🍒Princess Jamie🍒

They were all still buzzing from the mission the night before. A close call that Bob hadn’t been on. Again.

He wasn’t angry. Not exactly. Just… hollow.

He wanted to help. God, he wanted to. But the team still wasn’t sure what to do with the Sentry, how to deploy someone who could level a city by accident. So instead of going to war with monsters, Bob folded towels. He refilled the coffee. He vacuumed. He even did the dishes!

And right now, he was pacing the length of the kitchen, hands fidgeting, mind spinning.

Do something. Be useful. Don’t just stand here. You’re not decoration. You’re-

“Bob,” Yelena cut through his thoughts. She was sitting cross-legged on the counter, spooning peanut butter straight from the jar. “You’re doing the thing again.”

He blinked. “The… thing?”

“The pacing thing,” she said, waving her spoon. “It’s stressing me out. Like hamster in human body.”

Alexei snorted. “Da. He walks hole in floor soon. Maybe he wants to join mission next time? Destroy base by just walking?”

Bucky, quiet at the table, looked up from his mug. “He’s just thinking. Let him be.”

“I can think while sitting,” Yelena said. “You know, normal people do that. Try sometime.”

Bob stopped mid-step, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I just...-uh...didn’t sleep much.”

Walker, already halfway through his third pancake, muttered, “You never do, man.”

“I just don’t like… sitting still, doing nothing,” Bob said softly.

The room went quiet for a moment. Just a breath. Everyone knew what he meant, even if no one said it.

Then Alexei clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt his spine. “You are restless, comrade! You must walk it off! Go outside, smell fresh air, scare pedestrians!”

“Yeah,” Yelena said, grinning. “Go on one of your little therapy walks, Bob. Before Val starts charging you for pacing holes in the floor.”

Bob tried to smile. “You sure you don’t need anything else, guys? I can...”

“Go,” Bucky interrupted, pointing toward the elevator with his mug. “Before they start a civil war over breakfast.”

Bob hesitated, still half-turning toward the sink, the counter, the plates...anything he could fix.

They don’t need you here. They’re fine without you. You’re fine. Just go for a walk.

He nodded finally. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll go clear my head.”

“Bring these cakes on a stick, I like!” Yelena yelled after him. “And emotional stability if you find any!”

Alexei shouted something after him about “real heroes doing the grocery shopping,” and Walker just grunted his approval through a mouthful of pancakes he made anyway.

Bob laughed under his breath despite himself. The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

As they closed behind him, the noise of the tower faded, replaced by the hum of quiet, of stillness.

He let out a slow breath and thought, Maybe I’ll finally find something useful to do today...

The elevator doors slid open to the lobby, sleek, polished, everything shining like it was afraid to offend Tony Stark’s ghost.

Bob stepped out, already feeling out of place. He’d just wanted air. Maybe the good coffee from the stand across the street. Maybe a minute to stop feeling like a ghost haunting his own home. Not even that he could be, they already had Ava doing just that.

Then he saw it.

Two security guards are roughing up a ragged-looking young woman, gripping her by the arms near the front desk. A third was lecturing her like she’d just tried to steal nuclear codes.

She was… chaos wrapped in sunlight. Ripped jeans, oversized jacket that had seen better decades, messy hair that might’ve been several colors once, and eyes that glared with enough fire to melt adamantium.

“Hey!” she snapped at the guard lecturing her. “You try living on the streets and tell me you wouldn’t kill for five minutes in a real bathroom!”

The guard looked mortified. “Ma’am, this is private property. You can’t just waltz into the Avengers lobby!”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t waltz. Maybe if your rich superhero buddies weren’t so stingy about bathrooms, I wouldn’t have to risk arrest for a small wash-up. It's not like I was gonna steal Captain America’s soap. I just wanted to pee and wash my face before the sun set on my tragic, unhygienic existence.”

Bob froze halfway across the lobby. She was funny. Infuriating. Beautiful.

And she looked like she hadn’t had a warm place to exist in a long time.

The guard tightened his grip. “Listen, little girl, you can’t be here. This is a restricted area.”

“Yeah, well,” she said, “maybe put up a sign that says No Humans Allowed, would’ve saved us both the conversation, Security Barbie.”

“It's for visitors of the new Avengers only,” the security guard said, now visibly angry.

