faylighting

Merlin (m). He's old, prickly, sometimes mean... but less so to you than others, which is gratifying. His study is your sanctuary, his wit your sparring partner. You suspect your tutor is hiding a great many things from you, so pursuing him could be a bad idea. But perhaps you cannot resist an attempt to wiggle your way into his affections.

Sir Kay (m). King Arthur's foster-brother and seneschal of his lands. A behemoth of a man; tall, wide, thickly muscled. He's a brute, but he's carried a torch for you ever since you met him. Whether or not you entertain his affections is of course up to you, but the decision might be easier if only he stopped being so cruel to some of the aspiring knights who should be his protégés.

Sir Gawain (m). The bastard brother to King Lot, who's your sister Morgause's husband... small world. He is Sir Kay's best friend, though the two could not be more different. Fair Gawain is charitable, popular with the men at arms and so charming that he's widely known as the Maidens' Knight. Not that he is without his shortcomings; you would know, given he has somehow become a dear protector and confidant. Perhaps you still want him.

Sir Galahad (m/f*). An upstart knight from a backwards province, he should be fated to obscurity, but possesses strange talents and seems to carry a touch of the divine. Sir Lancelot brought him to court, so impressed was he with the young lad. Maybe you knew him long before he was presented to the Round Table, though. Maybe you've seen him in your dreams. If only Galahad, put off by your witchcraft, didn't hate you to the point of obsession...

Guenevere (f), the golden Queen of Camelot. Your brother's wife. She's the most beautiful woman in Albion, and the most talkative, and perhaps, paradoxically, the loneliest. She desperately wishes for your approval, but with the way she acts sometimes, it's hard not to wonder what else she might be wishing for.

Ninianne (f). The Lady of the Lake, ancient and most powerful fairy in all of Albion. She is the mother of Sir Lancelot, has tested your brother's might and appears to share a complicated history with Merlin. She's a mystery and seems to know much more about you than you can be entirely comfortable with.

Friends and family:

Ywain (m). The son you had by the husband you hated. Ultimately, your relationship with the child is up to you, but as he matures, one thing becomes certain: Ywain is nothing like his father. He's his own beast, strange and emotional, diligent and good.

King Arthur (m). Your half-brother who is five years younger than you. He found you, rescued you and now loves you as though you'd known each other your whole lives. He dotes on your son, aiming to provide you both with the best possible life and asking for naught but fealty in return. He's a sanguine, adventurous and chivalrous young man who was pushed in the role of regent extremely early in life, but is bearing up under the expectations.

Blanchefleur de Beaurepaire (f). Your best friend and penpal with whom you entertain a teasing mentorship. When first you meet, she's but a young girl, but already whip-smart, sharp-tongued and too persuasive by half. Over the course of your acquaintance, she has grown into the epitomy of grace and confidence. She still looks up to you.

Sir Perceval (m). The youngest man to ever be knighted at the court of Camelot and easily the weirdest. He's his own brand of innocent; blunt, cheerful and with the attention span of the average housefly. He is Ywain's favorite playmate.

Queen Morgause of Orkney (f). Your eldest sister. You haven't seen her since she married King Lot. You know that she's had two sons by him, but that's about it. Something about her is different, not at all as you remember... but then again, it's been such a long time.

Queen Elaine of Garlot (f). Your middle sister. Much like Morgause, you lost sight of her after her own marriage to King Nentres. She's passionate, wistful and a hopeless romantic. She seems hopeful that your sisterly relationship can be rekindled.

Setting: this is not a precise retelling of any particular Arthurian cycle and lots of liberties were taken with the characters. Albion is a highly fictionalized version of/inspired by 12th-13th century England and Brittany.

*literally.

dividers by @/pixopix; artwork is a commission by the wonderful @/theoasiswinds and the blog's header image is an illustration by Mary MacGregor from her 1907 book "Stories of King Arthur's Knights".

Romantic Rumors

Many cross-friendships spark more than romance; they spark rumors. Researchers have found that celebrity websites often promote the idea that men and women cannot be “just friends.” Andrea McDonnell and Clare M. Mehta (2016) explored this issue in a piece entitled “We Could Never Be Friends: Representing Cross-Sex Friendship on Celebrity Gossip Web Sites.” They note that although psychological scholarship is mixed on the topic of cross-sex friendship, media representations often reflect the homosocial norm, which asserts a preference to spend time with members of one’s same sex, implying that cross-sex relationships are necessarily sexual in nature.

