakes his head. Pretty stupid since every movement seems to cost him, but it’s clear he means to comfort you. “They prefer it that way. Besides,” he winces, “is it the aquarium down on Surf? The building’s too small. Even if they tried, they probably couldn’t get a permit for more than one.”

“Then maybe they shouldn’t have any.”

“Even if whale sharks prefer to be alone?” 

Your traitorous eyes flick up from the needle to his lips. No one prefers to be alone, you almost tell him.

But that’s too vulnerable. Too close to an admission.

Instead, you say, “Even if.”

A flash as the billboard changes. New colors bathe the living room: bright red and bleach white. You don’t have to look to know what ad is on display.

The emergency room wait time for Metro-General.

Ironic.

If it was up to you, that’s where Matt would be right now. In a real hospital, getting real medical treatment.

But that’s an old argument, and vigilantes are stupid by nature. “Why would I need a doctor?” asks a dying vigilante. “This random civilian has seen Grey’s Anatomy, right? That’s basically an M.D. crash course. Someone, quick! Give them a sewing kit before my intestines meet a Brooklyn sidewalk.”

With the needle readied, you chew your bottom lip and consider Matt’s injuries. His muscled torso is a sweaty mess of slashing cuts. The worst cut steals your attention, a straight line from the top of his hipbone to a little past his belly button. Looking at it turns your stomach. It’s one of the wounds that reminds you the human body is nothing more than a meat sack.

You swallow bile — swallow fear — and reach for one of the hand towels beside the first-aid kit.

Gently — very, VERY gently — you dab the towel against his bloody wound.

Matt writhes, arching off the cushions.

“Sorrysorrysorry!” You hardly recognize your own voice. You’re too focused on Matt, his clenched teeth stifling a groan, fists curling at his sides.

Apologies don’t cure pain.

Distraction might.

“Have I ever told you how much I hate that billboard? I mean, don’t get me wrong! I miss penthouse living every day. But you know what I don’t miss? Falling asleep on the couch and waking up to the lights of a hemorrhoid cream ad burning into my retinas.”

True. You do hate the billboard, and you do miss Matt’s apartment.

Your current apartment is a shoebox that Foggy helped you score two days post-breakup. To call it a hellscape would be too kind. The lights are all faulty, a massive roach has squatter’s rights under your white refrigerator, and you’re one hundred percent certain that Frank Castle lives down the hall.

You’ve been careful to keep that last bit hush-hush. If Foggy or Karen were to find out that you share a mailroom with the Punisher, they’d definitely tell Matt.

Not that Matt would care.

…

…

…

Okay, fine. Matt would care. About everything.

He’d go on for hours about the risk of electrical fire, how roaches carry E. coli, that your landlord’s violating New York State law by refusing to install a carbon monoxide detector, and oh, yeah, a convicted murderer might knock on your door any day now for a cup of sugar!

Just thinking about it makes your chest hurt. The depth of Matt’s care.

And Matt — sweet, loving, woeful Matt — makes it all worse by saying, “I offered to buy curtains.”

He had.

Countless times.

Once again chewing your bottom lip, you toss the towel aside. You’d cleaned enough blood to see what Meredith Grey would’ve called subcutaneous tissue. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe it’s something else. Grey’s Anatomy, after all, is not an MD crash course.

Either way, the raw mess of his stomach proves what was already obvious: this cut is deeeeeeeeeep.

“Sure you don’t want any pain killers?” you ask him. “I’ve got Midol in my bag.”

He shakes his head once.

You scoff. “You know you don’t earn tough guy points for taking it raw, right?”

Matt laughs at your poor phrasing; though “laugh” might not be the best word for it. It’s more of an exhale turned cough turned sound of agony, but whatever. You take it as a win! If Matt wants to feel the pain of being a human embroidery project, so be it. At least you managed to distract him for a second, make him chuckle-cough over something silly.

“Hold your breath,” you tell him.

His brows knit with confusion. Soon as he starts to ask why, you shove the needle through the edge of the ruined flesh above his hipbone. His question becomes an exclamation that is very un-Catholic.

“That’ll be seven Hail Marys, Murdock.”

A vein pulses at his temple. “Feels more like a Psalm 88 kind of moment.”

“Is that a joke?” You settle into the old rhythm of stitching him up. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat. “You know altar boy humor goes over my head.”

“I was never an altar boy,” he reminds you.

You tut. “How ableist.”

“Not because I’m blind.” Amusement flickers through agony, reminding you that pain is second nature to Matt. You’ve only finished one stitch, yet already he can mask a wince when the needle pops through flesh. “I was a nervous kid,” he explains, “especially in front of crowds. My hands used to shake so much the pastor thought I’d drop the candles and set the altar on fire.”

“What a headline,” you say. “Local Blind Boy Burns Parish: God’s Judgment or Innocent Mistake?”

He chuckle-coughs.

You ask him, “Couldn’t you have carried the wine?”

“You mean the body of Christ?”

Your eyeroll is affectionate. “The wine.”

Transubstantiation is one of those things you’ve always filed under Complete Malarkey. How does random bread and crushed grapes become the body and blood of Jesus Christ? By invoking the Holy Spirit? Is that not a form of witchcraft? And why is it cannibalism to eat each other, but not the Son of God?

Catholics are, in your opinion, an awfully confusing people.

Matt’s no exception. A devout lover of God — yet a glimpse up from stitching reveals his mouth curving into a small smile. He’s always liked your sacrilege. It amuses him. Gives him reason to challenge his faith.

“If the pastor was too nervous to let me hold a candle,” he says, “you can bet he wasn’t eager to hand me the blood of our Savior.”

“If only he could see you now,” you say. “Well not now, but in court. I’ve seen you and Foggy tackle plenty of cases in jam-packed courtrooms, and not once have you ever set a judge on fire or spilled Jesus down their moo moo.”

“You mean the judicial robes they work decades to earn?”

“Whatever. Hey, while we’re on the subject, how come they did away with those powdery wigs?”

“A barrister’s wig?”

“Do you get paid by Big Law to make sure I use their terminology right?”

“I do,” he says, “and you’re cutting into my paycheck.”

You laugh.

A comfortable silence settles.

Matt’s stomach remains tense under your fingertips. But his breaths come easier now — a steady rise and fall that breeds comfort inside you. It’s easy to lose yourself in the rhythm. Needle in, out, pull the thread, repeat.

The room around you glows pale purple. It’s easy to lose the present in the past, you realize. Your mind flips through old memories like songs in a jukebox, lingering on a favorite.

You and Matt used to dance in this room. You both had two left feet and spent more time tripping over abandoned takeout containers than actually dancing, but what did that matter? You were always giggling. Matt was always smiling.

The steady weight of his hands on your lower back had been the closest you ever came to finding proof of religion. Because someone like Matt couldn’t be the result of some random assimilation of atoms. Perfection at his level required divine planning. The sweetness of spirit mixed with the miracle of light. A pure heart placed inside his chest by the sure hand of God.

But despite what the Bible tells you, God is not an expert craftsman.

Matt is proof of this, too.

When silence stretches into discomfort, you glance up.

Matt’s dead.

Okay — okay, okay! — not dead since he’s still breathing. But he looks dead, eyes shut and lips parted enough to go full cadaver.

You snap, “Eyes open, Murdock.”

“Why?” His quick response eases your nerves, even if he doesn’t obey your command. “Want to see if I can tell how many fingers you’re holding up?”

“You probably have a concussion.” Not to mention a bloodborne illness or two. When’s the last time he got tested for hepatitis? “The last thing I need is for you to fall asleep and never wake up again.”

You’re pulling the thread through his wound when you notice the smirk in his voice.

“Would you miss me?” he asks.

You hesitate.

Of course.

Of course you’d miss him.

“Foggy will start ditching me for Thursday brunch if I let you die,” you tell him. “Do you know how many waffles your life would cost me?”

Matt opens his eyes. He blinks like his eyelids weigh a thousand pounds. Like they might shut again at any moment.

He keeps them open.

“Three,” he says.

“Waffles?” you ask.

“Fingers,” he chuckle-coughs. “That’s how many you’re holding up. Three.”

Amusement bubbles in your chest, rushing up your throat like a Mentos dropped into a bottle of Coke. You try to stifle it, but a lone giggle slips out.

“I’m not holding up any fingers, idiot.”

He huffs softly. “Talk about ableism.”

You’re offended, perplexed, giggling even more now. “That was so not ableist!”

“Next you’ll claim Braille offers subpar education.”

“Since when did me insulting you become me insulting the entire blind community? And I’m not even calling you an idiot because you’re blind! I’m calling you an idiot because you’re an idiot.”

“Ouch. So you really think so low of me?”

“I just said so, didn’t I?”

His head tilts where it lay on the armrest. “Remember when I graduated summa cum laude from Columbia University?” he asks.

“Remember how you currently look like the victim of a violent anthropomorphic lawnmower?” You smile when he chuckle-coughs. “Yeah, not a thing that happens to smart people, Matty.”

The world stutters for a beat. Or maybe that’s only your pulse, jolting at your embarrassing slip-up.

Matty. You almost curse yourself; what was your tongue thinking?

Matt accepts defeat with a humble “Fair enough” that doubles as your path of least resistance. He’s always been good at withholding salt from a wound, giving you time to stew in self-loathing.

You have no doubt he can still hear your heart thumping stupidly against your ribs.

This isn’t easy. Being here. Seeing him. Pretending your breakup isn’t as much a third party in this room as the billboard’s glaring lights.

You’ve already stitched three-quarters of his wound. You should finish your work in silence. Then leave before he can make this anymore difficult, remind you of some reason to stay.

And yet.

“What’s Psalm 88, anyway?”

Matt likes this question.

“You dated a Catholic for two years,” he says, “and you don’t know Psalm 88?”

“Sorry, I hadn’t realized reading the Bible was a prerequisite for sucking your—”

Ever a child of God, Matt cuts you off — his voice an octave too high — with a sudden urge to recite.

“Lord, I am overwhelmed with troubles and my life is slipping toward death. You have put me in the lowest pit, in the darkest depths. You have taken from me my closest friend—” his voice wavers here “—and made me repulsive to them. Why, Lord, do you reject me? From my youth I have suffered. Your wrath has swept over me. Your terrors have destroyed me. They surround me like a flood, engulfing me completely. Darkness,” he says, “is my closest friend.”

You say nothing.

Needle in—

You think about how pain has always been second nature to Matt.

—out—

You think about the breakup.

—pull thread—

The breakup you’d initiated.

—repeat.

“NOT TO TOOT MY OWN HORN, but that is going to be one fine scar.”

Half an hour has passed since you finished stitching Matt up. If you were wise, you would’ve excused yourself the moment you closed the first-aid kit. But excuses are easy to come by, and even easier to make yourself believe.

I’ll stay a little longer, you keep telling yourself. Just to make sure he’s okay.

At some point the two of you switched places. You’re on the couch now, legs folded underneath you. Matt stands in front of you, testing his body for breaks and sprains — stretching an arm, rolling his neck.

At your comment, he pauses his self-assessment to run his fingertips over the stitches. You track the movement, a slow sweep from hipbone to belly button.