“Oh, I'm totally a visitor. I’m here to see the Hulk. You might’ve heard of him, big guy, green, rage issues, terrible skincare routine?”

Bob tries to mind his business, but he just can’t. Not this time. The guard grabs her arm a little too roughly, and something in Bob snaps, that protective instinct born from experience. He didn’t even think, just stepped forward, voice cutting through the tension.

“Hey, hey, hey, can you maybe not manhandle her like that?”

The guards froze. Everyone in this building knew Bob Reynolds, or at least what he was. The golden man with the god inside him. The one you didn’t argue with if you valued your job or your atoms. Val's special weapon. The New Avengers' secret ace.

“Mr. Reynolds,” one stammered, immediately letting go. “Sir, she was trespassing. She tried to sneak.”

“I wasn’t sneaking!” she protested. “I never sneak!”

"Did too!" the guard argued back almost childishly. "Mr. Reynolds, sir, she was trying to go into the visitors..."

“The bathroom,” the strange girl interrupts. “God forbid a girl pees in peace.”

Bob’s lips twitched, the smallest amused smile. “She’s… with me.”

The guards blinked. “She is?”

“Yep,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “My visitor.”

The woman turned to him, squinting. “I am?”

He looked at her, silently pleading to just play along. Her eyes flicked between him and the guards, then she grinned, sudden and sharp.

“Oh, yeah! Totally. I’m with…” she leaned closer, whispering, “What’s your name, honey?”

Bob’s brain short-circuited. “B—Bob. Bob Reynolds,” he mutters, blushing.

She straightened, all charm. “Yeah, I’m with Bob Reynolds. Right! Bob! My old pal Bob. We go way back. Known him for years. Great guy. Bit of a pace-walker, but heart of gold. You lot are terrible at hospitality, by the way.”

The guards looked at each other, utterly lost. Bob, for once, didn’t mind the confusion.

“Right,” the head guard muttered finally. “Apologies, sir. Won’t happen again.”

As they retreated, Bob turned to her, the woman whom he had just helped lie her way into his day, and found her watching him like she was trying to figure out what he was made of.

“So…” she said, crossing her arms. “You always save random girls from getting kicked out of billionaire buildings, or am I just special?”

Bob blinked, awkward smile tugging at his lips. “You, uh, looked like you needed saving.”

She arched a brow. “Sure, I'll be your damsel in distress. Guess we’re even, hero.”

Before he could think of a reply, she started walking toward the elevator like she owned the place. “Come on, hun. Show me that fancy bathroom I risked arrest for.”

He followed, because of course he did. When she called him hun, something in his chest cracked open just a little.

The doors slid shut behind them, sealing them in a small box of awkward silence.

Bob stared straight ahead. She leaned against the wall, humming some tune he didn’t recognize, totally unbothered.

“So,” she said finally. “Are you like, actually an Avenger, or just, like… janitorial staff with great cheekbones?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Well, you rescued me, but you’re not wearing, like, the fancy Avengers armor. So either you’re the janitor, or you’re a superhero who doesn’t get invited to the fun stuff.”

He hesitated. “The latter sounds about right...”

She smiled knowingly. “Ouch. Hit a nerve?”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “I just… don’t go on missions much.”

She tilted her head. “Because you’re bad at them or too good at them?”

He almost laughed at that. “Depends on who you ask.”

For a moment, the joking faded, and something gentler filled the space.

“You know -uhm, I don’t usually break into famous New York buildings just to pee. I was just sleeping behind the dumpsters out back, and I felt… gross. Needed to wash up. You can kick me out again when the coast’s clear.”

“You sleep outside?” He asked quietly.

She nodded, still watching the floor numbers climb. “Yeah. Since I was thirteen. You get used to it. Kinda.”

Bob’s heart twisted. “That’s… a long time.”

“Mm. Long enough to develop a deep, personal hatred for cold concrete and cops who call you ‘kiddo’ or 'little girl.'” She grinned sideways. “Name’s Y/N, by the way.”

He smiled faintly. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“So, what now?” she asked.

The elevator dinged softly. Bob glanced at the floor number, then back at her.

“Now,” he said, surprising even himself with how sure he sounded, “you get to see that bathroom you wanted.”

She blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Even though I literally lied to your security guys and made fun of them to their faces?”

