Multifandom

Lo’ak snorted. You could hear the grin in it. “Sure. Totally awake. Your eyes are open, but your spirit’s still swimming with the ancestors.” There was a rustle of movement as he crouched by the entrance of your marui, his silhouette blocking some of the gentle light. “Listen, come with me. Beach. Walk. Now. Before the sun gets angry about it.”

You push yourself up on your elbows, the woven mat beneath you crinkling. A long, slow stretch traveled up your spine, because mornings were for stretching. Every muscle protested the movement, singing a almost pleasant chorus of stiffness. You opened your mouth to offer a weak protest, to bargain for five more minutes of this perfect, heavy peace.

Except then he added, casually, almost smugly, “Neteyam’s going to be there.”

And suddenly you were not sleepy.

Not for one second.

Your body moved on a command your brain hadn’t finished processing. One second you were horizontal, the next you were upright, feet hitting the cool sand. Your heart, previously a slow, lazy drum, kicked into a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“Okay-okay-okay,” you muttered, a string of incoherent agreement as you stumbled toward the entrance, nearly tripping over your own feet. You ducked past Lo’ak, who had to lean back to avoid a collision, and emerged into the full glow of the morning.

“Whoa—” Lo’ak laughed, falling into step. “Didn’t know you loved mornings that much.”

“I don’t hate mornings,” you said, your voice still thick with sleep but now also laced with a defensive panic. “I just… appreciate them at a slower pace.”

“Uh-huh.” Lo’ak’s pace was an easy lope, his bare feet silent on the path. “So when I wake you up, you’re all sleepy and slow… but when Neteyam’s name comes up—"

“Shut up,” you muttered, refusing to look at him, focusing instead on the path ahead where it opened onto the dazzling white crescent of the beach.

Lo’ak’s chuckle was loud and knowing, a sound that carried on the salt-tinged breeze. “Eywa has given me eyes, you know. I see how it is.”

“There is no ‘it,’” you insisted, picking up your pace again. The sight of the ocean, vast and impossibly blue, usually calmed you. Now it just seemed to mirror the tumultuous, churning feeling in your chest. “He’s your brother. You’re supposed to be… I don’t know, protective or something. Not a nuisance.”

“Protective?” Lo’ak scoffed. “From you? You’re about as dangerous as a baby palulukan. Besides, it’s funny. You get all… twitchy.”

“I do not get twitchy.”

“You’re twitching right now.”

You forced your shoulders down, willed your hands to relax. Twitchy. Of all the words. You were not supposed to be a twitchy, flustered mess because a certain warrior was going to be on a beach.

But Neteyam… Neteyam was different.

It wasn’t just that he was objectively stunning. It was the stillness in him. Where Lo’ak was a contained storm of jokes and impulsivity, Neteyam was a deep, calm pool. He moved with a quiet certainty, his awareness of everything around him seeming effortless. He was responsible, respected, kind in a way that never felt condescending. He’d been patient when teaching you how to properly hold a fishing spear, his large hands gently correcting your grip without a trace of mockery.

The beach was wide and mostly empty at this hour. A few Metkayina were already out in the shallows on their ilus, their joyful calls echoing over the water. The tide was out, leaving a vast, wet canvas of sand reflecting the sky.

And there, standing where the gentle waves just barely kissed the shore, was Neteyam. He was facing the water, his back to you, tail swaying gently in a relaxed rhythm. The early sun caught the beads in his braids and the subtle bioluminescent freckles across his shoulders. He looked like something carved from light and sea.

Your breath hitched. The drum in your chest upgraded to a full tribal war beat.

Lo’ak elbowed you, none too gently. “See? Told you. Go on. He doesn’t bite.” He then raised his voice, shouting, “Brother! Look what I found! Had to drag it from its nest, but it’s alive!”

Neteyam turned. It was a simple movement, fluid and unhurried. His eyes found Lo’ak first, a flicker of amused exasperation in them and then they shifted to you.

And he smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile. Just a slight, soft tilt of his full mouth, a crinkling at the corners of his eyes. But it was directed at you, and it felt like the sun had focused all its rays into a single, warm spot right in the center of your chest.

“You’re awake early,” he said. His voice was deeper than Lo’ak’s, smoother. It wrapped around the words, making the simple observation sound like a shared secret.

Your brain, the traitorous organ, immediately attempted to formulate a response. It pulled together three potential sentences: ‘Lo’ak is a menace,’ ‘I wanted to see the tide pools,’ and ‘Your hair looks nice in this light.’ It then tried to fuse them into one.

What came out was a choked, strangled noise, followed by: “Yes. Uh… early.”

Genius. Absolutely brilliant. You wanted to melt into the sand and be washed away by the next wave.

Neteyam’s head tilted slightly, his gaze studying you. Not with Lo’ak’s teasing scrutiny, but with a gentle, patient curiosity. Like he could see the words tangling themselves into knots inside your skull and felt a little sorry for them. “You okay?” he asked, taking a few steps closer. The distance between you shrunk, and you became hyper-aware of everything: the way the breeze clinked the beads in his hair, the faint, clean scent of salt and something like ozone that always seemed to cling to him, the sheer, towering presence of him.

You nodded. Too quickly. Too forcefully. “Fine! Great. The beach is… beachy.”

Lo’ak, who had plopped down in the dry sand and was already digging for sand-bubbler crabs, let out a loud, dramatic snort. “She’s like this every time you show up, Neteyam. It’s hilarious. Turns into a startled viperwolf pup.”

The heat in your face became a conflagration. “I am not!” you protested, but it was weak, drowned out by Lo’ak’s cackling.

Neteyam’s smile didn’t vanish, but it softened further, his eyes holding yours. There was no mockery in them. “Do not let him bother you. His humor is simple. Like a child’s.” He glanced at his brother. “And loud.”

“I am a delight!” Lo’ak called back, not looking up from his crab hunt.

Neteyam turned his attention back to the ocean, giving you a merciful respite from his direct gaze. You sucked in a shaky breath, trying to will your body back under control. He’s just a person. A very tall, very beautiful, very competent  person. Just a person.

“The tide is far out,” Neteyam observed, gesturing with his chin toward the expansive wet sand. “Good for walking. The sand is firm. We could go to the eastern point. Sometimes akula pups play in the channel there when the water is calm like this.”

“Walking. Yes. Walking is good,” you said, latching onto the suggestion like a lifeline. An activity. A direction. Something to do besides stand here and internally combust.

“You coming, skxwang?” Neteyam asked Lo’ak.

Lo’ak waved a dismissive hand, a tiny, iridescent crab clutched carefully in his other. “Nah. You two go on your boring, quiet walk. I’m building an army here.” He held up the crab, which wiggled its claws. “See? General Pinchy. We have plans.”

Shaking his head, Neteyam began walking along the water’s edge, his stride long and easy. He didn’t look back, assuming you would follow. And you did, falling into step beside him, though it took two of your steps to match one of his. The silence that settled between you was different from the panicked silence of moments before.

For a few minutes, it was peaceful. You focused on the horizon, on the cool water washing over your ankles every few steps, on the simple act of breathing. The initial shock of his presence began to ebb, leaving behind the usual, low-grade hum of awareness.

“Lo’ak means well,” Neteyam said finally, his voice quiet against the backdrop of the sea. “He teases because he sees you as… part of the family. In his way.”

The idea was so startling, so profoundly touching, that it momentarily overrode your nervousness. “He does?”

Neteyam nodded. “He does not tease the others like that. Only you. It is his way of saying he is comfortable.” He glanced at you. “It can be… annoying.”

A real laugh bubbled out of you, surprising yourself with its genuineness. “A little bit, yeah.”

“I will tell him to stop, if you wish.”

“No!” you said, too quickly again. You cleared your throat. “I mean, it’s okay. It’s… fine. I’m getting used to it.”

The eastern point was coming into view, a rocky outcrop draped with vines and moss. The water here was deeper, channeling between the point and a distant reef. And just as Neteyam had predicted, you saw sleek, dark shapes darting playfully in the turquoise water—akula pups, their juvenile fins cutting the surface as they chased each other.

You both stopped at the edge of the rocks, watching the display. It was a moment of pure, uncomplicated wonder. You laughed as one of the pups did an awkward, rolling leap, splashing its siblings.

“They are clumsy now,” Neteyam murmured, a fondness in his voice. “In a few moons, they will be swift. Silent. The most dangerous hunters in these waters. But now… they are just children at play.”

You watched them, and you watched him watching them. The line of his profile against the bright sky, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the way the sun warmed the blue of his skin. The panic was gone, replaced by a deep, swelling feeling you didn’t dare name.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

He turned his head. “For what?”

“For this. For the walk. “

The moment stretched, filled with the sounds of the water and the pups. You were acutely aware of how close he was. The space between your arm and his felt charged, like the air before a storm.

“Neteyam!” a voice called, shattering the bubble.

You both turned to see Lo’ak jogging toward you, sand flying from his heels. He wasn’t alone. Tsireya was with him, her expression characteristically serene.

“Father is looking for you,” Lo’ak said, skidding to a stop. “Says the hunters are back early from the northern reef. They have news. Wants the family at the Marui.”

Neteyam’s posture shifted instantly. The relaxed warrior was gone, replaced by the dutiful son and heir. The calm in his eyes sharpened into focus. “What news?”

Lo’ak shrugged, but his usual levity was tempered. “Didn’t say. But he looked serious.”

Neteyam nodded, a single, decisive dip of his chin. He looked at you, and the warmth was still there, but it was now layered with apology. “I must go.”

“Of course,” you said, your voice thankfully steady. “It was a good walk.”

“See you soon?” he asks, his tone unreadable. “…yeah?....yeah.”

Lo’ak’s voice cuts through the moment before it can settle into anything softer. “You know Tsireya and I are right here, yeah?” he says, glancing between you with a grin that’s far too knowing. “Or should we just—leave you two to finish staring at each other like—”

“Lo’ak.” Neteyam’s tone is sharp, a quiet warning that does absolutely nothing to stop him.

“—because I swear, it’s getting painful to watch—”

He doesn’t get any further. Neteyam catches him by the arm in one swift motion, already turning him away, his grip firm as he starts dragging him back toward the others, cutting off whatever else he was about to say.

Lo’ak protests, of course, but it fades quickly as he’s pulled along, his voice disappearing into the distance.

Tsireya only shakes her head, a small, patient sigh escaping her like this is a scene she’s witnessed far too many times before.

The laughter slips out before you can stop it, soft at first, then brighter, spilling over as the tension finally breaks, light and a little breathless in a way that feels unfamiliar and easy all at once.

Neteyam glances back once as he’s pulled away, just for a second and when your eyes meet—he’s smiling.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

With lo’ak around "soon" comes quicker than you’d expect.

The first mistake was agreeing to this.

The second mistake was thinking you’d be fine.

You’d ridden before. Not perfectly but enough that you didn’t immediately embarrass yourself the moment you climbed onto the ilu’s sleek, waiting form. Lo’ak had announced the plan with his usual theatrical flair yesterday evening, as you all sat around a communal fire, sharing roasted fish. “We should totally go ilu riding tomorrow,” he’d declared, grinning at Tsireya. “I asked Tsireya, and she said yes.” He then turned his smirk directly on you. “You should join us.”