“Some of your best work.”

The praise straightens your posture.

The curve of his lips becomes devilish. “I’m surprised,” he adds. “I thought you’d be rusty.”

“Your faith in me is astounding, Murdock.”

“My faith in you is boundless,” he shoots back. “But it’s been a while since you last played nurse.”

With theatrical flair, you say, “An artist never forgets how to paint.”

“Even if they swore they’d never touch a brush again?”

Levity drops from the air like a butterfly hitting a bug zapper.

He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. Not resentful, but…hurt. You know this because you know Matt, and he’d sooner walk into traffic than make you feel guilty for your choices.

Some relationships are like a winter storm. Rarely do we take the first snowflake to mean danger. Some people even find them beautiful — like noticing the quirks and habits of the one we love. But snowflakes pile up. They become inconvenient. Isolating. And, in some cases, they become dangerous, too.

Sometimes the only way to stay safe is to evacuate.

Matt will never blame you for evacuating.

With a soft sniff, he turns his head toward the windows. Too quiet, he asks, "What advertisement is showing?"

The billboard shines with a dark image, car keys lying next to an empty whiskey glass. "Think twice," you read aloud, "don't drink and drive."

Matt nods. "Good message."

You nod. "Indubitably."

Matt keeps facing the windows, but your own focus has already shifted back to him. He looks sad. Confused. Like he’s trying hard to hide both emotions, yet failing miserably.

A flash as the billboard changes. White light illuminates Matt’s profile — bruised, bloody, beautiful as ever.

As if he knows the ad has changed — as if he can hear it somewhere, electrical pulses whispering secrets only to him — he asks, “How about now?”

You don’t answer. You don’t know.

You can’t look away from him long enough to find out.

“I would’ve bought curtains,” he mumbles, and you don’t know what he’s talking about. Then it hits you. Your confession about the billboard, how you always hated it. “If you would’ve told me the light bothered you, I…” He swallows. Calls upon shaky confidence, betraying that what he says next lives somewhere between truth and wishful thinking. “I would’ve fixed it.”

Your eyes start to burn.

He would’ve tried, you know. He would’ve tried.

You find yourself rising off the couch. Taking a step — two, three — to close the gap between you. Matt looks away from the windows and you swear he can see you. He does, in that peculiar way of his. Through soundwaves bouncing off your skin. The smell of your shampoo. The rhythm of your heartbeat.

“I know,” you say.

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

“Back then. Why didn’t you tell me back then? It would’ve been an easy fix.”

Your laugh is half-sob. “No, Matt–”

He reaches up to cup your cheek. “Yes,” he whispers.

It takes Herculean effort not to lean into his touch. You manage, but don’t pull away from him, either.

“Fine. You’re right. Curtains would be an easy fix. Get on Amazon and they’ll be here in ten seconds. But what about the bigger issues? The lies? The secrets? You trying to get yourself killed?”

He winces. “I’m not dead yet,” he tries to argue.

“Yet,” you say. “Key word, Matty.”

An awful key word. One that had been haunting you for far longer than the year you two had been apart.

You had never wanted to leave Matt. And if you’re being honest, you hadn’t even left because of the lying and the secrets — though they were factors. When it came down to it, you’d left because Matt was on a suicide mission. Because you wouldn’t survive watching him die.

Only now — with the warmth of his hand on your cheek — can you see the flawed logic in your breakup plan.

Sure, leaving Matt ensured you won’t be front row for his death. That it won’t be you holding pressure to wounds that can’t be stitched, crying “Lord, why do you reject him? Your perfect soldier, your pure-hearted boy?”

But that doesn’t free you from pain.

You’ll feel Matt’s death as a ripple effect through Foggy and Karen. You'll feel it inside of you, when his last breath severs the invisible string connecting you to him and him to you.

Distance will not spare you.

You will feel it.

It will hurt.

And will all this distance make it hurt worse? you wonder. Until tonight you hadn’t realized how unsteady you stood on your decision to leave. A single phone call had been all it took to undo three-hundred sixty-five days of progress. So much time spent assuring everyone you had made the right decision. That you’re happier without Matt. So much time — each second a tally toward a life free from pain, now useless as sand in an hourglass, so easy to flip.

You’re not happier without Matt.

You’re not happy, period.

The heat coming off his palm is too much. Does he have a fever? Probably. Is fever a normal response to getting sliced up like salmon on a Hibachi line? You have no clue. You'll Google it if you ever remember how to form thoughts not centered on the flecks of gold in Matt's eyes.

He speaks.

“I’m sorry I called tonight. I know I shouldn’t have. I know when you—” He can’t make himself say it. So he drags a hand through his hair. Pulls easier words from a bucket labeled: Half-truths. "I know you wanted to get away from all this. From me. And it was wrong of me to drag you back into it, but..." A chuckle-cough. "Whenever something happens...when I'm stressed, or hurt, or...or happy, I..."

His thumb traces your lower lip. Lovingly. Mournfully.

"You're still the only one I want around.”

You're bawling. You hate yourself for it, and you hate him for causing it. You sob and laugh and tell him, "You're a goddamn idiot, Matty."

He smiles at you. "I know."

"It was never you I wanted to get away from."

He hesitates. "I know."

You hate him for that, too. But what else could he have said? You both know nothing can erase the true problem. The Achilles' heel to an otherwise perfect relationship.

Daredevil.

God, you think, how is it possible to hate the mask but love the man behind it?

It's simple, though. You don't hate Daredevil. Can't. He'll be the death of Matt Murdock, but that doesn't make him any less the salvation of Hell's Kitchen.

You sigh. Does that justify it, then? Does some PEMDAS bullshit make it okay that Matt suffers so long as his suffering saves others?

You don't think so.

But you know Matt holds a different opinion.

A stupid opinion, but.

"I wish things were different," you tell him. No jokes. "Maybe we could drop Daredevil off at the shelter. Y'know, like a stray dog who won't stop digging in our trash."

Okay, fine. Some jokes.

Matt chuckles. “I don’t think the shelter will take him.”

“Can’t say I blame them.”

You don’t know when you grabbed Matt’s other hand, the one not touching your face. You only know that you’re playing with his fingers, trying to keep more tears from escaping. He hadn’t coughed when he chuckled this time. Does that mean he’s feeling better? You hope so — and hope not, too.

You're not ready to go back to your shoebox apartment. You don't want to crawl into bed alone. Spend all night wondering if walking out Matt's door a second time makes it permanent. What are you supposed to do? Go back to getting all your Matt-related info via Thursday brunch with Foggy? Search for scraps of him in your texts with Karen?

No.

You're not sure you can survive that, either.

But what does that leave?

"Let me buy you dinner."

Your pulse jolts. “Matt…”

"Nothing romantic," he promises. Though the way his thumb continues brushing your bottom lip feels opposite of that. "And it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow we can go back to our normal lives, pretend none of this ever happened. But tonight...how about pizza? We can call it repayment for you saving my life."

You should say no.

You smile despite yourself. "Fine, but I get to pick the toppings."

A flash as the billboard changes. Shades of blue wash over you both.

Even without Matt’s enhanced senses, you swear you hear joy spark to life in his veins.

"I wouldn't have it any other way.”

A/N | if you've read this far, i am in love with you and i've already booked our flight to Vegas. booked the Elvis impersonator, too. do you have any allergies i should know about? i love you.

Steve 'the hair' Harrington had come to apologise—to actually apologise—to Jonathan Byers. He had been an ass. He knew that now. He knew shouldn’t have let Tommy and Carol call Nancy a whore and let them graffiti those words outside the Hawk Movie Theatre for all to see. And he certainly should not have said those things about Jonathan's family and called him what he had. Steve felt that he fully deserved the black eye and split lip that Jonathan had given him. And so, after ditching Tommy and Carol (and leaving them stranded at the gas station), Steve came to the Byers’ house to apologise for his behaviour.

What Steve didn't expect was Nancy being the one to answer the door. But he decides not to question it—too focused on wanting to apologise for his behaviour and not wanting to let his slight jealousy cloud his judgement. He wanted to do something right for once.

"I messed up, okay! I messed up—" Steve stutters, panicking a little now as Nancy kept trying to close the door.

"Steve," she says through gritted teeth, raising her hand to try and stop him. "You need to—"

"—hey, what happened to your hand?" Steve asks, his voice soft, gentle and concerned when he noticed the bandage covering her hand. "Is that blood?"

Nancy tries, she really tries, to stop Steve from entering the house but Steve was worried about his girlfriend. Worried about what was going on and so he forces his way in and—

"What is—what the—"

The ceilings in living room, the kitchen and hallway were covered in colourful Christmas lights. The sight would have been kind of beautiful, had Steve not been deeply concerned. And when he sees Jonathan with a baseball bat with nails hammered into it and you—Jonathan's twin sister, the girl who had barely spoke a word in school—with a goddamn axe. Steve was sure that you were all on some serious hardcore drugs. And the smell of gasoline? Well, that was the cherry on top of this fucked up cake.

Steve should had left then. Should have listened to his girlfriend yelling at him to go. But he didn't. Even when Nancy points Jim Hopper's gun at him, he still doesn't leave. And when the lights suddenly flicker and a literal monster claws its way out of the damn ceiling—he still doesn't leave. In fact, he's rooted to the spot. Wondering what the fuck he had gotten himself into. It's you who grabs his hand and forces him to move. You tell him to jump over a wire to avoid triggering the goddamn bear trap—which he does without question.

When you pull him into a bedroom and Nancy and Jonathan follow, he fully expects that thing to come in and rip you all to shreds. But two minutes pass and...nothing.

Jonathan went first to check if that thing was gone. Then Nancy. Then you.

And Steve?

Steve finally decided to see sense and he ran.

His hands shook as he pulled out his car keys from his jean pocket. They fell to the floor. Steve scrambled to pick them back up and when he managed to finally open the door to his beamer, he looked back at the house for a split second.

He sees the lights flickering through the windows. The colours dance across his face as he freezes. And—he couldn't leave. Not when he heard someone screaming from inside.

He didn't think. He just moved.

And thank god that he did.

Because what he sees when he opens the front door would haunt him for weeks after.

Jonathan on the floor—seemingly close to losing consciousness. Nancy struggling to reload the revolver. And you? You were beneath the monster, screaming in pain. Your jeans were soaked in your own blood, a clear gaping wound on your thigh from that thing's deep claw marks. Your axe just out of reach from your fingertips.

Steve doesn't even remember picking up the nail bat. He just remember thinking—she's can't die. You can't die.

The sound of nails smacking against the fleshy monster's skin is sickening. But he don't hesitate. He didn’t know what that thing was. He had no idea what was going on—why his girlfriend, Jonathan Byers and you were involved with monsters. But he knew he didn’t want you to die. Couldn’t let you die. It takes all his strength to yank the bat back for another hit. He twirls the bat like he was playing some fucked up game of baseball before he's smacking the creature again. And again. And again. And again. Until it staggers back into the beartrap and Nancy and Jonathan lit that son-of-a-bitch on fire.

But Steve doesn't stick around to watch it burn.