Bob smiled, gentle and steady. “You were kinda funny back there.”

Y/N grinned. “Careful, Bobby. I might start thinking you like me.”

He didn’t deny it. The doors slid open, and upstairs, the chaos of the New Avengers tower awaited them.

The elevator doors slid open to said chaos.

The smell of breakfast still hung in the air: coffee, toast, and something slightly burnt. Alexei was trying to fix the toaster with a butter knife while Yelena sat cross-legged on the counter, scrolling through her phone.

It was normal. Loud, a little messy, but normal.

Bucky just sipped his coffee like a man who’d accepted that chaos was his natural habitat now.

“Bob! Back so soon?” Yelena called, turning, then froze mid-sentence. “Uhm- hi? You… brought… company. Bob, who's your new... friend?”

The whole team noticed her now. The woman stepped out beside him, clothes torn at the edges, shoes scuffed, hair wild but not in a careless way. There was something alive about her, like the world hadn’t managed to dim her yet.

And everyone froze.

Alexie's butter knife shenanigans stopped mid-air. Bucky set down his mug. Walker blinked twice like he thought he was hallucinating.

"Nice going... we leave Bob alone for two minutes and he kidnaps a homeless person." Walker chimed in suddenly, totally freaked out by the predicament they are in now.

“A stray! You brought stray home! Like cat!” Alexei threw his arms in the air, totally not freaked out by the predicament they are in now.

“Uh…” Yelena said again, hopping off the counter. “Bob, did you… did she go with you willingly?”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck. “Kind of. I mean, yes! She -uh... needed a shower.”

"We see that..." Ava mumbled silently from the back.

Y/N folded her arms, chin up. “Relax, you off-brand Avengers. I’m not contagious.”

Walker frowned. “Ugh. Great. Bob found a tweaker. That’s just what we needed. Who even are you?”

“Who you callin' a tweaker, Captain Hair Gel?,” she said defensively. “My name is Y/N, and apparently, I'm a trespasser, but personally, I see myself more as an amateur comedian. Don’t worry, I’m not staying long.”

Ava laughed so hard she nearly dropped to the ground. “I like her! She has bite!”

“Don’t encourage her,” Walker hissed.

The room went quiet again. Not unfriendly, just unsure.

Bucky broke it first, his tone calm. “You sure you're okay, miss?”

“Yeah, sorry, Sir...” she said, meeting his eyes. “I just-... Just needed somewhere to wash up. Your security guys downstairs were a little dramatic about it. But Bob here kind of saved me.”

“Dramatic,” Yelena repeated, smirking faintly. “That’s one word for trying to break into our lobby.”

“I didn’t break anything,” Y/N countered. “Unless you count their egos.”

That got a tiny snort from Bucky. Even Yelena hid a small grin.

Alexei finally looked up from the toaster he was trying to disassemble now. “She funny,” he said, pointing the butter knife like a judge. “Let her stay. Humor builds morale.”

Walker rolled his eyes. “Are we just letting random strangers wander the tower now? She is not staying here!”

“Not random,” Bob said quietly but firmly. “She’s with me. She needed somewhere to clean up. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

That made everyone turn to him. There was something in his voice, something rare. Steady. Protective.

Y/N glanced up at him, surprised for a second, then covered it with a small smile. “You hear that? I’m with him.”

Walker scoffed. “And what, you’re her sponsor, Bobby? Are we the welfare?”

Something in Bob’s posture shifted, quiet but firm. “She’s my guest, Walker,” he said simply.

The room fell quiet for a beat. Nobody argued when Bob used that tone.

Y/N, sensing tension, grinned and slipped an arm around Bob’s. “Yeah, his guest. See? He likes me. We’re besties.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, hiding a smirk. Yelena’s grin widened like a predator. So Bobby has a little girlfriend, huh?

"Bob, come here for a second, please?" Yelena crossed her arms, studying them both, and pulled Bob off to the side. “Since when do you bring home guests?”

“I don’t,” Bob said simply. “But… she needed help.”

Bob's argument wasn’t much. It wasn't loud. It didn’t have to be.

The way he said it shut down any discussion with Yelena. A no-questions-asked situation.

After a long pause, Yelena nodded and turned back towards the rugged-looking girl. “Alright. Shower’s down the hall, last door on the right.”