The words lingered in the air, like an invitation you couldn’t quite refuse. You knew what he was doing. trying to draw you into his mischievous plans, testing your boundaries, seeing how far you’d go. And yet, despite your better judgment, you’d agreed. Because maybe, just maybe, you wanted to prove something. to yourself, to him, or maybe to someone else entirely.

And now, that feeling was a living thing, coiling tight in your gut. The ilu shifted beneath you, its skin cool and smooth against your legs, body fluid and restless in the water. It was a creature of pure motion, and it demanded balance, focus, control. You gripped the simple handholds (lol idk what they are called) a little tighter than necessary, trying to settle into its rhythm, trying to remember everything you definitely knew how to do.

“Relax,” Lo’ak called from his own ilu a few yards away, his tone entirely unhelpful. He was already in perfect sync with his mount, looking as natural as if he’d been born on it. “You look like you’re about to fall off before we even start.”

“I’m not,” you snapped back, even as your posture stiffened further. You consciously forced your shoulders down, trying to mimic the relaxed, flowing posture of Tsireya, who was checking the bindings on her ilu with gentle, practiced hands.

“You are,” Lo’ak insisted, chuckling.

You inhaled slowly, trying to ignore him, trying to center yourself the way you’d been taught. The rhythm of the water helped, the gentle rise and fall of the ilu’s breathing, the soft current nudging the dock. For a moment you thought you’d found it. A sense of connection. You nudged the ilu forward with a slight press of your heel.

It responded smoothly, gliding away from the dock with a graceful push.

See? Fine. Completely fine. You’re doing—

And then you felt it. That shift in the air. That awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You didn’t even need to look. But you did anyway.

And there he was. Neteyam, standing at the edge if the shore, watching. He wasn’t even doing anything. Just standing there, observing the preparations with his characteristic calm intensity. He was dressed for the water, his usual adornments simpler. He looked… prepared. Capable. Centered.

That was all it took.

Your focus, that fragile thread of concentration you’d managed to spin, fractured instantly. Your grip on the handholds faltered. Your balance—already questionable—completely abandoned you as your brain decided now was the perfect time to notice everything about him all at once: the way the light caught the tanhi sprinkled across his shoulders, the confident set of his stance, the quiet expectation in his gaze.

Oh.

That was a mistake. A terrible, catastrophic mistake.

The ilu shifted beneath you again, a sharper, more impatient motion this time, and you reacted a second too late. Your body tilted, compensating for the movement but overcorrecting wildly.

There was a brief, horrifying moment of clarity where you understood exactly what was about to happen and then you were gone. You fell. Not gracefully. Not impressively. Not in any way that could later be salvaged into dignity.

You hit the water in a sprawling, undignified splash, limbs completely uncoordinated. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs for a split second before you resurfaced, gasping, saltwater stinging your eyes.

Silence hung over the water.

Then, Lo’ak burst out laughing. “Oh, that was terrible,” he managed between breaths, grinning. “That might be the worst dismount I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen Tuk try.”

“I merely slipped!” you shot back, pushing wet hair out of your face, heat already creeping up your neck.

“You looked at him,” Lo’ak corrected, jerking his chin toward Neteyam.

Neteyam had stepped closer to the reef. His expression was… concerned, maybe. Slightly confused. Definitely aware of you now, floundering in the shallows. “Are you alright?” he called, his voice cutting through Lo’ak’s laughter.

“I’m fine!” you said quickly, too quickly. You were not fine. Not even a little.

Lo’ak was still laughing, now joined by a softer, melodic chuckle from Tsireya. “I swear,” Lo’ak added, shaking his head, “she forgets how to function when-.”

“I swear your dead when I get my hands on you!” you snapped, which only made him laugh harder.

Your ilu circled back lazily, nudging your shoulder with its snout as if mildly confused by the situation, completely unbothered by the chaos it had caused.

You sighed before climbing back onto it, and this time, when you nudged it forward, you didn’t look at Neteyam. You looked at the horizon. You felt the push of muscle, the glide through water.  And then you kept going.

By the time you circled back, Lo’ak had already bounded up beside you.

“Not bad!” he called, clapping you on the shoulder. “For a second try that didn’t end with you swallowing half the bay, I mean.”

Shoving his arm away, a reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “Thanks for the overwhelming support.”

A breath escaped you as you pushed wet hair from your face, their laughter still carrying on. “yeah yeah, Laugh it up,” you muttered, sitting more firmly on your ilu this time.

You don’t look back at the shore again. You especially don’t look at him.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

By the time the afternoon settles in, the sharp edge of it has faded.

The light shifts, turning the woven fibers in your lap from bright strands into something warmer. The rhythm of the circle is comfortable, a steady hum of activity punctuated by Lo’ak’s voice.

He’s moved on from the fish story, thankfully, and is now debating the best way to climb a particular rock formation with Kiri.

“You’re forgetting the overhang,” Kiri says, her fingers moving deftly through her own work.

“I’m not forgetting it. I’m saying you can swing around it.”

“That’s a good way to get your braids caught.”

“Only if you’re slow.”

You half-listen, your focus divided between the pattern you’re trying to replicate and the quiet presence to your left. Neteyam hasn’t said much since he fixed your thread, but his attention feels like a physical thing. a gentle, steady warmth you’re hyper-aware of.

You pick up a shell bead, a tiny, iridescent blue one, and thread it. It’s fiddly work. Your fingers, usually capable felt clumsy and oversized.

“You’re holding your breath,” Neteyam murmurs, so low only you can hear it.

You let out a sharp exhale you didn’t realize you were holding. “I’m concentrating.”

“I can tell.” There’s the faintest hint of amusement in his tone. “Your shoulders are up by your ears.”

You consciously force them down, rolling them back. A moment of silence stretches, filled with the sounds of the others. Then he speaks again, still in that private, low register.

“The pattern is in the repetition. Don’t fight each thread. Let them lie where they want to go, then guide them.”

You glance at his hands. His weaving is perfect, even, the beads spaced with a precision that looks effortless. You look back at your own, which is… less perfect.

“They don’t seem to want to go where I want them to,” you mutter.

“That’s because you’re telling them. You should ask.”

You blink, looking up at him. His golden eyes meet yours, calm and serious, though the corner of his mouth tilts up just a fraction. He’s not teasing. He’s stating a fact, as fundamental as the tide.

Ask the thread.

You look back down, trying to shift your mindset. You loosen your grip, letting the fibers slide more freely. You adjust the tension, not by pulling, but by easing. The next knot forms more cleanly.

“Huh.”

You feel more than see his nod of approval. It’s a small thing. A tiny, insignificant moment in a quiet afternoon. But it settles in your chest, warm and solid.

Of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you two having a secret meeting over there?” Lo’ak calls out, his work forgotten in his lap.

“We are weaving, brother,” Neteyam replies, his voice returning to its normal, patient volume. “You should try it. It requires focus. It might be good for you.”

Tsireya hides a smile behind her hand.

“I am focused,” Lo’ak retorts. “I’m focused on why you’re only giving weaving lessons to one person.”

The heat is back, crawling up your neck. “He’s not giving me lessons.”

“It sounded like a lesson. A very quiet, personal lesson.”

“Lo’ak,” Neteyam says, a single note of warning in his voice.

“What? I’m just pointing out the obvious! … At this rate, you’re going to be her personal shadow.”

Kiri snorts. “Jealous?”

“Of being a shadow? No. Of getting all the special attention? Maybe.”

“You could have special attention if you ever sat still long enough for someone to give it to you,” Tsireya offers kindly, though her eyes are sparkling.

Lo’ak puts a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “Betrayed. By my own ilu partner.”

You just sigh, the sound slipping out soft and long-suffering as laughter ripples around the circle.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

he days pass easily, slipping into a rhythm you don’t quite notice forming.

There are always things to do—mending a torn fishing net, gathering herbs at the forest’s edge, learning new weaving patterns under Tsireya’s patient guidance. Neteyam is often nearby, sometimes helping, sometimes observing, always present.

It’s during one fateful afternoon, when the heat is high and the group decides to cool off in the shallows, that things shift again.

You’re sitting on a rock at the water’s edge, watching as kiri and Tuk play a game of chasing each other through the gentle waves, splashing near the shore giggling. Neteyam is in the water too, but he’s not playing. He’s swimming.

And you don’t notice it all at once. It happens slowly, the way your attention drifts when you’re not guarding it properly, too unprepared for your own traitorous instincts.

One moment, you’re half-engaged in whatever nonsense Lo’ak is going on about, offering absent-minded hums and the occasional nod, and the next… your gaze slips. wanders and lands somewhere it absolutely should not. And stays there.

Neteyam moves through the water like it was made with him in mind, like it recognizes him as something familiar and yields accordingly. There’s no resistance in the way he swims. no wasted motion, no struggle. just smooth strokes that cut cleanly through the surface.

You should look away. You don’t.

Your eyes trace the movement of his shoulders as they rise and fall with each stroke, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin that gleams under the sunlight. There’s something almost disorienting about it. like you’re watching something rehearsed and yet entirely natural at the same time.

You swallow, suddenly aware of the dryness in your throat. It’s ridiculous. You’ve seen him swim before. Of course you have. This isn’t new. And yet your thoughts begin to unravel anyway.

His shoulders look broader like this. Or maybe it’s just the way the water frames him, the way it gathers and slips around his form, outlining instead of obscuring. Either way, the effect is… noticeable. Distractingly so.

You shift slightly where you’re sitting, as if that might ground you, as if it might pull your attention back to where it belongs. It doesn’t.

He dives under. The motion is seamless, barely a ripple left behind, and for a brief moment he disappears entirely beneath the surface.

And you find yourself staring at the empty stretch of water like it’s lacking something now. Like something important has been taken out of the frame. the thought comes uninvited, slipping in before you can stop it.

I’m jealous of the ocean.

It’s so absurd you almost laugh, except the feeling lingers in a way that makes it hard to dismiss. The water touches him without hesitation, without consequence, gliding over every line and curve like it belongs there, like it has a right to exist that close.

You press your lips together, trying to shake the thought loose.

Get a grip.

He resurfaces. And whatever fragile sense of composure you were attempting to rebuild dissolves immediately. Water slicks back his hair, darker now, clinging slightly before falling away in uneven strands. Droplets gather along the curve of his jaw, his throat, trailing downward in slow, deliberate paths that are far too easy to follow if you let your gaze linger even a second too long.

You make the mistake of following one. Just one.

It traces a line from just beneath his ear, down along the side of his neck, catching briefly at the dip of his collarbone before continuing—

You look away so abruptly it almost hurts.

No. Absolutely not.

That is not where your attention is going today.

You fix your gaze somewhere saferbut it doesn’t last. Because even in your periphery, he’s there. Still moving, still existing in a way that feels entirely too… vivid.

His skin looks different in the water. Brighter, maybe. Not in color, exactly, but in clarity. like the blue deepens, catches light in a way that makes it seem almost luminous.

It’s unfair. Unfair that someone can look like that without trying. Unfair that something as simple as existing can feel so deliberately distracting.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to look away again, this time more firmly.