Because you were bleeding out and he didn't know how long you had.

“Hey, hey, don’t move too much, okay?” Steve says gently as he kneels down beside you. Your blood already staining his jeans. He barks at Jonathan to get a towel while you cry out in pain. He presses his hand down on your wound to stem the bleeding. “You’re going to be okay, (y/n). You’re going to be fine. Just focus on me, yeah? Don’t close your eyes. Just keep looking at me.”

The colours from the Christmas lights above you blur into one and it takes everything to focus on Steve's face. But you do.

And you focus on him as Nancy hurries to grab Jonathan's car keys. As both Steve and your brother help you into a car that you vaguely recognise to be Jonathan’s. They lay you in the backseat, your head resting against Steve's lap as he tries to keep you awake.

You don't remember the drive to the hospital. All you remember is how scared you were. How weak you felt. How Steve's hand in yours (which you don't remember grabbing) had felt so warm. You remembering asking him if you were going to die. Remember telling him quietly you didn't want to die. That you didn’t know if Will was okay yet.

You certainly don't remember arriving at the hospital. Don't remember Steve carrying you while Jonathan and Nancy tried to find someone to help. Don't remember the look Jonathan's face as you were laid on a stretcher. Don't remember how worried Nancy had looked.

But you do remember how—for a split second—Steve Harrington had refused to let go of you.

October, 1984.

History was the only class Steve had with you.

You sat in front of him, taking more notes than he thought was necessary. Always paying attention. Being smart and all that.

To everyone else, they would think you and Steve had never interacted because well, you didn’t. You smiled at him politely sometimes but other than that? You didn’t acknowledge each other’s existence.

That didn't mean you didn't think about what had happened last year. In fact, you thought about it all the time. Because the night you had nearly died? Well, it was hard not to think about.

If Steve was honest, the night affected him too. A lot, actually. You asking him tearfully if you were going you. You then crying and saying you didn't want to die. Fucking hell. He thought about it nearly every day.

Maybe that's what you hadn't talked in nearly a year.

He knew you felt embarrassed that he had witnessed you falling apart like that. But, if he was honest, it was mostly his fault for not trying anyway. He had saved your life, you would quite literally be dead without him and he hadn’t bothered to even attempt to be your friend. He felt like an asshole. He knew he was. Hell, Nancy had made that pretty clear when she dumped him just before Spring Break. Steve just didn’t know how to be a good friend. He was so used to people just wanting to be friends with him, he didn’t know how to be there for people. Not in a way that mattered anyway.

Steve was just wondering how much longer that this class would be when the light above you began to flicker.

He sees you freeze. Hears the hitch of your breath. He sees you grip your pen a little tighter.

Steve's on edge immediately—who could blame him? But as he looks around the classroom, he observes that the only light flickering was the one situated directly above you. If it was a demorogon, all the lights would be flickering. He breathes a little easier. Just a faulty light. That was all.

But you? You’re still frozen. Still clearly terrified.

And then—

“Ms. Norway?” You ask in a small, timid voice, your hand shooting up nervously, “can I—can I go to the bathroom?”

Ms. Norway doesn’t question it. You were such a model student that Steve wasn’t surprised. She’d probably let you kick up your feet and light up a cigarette if you wanted to. She just smiles—Ms. Norway hardly ever smiled—and lets you go before droning on about…well, Steve wasn’t sure. He barely listened in this class.

You leave quickly. Steve barely has time to think of a way to check you were okay.

And Steve? Well, he lets you go. Hating himself for it. You don't come back for the remaining half an hour.

But Steve thinks about it all day. Looks for you in the hallways.

He gets smacked in the face by a few basketballs during practice because he's too busy remembering the way you froze. Like you were back there.

He finds himself actively looking for you.

Because he can still see it—you bleeding out, the lights flickering in the Byers' home and you telling him you didn’t want to die—

The guilt's back as he heads to his car—his eyes darting around the car park for a glimpse of you.

But it was like you had disappeared after history. And that? It makes him feel even worse.

He doesn't see you again until your next History lesson.

The light is still faulty. Still flickering and so you pick another seat. It doesn't make a difference. Your leg bounces nervously. You stare determinedly at anywhere but the damn light—

"Hey."

Steve's voice makes you jump. Genuinely. You look up, eyes wide and confused.

"It's just me, Byers'" Steve says with an overconfident smile as he takes the seat beside you without asking. He's trying to act like he hadn't been avoiding you for a year. Trying to ignore the guilt and shame he felt.

You look at Steve, your heart hammering in your chest as he leans back in his chair casually.

"What are you—"

But before you could finish your sentence and ask Steve what he was doing, why he was sitting next to you—Ms. Norway begins the class. And you being you? Well, you shut your mouth instantly.

It takes all of your energy to concentrate on the class. Your focus keeps dipping between Steve and that damn flickering light that you could still see out of the corner of your eye.

It was making you restless. Your leg continued to bounce. You were tapping your pen against the tabletop. You weren't even making notes like you usually would. Steve couldn't help but notice. It was impossible not to notice really.

But you couldn't help it. The image of the demogorgon was still fresh in your mind. You could almost feel its claws slashing through your flesh. Still smell the coppery scent of blood.

"You alright?" Steve murmurs, leaning forward to rest his elbows against the desk, voice low.

You nod, even though it was clear that you weren't.

Steve, of course, doesn't buy it. But he remains quiet. Unsure of how to help but desperately wanting to do so.

"You can talk to me, you know?" Steve whispers, his arm gently nudging yours. The sudden touch makes you flinch and before you know what you're doing, you're pushing away from your desk and getting to your feet.

"I'm s-sorry," you blurt out, your hands as shaky as your voice as you grab your bag. You don't look at Ms. Norway—and you certainly don't look at Steve as you rush out of the classroom. Ms. Norway calls your name but the door's already slammed behind you.

"Those Byers' freaks are fucking weird," Tommy H mutters a few tables over.

And Steve? Well, he reacts on instinct.

His head whips around to glare at his former best friend with disdain and something like loathing in his eyes.

"Don't you fucking talk about her like that," Steve spits out.

“Harrington! Sit back down!”

Steve hadn't even realised that he had stood up. He was too busy scowling at Tommy to register him moving.

"The fuck you say to me?" Tommy snaps back, but Steve's already grabbing his own bag from beneath the table.

"Harrington! Don't you dare—"

The door slamming behind him echoes throughout the hallway, drowning out whatever Ms. Norway was about to say.

Steve didn't know what he was doing. Why he had just snapped at Tommy like that. Why he had stood up for you like that. Why he cared so fucking much.

He didn't know where he was going. Didn't know where you could have gone. All he knew was that he needed to check on you.

You couldn't stop shaking. Your hands—your entire body really—felt as though it didn't belong to you. Because though you tried, the tremors in your hands didn't stop. Your heart keep hammering on as though attempting to flee from its home your chest. Your breathing was erratic and out of control.

"Fuck," you exclaim, pacing the girls bathroom frantically as you tried to control your breathing. Tried to calm down. "Not now—fuck, please not now—"

"Byers?!"

You let out a noise of frustration that you couldn't stop. You were losing control—in the midst of a panic attack and Steve Harrington barging in was the very last thing that you needed.

But Steve was already walking into the girls' bathroom. Finding you leaning over the sink, breathing frantically.

"You, um, you good?" He asks, scratching the back of his neck uncomfortably because now he was here? In front of you—he was realising how little he had thought this through.

"Do I look good, Steve?!" You snap back at him. "Just—just go. Please."

You say it with such anger that Steve knows he should listen to you. Should walk out of the girls' bathroom and not look back. But seeing the way your hands shake—the same hands he had held while you were scared and bleeding out—Steve discovered that he couldn't leave you alone like this.

"No," he says stubbornly, taking a few steps closer to you and placing a gentle hand on your back. His touch makes you jump again but he doesn't pull away. Keeps it there. You find it grounds you. Just a little. "Just...breathe slowly, yeah?"

"I'm fucking trying," you mutter back harshly, your fingers gripping the edge of the sink basin so hard your knuckles turn white. Steve notices. Starts to rub your back a little.

"I know but—just keep trying, yeah?"

You bite back another snappy retort and nod. Your eyes closing in concentration as you focus entirely on your breathing. On Steve's hand rubbing your back gently. On what you could feel and hear in the moment—the coolness of the basin, the sound of water leaking from the faulty tap and Steve's hand on your back.

"You're doing great," Steve murmurs quietly.

Again, you just nod and you count down slowly in your head.

And eventually, your breathing evens out. Your hands stop trembling. Your heartbeat slows.

Only then do you open your eyes.

Steve is still looking you—in fact, unbeknownst to you, he hadn't taken his eyes off of you the entire time.

"You good?" He asks, those warm brown eyes full of concern.

You nod, not looking at him in embarrassment as you release your grip on the sink and rub your hands over your jean-clad thighs. Wincing when you realise you were subconsciously rubbing over where the damn monster had scarred you for life.

"That light was just faulty, you know?" Steve says quietly, watching you closely. Noticing your wince.

You knew that. Of course you knew logically that the light was faulty. That no demogorgons were coming to attack you in the middle of history class. But you couldn't help it. Your body couldn't differentiate between a flickering light and almost dying again.

"I know," you say quietly. "I just—I felt like...like I was still there."

"Hey. You're okay," Steve reassures you gently. Hand still on your back, rubbing up and down it soothingly. It made you think about your mom. How she used to rub your back to coax you to sleep when you were younger. "You're okay."

You want to tell him that you’re not okay. That you haven’t felt okay in nearly a year. That you couldn’t stand to look at the scar on your thigh. That you couldn’t sleep without a nightlight. That the feeling of dread had settled in your chest and refused to leave. But all you can do is nod and try to breathe.

“I just—I get…I get this feeling that—that something awful is going to—to happen again,” you say quietly, not entirely sure why you were telling Steve this. "And the light—"

"Hey," Steve hushes you gently. So gently. Just like he had been with you in the hospital. "I get it. I get scared too."

Your eyes meet his—your breath catches and you feel your eyes sting, just a little.

"Really?" It's barely a whisper but Steve hears it—hears you.

"Yeah," he breathes, "I get nightmares a lot."

The way he says it makes you feel as though he hadn't told anyone that before. The way he looks away from you as though embarrassed. How for a moment, his hand stills on your back.

"I can't sleep without a nightlight," you admit to him.

Steve looks at you for a long moment, brown eyes soft and studying you carefully. You wonder if he was about to laugh at you. If he was going to think you were ridiculous and childish. But somehow, you knew he wouldn't.

"Look d'you want to...to ditch school and grab some food?" Steve asks, finally removing his hand from your back to watch your expression carefully. You find you miss his touch. You decide not to dwell on that.

"Ditch school?" You repeat, eyes widening a little. "Steve—I've never done that. Not since Will—my mom would freak out—"

"C'mon Byers," Steve encourages, nudging you with his arm. "You're in no state to continue with school today. Plus, you can totally blame it on me."

You look at Steve, unsure. You know you shouldn't—your mom would be worried sick. It would affect your near perfect attendance record. You didn't want to get into trouble.