“Thanks,” Y/N said, already heading that way before anyone could change their mind.

As she disappeared, Yelena gave Bob a look. Not teasing this time, just curious. “You trust her?”

Bob hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. I do.”

Yelena raised a brow but didn’t push. “You’ve got a big heart, Bob. Just… don’t let it get broken again.”

He smiled faintly, eyes flicking toward the hallway where Y/N had gone. “I’ll take my chances.”

Steam poured from the bathroom doorway like the place was about to launch a rocket instead of clean a person.

“Uh- Bob?” Her voice echoed through the hall. Nervous. Amused. “Hey, superhero? I think your shower’s trying to kill me!”

Bob looked up from the sofa where he’d been pretending to read a magazine he’d found...upside down. He crossed the room quickly, knocking once before cracking the door open. A wall of steam and the scent of soap hit him.

“Uh- yeah?” he asked, staying carefully in the doorway. “You okay?”

“I can’t even find the water setting,” Y/N said. “There’s, like, six holograms and something that just scanned my face and called me a guest user. That’s creepy, right?”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… Stark tech. You have to say the temperature out loud.” He stepped inside carefully, trying not to look anywhere that would make him combust on the spot.

“Seriously? What is this, a spaceship?” She stuck her head around the frosted glass partition, cheeks flushed from the heat, hair plastered to her forehead, body completely bare from what Bob could see. She wasn’t trying to be bold; she just didn’t have the same sense of modesty he did.

Bob immediately stared at the ceiling. “Okay, uh, yeah. Just say, uh, ‘set temperature to warm’ and it should-”

“Set temperature to warm!” she called, pointing dramatically upward like she was commanding the heavens. The water obeyed with a soft hiss. “Oh my god, it listened. That’s terrifying.”

Bob laughed despite himself, the sound awkward and low. “See? You’re good.”

“Thanks, hun.” She grinned, still half-hidden behind the glass. “You can look, by the way. I’m decent… mostly.”

He didn’t. His ears had turned a heroic shade of red. “I’ll, uh, be outside if you need anything.”

“Wait -uhm Bob! Do you mind handing me a towel? This one over there is about the size of a paper napkin,” She shouted after him, leaning over the side of the frosted shower glass, the top of her breasts now nearly full on display and about to spill over her arm that's protecting the dignity of her upper half.

His brain immediately short-circuited. “Uh-I-I-yeah! Yeah, sure, I can do that.”

He fumbled for a fresh towel on the rack, trying not to think about anything at all. When he turned around, she was there, closer now, half-hidden by steam, eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Relax, Bobby,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not like I’m gonna bite.”

“I know,” he said quickly, staring somewhere above her head. “I just-uh -it’s -you’re -uh...”

He risked another glance, and she was again just smiling up at him, soft, playful, nothing cruel in it. For someone who’d spent years surviving on the streets, she looked strangely at ease now, laughing in a room full of fog.

She raised an eyebrow, the grin still tugging at her lips. “Articulate, aren’t you?”

He handed her the towel without looking directly at her, his fingertips brushing her damp hand for just a moment, warm against warm. It stirred up something in him.

Her voice softened. “You’re sweet, you know that?”

“Sweet?” he repeated, like it was a word he hadn’t heard in years.

“Yeah,” she said, wrapping the towel around herself with no hurry, no shame. “Most guys would’ve used the situation as an excuse to look. You didn’t. You’re either a gentleman… or terrified of women.”

He swallowed. “Both.”

That earned him a grin that made his heart trip over itself.

“Well,” she said, stepping past him, “I’ll try not to traumatize you further. Promise.”

He stood there for a moment, still blinking through the fog, listening to her hum as she walked further into the big shower stall.

Somewhere between her laugh and the sound of dripping water, Bob realized he’d stopped feeling useless with her around.

By the time Y/N came out of the bathroom, the tower was quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens after a long, chaotic day, where even the walls seemed tired.

Her hair was damp, face pink from the hot water. Bob had lent her a set of soft sleep clothes, too big, but clean. She looked… different. Still rough around the edges, but softer somehow. Human again.

Bob was sitting on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with the corner of the blanket, when she walked in.

“Yelena said I have to stay here for the night,” she said cautiously. “You know, so you can… keep an eye on me. Make sure I don’t rob the place blind.”