You will not stare. You refuse to be that obvious.

“Are you even listening?” The voice cuts cleanly through your thoughts, and you jolt slightly, pulled back into yourself so abruptly it leaves you disoriented for a second.

Tsireya is watching you. So is Lo’ak.

Your stomach drops. “Yeah,” you say quickly, far too quickly to sound convincing. “I am.”

Lo’ak’s gaze flicks past you, following the exact direction yours had been pointed only moments ago. And then he grins. a slow, knowing grin.

Oh, no.

“Oh,” he drawls, the realization settling in with far too much satisfaction. “That’s what we’re doing?”

Heat creeps up your neck instantly. “I don’ know what you’re talking about,” you reply, aiming for indifference and missing it entirely.

“Mmhm,” Tsireya hums, not even attempting to hide her amusement.

“You were staring,” Lo’ak adds, far too delighted with himself.

“I was not—”

“You were,” he cuts in. “I’ve seen Aonung check himself out with less appreciation, and that skxwang is obsessed with his face.”

“I will actually drown you.”

“Promise you won’t cry when I do?”

You open your mouth to retaliate but the words stall before they can form.

Because Neteyam is walking out of the water now.

Your thoughts spiral instantly... something about how the water clings to him, how unfair it is that anyone can just look like that, how—

Something warm hits your lip.

You blink, confused, heart hammering. Your hand flies to your face, half in shock, half instinct. When you pull it away, your fingers are red.

Oh.

Oh, no.

“No—no, no, no—” you whisper under your breath, clamping a hand over your nose like that will somehow undo what is very clearly happening.

Of all the ways to embarrass yourself today This? Really?

You turn sharply away, back to the water, to literally anything else, heart racing now for an entirely new reason.

Behind you, there’s a pause.

“…are you bleeding?” loak questions, incredulous.

You don’t turn around. “I’m fine,” you say quickly, voice far too tight to be convincing.

You press your hand more firmly against your nose. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Nobody look at me.”

There’s a snort behind you. “It is literally still bleeding,” Lo’ak says.

“Stop talking.”

There’s the sound of the water shifting, and then suddenly Neteyam is beside you.

“You’re not fine,” he says, and now he’s right there, and this is somehow worse than everything that came before. “What happened?”

You press your palm tighter against your nose, mortified beyond recovery. “Nothing.”

“I’m not—” you start, then stop, because it is very obviously blood.

“…it’s just the water,” you add weakly, hoping the words themselves could make it so.

Lo’ak snorts again. “Yeah, the water’s famously red.”

You snap, “It just happens sometimes, okay?”

“Sometimes?” There’s a flicker of confusion in Neteyam’s voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. You could lie. You should lie.

Instead—

“It’s your fault,” you mutter, almost under your breath.

Silence.

“…my fault?”

You risk a glance at him which was a big mistake because now he’s looking at you and your brain immediately threatens to short-circuit again.

“You’re—” you start, but the words die in your throat. How do you even say this out loud?

“You’re just… standing there,” you try again, helplessly, the words falling over themselves. “Looking like that.”

he pauses and then he smiles. actually smiles. it makes your chest tighten and your knees go slightly weak.

“Oh,” he says softly, as if a puzzle has just clicked into place. “So that’s why.”

You feel your entire soul leave your body. “I’m going to walk into the ocean,” you mumble.

He huffs quietly before offering you a soft piece of woven cloth from his waist, still just a little amused. “Here,” he says “Careful.”

You take it without meeting his eyes, muttering something that could be a thank-you or a threat. You aren’t really sure which, and maybe that uncertainty is the only thing keeping you upright, because the rest of your dignity has evaporated.

“This is not funny,” you add, pressing it to your nose as if proximity could somehow mask the absurdity of the situation, though of course it doesn’t.

“It’s a little funny,” he says.

You glare. Or at least, you try. It loses nearly all of its intended effect because you’re still half-turned away, shielding your face, hiding in the movement itself.

When you finally look at him, his gaze is still there, waiting, patient. Not confused or teasing. Just looking.

And this time, it feels different. Sharper, somehow. Certain. Like he’s seen past the surface of everything you’ve been hiding and has grasped something just out of reach before, some secret part of you that you didn’t realize was so obvious.

“You do that every time,” he says quietly, the weight of it twisting your stomach in a way you aren’t ready for.

“I do not,” you blurt, too quickly.

“You do,” he insists, calm, measured, unyielding. “Every time I come near you.”

“That’s not—” you start, faltering immediately because the words sound absurd even in your own head. “That’s not what’s happening.”

“It isn’t?”

“No,” you whisper.

He pauses at that before continuing; “Did I upset you?”

The concern in his voice lances straight through you. Because it feels real, like it matters to him in a way that pierces everything else.

You look at him properly, finally, letting go of the instinct to hide, letting go of the reflex to deflect or shield yourself. “No,” you say, too quickly, too eagerly. “No, you didn’t do anything.”

“Then why—”

“It’s just—”

You stop. Because putting it into words makes it tangible. Saying it aloud makes it real in a way that feels dangerous and thrilling all at once, like standing on the edge of something you might fall off of.

He waits, of course he waits. Patient, steady, watching you unravel in ways he already knows how to read. “That’s not an answer,” he says quietly.

You exhale, the air trembling from your lungs, heat rising in a rush that has nothing to do with embarrassment this time. Everything is the impossibility of explaining yourself without sounding utterly ridiculous.

“It’s you, okay?”

“…me?”

“Yes. You.”

“What about me?”

You look at him, then away, then back again, as if the act of looking could somehow make the words easier to say, or easier to take back. “I like you, you skxwang.”

The world tilts sideways. Everything goes still. Your heartbeat pounds loud enough to drown out water, wind, even your own scattered thoughts.

Then he laughs. Soft. Warm. Not startled. Not mocking. Just quietly amused, and your chest aches. “I know,” he says.

You snap your head up. “You—what?”

“I know.”

“How… how do you know? I just—”

“You’ve been choking on fruit, falling off ilu, bleeding because of me,” he says, calm, eyes just slightly amused. “I had a suspicion.”

You make a strangled noise somewhere between frustration and disbelief. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You open your mouth to argue. You think better of it. You stop. Because he’s smiling at you again. looking at you in a way that makes you forget how to breathe.

“I like you too,” he adds, and it’s like the final pieces of a puzzle in your chest click into place, letting the air back in where it had been trapped.

“…oh,” you manage.

He laughs, small, unhurried, shaking his head gently as if to clear away the tension lingering in the air.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Then, almost imperceptibly, he reaches out, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, grounding, steady, familiar.

You don’t pull away.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

A collective sigh rises from somewhere behind you, loud enough to make you jump.

You whip around. Lo’ak is practically slumped over, as if he’s just survived some ordeal far worse than anything you can imagine. “Oh, thank Eywa,” he groans, shaking his head. “I thought you two were going to keep doing that weird thing forever.”

“What weird thing?” you snap, heat creeping into your cheeks despite yourself.

“The staring. The choking. The falling off things,” he rattles off, counting on his fingers. “It was painful.”

Kiri nudges him with an elbow. “You’re just upset you weren’t the center of attention.”

“I always am the center of attention,” he protests, though his voice is half-laugh, half-grumble.

“Not today” she says sweetly, and you catch the warmth in her eyes as she glances at you and Neteyam.

Lo’ak shakes his head, finally smiling, and you can’t help but laugh along. “About time,” he mutters, like he’s resigned himself to relief.

You laugh with them, shake your head and try to pretend this is normal but when your eyes find his again, everything stumbles just a little.

You're not shy really.

Just shy when its him. Around him.

~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~✿~✧~

Your feet picked up their pace, heartbeat thrumming in your ears as adrenaline coursed through your veins. You caught sight of some neatly tucked flowers peeking through the top of a bowl, and another filled with stew carried by a Tlalim. The wide array of baskets being brought towards the center of the village sparked Max’s reminder to ‘bring back something nice’, and you couldn’t help but peek at every basket that passed by.

It was like this every visit. The Tlalim would offer plenty of things—of different assortment—from across clans, and you’d get swept away trying to trade for every item they put on display. Of course, you didn’t have much to offer them, apart from the little bits of Omatikayan food and materials you received from time to time. But there was no harm in looking.

At least, that was what you told yourself as you jumped over an exposed root, greeting a familiar face of the Tlalim who smiled at you and told you to slow down.

“Slowly, little one. You’ll hurt yourself.”

As if Eywa herself butted in to your conversation, you tripped the moment he turned his back to you, foot caught between the planes of uneven ground.

“Careful,” said a gruff voice, catching you before you could fall flat on your face. You’d recognize his voice in a heartbeat.

Neteyam! Perfect timing.

You could use his help—as you always did every time the Wind Traders came. And surely enough, the face that greeted you when you looked up was none other than the Omatikayan Prince himself.

“Hi,” he murmured, tail swishing back and forth behind him. He looked not the least bit surprised to find you here amongst his people, running around as if you were one of them.

You steadied yourself with his arm, grip tightening around the band above his wrist as you found your footing. “Hi.”

You could’ve sworn he’d grown taller, or maybe a bit broader; it was difficult to tell when he practically towered over you. He wasn’t the boy you’d met as children, but he still possessed the same exact charm he did when he’d saved you from falling for the first time.

Neteyam held your arms as you took a step back, frowning at the excitement reflected in your eyes. “You did not wait for me?” 

The question made you blink and shift uncomfortably on your heel. “...No?”

“You know it’s dangerous to try to climb the gondola without help. What if you fall?” he chastised for the millionth time. Truly, does the firstborn son of the Olo’eyktan not have better things to worry about?

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not gonna fall, Neteyam.”

“Just to be safe, yawntutsyìp,” he said, tone ringing with finality as he pulled you out of a bustling Tlalim’s way, one who’d almost bumped into you—with a thousand baskets and all—from behind.

Neteyam shook his head, catching the way your eyes drifted to one of the nearby trinkets sprawled across a sheet of fabric. He had to tug on your hand to pull your attention away. “Come on. There’s plenty more up there.”

You gave one last scan of the colorful items—making a mental note to come back for the ikran beads later before you leave—, then followed Neteyam to the Wind Traders’ gondola.

The large ship was stationed between two floating mountains, tied down to a strong stalk to keep it from drifting off, and it gave you the perfect view of everything going on inside.

All the goods were piled up in corners of the gondola, spreading even weight until it was ready to be brought down to the village. Some baskets and sacks were opened at the top, giving a tempting peek at what was about to be offered to the people, and you couldn’t contain the way you lit up at the sight.

Sensing your impatience, Neteyam guided you by your elbow, not quite touching, but there to catch you if you flailed to one direction. You didn’t need him; not really. Years of running through large branches and unstable mountains with Spider taught you how to adapt to the forest the way the Na'vi did, but you were somewhat glad he cared for your safety so much.

“Keep up!” a young Spider grumbled, motioning for you to follow him across the large stalks that linked the hallelujah mountains. But you froze; young and frail like you were going to break the bridge just by stepping on it. You were already halfway across, a little slower than the rest of them, but still too far out to go back now. So you panicked, sinking to your feet to get a grasp of the roots below you, clutching onto it for dear life.