But..

The panic attack had thrown you off. You felt like a livewire, buzzing with something in your veins you wanted to leave. You knew you couldn't continue with the rest of the school day like nothing had happened.

"I dunno, Steve," you reply thickly, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. "We're not—we're not even that close..."

Steve falters then—just for a second. Because he hated that you were right. That he hadn't pushed through the uncomfortableness that he felt. That he hadn't bothered to try.

"I know," Steve says finally, his jaw tense and eyes full of regret. "And that—that's on me. Totally a Harrington fuck up there."

You let out a breath of laughter, unable to stop yourself. And that makes Steve smile. He nudges you again.

"See—made you laugh. Imagine what I can do over a burger and a shake," He teases, smiling at you—feeling a little smug that he had finally made you smile.

"Fine," you say after a few moments. "But I will blame you if we get caught."

Steve nearly pumps the air in victory. He's smiling wide and grabbing your bag from the floor.

"I'll take that," he says, grabbing your hand and tugging towards the door.

Burger Quest was surprisingly quiet. Granted, it was barely eleven in the morning and it was a Wednesday. You were so used to it being packed with people when you and Jonathan would take Will and his friends that it was a little strange to see a grand total of ten customers in the restaurant.

"You been here before?" Steve asks you, peering over the top of his menu to watch you.

"Yeah. Come here with Will sometimes."

Steve nods, eyes flickering back down to his menu for a brief second before he's looking back at you.

"How is Will?"

You look up at Steve then because—well, it wasn't an easy question to answer.

"He's not the same," you say finally. "He's Will but he's...yeah...not the same."

It's quiet then. Steve orders a double cheeseburger, you order a plain burger. Steve further insists on splitting fries and a shake. You succumb pretty quickly as Steve offers to pay. But after that? You aren't quite sure what to say. You fiddle with your necklace and watch a nearby toddler mashing up a couple of fries in her hands. You watch her as she squeals in joy, shoving the fried potatoey goodness into her mouth with a bright smile. Something in your gut twists at the sight—the reminder of the childhood innocence you had lost throughout the years.

"Do you have anyone to talk to about it?" Steve asks you, pulling you away from your thoughts about your dad, about Will, about the damn demogorgon that nearly ripped you to shreds.

"Hm? About what?" You query, tapping your fingers nervously. Steve notices. He doesn't comment.

"About what you went through," Steve explains. "I mean—you nearly died. Surely you talk to Joyce—I mean, your mom about it."

You falter. Chew the inside of your mouth and shake your head.

"No," you admit. "She—she's got enough on her plate with what happened to Will."

Steve looks at you—a look of slight disbelief on his face.

"What about Jonathan?" Steve tries to look neutral at the mention of your brother—but Jonathan was dating his ex, Steve couldn't help the slight face he pulled. It would have made you laugh had you been having another conversation. But you remained stoic and aloof, tapping away on the table still.

"No—Jonathan...he...he's busy."

"With Nancy?"

"He's happy," you say finally. "And I don't want him to worry—"

"(y/n)," Steve interjects, leaning a little over the table to look at you carefully—you chose to ignore how that makes you feel. "You went through something traumatic. Like—really traumatic."

You shift, leaning back on your side of the booth and hugging yourself a little as a means of comfort and protection. It was subconscious. You had done it ever since you overheard that first fight between your parents.

"I know," you murmur, though you're not looking at Steve as you say it.

"You need to talk to someone about this," Steve insists. "You can't—can't be having panic attacks and keeping it to yourself. Your family should know—"

"—Steve, with all due respect, you haven't spoken to me in like nearly a year," you say, a little more harshly than intended but he was pushing you a little more than you wished to be pushed right now. "So, you can't really tell me what I can nor can't do when it comes to this."

Steve looks for a second as though he was going to argue—but you were saved from more of his opinion by the arrival of your food.

You eat in almost silence—the only noise coming from the other customers and the radio that which played The Cure on repeat.

It was as you both reached for a fry at the same time that Steve spoke again.

"Listen, I'm not trying to tell you what to do," Steve tells you, pulling his hand away briefly so you could take a fry first. "I just—I don't want you to be struggling alone."

You take your time chewing on your fry, unsure of how to respond to him. You weren't sure why, but you felt like you could be honest with him. Which was something that you felt as though you could no longer be with your mom or your brothers.

"I just—I don't really have anyone else," you say finally. "I can't tell my friends because of the fact that legally, I can't. I can't tell my mom because she's too busy focusing on Will. I can't talk Jonathan because he—he's finally happy and Nancy would tell Jonathan if I went to her and Will—well, he's too young."

Steve listens to you—really listens. Hangs on every word and nods in understanding, those warm eyes watching you carefully.

"And—I guess, it's just difficult to talk about too," you continue, picking up another fry just to have something in your hands. "I mean—I could—I could have—"

You don't finish the sentence but Steve gets it. He understands without you needing to explain anymore.

"You forgot one person."

"Who?"

"Me."

You almost laugh—almost, until you realise Steve was being sincere. That he was looking at you with an unreadable expression on his face. One that weren't quite sure what to do with.

"I don't want to burden you after saving my life," you tell him.

Steve shakes his head. "Jesus (y/n)," he mutters, taking you by surprise as he reaches over and takes your hand. "You are not a burden. Not at all. You—you almost died and if—if you need someone to talk to about it, whatever it is—talk to me."

You continue to fidget with the fry in your hand, but your eyes do stay locked onto him. He means it. You can see it on his face that he does.

"Fine," you say finally—knowing that you likely would never take him up on his offer. That you were so determined to ignore that night, despite the fact you were reminded every time you came home—when you saw the dark stain in the carpet that your mom could not get out. Reminded every time you looked down at your bare thighs and saw the tender, scarred flesh from the demogorgon's claws. Reminded every time you saw a faulty light.

You could manage. You told yourself. You'd be fine.

You didn't reach out to Steve after that lunchtime at Burger Quest. In fact, you were beginning to tactically avoid him. For three whole days you were successful—somehow. Steve was surprisingly easy to hide from. He had such an aura about him that you could almost always tell when he was around the corner.

But then Friday came and you learnt that Steve Harrington did not enjoy being ignored.

"You're ignoring me."

"Fucking—"

You nearly turned and whacked Steve with your heaviest textbook but his hand is quick to grab your wrist before you could do so.

"Okay—maybe I shouldn't have snuck up to you at your locker like this," Steve relents as he lets go of your wrist with a wry smile.

"You think?" You huff, face flushed as you were finally caught.

"I would apologise but I have it on good authority that you have been in fact, avoiding me," Steve states, leaning by the wall against your locker, arms folded and watching you. Not caring that people were whispering—wondering what King Steve was doing talking to the Byers girl.

"Good authority?" You repeat before you slam your locker shut, brow raised at him.

"Yeah—my intuition."

"Steve—"

"No, I know what you're going to say," Steve interjects, stepping closer to you, his eyes not leaving yours. "I know you think that I didn't mean it. That I don't actually want to be there for you—but please believe me when I say that I—I want to try."

"Why?" You ask him quietly, your eyes lifting to meet his. "Why do you insist on trying to help—"

"Because I'm trying not to be an asshole anymore," Steve interrupts—his voice tight as though he was frustrated by trying to keep cool. It made you stop, made you forget whatever excuse you were about to concoct.

"You're not...that much of an asshole," you tell him finally, just above a whisper. "You just...have asshole tendencies."

"Asshole tendencies," Steve repeats with a small laugh and a shake of his head. "That's one way to put it."

It's quiet between you two again. Your eyes glance around the hallway—at the people openly whispering about the pair of you. It sets your teeth on edge. Steve pays no mind to it. He continues to look at you.

"Just—think about it, yeah?" Steve finishes off lamely, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly as he interprets your silence as a dismissal.

You don't say anything—you just nod as Steve looks at you for a final time before walking away.

You feel a little empty but you're not entirely sure why.

The next panic attack you have comes in the middle of the night. It was stupid, really. Your nightlight had broken. The one you couldn't sleep without. No matter how many times that you unplugged and plugged it back in—it wouldn't turn back on.

Jonathan was asleep in the next room—Nancy likely with him. Your mom and her new boyfriend Bob were also asleep and Will—well, he was your younger brother, this wasn't something you could bother him with.

And so, you take a few shuddering breaths—hands shaking and heart racing as you willed the feeling of dread that had settled in your chest to go away. But try as you might, it doesn't lessen. It expands and feels so overwhelming that for a few moments, you worry it may never go away. That you were doomed to shaking hands and unsteady breathing forevermore.

And so, you do something you had never thought you would.

You tiptoe out of your room, careful to avoid looking at the stain of your blood still etched into the carpet as you head into the kitchen. You're still breathing uneasy, hands still shake as you search for your mom's phonebook.

You find the small book tucked away in the back drawer, you grab it and head over to the phone. Hands still shaking as you dial the number.

"This is stupid," you murmur tearfully, wiping your eyes as you hold the phone up to your ear. It was late—too late. You were second guessing yourself already. You should hang up—

"Hmph, Harrington Residence," the sleepy yet unmistakeable voice of Steve Harrington greets you and you let out a small sob of relief.

"H-hey Steve," you manage to stutter out, sniffling down the line as you cling to the phone as though it was your only lifeline. "It's me—it's (y/n)."

There's silence—well, as silent as it could be with you crying down the phone before Steve finally speaks.

"You want me to come over?" He asks simply.

You nod—before realising that Steve could not see you.

"Ye-yeah," is all you say.

Steve arrives quietly less than five minutes later. You wait out on the front porch, unable to stop your legs from shaking and your tears from falling. You feel as though you can't breathe. And when Steve's beamer pulls up—you still haven't calmed. You were only wearing your flimsy pyjamas but you weren't thinking about the cold. You were thinking about the blood—the lights—the claws of the demorogon ripping apart your flesh—

"Hey, hey," Steve's hands cup your face gently—so gently that he held you as though you were something precious. "Focus on me, yeah? Focus on me—"

"My n-nightlight b-broke," you tell him through gasping breaths. "It's s-so dark, Steve. it's t-too dark—"

"Okay. Okay," he hushes you gently, thumb rubbing over the apple of your cheek to wipe away some of the tears that had fallen. "Want me to look at it?"

You sniffle and nod, feeling utterly pathetic as you allow Steve to take your hand. To help you to stand up.

You allow him to lead you inside. Let him lead you into your bedroom quietly so to not wake up your family. The darkness is making your skin crawl and it takes everything in you not to start blubbering again. But Steve is there in an instant, switching on your main light, his hand on your back.

"Still here," he murmurs gently before he pulling away from you in order to grab the nightlight from your bedside table.

You nod, taking a few shuddering breaths as you sit down on your bed. Your hands still shake, you still feel that immense heaviness in your chest. The heaviness that refused to leave.

Steve watches you for a moment before he looks down at the nightlight. Admittedly, he didn't know why he had offered to have a look at it. He wasn't exactly an expert on broken lights. He had just wanted to help you in any way he could.

Five minutes pass by and Steve swears that he had made the situation with your nightlight worse. Now it was making a noise. He yanked out of the plug from the wall and looked at you apologetically.