Bob stood immediately. “Yeah, uh- of course. It’s fine. You can have the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

She frowned, watching him pull a spare blanket and pillow off the chair. “You serious? You’re gonna sleep on the floor in your own room?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really sleep much anyway.”

Y/N tilted her head, watching him spread out a blanket on the floor beside the bed. “You really don’t, huh?”

He smiled weakly. “Not since… a long time ago. It's kind of a habit now.”

The quiet stretched between them. She looked around. The room was neat, almost too neat, like he didn’t actually live in it. Not a single photo. No mess. Just order. Like someone afraid to take up too much space.

“Man,” she said softly, sitting down on the bed. “You don’t even have dirty laundry lying around. You some kinda neat freak? Looks really... lonely.”

Bob froze mid-motion. “…I- I'm a bit of both, maybe. Neat and lonely.”

Something in his voice made her pause. The teasing drained out, replaced by a quieter curiosity. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I get that. The... -uh lonely part.”

He looked at her then, and there was something raw in his eyes, like she’d said something he didn’t know he needed to hear.

After a beat, he sat down on the floor beside the bed. “You’ve been out there a long time, huh?”

She nodded slowly. “Since I was a kid. You learn to adapt, you know? You learn when to talk, when to disappear. When to keep your stuff close and your shoes closer.” She tried to smile, but it came out small and tired. “You start thinking maybe that’s all there is.”

Bob’s voice was barely a whisper. “And now?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “This place feels unreal. Hot water, clean clothes, you're actually the first person in a long time that doesn't look at me like I'm garbage. It’s weird. Feels like I’ll wake up and it’ll all be gone tomorrow.”

He nodded, staring at his hands. “I know that feeling. That's how I felt when I first arrived here.”

“Yeah?”

He hesitated, then said quietly, “Sometimes I wake up and I don’t know where I am. Or who I was before. Or if I deserve any of it.”

She studied him, expression softening. “You sound like a guy who’s been through hell.”

“Something similar.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. "The nightmares are the worst. Mostly. Sometimes I dream of memories, sometimes… worse. Sometimes I think it’s gone, but it’s always… kind of waiting."

Y/N nodded slowly, eyes thoughtful. “Sounds familiar.”

He glanced up. “You too?”

She smiled, small and tired. “Different kind of monster, same idea. I’ve been on my own since I was thirteen, because my parents decided I was too much trouble for them. Dumped me in the city and never came back.”

Bob’s breath caught. “They just… left you?”

“Yup,” she said simply. “You learn quick when no one’s coming to save you. How to stay alive. How to find food. How to not get too attached to anything that can leave.”

“That’s… that’s awful.” He was looking up at her with those sad eyes.

“Eh,” she said with a shrug that didn’t hide much. “You get used to it. You stop waiting for people to care.” Then, softer: “Until someone actually does.”

Their eyes met, his full of quiet empathy, hers flickering with something like disbelief.

He whispered, “I care.”

It came out before he could stop it. Just a simple truth.

There was a moment of silence, not uncomfortable, but heavy with things neither of them had the words for.

For a second, Y/N didn’t move at all. Then she smiled, small and real. “You’re a weird guy, Bob Reynolds.”

“Yeah,” he said, almost laughing. “I’ve been told.”

Y/N patted the bed next to her. “Come on. You’re too tall to be folding yourself up on the floor. We can share. Promise I don’t snore.”

Bob blinked. “I… I don’t know... I don’t want to make you...”

She rolled her eyes. “Relax. It’s not weird unless you make it weird. And it’s way too quiet in here, I hate that. I hate quiet. Makes me think too much.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” she said, already lying down. “Now get up here before I start overthinking my life choices.”

After a long pause, he laughed softly, that quiet, shy laugh she was starting to adore. He finally climbed into bed, carefully, as if the mattress might explode, and stayed rigid, lying on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Y/N turned onto her side, facing him. “You can breathe, you know. You look like you’re waiting for the ceiling to fall on you.”

He smiled nervously. “Just… not used to this, not used to being close to people.”

She hummed softly. “Yeah. Same.”

For a while, neither spoke. The city buzzed faintly outside, and the tower seemed to breathe around them.

Then she whispered, “Hey, Bob?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For not treating me like a problem.”