You were so high up, and without an ikran, falling would mean-

“Uh- wait, Spider? I don’t think I can-” your voice broke, startled as you felt a chest press to your back. Warmth enveloped you, and you felt your breathing start to slow at the steady presence keeping you grounded.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just don’t look down,” young Neteyam said, gently grabbing your hands to pull them away from the roots. He let you hold onto his arms instead, keeping you steady against him.

“Just keep your eyes on Kiri and Spider, see?” You looked up, seeing Kiri wave at you from the other side, and Spider too, just a bit impatient.

You nodded, slowly getting up to your feet with the help of his support. You trusted Neteyam, and you knew you could always rely on him with anything. He was safe; secure; and he protected you.

But that was years ago.

The Neteyam that stood before you now was all grown; different. And he could be insanely persistent when it came to your safety. He protected you a little too much, and sometimes, you just wanted to tell him to go away.

Maybe he wasn’t that different.

“Just don’t-”

“Look down. I know,” you finished for him, interrupting the sentence you’d heard many times before. “This isn’t my first time, you know. I’m fine, Neteyam.”

Your feet planted firmly on the stalk, balancing your weight to the center as a few Na’vi passed by. Neteyam followed from behind, keeping a safe distance so he wouldn’t invade your space like you’d told him not to, but you could feel his stare burning into your back.

So, just to irk him, you purposely misplaced your step, swaying to the right a little off-balanced. And as expected, the Sully boy reached out before he could think—to hold your shoulder in place so you wouldn’t tip to the side.

But instead of a thanks, you gave him a laugh, wide and cheerful as if messing with him was the most entertaining thing you’d done all day.

“That’s not funny,” he scowled, retracting his hand like your laugh burned his touch away. You came face to face with the glowering man who stared you down.

“It is, a little?” You blinked up at him.

Neteyam pursed his lips, thinking quietly for a moment with his tail tucked between his legs, before firmly stating, “I’m not giving you things to trade.”

“Wait, no! I’m sorry.” You grabbed at his arm, anchoring him in place. “You were going to give me something?”

“I give you something every year,” he said, smile betraying his feigned anger. You almost missed the way his chest puffed just the slightest bit, ears raised when you mirrored his smile. He took your hand and pried your palm open; then reached for something attached to his loincloth with the other.

It was a pouch, a small one he’d placed in your hand; filled with even smaller things inside. Feeling it around with your fingers, you could only guess what he’d put it in.

“It’s from the Metkayina. Shells you can’t find here in the forest,” he explained.

Your grin widened so much that your cheeks began to hurt, and if you weren’t standing a hundred feet up in the air, you would’ve tackled him in a hug.

“Just know you’re my favorite Sully,” you said gleefully, clutching the small bag in your hands.

Neteyam chuckled, letting you lead the path ahead of him. “I know.”

Your steps felt lighter, almost with a spring to them as you jumped over the huge knots at the end of the gondola. They tied the ship to something solid as an anchor, tight and secure in a way only a Wind Trader would know how to do, and it made you appreciate their craftsmanship a little more.

“Ah, Neteyam!” the Olo’eyktan exclaimed the moment he stepped onto the main deck. The two greeted each other—conversed about wind currents and trade routes and whatnot—while you wandered around the encampment.

The area was filled with lots of sacks and different containers, mostly food-related, or dishes that needed to be kept out in the open. There were some still being prepared in the cooking area, one of them which held a specific scent that immediately caught your attention.

Mushroom stew.

Your feet moved on their accord, long before your brain could catch up, and you approached the young Tlalim behind the large cooking pot. You’d never seen her before and she looked just as surprised to see you here.

“I’ve heard of sky people living amongst the Omatikaya, but I’ve never seen one for myself,” she uttered as soon as you came close enough, eyeing you with wonder. “I hope that wasn’t rude of me to say.”

“No, it’s alright,” you replied, but all her staring was beginning to make you feel uneasy- uh- was she circling you?

“I suppose I’m just not used to seeing sky people so openly trading and adjusting to Na’vi customs,” she said, poking and pulling at your clothes. You stood there awkwardly, letting the Na’vi girl scrutinize you with her attention until you started to squirm from discomfort.

“Some are born here, actually,” Neteyam interjected, coming up from behind you. You took a step back from the curious Tlalim girl and edged closer to the Omatikayan. “Na’vi customs come easy when it’s all you’ve known.”

“Right, of course. Neteyam, son of Olo’eyktan. I see you,” she greeted. Neteyam gave her a curt gesture and a nod. He offered something from his hand, a trinket of some sort—made out of woods and roots, you presumed—, and came forward until he was inches away from pressing up against your back.

“Will this be enough?”

“Oh, no. You and the human can have as much as you’d like,” she said, giving a generous basketful of the Wind Trader mushroom stew. “A gift.”

The girl smiled brightly, tail swishing behind her as he accepted the food. She visibly lit up when his hand brushed hers by accident, like she wasn’t even trying to hide her interest. Huh. You supposed bringing Neteyam had its perks, even when it came with… ulterior motives.

“I would like to see the Vitraya Ramunong though. If it’s not too much trouble,” the Tlalim added, hope gleaming in her eyes.

“Of course. I’ll have one of the elders take you,” Neteyam responded with practiced ease. It wasn’t a strange request. The village never denied the Wind Traders access to the tree of souls whenever they’d ask, but this one was new. She’d never been in the Omatikaya forests, or at least not enough to know where their most sacred place lay.

“Uh, I’d actually rather not go with one of the elders. I want to spend a bit of time there and they can be quite… insistent on showing the rest of the village.”

“Oh,” Neteyam said. His tail flicked once; an unmistakable sign of agitation. “Then I’m sure we can find someone. One of our hunters will happily escort you.” 

The Tlalim girl deflated as if her spirit was pulled out of her. His rejection was simple and direct, but soft enough to not mean anything.

“Oh, okay. I will see you again some other time then. Enjoy the dish,” she bid him goodbye, then you, the little human who he seemed to be keeping company a lot, even on a walk through the Wind Traders’ caravan. You’d only just realized how this looked.

Neteyam had always attracted girls left and right, some even begging for a moment of his attention. But you never quite figured out why he wouldn’t give them any more than a friendly response. Did he not consider finding himself a mate?

“I can see you musing, yawntutsyìp.” He glanced at you, curiously waiting to see what thought stuck to your head this time. “You frown a little when you think about something that just happened.”

The muscles on your face immediately loosened, coming to something close to a scowl at his keen observation. You shrugged, shoulder lightly bumping his arm as you let your eyes wander. Instruments, textile, bread—you seeked out all the different Wind Trader items out on display along the way. “You can’t blame me for wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

You thought for a moment, feet carrying you almost lazily across the deck. “Why you’re not interested in females.”

The silence that followed your question was deafening. And you wondered if you’d ask something too personal, one he wasn’t ready to share with you about; but then he fiddled with his fingers—a nervous habit you’d only seen with his siblings and not him.

Neteyam laughed, a little half-heartedly. “Is that what you think?” he asked.

“I mean- People talk, Neteyam,” you said, coming to a stop by the edge of the gondola. “You reject women- many women, then they see you lingering around the labs or taking long walks with me-”

“Reject is a strong word,” he interrupted, which you made clear you did not appreciate by giving him a look.

​​”That’s besides the point. What I’m saying is people talk. Things that are untrue, about you, and about me,” you finished, resting your chin against the banister. Neteyam joined you, tail swaying low near the ground in such a languid manner that you doubted he even realized the end kept brushing against your calf.

“Does it bother you?” he asked calmly. The boy looked wholly unbothered, but he tensed, as if tethering on the edge for your response. You didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“I- I guess? They don’t understand that we’re just friends,” you hesitated, words stammering out of your mouth before you could think.

Neteyam hummed in acknowledgement.

“I see.”

You did not see him much for the next few weeks. He didn’t openly linger by the lab anymore, or anywhere near you for that matter; he only met you to discuss living conditions and food rations. Now you were certain you’d definitely said something wrong. Your body fell back onto the comfort of your bed.

The scraps of materials and trinkets from that day laid neatly on your desk, a constant reminder of the way you’d repaid his generosity with offense, and worst of all, the remainder of his shells were still tucked deep in your drawer. Neteyam would not have it back; not when you’d tried to return them to him. It was his way of saying nothing was wrong, that he’d given you a gift because you were his friend, and that the two of you were definitely not having a fallout.

“Why do you have to be so nice?” you groaned to no one in particular, kicking your drawer closed and wincing when a jolt of pain struck your leg.

“Can I not be?”

You jumped, head whipping to the blue man standing by your door.

“Jesus,” you cursed, back hitting your pillows in surprise. “Knock, Neteyam.”

“Sorry,” he apologized. You figured you should forgive him; the Na’vi did not use doors. But it was the thousandth time already.

Neteyam stared at you, awkwardly standing there like he was unsure whether he should come in or not.

“You left this, back at the lab.” He held a device in his hands—it was your comms. Norm probably told him to give it to you on the way back.

“Oh, um, thanks,” you said, angling your feet so they wouldn’t hit the bed and hurt even more. And of course he noticed. You had no idea how long he’d been standing there, listening to you grumble about him before you’d realized.

“You want me to take a look at that?” he asked quietly, setting your comms down on a table.

You didn’t get to answer, because the boy was already crossing your room, motioning for you to come forward and sit at the edge of your bed.

He knelt there, large hands coming up to skim the side of your legs as his tail thumped rhythmically against the ground. You suddenly felt very exposed to his gaze, and you wished you could retract your leg back; pull them under the covers.

“Do you always kick things at the thought of me? Or did I find you at a bad time?” he joked, hands feeling up your right leg. You turned bright red in embarrassment.

“This is why you’re supposed to knock,” you tried sounding angry, but it came out choked and half-assed instead when he pressed on the sore spot of your ankle.

“There?”

You wanted to hit him. Where else?

“Yes. It’s nothing, Neteyam,” you dismissed, trying to pull away from his touch. You didn’t know how much faster your heart could continue to beat until it burst out of your chest.

“Hmm. Why are you angry at me?” he demanded, a hand enclosing around your knee.

“I don’t know… Maybe because you’re avoiding me? And you didn’t even tell me what I did. Was it about the liking girls question? I knew you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not avoiding you. I wouldn’t be here if I was,” he argued. Stubborn, annoying, ass. It couldn't be because of the rumors. He’d known about them long before he started avoiding you.

“Then why are you acting different?”

Neteyam sighed, “Maybe because I don’t want to see you so much.”

His words stung, and you took plenty of offense to that. You removed yourself from his grasp, lightly kicking away the hand that tried to reach for you, and sulked in the middle of your bed. You almost had half a mind to kick him out, but he’d beat you to it.

“Not in the way you think, yawntutsyìp,” he clarified, coming up to stand and sit on the edge of your bed. But with how big he was, he practically took the whole corner and made it dip to one side.

“I needed to… get away from you. Because being with you makes me think of things I shouldn’t be thinking of,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?” you asked shakily. But his fingers were tracing the side of your leg—so gentle you barely felt his touch—, and his tail playfully lingered near your hand. His eyes flitted to yours then, making your breath stutter. Has he always looked at you like this?