"So—I may owe you a new nightlight," he says sheepishly.

You let a noise—somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

Steve's beside you in an instant—tentatively wrapping his arm around your shoulders. He doesn't say anything and you're grateful for that. He just holds you. Rubs his thumb gently along your shoulder every now and then.

"M'sorry," you murmur finally a few minutes later—when you had eventually calmed enough to talk. "S'just a stupid nightlight."

"Hey, it's not to you. The light means safety to you. It is important."

Your breath catches because fuck, Steve understood. He didn't think you were childish, silly or stupid. He just got it.

"I'm sorry I couldn't fix it," he whispers, thumb still moving over the small slither of exposed skin on your shoulder.

"It's okay. You tried."

It's quiet then. Aside from your sniffling and ragged breathing.

"I'm sorry I called," you say quietly. "I shouldn't have—"

"No, I'm glad you did."

More quiet follows. But it's not awkward, not at all. It makes that heaviness in your chest lift slightly.

"You—you said you have nightmares," you begin carefully, eyes lifting up to meet his.

Steve looks back at you—jaw tensing for a brief moment before he nods. "Yeah—I did say that."

"Wh-what are your nightmares about?" You ask him. You realise it was an invasion, perhaps a rude question to ask. But you wanted to try. To see if he was as willing to open up as you were.

There's a moment where Steve says nothing. Where just looks back at you blankly. You worry he was about to shut you down—tell you that you were impertinent for even asking.

But to your surprise, Steve doesn't do that. Instead, he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze before he speaks.

"It's always the same. That night. I keep dreaming about it but—instead of saving you—you're already gone."

The admission takes you by surprise and for a moment, you say nothing—just look at him in shock.

And Steve? Well, his eyes are flickering down to your bare thighs—exposed by your pyjama shorts. You already know what he's looking at. Your scar. You quickly try to cover it but—

His fingers are already brushing along the tender flesh and it makes your breath hitch audibly. He looks up at you, his brown eyes warm and gentle, as his thumb scores along the raised skin.

"I just—I see it," Steve breathes out, his touch like fire against your skin. "Nearly every damn night. You bleeding out. Not being able to stop the demorogon from killing you. It—fuck (y/n), I—the sight fucking haunts me and—I know I didn't get hurt but I know how you feel. I really do. And that's why I know that you need someone—someone like me who lived it to lean on. Just a little. Let me be your anchor when you need to float."

You look back at him, swallowing down the intense emotions that you were feeling. You were scared. Of course you were—of relying on someone. Of needing someone.

"I need to float right now," you murmur back with a small smile that Steve returns.

"Okay," he nods, glancing around your room quickly as he removes his hand from your thigh. You find that you miss the feeling. "I think your nightlight is fucked—sorry. So um, I can get you a new one tomorrow and—I can stay here with you tonight—to help you sleep."

Your lips part in surprise—ready to shoot him down but Steve is quicker.

"I'll sleep on the floor," he adds. "I swear—no funny business. Just a friend making sure a friend gets to sleep."

"Friend?" You echo, the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Yeah," Steve smiles. "A friend."

You should say no. Should tell him that if your mom, Jonathan or Will caught Steve in your room in the morning—it would raise questions. Your mom would likely give you the birds and the bees talk again. Jonathan would question if you had been replaced by a clone. But you could no longer deny it—you needed him. Needed him just as much you needed him that night you nearly died.

"Extra pillows and blanket are in my closet," you tell him finally.

It's a ridiculous sight, really. Steve the hair Harrington pulling out pillows and blankets from your closet as you tuck yourself into your bed. He glances over at you before switching off the light. You tense but barely five seconds later, you hear Steve settle down on the floor beside your bed. And then—you feel his hand search for yours in the darkness.

You let him take it. Let him lace his fingers through yours. Let him squeeze your hand gently—a grounding gesture that made you feel warmer than any fire could.

"Thank you Steve," you tell him through the darkness. "For saving my life."

"Anytime," Steve whispers back. "Just don't make a habit out of dying on me."

You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back.

"I'll try my best."

"You better. Because you're stuck with me now, Byers."

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

ACT ONE

001. Seven's a Crowd when a new agent unexpectedly appears in the bullpen, spencer 'hates change' reid grows suspicious. can this mysterious woman be trusted, especially after he catches her in a lie on her first day?

002. Lucretius: Chaos and Order five months into the new agent's stay at the bau, she earns herself a nickname — one that spencer believes to be wholly undeserved. as tensions continue to grow, so does spencer's suspicion.

003. The FBI Code of Conduct after an incident on the jet almost leads to a physical altercation. both spencer and angel are subjected to lectures regarding their recent conduct. spencer tries to repair a bridge that was never built, and angel receives a call from her past.

004. Rackensack the bau are called out to the remote town of st paul, arkansas to investigate a series of murders that leave windpipes crushed and fingers broken. when residents don't want to point fingers, can the team solve the case before the unsub finds their next victim? to make things worse, angel and reid have to share a motel room.

005. Smoking Kills angel decides that the only way to get this case moving is to face their number one suspect one-on one. she quickly learns that such recklessness comes with a price.

006. Power the team drag angel out on one of their notorious end-of-week evenings at the bar. with tensions at an all time high, can spencer keep himself in check after one too many whiskeys? (NSFW)

007. Family Matters a case in alexandria hits a little too close to home for angel. despite their sour relationship, she is willing to risk her life, and her job, for spencer when a home visit go south.

008. City of Angels the bau are summoned to los angeles to tackle another series of murders. maybe it's just the humidity, but things are beginning to heat up between spencer and his 'angel'. (NSFW)

009. Dreams, Nightmares a nightmare. a pain-in-the-ass case. an interrogation that ends with a flipped table. these long days in la seem to have softened the hard shells of two problem agents.

010. Emergency Stop a conduct review with strauss turns into an argument that should end her career, but angel returns to her desk without as much as a written warning. spencer finally snaps as she pushes him to his limit. (NSFW)

011. Control after the incident in the elevator, after getting spencer to admit that no, he doesn't hate her, angel decides it's about time she rewarded him. after all, it would be a shame to leave him in such a state of desperation again. (NSFW)

012. The 206 a glimpse behind the curtain reveals a side of angel that spencer had not known existed. but whatever flame was kindled that night is extinguished when angel must follow the team to the worst place on earth: home.

013. Respect when a case leaves her with nothing but a haunted heart and a terrible, bone-deep exhaustion, spencer offers angel a shoulder to lean on. she expresses her gratitude by humiliating him in front of the team, and pisses him off for the 'last' time.

014. Unforeseen Circumstances an unexpected phone call may ruin spencer's sunday plans, but it also provides him with the opportunity to go on a date with his 'enemy' whom he has definitely not caught feelings for. too preoccupied with his newfound optimism, he fails to notice the unease that trickles in through the cracks of this spur-of-the-moment meeting.

015. Work the Case, part one when it's revealed that angel is now missing, aaron hotchner has a choice to make. does he bring in the team and expose angel's criminal past, ruining their perception of her? or does he handle this alone and hope for the best? meanwhile, angel has a much needed catch-up with a certain ex-boyfriend.

016. Work the Case, part two the bau are forced to reconcile with their coworker's criminal past. tensions rise as they realise the extent of her lies and begin questioning their faith in hotch. meanwhile, angel receives a call that completely derails her escape plan.

and more to come...

Status report: unfinished, more chapters coming soon!

–

The promise comes right after the younger ones graduate, when everyone is tired in a good way.

They’re on the rooftop, legs tangled with lawn chairs and lukewarm beer, the air warm with laughter that doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

Robin is the one with the idea. “We should do this more,” she says. “Like—actually do this. Once a month, in person, we can meet in a neutral area.”

Nancy smiles immediately, Jonathan nods sincerely, and Steve feels the agreement land in his chest before he realizes he’s already said yes.

The first month, everyone shows up.

They order pizza and sit on the floor because the couch isn’t big enough. They talk about work and movies and stupid things they’ve seen on the news. Steve drives home that night with the radio too loud, tapping the steering wheel, feeling lighter than he has in months.

The second month, Jonathan can’t make it. A work thing. He sounds genuinely apologetic on the phone.

The third month, Nancy is sick.

After that, it blurs. Robin phones late once. Jonathan again. Nancy again. Steve still goes, shows for every meet up but is left alone ordering a beer and snacks.

Eventually, he stops going. Not because he’s angry, but because it hurts more to be the only one to show up than not show up at all.

Dustin never disappears in the same way

He’s in college, splitting his time between campus and visits home, somehow busier than ever and still calling Steve more than anyone else does. Steve tries once—awkwardly—to give him an out, says something vague about being busy, about growing up.

“Nice try,” Dustin says immediately, like Steve has tried this argument before.

“You’re busy now,” Steve says, half-hearted. “College, new people—”

Dustin scoffs. “Valiant effort, but you’re not getting rid of me.”

Steve smiles despite himself.

“You die, I die, remember,” Dustin adds, softer but no less certain. “We had a suicide pact. Funny you think you can shake me that easily.”

It sits with Steve longer than he expects.

–

The first time Steve meets you, it’s by accident.

He ducks into a coffee shop he doesn’t like because he’s late and it’s closer than the one he usually goes to. You’re standing exactly where he needs to order, hunched over a notebook, chewing on the end of a pen like you’re thinking through something stubborn. When he clears his throat, you startle and laugh, apologizing like it’s your fault.

He thinks about your laugh all the way to work, until the chatter of students gives him a distraction.

The second time he meets you, it’s chance.

Steve is juggling envelopes he’s been meaning to mail for weeks, trying to shove one back into his jacket pocket when the door swings open too fast and collides with his shoulder. Papers slip. Someone mutters a curse at the exact same time he does.

“Sorry—”

You stop short when you see him. You just look at him, like you’ve caught the punchline of a joke that’s been unfolding without either of you realizing it.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” you say.

Steve blinks. Then he laughs, startled by how easily it comes. He opens his mouth to respond, something easy and flippant already forming, but you’re already stepping back, tugging the door open again.

The door shuts behind you. Steve stands there for a second longer than necessary, envelopes forgotten in his hand, replaying the sound of your voice like it might explain why his chest feels lighter than it did a moment ago.

The third time felt like coincidence.

A mutual acquaintance insists on squeezing everyone around a too-small table, introductions tumbling over one another in a rush. Steve is halfway distracted, nodding along, when you look at him and laugh.

“Hey,” you say, “coffee shop guy.”

“Post office,” he corrects automatically, then winces. “And the coffee shop. But you can call me Steve.”

“Nice to finally know your name,” you say. “I was starting to think we were just going to keep apologizing at each other forever.”

Steve realizes, much later, driving home with the radio off, that he’s laughed more in that hour than he has in days.

By the fourth time, it was something else.

He goes to the coffee shop where he first saw you, even though the coffee tastes like dirt. He orders it anyway, standing off to the side with the cup warming his hands, trying not to look at the door. He tells himself he’s not looking for you. That he just happens to be in the area. That convenience is a good enough excuse.

When you walk his shoulders sag in relief.