His chest tightened. “You’re not a problem.”

That shut her up for a second. Then, gently, she reached out and tugged at his arm until he relaxed enough to lie properly beside her.

“There,” she murmured. “See? Not so bad.”

They lay there in the dim light, a comfortable silence stretching between them. The air smelled faintly of soap and clean sheets and something new neither of them could name.

After a while, Y/N whispered, “You ever think about starting over?”

“All the time,” he said. “I just never knew how.”

She smiled into the dark. “Maybe you start small. Like sleeping next to someone who won’t run away from your demons. Maybe some hobo from the street.”

He turned his head to look at her. Her eyes were half-closed, soft with exhaustion. “You’re not gonna run?” he asked quietly.

“Not unless you make me,” she murmured. “And even then, I might walk real slow.”

He laughed, breathless, and for the first time in years, his chest felt light.

Neither of them said anything after that.

Y/N shifted closer, her hand finding his under the blanket. Warm. Solid. Real. Within minutes, her breathing slowed. She fell asleep easily, like someone who hadn’t had a real bed in years.

Bob stayed awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of her breaths. Soon he fell asleep before he even realized it, his first real sleep in years, with Y/N’s head on his shoulder and her quiet breathing syncing with his own.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t afraid of the dark.

You felt the burn as the second shot grazed your shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin, but you stayed upright, teeth gritted as you fired back until the window went still.

“Bloody hell!” Soap’s voice crackled through the comms, equal parts impressed and horrified. “You just shoved the Captain out of the way like he was a mere bairn! Saved his damned life, bonnie!”

“Not now, Johnny,” Price barked, but his eyes weren’t on the field anymore. They were on you. And they were furious.

He grabbed your arm roughly the second you reached cover, his gaze scanning the blood already soaking into your sleeve. “What the fuck were you thinking, love?” His voice was low and dangerous, shaking with something more than anger. “You don’t put yourself in the line like that.”

“I just saved your life, John,” you snapped back, breath ragged, heart hammering. “A thank you would be nice.”

His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “I don’t need saving. Especially not from you.”

The words stung more than the wound, but there was no time to argue. Ghost’s clipped voice came over comms: “Extraction point’s hot. Fall back to the safe house.”

Price shoved his hat back on, grabbed your good arm, and half-dragged you as the team regrouped. You could feel Soap’s eyes flicking between you both with a smirk that promised endless teasing later. Gaz’s quick, worried glance lingered on you, but he said nothing. Then Soap muttered, “Cap sounds more rattled than the bloody grenades, lass. Better watch yourself.”

The rain began just as you reached the safe house. Cold, relentless, drumming against the tin roof. The old stone building smelled of damp wood and dust, the air thick with the heat of bodies and the leftover tension of battle.

Price barked orders as the others settled in, his voice a little too sharp, a little too brittle. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to. You could feel the anger rolling off him like heat from a fire, restrained but ready to ignite. And beneath it, though you’d never say it aloud, was fear.

The safe house was nothing more than four crumbling stone walls, two shabby bedrooms and a roof patched together with rusting tin, but after the firefight, it felt like a palace. Rain hammered against the metal, drowning the silence in a steady rhythm. The air inside smelled of wet boots, gun oil, and smoke from the small fire Soap had coaxed to life in the corner hearth.

You dropped your pack by the door and exhaled slowly, willing the adrenaline to leave your body. Your shoulder throbbed where the bullet had grazed you, warm blood still seeping through the fabric of your sleeve. You moved toward the kitchen counter, searching for a rag to bind it with before the wound could stiffen.

“Sit down before you keel over, bonnie,” Soap drawled, tossing you one of his lopsided grins. He plopped into a chair, rifle balanced across his lap like it was just another evening at home. “Captain nearly lost his head, and you nearly lost your arm, reckon Gaz and I are the only sensible ones here.”

Gaz shot him a flat look but didn’t argue. He slid closer, already pulling the med kit from your rucksack. “Let me help, yeah?” His voice was softer, steady as ever.

You gave him a tired smile, but before you could answer, a shadow fell across the room.

Price.

He stood in the doorway, hat dripping rainwater, hands braced on the frame as if he needed to physically hold himself in place. His eyes flicked to your bleeding shoulder, lingered there, then moved on. He didn’t speak, but the tension in the room thickened like smoke.