Regardless of individual views on the homosocial norm, many employees can relate to McDonnell and Mehta’s observation that cross-sex friendships can spark suspicion and scrutiny by others who assume such relationships are romantic or sexual. This is true even in a day and age where they are not only common in general, but commonplace in the workplace.

For coworkers, neighbors, or “just” friends who find themselves wondering if there might be the potential to move a relationship to the next level, slow and steady positive development of trust and common interests often evolve not just in the presence of friends and family, colleagues and coworkers, but with their full endorsement. As demonstrated by many couples who have successfully navigated this “dateless” path down the aisle to the altar, easy, comfortable, relationships often develop into healthy romantic, lifelong partnerships of love and respect.

Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Dunk had stared, unblinking, until Egg poked his side and pointed at a serving girl who'd come to ask what they wanted.

Nearly an hour has passed since. The stew he'd ordered for supper is long since gone, but he's been nursing his second pint of ale as an excuse to stay a while longer and hear you sing.

Normally, Egg's insolence would spike, and he'd insist on heading up to rest. But the boy seems just as taken with you as he is. Egg's fond of the songs, Dunk has learned, has several memorized, some Dunk couldn't even name. And so his squire doesn't complain, and is instead watching dreamily, elbows propped on the wooden table, his chin resting on the palm of his hand.

A lute rests upon your knee, echoing sweet notes coaxed by your deft fingers. Dunk can't recall if you've ever completely stopped playing, for every time a song ends, and you address the crowd, those fingers jump between the strings, lithe and expert.

He finds himself in awe and a little envious. Such dexterity has never come with ease to him. For most of his life, he lumbers gracelessly. It's served him well enough, but watching your skill has his mind escaping to places he'd never thought of before. He wonders how those fingers would fit against his own hands. He wonders if they are calloused from playing, thinks of how they'd feel running slow down his chest. He wonders if they ever tire.

They must, for you've stopped. Both singing and plucking come to a halt as you say your good nights and thank yous. The crowd applauds, his and Egg's among the loudest. You bow, skirts sweeping over the wooden floor, before hopping off the makeshift platform. Dunk's eyes follow you, neck craning up when you disappear behind the counter, exchanging words with the older barkeep. You're ushered into the back, where he assumes the kitchen is located, before he finally loses sight of you.

"Well, ser," Egg's voice breaks through his thoughts. The kid is smiling, like he knows something Dunk doesn't which, in many such cases, does happen to be true. "I suppose it's time to rest now."

"Aye." he stands, slow and careful as he's learned to do when he's in spaces like this, where it feels second nature to shrink and fold into himself.

The gods gave you tallness, so be tall, Lyonel Baratheon had told him.

The words are seared in Dunk's mind, of course, and he does try. By the seven, he tries very hard to stand proud, but tallness is one thing. The width and breadth of him is another. It's a thing of marvel, a quality that gives him obvious advantage, but his mind returns to you and your lithe fingers. The speed at which they move. He feels sluggish in comparison, sidestepping around the tables after his squire.

He can't help but cast glances back to where you'd disappeared, wondering if you'll reemerge. Perhaps you've retreated. Gone some place to rest, gods know you deserve it after such a performance.

Dunk doesn't even realize that he's stopped at the edge of the crowd until Egg tugs at his sleeve, looking confused.

"Ser?"

"You go on up," Dunk tells the boy. Their room is already paid for, and the pair has been through enough to trust each other to stay put.

Egg gets that gleaming smile again, and Dunk has half a mind to give him a soft smack, but the young prince keeps his mouth shut.

"As you say, ser." there's a lilting tone to his squire's voice, which he pointedly ignores. His body, however, reacts as it always does, flushing with warmth. He hopes his ears aren't pink.

Dunk keeps his gaze on Egg's small figure as he retreats up the staircase, noting the slight patch of hair already beginning to grown at the crown of his head. Silver fuzz, nearly translucent in this light, but they mustn't take any chances. He makes a note to shave it in the morning before they leave the inn.

When Egg's out of sight, Dunk sweeps his gaze across the tavern while he waits for your return. Only a few minutes, he tells himself, he'll linger for a few minutes and if you don't emerge, he's following Egg and calling it a night. A copper coin rests in his hand, growing sweatier by the moment, and even sweatier still when you finally reappear, stomping from the kitchens.

Anger sharpens your features, but does nothing to dull your beauty. He blinks, transfixed, openly staring at your incoming form. You are a study of contrasts and color, your clothing bearing no symbols to hint at a true allegiance to any house. Just like him. A traveler, an outcast, bound only to the road and where it shall take you.