You couldn’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away. He’d always been attractive, that much was clear, but something about him being here, in your space—so close to you after weeks of distance—, drew you to him more than ever. Neteyam looked like he wanted something he shouldn’t ask for, and that alone made you forget why you’d been so mad at him before.

His tail subconsciously brushed your hip, where your shirt had ridden up; and the cool touch of his skin over yours made you gasp.

Neteyam blinked, tail flicking away like it’d just touched something sharp. “I’ll get some ice,” he whispered, and whatever was going on shattered the moment he backed away to leave.

You dug under the covers, flushing at the way he looked uncharacteristically nervous as he left your room. Ears pinned back, tail thrashing wildly—you didn’t think you’d ever see the Omatikayan prince stumbling over himself just to walk outside. You even thought he was going to hit his head on the door. But that couldn’t be because of you, could it?

‧₊˚.ೃ ࿐

©nyctophicbtch 2026 — do not copy, repost, or translate

True to his word, the bug—annoyed by the giant finger invading its personal space—reared up on its hind legs and gave her a sharp, tiny pinch.

The toddler yanked her hand back, her eyes widening in pure, unadulterated shock. For a second, Jake thought the waterworks were coming. He dropped his harness, reaching out to scoop her up. "Hey, come here, let me see—"

But she didn't want a hug. She was offended.

She scrambled to her feet, her small ears flattening tight against her head. She leaned over the log, bared her tiny, milk-white canines, and let out a sharp, raspy:

"HSSSSSSSSS!"

It was a perfect imitation of Neytiri’s "don't-mess-with-my-family" warning, just scaled down to a pint-sized version. It was fierce, it was focused, and it ended with her stumbling slightly over her own feet from the effort.

Jake stopped mid-reach, a massive grin breaking across his face. He felt that familiar surge of "That's my girl" pride hitting him right in the chest.

"Yeah!" Jake laughed, picking her up and hoisting her onto his hip. "Look at you! Giving the big bad bug the business?"

The toddler scrunched her nose, still looking grumpily at the log. She tried to do it again, but this time it came out as a soft, breathy pffft.

"Yeah, that’s right," Jake whispered, bumping his nose against hers. "You tell 'em. No one nips a Sully and gets away with it."

He checked her finger—it was barely a red mark—and kissed it. She relaxed, her tail wrapping firmly around his forearm as she rested her head on his shoulder, though she kept one suspicious yellow eye on the log just in case the bug wanted a round two.

-

Jake was still grinning like an idiot when Neytiri emerged from the brush. She took one look at Jake’s face—that specific "I’m-about-to-brag" look—and slowed her pace, her ears twitching with suspicion.

"Why do you look like a hexapede who found an extra fermenting fruit, Ma’Jake?" she asked, dropping the catch near their hearth.

"Oh, nothing," Jake said, his voice reaching a pitch of forced innocence. He shifted the toddler in his arms so she was facing her mother. "We just had a little run-in with a dangerous forest monster, didn't we? A real life-or-death struggle."

Neytiri’s eyes narrowed, scanning her daughter for injuries. Finding... none. "A monster?"

"Yeah," Jake nudged the toddler gently. "Baby girl, show Mom. Show her your scary face. Show her what you did to that bug."

The toddler looked at Neytiri. For a second, she just blinked, her tail twitching nervously. Then, she saw the encouraging spark in her father’s eyes.

She took a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks until they looked like little blue balloons, flattened her ears so hard they practically disappeared into her hair, and gave it everything she had.

"HSSSSSS-KAH!"

She even added a little forward snap of her head, her tiny fangs catching the light. The effort was so intense she ended up letting out a small, bubbly sneeze immediately afterward.

Neytiri froze. Her expression went through a rapid-fire sequence: shock, motherly instinct, and finally, a melting, radiant pride.

She let out a soft, trilling laugh that echoed through the trees. "Oh! Ma 'ite... such a fierce hunter!"

She reached out, taking the toddler from Jake’s arms. Instead of a warrior’s praise, she smothered the scary face in soft kisses, making the little girl shriek with giggles.

"You see that?" Jake asked, crossing his arms and leaning against a tree. "Technique was an eight. Intimidation factor? A solid ten. The bug didn't stand a chance."

Neytiri looked up at Jake, her eyes shining with warmth, though she tried to keep her voice stern. "You are teaching her to be a hot-head, Jake Sully. She will be hissing at the Olo'eyktan next."

"Hey, she started it," Jake defended, though he couldn't stop smiling. "I just provided the moral support."

Neytiri tucked the toddler’s head under her chin, whispering in her ear, "Next time, we work on the growl. We will truly terrify your father."

The toddler imitated a soft grrrr and Jake realized he was officially outnumbered by fierce women.

🌊⋆｡⋆˚࿔°.🐚⋆❀˖°⋆˚࿔

But Bucky had a way of warming slowly. Quietly. Like a stove that clicked for a long time before heat finally caught.

At first, he barely interacted with Lilah. Not out of rudeness—god, no—but out of fear. You saw it the first time you asked him to stay for dinner. Lilah held her favorite stuffed animal (a mangy little bunny) and Bucky’s gaze kept flicking from her small hands to the floor, like he was terrified of being caught doing something wrong.

“She doesn’t bite,” you teased gently.

He’d smiled, but his voice was rough. “Yeah, well. I don’t wanna… y’know. Step somewhere I shouldn’t.”

He didn’t have to say it for you to understand.

Her father wasn’t in the picture. Not by your choice, not by hers, and god, not because she deserved anything less than the entire world. And Bucky… well. He wasn’t the kind of man who thought he had the right to fill a space that wasn’t his.

So he kept a little distance. Always kind, always warm, but careful. Extra careful.

Until the night everything shifted.

Lilah padded into the living room wearing her sparkly socks and her mess of bedtime curls, clutching a children’s book to her chest.

“Buck?” she asked shyly, “Will you read this one?”

Bucky froze on the couch.

You jumped in immediately. “Sweetheart, Bucky doesn’t have to—”

But he was already nodding. Softly. Like something inside him had just… given up resisting.

“Yeah, kiddo. ’Course I can.”

And Lilah beamed. Climbed right into his lap like she’d been doing it her whole life. Bucky held still like she was made of glass—then, slowly, one arm wrapped around her so gently it nearly made you cry.

He read every word in that quiet, raspy voice.

Lilah fell asleep on him before the last page.

He didn’t move for the next hour.

After that, something in him melted. Just a little at first.

If she tripped, he steadied her. If she asked him a question, he knelt so he was eye-level. If she was having a shy day, he didn’t push—he simply stayed nearby until she drifted to him on her own.

Still, he was cautious. Always a step back, always checking your face to make sure he wasn’t crossing something invisible.

You appreciated it. You admired him for it.

Which is why you nearly cried when Lilah came into the kitchen one afternoon, twisting her shirt nervously, and whispered:

“Mommy… can I ask Buck something?”

“Of course, baby.”

But she didn’t go to him. She hid behind you, peeking around your hip, fingers clutching your sweater.

Bucky was at your counter fixing the hinge on a drawer, head snapping up instantly.

“Hey, sweetpea. Everything okay?”

She swallowed. Hard.

“Um. There’s… there’s a dance at school. Next week.”

“The daddy-daughter dance?” you asked softly.

Lilah nodded into your side.

Bucky’s entire body went still. Like he already knew what she was trying to ask and was terrified to hope.

You crouched to meet her eyes. “Do you want to ask him yourself?”

She whispered, “Can you… come with me? To the dance?”

Bucky inhaled sharply—so soft it was almost unheard. And then even softer, in a voice that tethered itself to your ribs:

“Are you sure, princess? I—I don’t wanna take someone else’s place.”

“My daddy doesn’t come to things,” she said. Not angry. Not sad. Just honest in that painfully small way only kids manage. “But you always make me feel safe.”

Your heart cracked clean in half.

Bucky blinked hard. His throat bobbed. He set the screwdriver down with hands that weren’t quite steady.

“Yeah,” he managed. “Yeah, I can go with you.”

And Lilah launched herself at him—small arms wrapping around his neck with absolute trust. Bucky caught her like she weighed nothing. Like she was something precious. One metal hand spread across her back, steady and protective, while his eyes closed and his jaw worked like he might break if he spoke too fast.

He held her longer than necessary. You pretended not to notice the single tear that slid down his cheek into her curls.

The night of the dance, Bucky showed up at your door in a button-down shirt and tie—nerves making his voice unsteady as he held out a tiny bouquet of flowers.

“For… for her,” he said.

You looked at him. Really looked. At the man trying so hard not to overstep. The man who cared so deeply he was trembling with it.

“She’s going to love them,” you whispered.

But it was nothing compared to her reaction.

Lilah came down the hallway in her glittery blue dress and stopped mid-step when she saw him.

“Bucky… you look like a prince.”

His breath left him in one brutal exhale. “And you,” he said, kneeling down to her height, “look like the bravest kid I ever met.”

She kissed his cheek.

He almost melted into the floor.

Later, when you picked them up, Lilah was asleep in his arms—cheek pressed to his shoulder, little hand tangled in the collar of his shirt.

Bucky carried her like he’d been made to. Like her weight was something he’d gladly bear for the rest of his life.

“She had fun?” you whispered.

His voice broke a little. “Yeah. We danced to all the slow songs. She told her friends I’m her ‘special grown-up.’”

Your throat tightened viciously.

“Bucky…”

“I’m not tryin’ to take a place that isn’t mine,” he said quickly, carefully laying Lilah in her bed, brushing her hair off her forehead with a tenderness that made your heart throb. “But if she needs someone—if you need someone—” He swallowed. “I want to be that. If you’ll let me.”

You stepped into him before he could finish. Your forehead pressed to his chest. His arms came around you like instinct, like gravity, like everything he’d been holding in finally finding home.

“We already let you,” you whispered into his shirt. “You’re part of us. Both of us.”

He exhaled shakily, holding you tighter—as if anchoring himself to the life he’d stumbled into.

“Good,” he murmured into your hair. “Because I think I’m falling in love with both of you.”

And when you looked up at him, soft and stunned and full to the brim—

it's 2 am on a thursday. you're bleeding, not badly, but enough that the dark stain on your shirt is spreading. it was a simple graze from a lucky shot. your target had friends, it seemed. you're fumbling with your keys at the door, your hands slick with rain and a little bit of blood when his door opens.

he's there, silhouetted in the light of his apartment. he's wearing sweatpants and a thin black shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide his bulk (unfortunate for him, not much for you). his hair is messy, like he's been running his hands through it.

his eyes go from your face, to the blood on your shirt, and back up.

"you're making a mess," he says in a sleepy voice.

"sorry," you mutter, finally getting the key into the lock. "slipped. in the rain."

"uh-huh," he doesn't move but instead, stays there, watching you. "that what they're calling it these days?"

your blood runs cold as you turn slowly. "what's that supposed to mean?"

he leans against his doorframe, crossing his arms. the vibranium plates of his arms shift as he does. "means the guy you were looking for tonight, carlito vasquez. he's not the kind of guy you 'slip' around. he's the kind of guy who has people."

you stare at him with your heart hammering against you. "how do you know about vasquez?"