“Cap,” Soap chirped, far too amused, “don’t suppose you’d like to thank our lass for saving your neck back there? Could’ve sworn I saw your life flash before your eyes when she shoved you out the way.”

“Enough of that,” Price said sharply, stripping off his wet coat. His voice was rough, his accent heavier when he was angry.

“Just sayin’,” Soap muttered, but the grin never left his face.

Ghost, silent in the corner as always, leaned back in his chair with arms folded. His masked gaze shifted between you and Price. “Could cut the air in 'ere with a knife,” he remarked dryly.

Gaz’s lips twitched, but he kept working at the bandage on your arm. “Captain,” he said lightly, “it’s not the worst thing in the world, you know. At least you got someone watching your six.”

Price shot him a look sharp enough to silence any further commentary, but he didn’t answer. He moved to the far side of the room, shoulders hunched, hands busy with his weapon, cleaning it like it hadn’t just taken several lives minutes ago.

You swallowed, jaw tight. For now, it was easier to fuss over the others, distracting yourself. To hand Ghost a dry rag for his gear, to remind Soap to get his boots off the table, to press an apple into Gaz’s hand because you knew he hadn’t eaten since morning. That was your role: the caretaker, the one who kept the boys human. It was easier than acknowledging the weight of Price’s anger still burning in the corner of the room.

But every time your eyes strayed, there he was, watching when he thought you wouldn’t notice. Fury barely held in check, fear tucked just beneath it. You wondered which would crack first.

The safe house was just beginning to settle into uneasy quiet when Price finally snapped.

He stood up from his spot across the room, pacing like a caged animal. His rain-weathered hat was tossed onto the table, his cigar left unlit beside it. The glow of the lantern carved sharp lines across his face, shadowing the hard set of his jaw. He was usually composed, immovable, but now the mask was cracked.

You were seated at the rough wooden table, Gaz carefully checking the bandage around your shoulder. The sting of disinfectant made you wince, but it wasn’t half as sharp as the fire in Price’s voice when he finally spoke.

“You think this is a bloody game, love?” His voice was low at first, but thick with anger that threatened to spill over. He turned to you, eyes burning. “Charging in like that, ignoring orders... You nearly got yourself killed out there. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I—” you began, but he cut you off.

“No. Don’t you dare tell me you had no choice,” he growled, pointing a finger at you. “You shoved me clear and took a bullet yourself. You put yourself on the line, for what? To play the bloody hero?”

“I saved you, Captain,” you shot back, though your voice wavered under the weight of his fury. You only use his official rank when you're really mad, which he knew. “If I hadn’t gone, you would’ve... Would you rather I hadn’t done it?”

“That’s not the point! You don’t get to make that call. You don’t get to throw yourself in front of a bullet for me. Not you,” he interrupted, sharp enough to make your chest tighten. “You could’ve bloody died, love. You got shot. Because of me.”

Soap whistled low from where he lounged by the hearth. “Easy, Cap. The lass willingly saved your skin.”

“Stay out of this, MacTavish. Every one of you, stay the fuck out of this. This is between me and her, and that's an order!” Price barked, though his voice wavered on the edge of something more than anger.

“C’mon,” Gaz muttered, giving you a sympathetic pat before rising to his feet. “She did what any of us would’ve done. What you have done for us several times, Captain.”

Ghost’s voice rumbled from the shadows. “Difference is, Captain doesn’t like the idea of anyone else taking a bullet for him.” His masked gaze flicked your way. “Especially not her.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Soap smirked knowingly, Gaz folded his arms, and Price froze as if someone had just yanked the ground out from under him.

His eyes snapped to you again, hot, desperate, full of something he couldn’t hide now. His voice was quieter when it came, but it trembled with adrenaline. “Do you understand what you did? Do you understand that I can’t....” He stopped, dragged in a ragged breath, then slammed his hand onto the table hard enough to make Soap flinch.

You couldn’t fight him, not really, not with your shoulder burning and exhaustion dragging at your bones. But you could hold his gaze, steady and unflinching, and you did.

“I’d do it again, John. You know I will,” you whispered, because the truth was, you meant it.

His nostrils flared, his eyes squeezed shut like the words had cut deeper than any wound. When he opened them again, the fire was still there, but it wasn’t anger anymore. It was something rawer. Something that made your stomach twist in ways the battlefield never had.