You spot him immediately. Your smile slows like you’re surprised to see him—but you’re glad he’s there.

“Okay,” you say, stopping in front of him. “Now I’m starting to think this is on purpose.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, glancing down at the cup in his hand like it might back him up. “I mean, I wouldn’t call it on purpose.” He shrugs, a little sheepish. “I keep telling myself I’m just passing by.”

“And the coffee?” you ask, nodding at his cup.

He grimaces. “Still bad.”

You smile. “So what’s the excuse today?”

He thinks about it for half a second, then gives up on pretending. “Guess I was hoping for better company.”

Your smile grows, softening into something warmer.

“Well,” you say, gesturing toward the empty chair at his table, “if you’re already here…”

This time, you sit together and when the conversation lulls, neither of you rush to leave.

And later—later enough that the details blur together—Steve thinks back to this afternoon and understands it as the moment something tilted.

Not because anything dramatic happened. Not because either of you said something that sounded like a decision. Just because he stopped treating your meetings like accidents and started making room for them on purpose.

Coffee turns into walking the long way instead of the fast one. Conversations stretch past what either of you had planned. He starts learning your schedule without meaning to, starts recognizing the way you take your coffee, the things you complain about and the things you never do.

It’s during one of those long conversations that you talk about Hawkins plainly.

You tell him you’re only there temporarily—work, a project, something with an end date attached. You don’t dress it up or soften it. You just say it, like it’s a fact that doesn’t need reassurance.

Steve likes that about you, your honesty. The way you don’t try to pretend the town is more than it is.

Neither of you names what’s happening, there’s no conversation where lines are drawn or expectations laid out - just a gradual understanding, built out of small choices.

You start staying later, leaving jackets behind, sitting closer without acknowledging it.

The first time you fall asleep on his couch, it’s accidental.

A movie neither of you is really watching. The late hour sneaking up on you. Steve wakes sometime after midnight with his neck stiff and your head tipped toward his shoulder, breathing slow and even.

He doesn’t move.

In the morning, he makes coffee while you brush your teeth with his spare toothbrush, both of you acting like this is normal—like it’s been happening longer than it has.

After that, it happens again.

And again.

You stay over without asking. Grocery shop together because it’s easier than going separately. You fall asleep in his bed now, instead of the couch.

Steve doesn’t realize how much space he’s been holding open in his life until you start to occupy it.

When he finally notices, it doesn’t feel like something has changed.

It just feels easy.

–

Sleep thins without him noticing.

One moment there’s nothing but the low, indistinct quiet of rest, and the next there’s weight in his chest — pressure building where it shouldn’t be. Sound creeps in first, the way it always does. Metal scraping against metal, too close, too loud, vibrating through him like it’s happening just behind his eyes. His hands are suddenly slick, fingers fumbling for purchase on something that won’t stay still.

The space around him narrows, the air turns sharp. Heavy. His chest locks up, breath stuttering as the sense of urgency spikes without direction. Someone is shouting. Maybe his name. Maybe it’s his own voice tearing out of him.

He wakes with a gasp, heart racing, lungs burning like he’s been underwater too long.

For a few disorienting seconds, he can’t tell where he is. The room is dark and unfamiliar, his body still braced for impact, adrenaline buzzing hot through his veins.

This part is familiar.

Nightmares aren’t new to him. His body knows this terrain — knows how to surface from it, how to stay half-awake and half-gone until the worst of it passes. Most nights, he rides it out alone: staring at the ceiling, counting his breathing and waiting for morning.

But this time it’s different.

There’s warmth beside him. A shift in the mattress, hand already reaching for him before he can steady himself.

“Steve.”

The sound of his name pulls him back faster than usual, grounding him in a way he isn’t used to.

You’re there before he can pull himself together.

He doesn’t remember reaching for you, only that suddenly your arms are around him, firm and warm, anchoring him to the bed, to the room, to the present. The contrast is jarring in the best way—your body solid against his, your breathing slow and real where his is still ragged and uneven.

You don’t ask what he saw, you don’t ask him to explain, you just hold him.

“You’re safe,” you say, close to his ear. Your voice is steady, like you’ve said this before, like you know it’s true. “I’ve got you.”

Something inside him gives way at that. It isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s the quiet kind of breaking, the kind that happens when something has been held together by sheer force for too long and finally realizes it doesn’t have to anymore. His breath stutters, shoulders shaking as the tension drains out of him in uneven waves. He presses his face into your shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like it’s proof that this is real, that he’s here.

You don’t move, don’t rush him, don’t shush him or try to fix anything. You just stay, one hand firm at his back, the other threading gently through his hair, grounding him until the racing in his chest slows and the room comes back into focus around them.

It takes a while.

Long enough that the adrenaline fades into exhaustion, and the sharp edges of the dream dull, leaving only the ache behind. When his breathing finally evens out, when the shaking subsides into something manageable, you’re still there, exactly where he left you.

Later—long after sleep starts to seep back into the room and the dark has softened into something quieter—you brush your thumb over his knuckles. The touch is small, deliberate, like you’re checking in without asking him to speak.

“You don’t have to tell me,” you say gently. “But you should talk to someone.”

The words don’t feel like pressure or an ultimatum. Instead they land softly, like an open door.

Still, his first instinct is to pull back.

He tells himself he’s fine, that this isn’t new. He’s had worse nights than this and survived them just fine on his own. He tells himself he’s healing—that the nightmares come less often now, that he knows how to ride them out. He tells himself he doesn’t want to drag you into parts of his life you didn’t sign up for, things that are sharp and heavy and shouldn’t be yours to carry.

But the past doesn’t leave him.

It lingers in the days that follow, in the way his shoulders tense without warning, in how his breath catches when something metal scrapes unexpectedly. It shows up in small ways—in how tired he feels, like he’s been bracing for something that never quite arrives.

He realizes, slowly, that he’s been mistaking endurance for healing.

That surviving something doesn’t mean his body knows it’s over, pushing forward isn’t the same as moving on. He’s learned how to function, how to keep going—but not how to rest.

The idea of therapy makes his stomach twist.

Talking about it means naming it. Letting someone see how much of him is still shaped by things that shouldn’t have happened to anyone. It means admitting that what he went through wasn’t normal—and that maybe it left marks he can’t just will away.

But he’s tired.

Tired of waking up already clenched. Tired of carrying it alone. Tired of pretending that if he just keeps his head down, it’ll eventually disappear on its own.

So he goes.

Not because he’s ready.

Not because it feels easy.

But because, for the first time, he doesn’t want to keep living like this forever.

–

Therapy doesn’t fix him. It doesn’t erase anything or make the memories stop arriving when they want to. What it does is quieter than that. Stranger.

It makes him notice.

The first few sessions are mostly silence. Steve sits with his hands folded together, shoulders tight, answering questions carefully, like there are right and wrong ways to talk about things. He keeps his eyes on the clock more than he means to.

“You don’t have to perform here,” his therapist tells him once, gently. “There’s nothing you need to get right.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that.

Steve doesn’t explain the specifics. He frames it the way Hawkins always has — a series of disasters, near misses, things no one wants to name. He talks about getting hurt, about protecting kids when he was just a teenager himself, about losing pieces of his childhood along the way. He talks about the way his body still acts like the danger isn’t over.

Some days, she doesn’t ask him to talk at all. She asks him to breathe.

“Put one hand on your chest,” she says. “One on your stomach. Just notice which one moves when you inhale.”

He feels ridiculous doing it at first. Still, he does it. He realizes his chest barely moves at all. Everything stays locked high and tight, like his body is bracing for impact.

“That’s not failure,” she says when he mentions it. “Just a habit.”

The word sticks with him.

Habit means learned. Habit means changeable.

Over time, therapy becomes less about surviving memories and more about paying attention to the present. He learns how to slow his breathing when his chest tightens for no obvious reason, how to sit with his back against the chair instead of perched on the edge, ready to bolt.

The changes are small, but they stack.

He begins to understand that his body has been surviving on instinct for years — and that instinct doesn’t disappear just because the danger does.

“What you went through wasn’t normal,” his therapist says one afternoon, not gently, but firmly.

Steve blinks.

“People don’t experience that and come out unchanged,” she continues. “Your body adapted because it had to. We’re not trying to erase that. We’re teaching it that the danger is over.”

That reframing lands harder than anything else has.

Not broken.

Adapted.

Some days he leaves therapy exhausted in a way that feels earned. Other days, he sleeps deeper than he has in years. He starts noticing when his body is reacting to something that isn’t actually happening anymore. Starts catching himself mid-spiral and slowing down instead of pushing through it.

One afternoon, as he squints at a worksheet she’s handed him, his therapist pauses.

“You do that a lot,” she says.

“Do what?”

“That.” She gestures vaguely at his face. “You strain when you’re concentrating. Do you get headaches?”

Steve thinks about the dull ache behind his eyes at the end of the school day. About how close he stands to the chalkboard without realizing it.

“Yeah,” he admits.

“It might be worth getting your eyes checked,” she says, like it’s an aside. “When you’ve spent years bracing, you don’t always notice the smaller things.”

The idea lingers.

A week later, he walks out of an optometrist’s office with a prescription and the strange sense that therapy has taught him how to notice — not just fear, not just memory, but his own body asking for care.

The glasses are just proof that he’s finally listening.

When he wears them around you for the first time, he keeps adjusting like they don’t belong. You reach up and straighten them gently.

“They suit you,” you say. “You look cute.”

The word settles somewhere soft.

–

You ask him a life changing question on an ordinary Tuesday night.

The TV hums in the background, something half-watched and already forgotten. Steve is on the floor with his back against the couch, glasses pushed up into his hair, sorting through a stack of mail he’s been ignoring. You’re curled into the corner of the couch above him, knees tucked under you, flipping pages of a book you don’t seem especially invested in.

You close your book.

“Can I ask you something?” you say.

Steve doesn’t look up from the pile of mail in his hands. He shrugs, casual, automatic.

“You just did.”

You smile at that, but you don’t let it derail you.

“What do you want to do?”

He pauses. Glances back at you over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” He hears the smile in your voice now. “What do you want to do?”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to line the question up with something familiar. “Like… tomorrow? Because tomorrow I’ve got practice after school, and—”

You laugh, quiet and gentle, and shake your head. “No. Not tomorrow.”

He sets the mail down slowly, turning his body a little so he can look at you properly.

“I mean,” you continue, “you’re always talking about things you might do someday. You say it like that every time. Someday.”

Steve frowns. “Okay…?”

“When is someday for you, Steve?”

The question lands differently now.

He opens his mouth, tries for something light, something practiced. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

You wait.

“I mean, I have a job here,” he adds. “I grew up here.”

You nod, understanding but unmoved. “Yeah. I know. And if you like that—if you like Hawkins and the life you have here—that’s good.”

He exhales, relieved for half a second.

“But that’s not what I asked,” you say gently. “Those are just… facts. Obligations. Things that happened to you.”

Steve’s brow creases. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Nothing at all. I just—” You hesitate, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t think you ever stopped to ask whether you chose it.”

He goes quiet.

“I guess,” he says slowly, “I thought this was it.”