"i make it my business to know the players in my city." he pushes himself off the doorframe and takes a step toward you. you instinctively take a step back, hitting your own door. "you're new. messy. and loud."

"i am not loud."

"your boots squeak on the fire escape. you re-load too fast, like you're nervous. and you talk to yourself when you're cleaning your weapons." he's in front of you now, close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his blue eyes. "you're a bounty hunter."

it's not a question, but a statement. like he was so sure of himself. had you really made it that obvious? you lifted your chin anyway. "so what if i am?"

"so, you're going to get yourself killed. or worse, you're going to get me killed." he reaches out, but not towards you. instead he pushes your door open. "get inside."

"it's my apartment."

"and you're bleeding out on the hallway carpet. which, for the record, the super just cleaned." he follows—guides—you inside, closing the door behind him without invitation. he scans your small, cluttered space in one sweeping. "first aid kit?"

"bathroom. under the sink." you slump onto your couch as the adrenaline wore off, leaving you exhausted and aching. "you don't have to do this, you know."

he ignores you anyway, disappearing into the bathroom and returing with the kit. he kneels in front of you, his presence taking up all the air in the room.

"shirt," he says, not looking at you.

"what?"

"i need to see the damage. shirt. up."

you hesitate for a second before tugging the hem of your shirt up, just enough to expose the bloody graze on your ribs. his jaw tightened. his hand was surprisingly gentle as he cleaned the wound, almost too clincally. the metal hand had rested on your knee.

"you were reckless," he said, dabbing at the cut. "went in through the front. no secondary exit strategy."

"how do you know how i went in?"

"because i was there," he meets your eyes. "watching. making sure you didn't screw up so badly i'd have to move. again."

you blink. "you were.. there?"

"i've been there the last three times you went out." he tapes a fresh bandage over the wound, lingering for a fraction of a second on your skin. "you're good. but you're not that good, pip-squeak."

"wh-what? why would you do that?" you ask with a small voice.

he sits back on his heels, looking up at you. he looks tired and worn down. "because despite the squeaky boots and talking to yourself, you're the first interesting thing that's happened in this building since i moved in."

you don't know what to say to that. instead, you just watch as he packs up the first aid kit.

"vasquez's crew will be looking for you." he says, standing up suddenly. "they know your face?"

"no." you shook your head immediately, not letting your eyes leave his face. "i had a mask."

"good. lay low for a few days." he walked to the door, but pauses with his hand on the knob. "and next time you take a job, you talk to me first."

"or what?" you challenged, finding your voice again.

he glances over his shoulder with a smirk playing on his lips. "or i won't be there to save your ass when shit inevitably hits the fan."

he's gone before you can retort, closing the door behind him. the room suddenly feels emptier than usual. you can hear him through the wall, the creak of his floorboards, the faucet running.

you looked down at the perfect bandage on your side, then the wall you share. a small smile spreads across your face.

the next morning, you wait until you hear his door open. you step out into the hallway at the exact same time. he freezes with the keys in his hand.

"good morning, neighbour," you say sweetly.

he just stares at you with a coffee thermos in his hand.

"so," you continued, leaning against your doorframe, mocking his position last night. "i've got a new lead. a skip trace, pretty low stakes. and i wanted to talk to you about it first. like you said."

his eyes narrow but there is that faintest hint of curiosity in them. "oh yeah?"

"yeah. maybe you could.. come over tonight? we can.. strategize."

he's silent for a long moment, just looking at you in an unreadable expression. but you see that single, short nod. "seven o'clock. sharp. don't be late."

he brushed past you, heading for the stairs. you watch him go as if he's trying to escape you.

"hey, bucky!" you call out.

he stops, half-turning with a deadpan, bored look on his face. it's a forced one.

"my boots don't squeak." you said.

this time, he has a smile that grows. it's one that he's unable to hold back. "yeah, they do," he says, tilting his head. "how do you think i found you, pip squeak?" he disappears down the hallway, leaving your heart doing a very fluttering, very dangerous rhythm.

7 o'clock. sharp.

fuck.

dividers by @/dxstoeskyvjbess

bucky taglist. @fluorjscent @sassandscribbles @lyl1pad @sharnarn @riot-sounds @prettyliittleviolets @user27386 @star-yawnznn @sweetserendipity65 @btwbaureidrc @alex-cheraya @biggestfangirl @pretty-girl-rock-3 @nandanandada @luvlikathyu @kararchives @henrywinterreincarnate @hannah9921 @milkyasteroids @starstruck-cowgirl @askingforafriend22

mcu taglist. @bucklesby-barnes @ambervanth @avgdestitute @miraclediviner

Clawing at it has only injured the nail polish you wear, the chipped coat mirroring your damaged love for performing the most entrancing form of art.

Invisible shackles wielded by the ghost of trauma has caged you in the studio built within your home. Imprinted into the ground is every memory of your lithe steps. The air has applauded your every leap, and the walls, mounted with framed certificates, awards and medals, have graced you with your success.

A success that has been torn apart by one accident.

Because that’s all it takes.

Just one.

Some people press ink to paper, every flick of their pen expressing their inner-turmoil swirling like a tornado within their souls. You, however, channeled it through ballet. You were cloaked in tulle and feathers, but brewed destruction upon stage. You controlled that tornado and changed it into something elegant. Fouetté turns became your eye of the storm, and the carriage of your arms spindled every emotion together transcendently.

It wasn’t merely the actions, but immersing yourself into a role that would infiltrate every aspect of your mind. You could ripen into someone else who doesn’t possess the ache stitched into your heart, nor wallowing dolefully in your desolate home numerous evenings.

The strength you wielded through precise, maintained movements in order to project every little expressive detail dissipates. Instead, it’s frozen over, the seasonal darkness striking it into shattered fragments. The attempts of rekindling that fire you ignited so diligently has crumbled to ash, and you are no phoenix.

You’re just yourself, and that’s never been enough for you.

The string that pulled you upwards has been severed, evident in how you’re slouched against the wall with your head hung low. If your instructor—past instructor—witnessed you now, she’d curse you for abusing your posture.

Yet, it doesn’t matter anymore.

You can never dance again.

This studio holds the last remaining sparks of your happiness. You refuse to budge from your slumped doll position, hoping at some point, the room built from love will return a glimmer of shine into your crackleware, not leaving it an empty cavern like this.

Scuffed boots with muted steps appear in your peripheral vision—a pair that haven’t graced these floorings since a Summer ago, where he’d toss them by your ballet flats under the rays of sun gleaming through the windows, and would spin you around for the thrill of it.

No audience, no instructions, no perfectionism.

Just you and James Buchanan Barnes.

Until Winter came and stole that too.

A breath passes and he’s joined you on the floor, the warmth of his thigh kissing yours in a forbiddingly saccharine reunion. His presence neither rattles your heart nor provokes any butterflies. Instead, a lighter sensation drifts amongst you, like an oil diffuser expelling a calming scent.

“I forgot you still have a key.” You quietly say, voice raw from the cries that scratched at your throat.

You haven’t contacted anyone since returning home from the hospital in the early hours of the morning, where the sunrise brandished its weapon of warmth and melted the blankets of snow. And, yet, you still remained cold, but it appears as though he’s here to change that.

“Yeah,” he exhales as though it’s his birth right to grant this room his breath. He did build it for you, after all, “I’m keeping it safe.”

A smile yearns to break across the mould of your face, but it remains lost in a hollow abyss, “More like you don’t want anyone else to have it.” You whisper.

“Always have to be right, don’t you?” He rhetorically asks in a lighthearted manner.

Finally, you pull your head up, stabling it against the wall, and gaze at him. There’s a gentleness cemented into the faint lines of his forehead that not even you could master. His eyes are bluer if that’s possible, deeper to swim in. Or drown. And his lips, paler from wintertide, hold an almost-perceptible smile.

He mirrors you in a way: broken, but still remaining.

“Why are you here, Bucky?” You dispiritedly ask. “I was a terrible partner to you.”

His eyes never once drift to your medical boot, akin to how you never stared at his prosthetic arm until he was comfortable with it. He just looks at you, peering into a soul that kindled with his.

“You loved ballet long before you loved me,” he softly says, a sacred susurration. “And I know what it’s like to lose your first love. Didn’t want you to be alone.”

A tidal wave of guilt crashes into you.

He’s still here despite everything.

Despite the early mornings where he’d lean against the studio’s doorway after awakening from another empty bed, silently wondering if he were to merge into the walls, you’d notice him… and he still came over.

Despite the afternoons where he’d deliver you lunch backstage and managed to grasp an hour of your time from the season’s production. Until, both of you were separated by a curtain… and he still sits beside you.

Despite the nights where you’d finally have a chance to make up for the neglect you placed upon him, only to eat alone at the table, tune out the movie screening, and replay his phone call in your head of a mission sweeping him away. He’d end up returning to a fast asleep you, too exhausted from the expectations of your job to remain awake … and he still fucking cares.

“I sacrificed so much for this,” you whisper, rolling your lips into your mouth to refrain a sob from slipping out. “I trained and pushed myself beyond my limits instead of socialising and making friends. I limited myself to salads and protein snacks instead of indulging in junk food. And y-you…” Your voice painfully cracks. “I sacrificed you. If I wasn’t so self-absorbed in my career, we could’ve worked out. We c-could’ve—”

Worry infiltrates every aspect of Bucky as your words break off with a sob. He cradles your cheek and brushes away the cascading teardrops, “Hey, hey…our relationship ending? Not all of it was on you, sweetheart, I’m just as much to blame. I prioritised missions over you… and that’s the biggest mistake of my life.”

Biggest mistake of his life.

Not his past… no. The biggest mistake of his life is letting you perform while his regular seat in the audience one day became vacant.

You shake your head at the purity of his understanding, yet the ache of being apart these few months is catching up, and you lean into his familiar touch, “But you help people. You save them.”

“Don’t do that,” he firmly states. “Don’t downplay the dreams you’ve always had of being a ballerina for me. I would never have gotten in the way of those dreams that made you happy.”

Grasping his hand and gently lowering it, you don’t let go. You linger. You linger like emotions on stage when an interval hits. Yet, there is no stage, and your life is still running. Being vulnerable is something you forbade yourself from feeling unless performing, where you received praise for it in forms of applause and roses. Now, the marble you churned yourself into is fractured, and a pitiful mist is seeping from the cracks.

There’s no applause, but there is Bucky, and that means more than anything.

“Do you remember how you’d store all of your tickets for my shows in that music box?” You inquire, a wistful sense fusing into your words as you lower your gaze, settling it upon the contrast of your footwear.

A boot and a ballet flat.

Almost like you and him.

“What I remember is how embarrassed I was when you found it,” he responds, although he isn’t ashamed. He wanted physical proof where he was graced by your artistry, because if his brain decided to go haywire again? The first thing he’d yearn to remember is you. It’s how he met you, anyways, by dropping his first ticket while embarking to the opera, and you kindly picked it up for him and surprised him later by being the Prima Ballerina, “Didn’t want the first and only dame I brought back to the apartment to think of me as some stalker.”