The lute is now slung across your back, bound by an artfully crafted leather strap and colorful ribbons. Dunk cannot help but notice the tension of your shoulders, your narrowed eyes. He swears he's swallowed his tongue when those eyes fix upon him, cutting as a knife.

"If you don't mind, ser, you're in the way." The anger that contorts your features also laces your words.

Dunk winces and immediately clears the way. "S-sorry. I only wanted to give you this. For your songs."

The coin arcs in the air when he tosses it, and he watches one dexterous hand lift up in response, catching it perfectly. One look at it softens the stern line of your lips, but does not ease the stiff set of your shoulders.

"Thank you." you nod, pocketing the coin, and walking forward.

Dunk frowns. "Are you—it's raining outside."

"I'm aware."

He follows, clumsily avoiding tables and patrons. "Do you plan on catching your death, then? Why are you leaving?"

You spin to face him, fury written all over your face. "I don't have the coin to stay here. I'd bargained with the inn keep, at least I thought I did, that he'd give me a room if I entertained for the night. But now he's backed out of the deal, so—"

"Well, that's not fair."

Your laugh is cold and acerbic. "Indeed, ser. But what can I do? The bastard's throwing me out."

"I have the coin. I'll pay for your room."

"No, I do not want him earning more money on my behalf."

Dunk doesn't quite understand your logic, but he shares your frustration. It's not right to exploit your talents, and then leave you hanging. "Perhaps if I talk to the—"

"Please, ser, you don't need to do anything on my behalf."

"But I can't just let you go out during a storm! Where would you go? Do you even have a horse?"

"It is none of your business!"

"Please," Dunk lowers his voice, stepping closer as he pleads with you, "The inn keep's done you wrong, but allow me to fix it."

"Well, I already told you, I've no coin to repay you."

"You don't have to repay—"

"I don't want your charity."

Dunk huffs, trying to tamp his frustration. He understands your hesitation, your reluctance to trust him especially after someone else had already broken your trust. But before he can respond, a sharp voice rings out.

"Oi! What are you still doing here? I told you to leave, didn't I?"

The source is the inn keep, a rough, older man with a frown that doubles as an I do not tolerate nonsense warning. It takes Dunk an embarrassing few moments to realize the man is addressing you, not him.

"Is she botherin' you, ser?" the inn keep says, tipping his head up to meet Dunk's gaze.

Dunk blinks, his tongue stumbling over a clumsy lie and praying it's believable before he can overthink. "No, not at all. In fact, we've come to an arrangement, she and I."

He feels the inn keep's appraising glance like a razor's edge. Dunk stands to his full height, and gently rests a hand over the hilt of his sword. It's subtle, but the inn keep's gaze follows the movement all the same.

The rough man grunts when he registers the subtle warning.

"That so?"

"Yes. She's coming up with me." Dunk's not entirely sure where that came from, and the inn keeper's brows furrow in suspicion.

You step in, melting into a simpering, saccharine creature pressed to his side. He feels your hand slip into the crook of his elbow. "Yes, this kind knight has asked for my company for the evening. You wouldn't deprive a strong, hardworking man of a pretty girl, would you?"

The inn keep grumbles, something about indecency and brothels, but ultimately decides that picking a fight against a knight, even a lowly hedge knight, wouldn't be worth it. He backs away with a shake of his head, disappearing back into the kitchen.

Dunk clears his throat. He turns to you, earnest and hopeful. "Erm… That offer was genuine, if you'd take it. You can share my room for the night."

"Why?" your hand doesn't drop from his arm, still playing the part of being paired with him.

"Because it's wrong, what he did," Dunk replies, "And it would be wrong if I let you go out on your own in the middle of a storm like this."

"I do not like being indebted to someone, least of all a stranger."

"Well, I am Ser Duncan the Tall. If you tell me your name, then we would not be strangers. Does that ease your worries, my lady?"

"No," you reply with a snort, "And I do not think knowing one's name means you are no longer a stranger to me."

He shrugs, subtly walking to the staircase and leading you along. "I'd still like to learn yours."

Despite your obvious distrust, you give it. Dunk repeats it slowly, committing it to memory. It's a pretty name. Slightly musical, fit for a bard. He says it again, and reiterates his offer. "Stay in my room. It's only for the night."

"If I do, I should still like to repay you, ser Duncan."

Dunk starts up the stairs, nodding. If this is what it'll take to convince you, then he will accept it.

"I know what you knights want," you continue, falling into step with him, "Men and knights, all the same."