You tilt your head. “It?”

“This life,” he says, gesturing vaguely around the room. “The job. Staying. I was handed it, and it made sense, so I went along with it. I didn’t realize I had a choice.” He lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “And now that I do… I don’t know what to do with it.”

You don’t rush to fill the silence.

“That’s okay,” you say after a moment. “Nobody has everything figured out. We change all the time. It’d be weird if you suddenly had all the answers.”

He considers that.

“I like working with kids,” he says finally. “I know that much… I don’t want to stop doing that.”

Your face softens. “That’s great. See? You’ve already narrowed it down.”

He huffs a breath, half a laugh. “Guess so.”

Then his expression shifts, something tightening behind his eyes.

“But I don’t want to stay in Hawkins,” he admits quietly. “This place doesn’t feel like mine anymore.”

You stay still, letting him say it.

“It’s like everything I did here mattered,” he continues. “And I don’t regret any of it. I really don’t.” His voice dips. “I just… I don’t think I want to stay inside it forever.”

He waits for it then.

The guilt.

The shame.

The familiar sense that wanting something else means he’s abandoning something important.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, there’s a quiet ache. And underneath it — relief.

“If you wanted something different,” you ask carefully, “would you let yourself try it?”

The question scares him more than the nightmare did.

“I don’t even know what that would look like,” he admits.

“That’s okay,” you say. “You don’t have to know yet. You just have to know you’re allowed to want it.”

Allowed.

The word settles heavy and strange in his chest.

Later — long after you’ve gone to bed — Steve stays on the floor where he is, mail forgotten beside him. The TV has gone dark, reflecting his own face back at him, quieter than he remembers it being.

For the first time, when he thinks about the future, it doesn’t immediately settle into a shape.

And instead of panicking, he lets it stay that way.

–

Nothing feels different right away.

Hawkins doesn’t react to the conversation you had, the town keeps moving like it always has.

What changes is smaller than that.

He starts noticing how often he thinks, later, and how vague the word suddenly feels. Steve feels it in the days that follow, in the way Hawkins starts to feel slightly misaligned around him. The same streets, the same routines — but now he notices how often he’s moving through them on autopilot. How little of it feels chosen.

You don’t bring it up again. Not directly.

You go about your days the same way you always have, still talking about your work, your timeline, the quiet inevitability of leaving. Steve listens differently now. Less he’s filing away information from someone else’s life, more like he’s standing at the edge of his own.

It comes up the night you’re cooking together, the kitchen warm and slightly too small, your shoulders brushing as you move around each other without thinking about it.

It’s peaceful in a way that still catches him off guard.

Therapy has made him more aware of moments like this. How his shoulders aren’t up around his ears, how his breathing is slow and even, how he isn’t scanning the room for exits. He notices these things now, the absence of tension registering almost as clearly as its presence used to.

“When I’m done here,” you say casually, stirring the pot, “I’ll head back to New York.”

Steve stills. “New York,” he repeats, like he’s trying it out.

You nod. “Yeah. There’s a new project that looks like something good, could be permanent if New York is interesting enough.”

He leans back against the counter, fingers curling around the edge of it. The question he’s been carrying settles into place, heavy and unavoidable now that it has somewhere to land.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

You glance at him, amusement in your eyes, “You just did.”

He almost laughs. Almost lets it go. Instead, he exhales and says it anyway.

“When you leave,” he says carefully, “can I… can I come with you?”

–

It’s late enough that the street outside has settled into something distant and low, the city noise more of a hum than presence. Boxes sit half-packed around the living room, flaps open like they’re waiting for him to decide what matters enough to keep.

He hasn’t called Dustin yet because saying it out loud feels like making it real.

When he finally does, he paces without realizing, stepping around stacks of books and folded clothes, the phone warm in his hand as it rings.

“Hey,” Dustin says, a little breathless, “What’s up?”

Steve exhales. “So… I’m moving.”

There’s a pause.

Not the kind that stretches uncomfortably, just the kind that feels like someone processing something big and good.

“Okay,” Dustin says slowly. “Where?

“New York.”

“New York?” Dustin repeats, delighted. “Oh my god, that’s huge. That’s—wow. Steve, that’s awesome.”

Steve laughs softly. “You think?”

“Yes,” Dustin says immediately. “I mean, yeah. It’s such a cool place, there’s stuff happening all the time. Live music, weird food, actual culture. You’re gonna love it.”

The encouragement hits harder than Steve expects.

“You’re not mad?” he asks.

“Mad?” Dustin scoffs. “Dude, you’re allowed to move.”

Steve blinks.

“I mean it,” Dustin continues, tone shifting just enough to carry weight without losing warmth. “You don’t have to be the protector of Hawkins anymore. You’ve done enough. Like… more than enough.”

Steve swallows.

“That place isn’t your responsibility,” Dustin adds gently. “It hasn’t been for a long time.”

The words land somewhere deep. He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear them.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Steve admits quietly.

“Of course I’d say that,” Dustin replies. “You gave so much of yourself to that town. It’s okay to want something for yourself now.”

Steve leans back against the counter, breathing easier. “Yeah.”

“And hey,” Dustin says, brightening again, “this just means I get to visit you in New York, I’ll split my time. Best of both worlds.”

Steve exhales, warm and steady now. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple,” Dustin says. “You deserve good things.” After a moment, Dustin’s voice softens. “What about your parents?”

Steve’s gaze drifts to the far wall, to a photo he hasn’t touched since he moved in — a version of himself frozen at seventeen, hair perfect, smile rehearsed.

“If they even care to notice,” he says. “I haven’t talked to them since they left Hawkins.”

Dustin doesn’t interrupt.

“I get an occasional postcard in the mail,” Steve continues. “So maybe I’ll do the same. Seems fair.”

There’s no anger in it. Just distance that’s been there so long it doesn’t ache anymore.

“Yeah,” Dustin says finally. “Their loss.”

Steve nods, even though Dustin can’t see it. “Yeah.”

“I’ll come see the place once you’re settled. Make sure you’re not living in some sad little shoebox.”

When he hangs up, his house feels changed.

Not empty.

Just unfinished, outgrown- in a way.

Packing takes longer than he expects.

Not because there’s so much stuff — there isn’t — but because every item seems to ask him a question. He opens drawers he hasn’t looked in for months only to find things he forgot he even owned. Things he forgot he kept.

He fills a box with clothes first.

Books come next. He hesitates there, flipping through familiar pages, then stacks them carefully like they might matter again someday.

The hardest part is the wall.

The Hawkins photos come down last. He holds them longer than necessary, thumb brushing the corners before laying them in the box. He doesn’t know where they’ll go in the new place yet. Just that he isn’t ready to leave it behind.

He sets it gently into a box labeled MISC, like that makes it less significant.

By the time he tapes the final flap shut for the night, his room looks unfamiliar.

Bare.

Steve sits on the floor among the boxes, back against his bed, and lets the quiet settle around him. The life he’s built here isn’t disappearing — it’s just being folded carefully, put away so it can be carried forward.

For the first time, the idea of leaving doesn’t feel like loss.

–

The drive to New York feels longer than it should.

Not because the distance is overwhelming, but because Steve keeps catching himself looking in the rearview mirror, half-expecting Hawkins to follow him somehow. It doesn’t. The town recedes quietly, mile by mile, until it becomes just another place he used to know.

By the time they reach the city, the light is different.

Sharper. Louder. Everything feels closer together, stacked on top of itself instead of spread out. Steve double-parks without realizing it, hops out of the car, and just stands there for a second, staring up at the building like it might tell him something.

The apartment is smaller than Hawkins ever allowed things to be.

But it’s bright. Sunlight spills in through tall windows, dust floats lazily in the air, and the floors creak when he steps inside. It smells faintly of paint and something unfamiliar — not bad, just new.

Steve sets the boxes down but doesn’t unpack right away.

He walks from room to room instead, touching doorframes, opening cabinets, testing light switches like he’s learning the shape of a life that hasn’t started yet. The noise of the city hums through the windows — voices, traffic, something distant and alive.

This place doesn’t know him, yet.

You go out to grab dinner because neither of you has the energy to cook and the boxes aren’t going anywhere. Steve stays behind, claiming he’ll start unpacking, even though neither of you believes that’s what he’ll actually do.

The apartment goes quiet, as the door clicks shut behind you.

Steve wanders into the bathroom, flips on the light, and catches his reflection in the mirror. His hair is still perfect, still styled the way it always has been. Steve “The Hair” Harrington staring back at him like nothing’s changed.

He thinks about Dustin’s voice in his ear.

You don’t have to be the protector anymore.

The clippers are in the box under the sink — bought years ago for reasons he’d told himself were practical. He crouches, pulls them out, sets them on the counter without fully committing.

He stands there for a long moment.

Then he plugs them in.

The buzzing sound fills the small bathroom, loud and startling in the quiet apartment. His hand hesitates just a second before he lifts the clippers to his head. When he finally presses them against his scalp, hair falls immediately into the sink.

There’s no taking it back after that.

Steve watches his reflection carefully as he moves the clippers again, slower this time. The person staring back at him starts to look different — less polished, more stripped down. The hair that took time and effort and attention disappears in uneven lines, revealing something raw underneath.

It’s different, but he doesn’t hate it.

He’s halfway through when the front door opens.

“Steve?” you call out, setting dinner down in the kitchen. “They messed up the order, but I think it’s still—”

You stop short in the doorway.

Steve freezes, clippers mid-buzz, hair scattered everywhere, expression caught somewhere between guilty and caught-in-the-act.

“I—” He clears his throat, tries to laugh it off. “I was just… it felt like time?”

You take him in slowly, sink full of hair, clippers in his hand, and a look on his face like he’s bracing for permission he doesn’t need.

You smile, “I love your hair,” you say easily. “You know that.”

His shoulders tense.

“But,” you add, stepping closer, voice gentle, “I love more than just your hair.”

You reach out, brushing the remaining loose strands from his forehead with your fingers. “You’re allowed to change,” you tell him.

Something in his chest loosens as he exhales, long and slow, the way he’s been practicing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say.

Steve turns back to the mirror, you take the clippers from him, finishing what he started as he gives you a determined nod. When the clippers finally switch off, the silence feels different — lighter.

He meets his own eyes in the mirror again.

He doesn’t recognize himself completely.

And for the first time, that doesn’t scare him.

–

Light pours in through the windows hitting the bare walls, the half-unpacked boxes, the unmade mattress on the floor. Steve pads into the bathroom and catches his reflection again, the buzzcut surprising him.

It makes his face look sharper, older. Less like someone trying to hold a shape and more like someone letting one go. He runs a hand over it without thinking, feeling the unfamiliar texture under his palm.

Unpacking happens slowly, in no particular order. He starts with the kitchen because it feels easiest — plates stacked, mugs lined up, the coffee maker claiming a permanent spot on the counter.

The wall comes next.

He hesitates before unpacking that box, the one labeled MISC. When he opens it, the Hawkins photos are right on top. He takes them out carefully, brushing the papers with his fingers, and holds them up against the wall.

For a moment, he thinks about leaving them in the box, but he hangs them anyway.