A ghost of a smile flickers on your lips, attempting to break through the barrier of life, because that’s what James Buchanan Barnes is: life in all forms, the pure and the dark.

You hum in remembrance, nodding slowly, “I’m like the ballerina in your music box,” you say, empty words that have poisoned your brain and seek clemency from your tongue, “Used for only a few moments, before being put away.” Your tone dips into a pond of hopelessness, “But for good this time.”

A silence settles upon you both. Not heavy, not light. Just one which you’ve shared before in the weights of your love. Except, this time you’re together. His hand snakes onto your thigh, a firm reassurance that he doesn’t believe your words to be true. He doesn’t have the right for this touch, he comprehends that, but nothing else will keep you in the moment.

Bucky doesn’t want you getting lost in that distraughtly beautiful head of yours.

“You were never just a ballerina to me.” He murmurs, dipping his head down to catch a glimpse of your face. “This…” he gestures to the orthopaedic boot, “…what’s happened, doesn’t define you, sweetheart.”

His words are like goo in your ears, warming you for a moment before dripping out. Instead of appreciating his kindness, you’re at a loss, trapped inside the bittersweet cage of your soul. The key may as well be lost in the blood-clad snow you found yourself in, just as he did many moons ago.

“Ballerina’s retire young, but not this young.” You whisper numbly. The tips of your fingers are stiff, mascara is clumped in ruffles under your eyes, and the ache in your neck is palpable in every pained flutter of your lashes.

When dancing, the passion for it was written into your bones. A light, freeing sensation that helped you believe you could glide as effortlessly as a swan. However, the exertion stitched into your wings caused damage incapable of healing, and can never flap adroitly again.

Exhaustion radiates from every crevice of yourself. It’s not the type that can be fixed with sleep, nor any peaceful atmosphere. No one can mend it but yourself, and Bucky plans to be there every step—or limp—that you courageously take.

“I don’t have dreams anymore… I have nothing.”

Bucky doesn’t part his mouth, his aching heart caught in his throat. Whatever he says won’t reach you unless it embodies Tchaikovsky’s canorous music. Thus, his flesh hand carefully cups the nape of your neck, his Vibranium hand cradling your cheek, and he coaxes you into leaning against him. He’ll shoulder the grief you’re experiencing, and he’ll never leave you standing by the grave alone.

As you tuck your face into the crook of his shoulder, the memory of your tears soaking the threads of his clothing, he breaks the hopelessness by brushing his lips against your head devotedly.

“You have me. Always.”

a/n ۶ৎ if anyone can recognise the different ballet’s i’ve subtly referenced/tied to my writing in this fic, i applaud you. but i applaud you anyways if you read/clicked on this!

One—two—three—four—five— You start over. One—two—three—four—five— Again. One—two—three—four—five—

You don’t even notice him at first. The world has tunneled down to the faucet and the sound of the water hitting porcelain. But then—softly, gently—there’s a shadow in the corner of your vision.

“Hey, doll.”

Bucky’s voice is quiet. He doesn’t come closer yet. Just says your name like it’s something safe. You flinch anyway. You always do when he catches you like this—caught in the middle of the storm, wrists pink from the heat, knuckles trembling.

He takes one step, and then another, careful as a wild animal approaching something fragile.

“Hands hurt yet?” he murmurs.

You swallow. Your throat feels raw. “No. I just—”

“I know.” He doesn’t make you explain. He never does.

The water keeps running, a steady hiss that fills the silence. You try to count again, but the numbers slip away the second he gets too close. Your chest tightens.

“It doesn’t feel right,” you whisper, voice cracking. “If I stop, something bad will happen.”

Bucky nods like he’s heard this a thousand times—which, maybe, he has. “Okay,” he says simply. “You don’t have to stop yet. Just breathe for me, yeah?”

He reaches forward slowly, letting you see every movement before it happens, and turns the faucet down so it’s a soft trickle instead of a torrent. The warmth of his metal hand settles on the edge of the counter, grounding and cold at the same time.

“Can I touch you?” he asks. Always asks.

You nod, and his flesh hand finds your elbow, thumb brushing over damp skin.

“Okay,” he says again, softer. “We’ll do this together.”

You focus on the sensation: the coolness of the metal near your hip, the steady pressure of his thumb, the sound of his breathing behind you. You try to follow it, in and out, even when your brain screams that you’re doing it wrong.

“I can’t—”

“Yeah, you can,” Bucky murmurs. “You’ve done it before, sweetheart. Just one thing at a time.”

He waits until you look at him. That’s the hardest part—the looking. Because when you meet his eyes, all the guilt you’ve been holding back breaks loose.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid, but I can’t stop—”

“Hey.” His voice sharpens, but not in anger—just enough to cut through the noise in your head. “Don’t talk about my girl like that.”

You blink. He gives you a tiny, lopsided smile.

“There she is,” he whispers. “Knew you were still in there somewhere.”

The water’s cooled to lukewarm now. He watches your hands for another few seconds, then reaches past you to shut the faucet off completely. You expect the panic to slam into you immediately, but it doesn’t—not the way it usually does. It lingers, jittery and sharp, but Bucky’s still holding your elbow, his thumb still tracing lazy circles.

“Let’s sit down, huh?”

You let him lead you to the couch. He doesn’t drag or steer—just keeps enough pressure to remind you he’s there. When you reach the sofa, he tugs the throw blanket over your shoulders and sits beside you, legs angled so his knees bump yours.

“Tea’s probably gone cold,” he mutters. “I’ll make another one in a bit.”

You stare at your hands. “I ruined dinner.”

“Nah. I burned dinner,” he corrects. “You just had the water running.”

A small, broken laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. It’s shaky, but it’s there. Bucky grins like you’ve just handed him the sun.

“That’s better.”

The next few minutes pass in quiet. He doesn’t talk unless you do. When your leg starts to bounce, he rests his metal hand on your knee—not to stop you, just to anchor you.

“Can I ask what set it off?”

You hesitate. “I was cutting vegetables, and I thought—what if the knife’s dirty. And then I thought about the cutting board, and then the faucet handle, and then I couldn’t—”

He nods. No judgment, no interruption. “Okay.”

“It’s always like this,” you whisper. “Like one thought turns into a thousand, and if I don’t fix it, it’s my fault.”

He hums low in his chest. “Used to be the same way for me.”

You glance up. “With—?”

He taps the side of his head. “Different flavor, same monster. I’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced I forgot something—mission plans, codes, people I hurt. Couldn’t sleep ‘til I went through everything in my head a hundred times.”

You swallow hard. “How’d you make it stop?”

“Didn’t,” he says, honest and gentle. “Just learned to sit with it ‘til it got tired of me.” He tilts his head, eyes soft. “You don’t have to fight it alone, doll. You let me sit with it, too, yeah?”

You breathe. Just breathe.

He waits as you pull the blanket tighter, as your pulse starts to slow, as the fog in your brain begins to thin. The silence isn’t empty—it’s full of him, warm and patient.

“Do you ever hate it?” you ask finally.

“The noise?” he says. “Sometimes. But then I remember the part that lets me notice when you need the water turned off before it burns you, or when you’re starting to spiral.” He leans forward until your foreheads touch. “So maybe it’s not all bad.”

Your eyes sting. “You always know what to say.”

“Comes with practice.” He presses a kiss to your hairline. “Besides, I like taking care of you.”

“Even when I’m like this?”

“Especially when you’re like this.”

There’s no miracle moment—no instant switch that makes everything okay. But the edges dull. The urge to get up, to start washing again, fades enough that you can stay still. His hand finds yours, fingers weaving together, flesh and metal, warmth and cold.

You trace the line where his skin meets the steel and whisper, “Thank you.”

He squeezes your hand once, firm and certain. “Always.”

The kettle whistles faintly in the kitchen again—he must’ve turned it back on when you weren’t looking. You let the sound fill the room, small and steady, like the hum of your own heartbeat.

When he finally gets up to pour the tea, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. Just brushes his thumb over your knuckles and says, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

National Aquarium, Baltimore

You arrive two minutes after opening, because of course you do.

He’s in a charcoal long-sleeve under a navy jacket, hair just brushing his jaw - soft, windswept, that almost-grown-out length framing his face like he’s perpetually halfway between assassin and off-duty rock guitarist. Hair this good should be illegal. You’re in denim jeans and a light grey sweater layered under your tailored black coat, your best walking sneakers on. Practical, uncomplicated.

Civilians, for today.

You have:

Two tickets (pre-booked)

A printed and colour-coded route based on tank flow and crowd density trends

An Excel-based snack budget in case he tries to get distracted by popcorn

You check your watch. “If we start with the Australia exhibit and move clockwise, we can hit the Pacific reef right before the otters go into enrichment. But we have to move efficiently.”

Bucky smiles faintly and shoulders your tote bag like it’s a mission pack. “Efficiently. Got it. Lead the way, commander.”

____

The Jellyfish Tank

There’s that cool blue hush that makes it feel like the world is underwater. You walk slowly, side by side, not touching – but every so often, your hands brush.

You stop at the jellyfish tank. “They’re not very practical,” you say softly, without looking at him. “Just… pretty.”

Bucky watches the tendrils drift, luminous and unbothered.

“I like that about them.”

A beat. Then, lower, “You don’t have to be useful to be worth looking at.”

You glance over.

He doesn’t.

Not yet.

____

The Otter Enclosure

The otters are curled together in their habitat, holding paws, spinning gently in the current. Bucky is transfixed. You catch him smiling –genuine, unguarded, rare. You reach out and curl your fingers lightly around his wrist.

“You’re allowed to enjoy this, you know.”

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “It’s just – this feels like something we should’ve done before we actually got married.”

You smile, gentle. “We did everything backwards. Fallout before the future, paperwork before courtship.”

He huffs a small laugh, eyes still on the otters. “Yeah.”

A pair of otters drift right on by, holding hands like it’s the only thing that matters.

“That’s us,” you whisper.

Without hesitation, Bucky replies. “Yup.”

You smile into the glass. “Violent, aquatic, emotionally codependent?”

“Frequently underestimated,” he adds. “Good at puzzles. Aggressively cute when fed.”

You glance at him. He’s smirking a little, leaning on the rail. You bump your shoulder into his – just once.

He’s still watching the otters when he says, low, “Backwards or not… I wouldn’t change it.”

A pause. The water glows, silent and infinite around you.

Then, quieter still, “And I’d do it backwards again, if it means it ends like this.”

Your chest feels too full. You swallow once, before managing, “You’re here. I’m here. And the otters are holding hands. So I think we’re doing okay.”

This time, he does look at you, and his smile makes everything worth it.

____

Stingray Touch Pool

You wash your hands at the side station and read all the instructional signs twice. Bucky stares at the pool like its alien terrain.

“You’ve been in open water under fire and you’re scared of a stingray?”

“It’s… floppy,” he mutters, arms crossed.

“It’s a stingray, not a subpoena.”

“One of those has never emotionally destabilised me.”

Still, he crouches down, hesitant. You’re already reaching in, brushing your fingers along a passing ray’s back.

When it brushes his hand, his whole existence short-circuits.

“…It’s slimy,” he whispers, like the world just changed.

You grin. “You’re so brave.”