He's heard some version of those words before. The image of Tanselle flashes in his mind, unbidden. Tanselle Too Tall. She had sung and performed about knights too, brave, foolish ones.

What could knights want from a bard?

Songs, Dunk thinks, his lips tugging into a small smile. Yes, he should like a song. He had resigned himself to having none; life as a hedge knight is unsung, after all. It's a lesson he's learned the hard way, but accepted nonetheless. But he's got a bard at his disposal, insisting on some form of payment for his generosity, and he can't help but imagine what sort of pretty tune she'll make for him.

"Aye," he nods when they reach the room, "I do want that."

You nod, smiling with confidence. "As I thought. I've never had any complaints about my abilities, ser. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Dunk returns your smile in earnest. Some excitement blooms in his chest. He's not a man of vanity by any means, but the idea of being immortalized through song feels like a dream. In many ways, it is. Only famous knights get the honor.

He can't believe his luck.

"If you're as good as your performance earlier, then I'm certain I will." Dunk says.

You bite your lip, and look away. He thinks it's some attempt at being bashful, which he finds ridiculous. You should be proud of your talents.

The room, located at the end of the hallway, is closed but not locked. Dunk opens the door and finds Egg already asleep on one of the cots, curled around their bag of supplies like he's been guarding them while waiting.

"That's my squire, Egg." he whispers to you.

You've stopped at the threshold, confusion and something close to disgust clouding your features.

Dunk looks back at you, lost. "Is something wrong? You may take the other bed, my lady, I'm in no hurry for tonight."

You glare up at him, suspicious. "Is the child supposed to be here?"

He glances at Egg, still confused. "Aye, I told you he's my squire."

"And in the morning, when I do as you want, is he meant to be in here then?"

"I think Egg should enjoy watching you, yes!" he replies, but it seems to be the wrong answer, for he watches your face twist with horror. You step back into the dim hallway, shaking your head.

Dunk strides forward, closing a hand gently around your wrist before you can get too far. "By the seven, what's the matter now?"

"You're sick in the head. Worse than those pale-haired Targaryens!" you hiss, twisting your arm in an attempt to get away. "Let me go, I'd rather leave than… than do that in front of a child!"

"What?" Confusion, Dunk has accepted from a young age, is simply going to be part of his life. Growing up, regardless of his companion, he's always been the slowest to understand things, the last to connect pieces together. Tonight, he could swear it's the most he's been confused in all his life. "But he's already watched you sing tonight! What difference will it be tomorrow?"

"What diff—what do you mean sing?"

"Isn't that what you'll do? Write a song for me, sing it, maybe write it down so we'll remember it." he says, trying to keep himself from panicking. "A song in return for shelter."

"Oh."

Dunk watches your eyes widen, watches your body go from braced with anger to a slow loosening of limbs. Stands there, stiff and stupid while you laugh, full bodied and loud, a laughter that makes your shoulders shake and your torso curl at the waist, so uncontrollable that it makes Egg stir on the cot.

"What now?" he can't keep the slight irritation from his voice, feeling foolish and lost. Every single moment with you has been a series of blunders, and he's beginning to become frustrated with himself. "Quiet down, or you'll wake the boy."

"Sorry," you muffle the words with a fist to your lips, tears now gathered at the edges of your lashes, "Sorry, I didn't realize you wanted a song."

Dunk glares, halfhearted and tired. "What else would a knight want from a bard?"

"What would a man want from a woman?" you retort, breathless from your fit of laughter.

He blinks. Goes warm, feels blood rush from his head to the tips of his toes, so fast he has to shake his head to reorient himself.

"You thought I wanted to bed you?"

"Don't sound so scandalized, ser, I'm sure I'm not the first woman to have proposed the same thing."

"I'm not that kind of man." he insists, rubbing a hand over his face, "Seven hells, I would have let you stay here for nothing! You're the one who insisted on payment."

For the first time tonight, he's the one who has you stunned. It doesn't come with any semblance of victory, not from the way you seem to deflate. Dunk softens immediately.

"I only wanted to give you someplace to rest." he says, hoping the quiet reassurance in his tone breaks through the seemingly impenetrable walls you've erected. He can't blame you for thinking the worst of people, only try and ease your worries by proving himself worthy.

"And you'll… you'll take a song as payment?"

"Aye," he nods, stepping aside the doorway to allow you space, should you wish to enter. "I'll take nothing as payment, but as you insist…"

He watches you step inside carefully, your boots making no noise. He closes the door behind you, making sure to latch a wooden nail through the hole to lock it. The room is standard fare—two cots, one already occupied by Egg, a small fireplace warming and gilding the outlines of the space.