They look different here, smaller, like a chapter instead of the whole story.

New York fills in around that decision without asking permission.

Steve starts walking more than he ever did in Hawkins — not because he has somewhere to be, but because the city seems to reward movement. He learns which streets feel quieter, which bodegas remember his face, which coffee tastes passable if he doesn’t think too hard about it.

Music comes to him as a form of therapy.

It was never his plan or even a dream he filed away under someday. But it still happens because someone at a bar is complaining about a missing guitarist, because Steve has had two beers and nothing to lose, because raising his hand feels easier here than it ever did back home.

His fingers are rusty and the nerves catch him off guard. But when he steps onto the small stage — if it can even be called that — and adjusts the strap over his shoulder, the fear he feels is..nice. Different from the fear he’s used to, nothing like survival or memory or what might happen if he fails.

The band starts as a loose thing, people drifting in and out. Practices that turn into routine without anyone naming it. Steve stands on stage again and again, guitar in hand, heart thudding for reasons that feel good to have.

He calls you before his first real show, voice tight with something like disbelief. You meet him at the bar early, sit beside him while he picks at the label on his beer, while the nerves buzz through him like electricity.

Afterward, when it’s done and he’s flushed and grinning and slightly overwhelmed, you take a picture together, your shoulder pressed into his side.

He pins it to the wall when he gets home.

Jonathan reaches out not long after — a phone call, late in the evening, his voice slightly hesitant like he’s not sure how to step back into the space between them.

“Hey,” Jonathan says. “Heard you’re in town.”

Steve smiles into the receiver. “Yeah, just got settled.”

They don’t make a big deal out of it, give no explanations, no apologies, just an agreement to meet when Jonathan’s schedule allows.

And they do.

Not often — Jonathan’s life moves fast now, full of projects and deadlines and momentum — but more than they used to. Coffee here, a show there, sometimes just a walk when neither of them feels like talking.

It’s easier without Hawkins sitting between them.

Dustin shows up a few weeks later, loud in the hallway before Steve even opens the door.

He stops short when he sees him.

“Oh my god,” Dustin says, staring openly. “You did it.”

Steve rubs a hand over his head. “Yeah.”

Dustin grins. “Dude. You know how much money you’ll save now? No more Farrah Fawcett spray.”

Steve laughs, shoving Dustin first and then pulling him into a hug.

Dustin’s expression softens, eyes scanning him more carefully. “You look good,” he says. “Like… actually good. Free.”

They spend the day walking until Dustin’s legs give out, eating food Steve suggests, and laughing too loudly in places where no one cares. That night, Dustin sits cross-legged on the floor, staring at the wall.

“You adding to it?” he asks.

Steve nods.

Over time, the wall fills in.

You at a baseball game, sunburned and smiling.

The two of you at the bar before his first show, his nerves written all over his face.

Dustin in the front row, cheering too loudly, hands cupped around his mouth like he’s afraid Steve might forget he’s there.

The Hawkins photos stay, but they aren’t alone anymore.

The past doesn’t disappear, it just makes room.

–

There’s no proposal the way Steve imagined there to be. No moment where he drops to one knee or rehearses anything in front of a mirror. It happens the way everything else with you has happened — in pieces, in glances, in the shared understanding that keeps showing up before he has to name it.

You’re already living like it’s permanent.

Like this isn’t a chapter with an end date attached.

The idea settles quietly, and once it does, it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels obvious.

The courthouse isn’t something he plans months in advance. It’s something he brings up one night while you’re brushing your teeth side by side, like it’s just another practical thing to consider.

“What would you think about getting married?” he asks, voice casual, eyes on his reflection instead of yours.

You pause for half a second.

Then you smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”

That’s it.

He makes the calls a few days later, standing by the window with the city spread out beneath him. He leaves voicemails for Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan — short, unpolished, a little awkward.

“Hey, it’s Steve. Um. I’m getting married. It’s… soon. You don’t have to come, obviously. Just thought I’d tell you.”

He doesn’t expect anyone to show.

On the morning of the wedding, the city moves like it always does. The courthouse smells faintly like paper and floor cleaner and something metallic Steve can’t place. It’s busier than he expected — people moving through with folders tucked under their arms, conversations overlapping, lives intersecting briefly and then peeling off again.

No one is paying attention and Steve is okay with that.

Dustin is already there, leaning back in a plastic chair like he owns the place, legs stretched out in front of him. He looks up when Steve walks in and breaks into a grin so wide it borders on offensive.

“You ready?” Dustin asks, bouncing to his feet.

Steve exhales, glancing at you. You nod once, calm and steady like you always are when it matters.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, I think so.”

Dustin claps him on the shoulder. “Cool. Just making sure. Because there’s no backing out now. Legally speaking.”

Steve snorts. “You’re the worst, best man.”

“The best worst best man,” Dustin corrects.

He’s holding your hand, waiting for your turn when he hears his name.

“Steve?”

Robin stands near the entrance, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket like she doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Nancy is beside her, hair tucked neatly behind her ears, expression soft and bright. Jonathan hangs back a step, camera slung around his neck more out of intention than habit, this time.

For a second, Steve just stares.

“You… you came,” he says, dumbfounded.

Robin grins, wide and unapologetic. “Well, yeah. We can’t miss the big moments, can we?”

Something tight and old loosens in his chest.

Nancy steps forward first, hugging him carefully, like she’s afraid he might vanish if she does it too hard. “Congratulations,” she says. “We’re really happy for you.”

Jonathan claps him on the shoulder, familiar and grounding. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

Steve swallows, nodding because words feel unreliable right now.

The ceremony itself is short, efficient. A woman with kind eyes and a voice that sounds like she’s done this a thousand times asks them both the same simple questions. Steve answers without hesitation.

This isn’t nerves.

It’s gravity.

When he looks at you, standing across from him in the narrow space between benches, it hits him how long you’ve already been choosing each other. How this isn’t the end but just the beginning.

“I do,” he says, steady and sure.

When it’s over — when the papers are signed and stamped and slid across the desk — Dustin lets out a low whistle.

“Well,” he says. “That’s official.”

Steve laughs, breathless and bright. “Guess it is.”

Nancy suggests drinks, misty eyes disagreeing with the smile on her face — nothing fancy, just a bar close enough to walk to. The kind of place that doesn’t care why you’re celebrating as long as you order something.

The booth is small, knees knocking, voices overlapping as everyone flips through the menu. Jonathan orders a beer, Robin orders something loud and colorful, Nancy follows with a wine, while Dustin—very much still in his college era—orders shots for the table like it’s a foregone conclusion.

When it’s your turn, you hesitate.

“I’ll just do a ginger ale,” you say. “And water.”

The table goes quiet — just briefly.

Steve glances at you, as your hand finds his under the table. His thumb brushes your knuckles, instinctive, grounding. A soft smile passes between the both of you, a private moment that might not be so private anymore.

Jonathan smiles first. “Guess those nuggets are coming sooner than expected, huh?”

Steve laughs, a little shaky, rubbing his hand over your stomach without thinking, “Guess I’ve always been bad at waiting.”

As the conversation resumes, lighter now, Steve leans back and watches them, the people he once thought he’d lost to time and distance, and understands something with startling clarity.

They never stopped loving him.

They just needed distance from Hawkins — from the place that held too much memory, too much survival packed into too few streets. Leaving wasn’t about forgetting each other. It was about being able to breathe again.

And when Steve stayed — when he remained tethered to it — he became something they couldn’t look at without feeling the weight of everything they were trying to outgrow.

It wasn’t rejection.

It was self-preservation.

And now that he’s left as well, he understands that.

The space between them doesn’t feel like loss anymore, it feels like something they can finally cross.

–

Life is already full when Steve decides to go back to school.

Full in the way that leaves very little room for second thoughts — for hesitation or careful timing. Days are built around sleep schedules that change without warning. Nights blur together, measured in feedings and soft pacing across the apartment floor, your daughter tucked against his shoulder while the city hums on outside.

He brings it up one evening while you’re folding laundry together, your daughter asleep between you on the couch. He says it casually, like it isn’t something he’s been turning over in his head for weeks.

“I’ve been thinking about school again,” he says.

You don’t look surprised.

Child Counseling feels inevitable once he says it out loud. It clicks into place the same way everything else has — not as a reinvention, but as a narrowing. A choice made quieter and more assured because it’s grounded in what he already knows.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

He studies child development while learning, in real time, what it means to soothe a crying infant. He reads about attachment and emotional regulation with spit-up on his shirt, highlighting passages one-handed while your daughter naps nearby. His professors are more understanding than he expects — deadlines extended, conversations held over the phone instead of in person when things run late.

He shows up to class tired and earnest and completely unashamed of it.

You make it work together.

On the days he’s buried in coursework, you juggle your job and the baby without complaint, passing her back to him in the evenings like a relay race. On the days his schedule is lighter, he takes over without being asked, already moving in sync with you.

There’s no keeping score.

Steve notices the difference in the smallest things.

In how no one raises their voice just to be heard. In how apologies come quickly and without pride attached. In how love isn’t something that has to be proven through endurance or silence.

At night, when the apartment finally settles and your daughter sleeps between you, Steve lies awake sometimes, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing.

He always knew he wanted a marriage different than his parents.

But this isn’t just different. It’s better.

Better than anything sixteen-year-old Steve could’ve imagined. This version is messier, louder in love, built out of shared exhaustion and deliberate care.

–

Robin comes over on a Tuesday.

Not for anything special. Just because she’s in town, because she misses the girls, because she’s decided — without ever saying it out loud — that she’s the favorite aunt and intends to maintain that status aggressively.

She’s on the floor with your daughters, surrounded by plastic animals and crayons, fully committed to a tea party that makes absolutely no sense. Steve watches from the kitchen, half-listening as he flips through a folder of notes from work, the familiar weight of the day settling comfortably into his shoulders.

He’s a counselor now — a formal promotion from the babysitter he once was, still showing up the same way he always has, just with a paycheck and a lot less monster-hunting.

The thought still feels strange sometimes — not because it doesn’t fit, but because it fits so well.

When the girls scatter toward their room, Robin flops back against the couch with a groan, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says.

Steve hums. “That’s never a good sign.”

She kicks his shin lightly with her socked foot. “Rude. Also incorrect.”

He smiles, closing the folder. “What’s up?”

There’s a pause. A longer one than usual.

“I might ask her out,” Robin says quickly, like ripping off a bandage.

Steve blinks. “Who?”

“The girl,” she says. “The one I told you about.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Yeah. You should do that.”

She squints at him. “That’s it?”

“What, you want a parade?”

“I don’t know,” she mutters. “I just thought you’d… I don’t know. Ask questions.”

He shrugs. “You seem like you’ve thought about it enough for both of us.”

She huffs, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth. Then, all at once, the words tumble out.

“It’s Nancy.”

Steve stills.

Just for a second.

“You wanna ask out my ex?” he says mildly.

Robin panics immediately.

“What? No— I mean, yes, but— not like that— I didn’t plan it— I just—” She sits up, flailing. “Okay, when I say it out loud it sounds bad.”