He side-eyes you, but his lips curl, almost despite himself.

Later, he buys the stingray plushie from the gift shop, for Alpine (allegedly).

____

Deep Ocean Exhibit

It starts when Bucky stops in front of the world’s ugliest fish. Some flattened, gelatinous, mutant-looking thing with eyes on opposite sides of its head and an unfortunate jaw situation.

He points. “That’s you.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Elegant. Dignified. Stares into the abyss. Possibly venomous.”

You eye the creature. Then him.

“Fine. But you’re that.” You gesture at a lump of beige coral that looks both sad and somehow dehydrated. “Stiff. Grumpy. Hasn’t moved since the Cretaceous period.”

Bucky nods solemnly. “Sturdy. Unshakable. Excellent posture.”

____

The Eel

You come upon an eel. Long, pale, aggressively still, watching everything with judgmental side-eyes.

Both of you stop.

“Whitmore,” you say in unison.

You burst out laughing. Bucky mutters “look at that smug bastard” as the eel curls deeper into its rock like it’s about to call a point of order.

____

Decorator Crabs

You find a tank labelled Decorator Crabs. They’re spindly little things, covered in scraps of algae, shells, literal trash. One of them is dragging a receipt across the tank like it’s a prize.

“That’s Micah during appropriations season.”

“Devon’s the one with the broken pen cap stuck to its leg.”

____

Shark Tunnel

You’re both lying on a bench beneath the tunnel, watching the sharks glide overhead. You’ve hit every exhibit on time. Your map is fully stamped. He’s impressed.

“You really did the whole thing,” Bucky murmurs.

“I said I would. You’re not tired?”

“Nah. You were excited. That’s enough for me.”

He reaches out, and hooks your pinky with his. He doesn’t look at you. Just keeps watching the ocean move above you like sky.

____

Gift Shop 

The date is winding down, the aquarium is about to close. You’ve seen everything and you even managed to convince Bucky to try the seaweed chips (“tastes like betrayal,” he said, but he's carrying a basket with three party-sized bags).

And now you’re here – among the magnets, mugs, and plush marine life – holding hands like teenagers with a joint bank account.

You, of course, pick up a tiny notebook with a sea cucumber on it. “This will be your debrief journal from now on,” you say.

Bucky eyes it, unimpressed. “That thing doesn’t even have a face.”

You smile sweetly. “Exactly.”

You’re about to head for checkout with the sea cucumber notebook and a jellyfish pin (for yourself) when Bucky freezes mid-aisle, staring.

You follow his gaze to a pair of otter plushies – soft, velcro paws clasped, one wearing a little navy bowtie.

He tries not to react but fails spectacularly.

“They are holding hands,” you say, quietly.

“Goddamn it,” he sighs. He picks it up, and squints at the tag. “‘River Love Buddies.’ You’re not gonna let me live this down.”

“Nope. And you’re buying it.”

He grumbles all the way to the register. But of course he buys them.

____

After

Outside, the air smells like brine and car exhaust. You’re riding the soft afterglow of a perfect date. Stingrays pet, schedule conquered, and a Bucky Barnes-shaped man in love with your competence and repertoire of fun fish facts.

You lean into him. “Okay. I picked the aquarium. Your turn. Dinner’s on you.”

He thinks for all of three seconds. “There’s a sushi place a block over. Looks good.”

You blink. Slowly. “…You want to eat fish after we just befriended them?”

“We befriended the cute ones. The ugly ones are fair game.”

“You pointed at an ugly fish and said it was me.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

____

Sushi Restaurant

You sit next to him at the conveyor belt sushi bar, judgment in your eyes and a piece of tamago between your chopsticks. Plates of gleaming fish glide past between you – salmon, yellowtail, tuna, unblinking and accusatory.

“You brought me to a raw bar after an emotionally charged marine bonding session.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “You brought me to a building full of aquatic creatures with zero escape routes.” He shrugs, eyes tracking a plate of bright orange uni as it passes. “Call it even.”

He offers you a piece of yellowtail from his plate. You pop it in your mouth and sigh dramatically. “Somewhere, an eel is watching this and filing an ethics complaint.”

He’s already dipping wasabi, unbothered. “If it’s Whitmore, I hope he chokes on seaweed.”

The server stops by to refill your tea, glancing at the tiny plush otters tucked beside your bag.

“Aww, did you just come from the aquarium?”

Bucky, deadpan, without looking up from the swirling belt of sushi, “Yeah. We named the octopi, emotionally bonded with the otters, and now we’re eating their neighbours.”

You cover your face with your hand. “Please don’t say that out loud. I’m a federal official.”

*

You’ve made it through the meal with only mild existential distress. The miso soup has cooled, and the last piece of salmon has vanished under protest.

You’re sipping your tea when you’re sipping your tea when the waiter reappears with something unexpected: a tiny plate of mochi, artfully arranged with a drizzle of matcha syrup and –

A folded napkin, handwritten in Bucky’s barely legible slant.

“Sorry for eating your aquatic emotional support system (they were delicious)”

You gape at him. “Did you write this while I was in the bathroom?”

Bucky leans back, smug. “You were gone for four minutes. Plenty of time for remorse.”

“Remorse?”

He pops a mochi into his mouth without breaking eye contact. “Light remorse. Dessert-sized remorse.”

He’s impossible.

You’re keeping him anyways.

____

At Home

Back home, you find the otter plushies propped up on your side of the bed, holding hands, one gently leaning on the other.

At the foot of the bed, Alpine is curled into a perfect silver crescent, paws tucked around the stingray plushie like it’s her own tiny hostage. She flicks her tail once when you walk in but doesn’t bother lifting her head.

You don’t say anything. Just lie down beside them.

When Bucky walks in – quiet, barefoot, freshly showered – he glances at them, then at you.

“You’re the one with the bowtie, by the way.”

“That’s fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who gets tangled in the blanket and panics.”

He smirks. Crawls in beside you. And for a long moment, nothing is happening except breath, cotton, and a stupid pair of plush otters keeping vigil at the edge of the bed.

____

A/N: (♡´𓋰`♡) I JUST WANT BUCKY TO BE HAPPY !!!!! btw if anyone's confused by the whitmore (and devon and micah) reference, they're OCs in my long-form fic For the Record 

(this is also based on a semi-true story: we went to eat omakase after going to the aquarium in osaka... the sushi was excellent and my guilt evaporated in two bites)

ps: don't let otter PR fool you, the wild ones are assholes HAHAHHAHA

pps: thank u claire for reminding me its tuesday 🤣

Bucky turned, gun still raised, and there she was.

Huddled in the corner of a cell barely big enough for a grown man to kneel in, knees tucked to her chest, curls matted and face streaked with dirt. She couldn’t have been more than three. Her eyes were too big for her face, and they tracked him the moment he stepped closer.

“Hey, hey—” he said softly, voice cracking around words he hadn’t used in hours. “It’s okay, doll. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Her lower lip trembled. She blinked through tears, staring at his metal hand first, then at his face—searching.

“Bucky,” he said, pointing to his chest. “I’m Bucky.”

She didn’t answer. Just sniffled and reached—tiny fingers brushing the cold vibranium as if it might bite her. When it didn’t, she grabbed hold.

And that was it.

Bucky carried her out of Hydra that night. Through gunfire, through smoke, through everything. She never made a sound. Not one cry, not one whimper—just buried her face in his shoulder and held on.

It didn’t get easier once they were out.

She wouldn’t leave his side. Not for a second.

Sam and Steve tried to help—tried to feed her, bathe her, make her laugh—but she’d only look for Bucky. The second he stepped out of the room, she’d scream, the kind of broken sob that tore right through him.

So, he stayed.

He sat cross-legged on the bed while she played with the edge of his sleeve. He slept sitting up on the couch because she’d curl up in his lap and wouldn’t move. He learned how to braid with shaky fingers and how to coax her to eat by pretending to taste everything first.

The first time she said his name, he nearly cried.

“Buh-kee,” she murmured, soft and shy, pressing her hand over his metal one.

“Yeah, sweetheart. That’s me.”

The first night in his apartment was the worst.

He tried to set her down in the little bed he’d built from spare sheets and pillows. He’d even found her a stuffed bunny at the market—a pink one with floppy ears. But the moment he stepped away, she started to cry.

Not loud. Just heartbreakingly soft.

He tried again—sat with her until her eyes closed, waited a minute, then stood. She woke instantly, tears welling up.

“Hey, hey, baby,” he whispered, scooping her up again. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

She buried her face in his shirt, little fingers fisting the fabric.

That’s how they ended up in his bed.

He lay there stiff at first, afraid to move, afraid he’d scare her. But then she shifted closer—head tucked under his chin, a tiny, content sigh escaping her lips.

And for the first time in years, Bucky slept through the night.

Weeks passed. Then months.

She learned to laugh again—really laugh. She’d run barefoot across the living room floor, squealing when he pretended to chase her, or cling to his leg when Sam stopped by just to annoy him. She called him “Daddy” once, completely unprompted, and he had to step out of the room before she saw his eyes fill with tears.

He never meant to be a father. He wasn’t sure he knew how. But the second he saw her, something in him clicked—something quiet and old and fiercely protective.

She was his.

And then there was you.

You showed up months later, a family counselor SHIELD had hired to help him navigate raising a traumatized child while also being a barely-adjusted former assassin. He didn’t want help. Not at first.

But you didn’t flinch when you saw the arm. You didn’t speak to him like he was dangerous—you spoke to him like he was tired. Like he was trying.

You started coming by twice a week. Brought coloring books, puzzles, and tiny socks because “three-year-olds lose them like they’re trying to.”

He liked your laugh. He liked how she smiled around you. He liked how easy it felt having you there, how you fit into their quiet chaos like you’d been meant to all along.

One night, after she’d finally fallen asleep in her own bed, he found you sitting on the couch with two mugs of tea.

“She did it,” you said softly. “Slept without you.”

He smiled. “Didn’t think we’d ever get there.”

“She trusts you.”

Bucky looked toward the hallway, where a sliver of light spilled from her room. “She’s the bravest kid I’ve ever met.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. “She’s brave because you are.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m just tryin’ not to mess her up.”

“You’re doing more than that,” you said, voice gentle. “You’re teaching her what safety feels like.”

Something shifted then. Something small and steady. The same way it had the day he found her.

A year later, she ran between them in the park—her curls bouncing, bunny clutched in one hand as she squealed with laughter. Bucky caught her around the waist, lifted her high into the air, and her giggles turned into pure sunshine.

“Again!” she shouted.

He laughed and tossed her higher, catching her against his chest.

You watched from the bench, warmth in your chest, and when he finally sat beside you, breathless, she curled in his lap and promptly fell asleep.

“She’s gettin’ heavy,” he said, smiling.

“She’s growing,” you teased. “Healthy. Happy.”

He nodded, eyes soft on her face. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

You shrugged, cheeks warming. “You didn’t need me.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, gaze flicking up to yours. “I did.”

The words hung between you, quiet but certain.

And when he leaned in—careful, patient, the way he always was—it wasn’t the kind of love that started in sparks and chaos. It was the kind that grew, steady and sure, between bedtime stories and small hands learning to trust.

Because she’d saved him, too.