"I won't harm you," Dunk adds, "I'll take the floor and—"

"I can't let you do that." you protest, gently setting your instrument up against the wall.

"It's all right," he says, pulling out some of their supplies from the bag resting beside Egg, "I've a blanket we use for traveling. Please, just… just rest. I've slept on worse surfaces, trust me."

And perhaps it's the adrenaline of your performance melting away, your anger ebbing into an exhaustion that settles deep in your limbs, but you finally nod. No more protests, no arguing, just acceptance.

Dunk keeps his back turned to you, busying himself by spreading the blanket and a pillow on the floor, to offer you some semblance of privacy.

When he lays down, you're already curled on the cot, staring right at him. He blinks, surprised, and offers you a crooked smile.

Something tightens in his chest when you return it.

"I've never met a knight like you before." the words sound sacred when they're whispered from your lips.

Dunk feels himself flushing again. "I hope that's a good thing."

"It is, ser Duncan the Tall. A very good thing."

His words make you sit up straighter. Bucky’s been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like he’s been waiting for something to happen. He’s been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentina’s assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because he’d wanted you to cover for him today while he “took care of something,” in his own, ominous words. He’s been MIA all day and you haven’t heard from him until now.

Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel. 

“Are you okay?” You ask on instinct.

“I’m okay, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off. “We, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.” 

Your brain ticks. “Hold on, we?” 

You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A man’s rough voice followed by a woman’s smoother one — and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into? 

“There's, uh, five of us,” Bucky says, like that makes it any better. 

There’s a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what he’s telling you. He … wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? You’re dumbfounded.

“I— what?” Is all you can manage. 

There’s another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I shouldn’t have called, I’ll just—“ 

“No, wait,” you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are who’re with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? “It’s alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?” 

Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitors’ sake than your own, and because it’s Bucky.

Bucky, who’s been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when you’d mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (He’d come round to pick it up and you’d cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when you’d gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You don’t remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it. 

You’re tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when there’s a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky. 

It’s me. 

You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it. 

Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Bucky’s at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They don’t look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - it’s absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is… John Walker? 

“Um, hi?” You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didn’t expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. “What can I do for you?” 

The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. “Funny,” he says bluntly. Then, softer, “Can we come in?” 

You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, he’s looking at you like I’m tired, I need help, just let us in please and I’ll explain. 

You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look — it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, you’d surely be dead by now. 

“Alright,” you say. “Wipe your shoes, please.” 

Everyone files into your living room. It’s not a huge space but it’s enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down. 

“Who is this, again?” The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you. 

“We work together. She’s my assistant,” Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. “Y/N.” 

“Hello,” you say awkwardly. 

They all just stare at you. You know what they’re thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistant’s place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? You’re asking yourself the exact same thing. 

“Y/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.” Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. “They— I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.”

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to yours?” Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question. 

“Valentina’s watching my place,” Bucky explains. “She knows by now that I’ve got you guys with me, she’ll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.” 

This only confuses you further. Valentina is … watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant — it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you should’ve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.

The others seem to understand Bucky’s explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly. 

You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. They’re all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, they’d probably be the toughest looking group you’ve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.

“I— yeah, okay,” you say. They’re already in your living room, already know where you live, what’s it matter now? “You can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. There’s water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.” 

The brunette — Ava, Bucky called her — gives you a tight smile. “Thanks,” she says, and collapses on your sofa. 

The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed. 

Pleasantries over, you grab Bucky’s arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you don’t give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him. 

“Bucky, what’s going on?” You whisper harshly.  “Who are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?” 

You’re so busy bombarding him with questions that you don’t notice the way he’s holding his arm, not until you’ve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and there’s blood all over the sleeve. 

“Oh,” you say stupidly, then even more so, “Bucky, you’re bleeding.” 

Bucky grimaces. “I know, doll.” 

You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face. 

“It’s looks bad,” you say, forgetting you’re not supposed to care about him as much as you do.

You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.

“Let’s, um,” you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything that’s happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. “I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.” 

You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why he’s bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where you’re rummaging through the cupboard above the sink. 

“Y/N, I’m—“ 

“Don’t say you’re fine,” you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, “Are any of your friends hurt?” 

Bucky pulls a face. “They’re not really my friends,” he says. “And no, none of them are hurt, they’re just tired.” 

You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what you’re looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.

You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid. 

“Show me?” You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection. 

You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, it’s not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way. 

Still, you frown. “How did you manage this?” You ask him. 

Bucky looks for a second like he’s reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, “I sort of flipped a truck?” he says. “Long story.” 

Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain what’s going on. 

“Right… I’m gonna clean it, okay?” You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. “It might hurt.” 

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m tough, doll.” 

You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what you’re doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesn’t protest. Actually, he doesn’t make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like he’s looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, he’s always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where you’re pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how you’re desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it. 

You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut. 

You’re unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. “So, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?” You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Bucky’s face stops you short. “They’re… they’re not assassins, are they?” 

Bucky purses his lips. “Well, you’re not very far off…” 

He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentina’s really been up to. Project Sentry — putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects. 

Then he tells you about how he tracked Mel’s phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a “predicament,” and “saved their asses,” as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why they’re now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, who’s vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches. 

By the time he’s done explaining, you’ve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. You’re not annoyed, you get why he didn’t tell you. Still, you wish he’d asked for your help earlier. 

“So, you’re going after Bob?” You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded. 

Bucky nods. “I guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentina’s hands, you know?” 

You nod back. “Yeah, I get it. Won’t it be dangerous, though? Going after him? 

You say it before you’ve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, who’s really just the guy you file documents for. You don’t owe him anything. 

Bucky smiles. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.” 

You frown. “You’re not an assassin.” 

You don’t care what he’s done in the past, you can’t see him as anything else but lovely. He’s brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches. 

Still, Bucky shrugs. “Used to be.” 

You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When you’re done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. “You make a good nurse.” 

For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. He’s very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin. 

“That’s me,” you say, faux casual. “Best nurse and assistant you’ve ever had, huh?” 

You might be imagining it, but you’re pretty sure Bucky’s eyes flicker to your lips. He’s distracted as he murmurs, “Uh huh.” 

A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You can’t feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. 

“Mm,” he hums back. He’s definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. “What, doll?” 

You blink rapidly. He’s so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne you’ve smelled on him before. 

“I— what are you doing?” You whisper, starting to panic. 

Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like he’s being pulled towards you and can’t stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles. 

“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’d be impossible to hear him if he weren’t this close. “Can I?” 

You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and you’ve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasn’t bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.

“Okay,” you manage, heartbeat turning frantic. 

You see a flash of his smile before he’s pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. It’s chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he can’t help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch — your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really don’t, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.

Too soon, Bucky pulls away. 

You blink at him. He’s still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heart’s a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear. 

His hand lingers at your jaw. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like you’re made of starlight. “Is it okay that I did that?” 

You nod. “Yes,” you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but you’re so dizzy that there’s no space to be embarrassed about it. “I— yeah.” 

Bucky smiles, but it’s not smug. If anything, it’s achingly fond. “I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I just … didn’t have anyone else I could call.” 

You shake your head. You won’t say it, but right now you’re infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. “It’s okay.” 

Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. “No one will hurt you while I’m here, okay? And we’ll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.” 

You nod around his hand. It’s hard to digest anything he’s saying while he’s touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though. 

“Okay,” you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but you’re much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, he’s moving away. 

“I think you should get back to bed,” he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. “It’s past two.” 

“Right,” you nod, not wanting to, but you’re too dizzy and too tired to protest. 

You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose he’s just better at hiding it, or maybe you’re just very sick in love. 

You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Ava’s head on Yelena’s shoulder, drool falling from the blonde’s open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.

Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that there’s nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other. 

“Do you want to—?” You start. 

“I can sleep in the—“ he says at the same time. 

You both pause. 

“Sleep in the what?” You ask him, incredulous. 

Bucky grimaces. “The car?” He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it. 

You roll your eyes. “You’re absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.” 

It’s ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, you’re both dead tired and you’ve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. What’s it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? He’s just kissed you, hasn’t he? 

You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put. 

“Y/N—“ 

“You said you wouldn’t let any of them hurt me,” you say firmly. “How’re you gonna do that from the car?” 

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. 

“I… don't know,” he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, “Are you sure?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s too gentlemanly for his own good. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” 

You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because he’s stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know he’d put between you, you’d be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep. 

It’s half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest. 

You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up. 

“Y/N?” He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special. 

“Yeah?” You hum back. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. You suppose he’s thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then, 

“With a pay raise?” You joke weakly. 

Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, “Whatever you want, doll.” 

You grin to yourself. Now that’s something you can fall asleep to. 

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