The 141 exchanged looks, unspoken words crackling like static in the air. Soap muttered something about putting the kettle on, and Gaz herded him toward the corner. Ghost only stayed seated, watching like a man at the theatre, silent but unwilling to miss the show. And Price... Price looked at you as though you’d just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff, and he didn’t know how to thank you without shattering.

The safe house had gone still, save for the creak of the old beams. After some time, the others had peeled off one by one. Soap’s snoring rattled from one of the bedrooms that he shared with Gaz, whose shifting in his bedroll could occasionally be heard. Ghost was silent enough, you wondered if he ever truly slept.

But you, you couldn’t sleep.

Your shoulder throbbed beneath its bandage, a dull ache that matched the storm still rolling in your chest. Price’s voice, sharp, furious, too close to breaking, echoed in your ears no matter how tightly you closed your eyes.

So you slipped outside to the patio.

The air was cool and damp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked ground. The night pressed close, black save for the pale silver of the moon. And there he was. Price leaned against the stone wall just beyond the door, broad shoulders hunched, a cigar glowing faintly between his fingers. The smoke curled up into the night, drifting with the mist. His hat, now dry, was tipped low, shielding his eyes, but you didn’t need to see them to know he’d heard you. He always did.

“You should be resting,” he muttered, voice low and gravelled, as though it belonged to the night itself.

“So should you,” you answered softly, stepping closer.

For a moment, there was only the crackle of the cigar’s ember. Then he exhaled, smoke trailing from his lips in a sigh heavy enough to bow his shoulders further. “You don’t make it easy, love.”

The word hung in the air, heavy, tender, unguarded. You saw the instant he realized he’d said it, the way his lips pressed together as if he could shove it back down. But the silence had already shifted; the battlefield had followed you home, and the war he was fighting now wasn’t out there. It was inside him.

Something in the way he just said that, rough, pained, almost defeated, made your throat tighten. “I wasn’t going to stand there and watch you die, John,” you whispered.

He turned to you, finally, and the sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Lantern light from the doorway carved shadows into the lines of his face again, catching in the silver of his beard, the furrow of his brow. His eyes burned, still stormy, still edged with adrenaline, but beneath the fury was fear. Real, bone-deep fear.

“You don’t get it, sweetheart,” he said, pushing away from the wall, voice rising before he forced it down again. “I can’t have you throwing yourself in front of me like that. I can’t... Christ, I can’t lose you.”

Your chest ached. “You think I want to lose you? You think it wouldn’t gut me just the same?”

He froze, cigar forgotten, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. The night between you thickened, charged with everything unsaid.

“John I-…” you whispered, but he was already turning again, restless, tormented.

“I’ve lost too many,” he muttered, voice rougher now, thick with something you’d never heard from him before. “Men I’ve buried, soldiers I’ve had to write letters home for. I can handle that. Comes with the job. But you-” His voice cracked, and he stopped, staring at you like the ground had opened beneath his feet. “I can’t bury you. I can’t. I'm not losing you. Never.”

Your breath caught. He’d stepped closer without you realizing, his hands still curled into fists at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to touch you. His eyes were no longer the hardened blue of a commanding officer; they were raw, pleading, terrified.

“I understand that John, and you know that I don’t want to be just another soldier to bury for you,” you murmured, your voice trembling but sure.

“You’re not,” he said instantly, like the truth had been waiting all along. “Darling, you’re not. You’re the only thing that makes all this—” he gestured vaguely, helplessly, at the world outside “—bearable. You’re the only good thing I’ve got left.”

“You’re supposed to be the steady one, love,” he continued hoarsely, taking another step closer. “The one who keeps this bloody family together. You know Soap... he runs his mouth, Gaz takes on too much, Ghost- hell, Ghost would burn the world down if left unchecked. And you... you’re the only thing holding the pieces in place. You’re the heart of it.”

The pet names softened his tone, the fury ebbing away until there was only desperation. When his hand finally rose to touch you, calloused fingers brushing your cheek, feather-light as though afraid you’d vanish, it felt like a dam breaking.

He swallowed hard, voice cracking like it hadn’t on the battlefield in decades. “If I lose you… The rest of it falls apart. I fall apart.”

The words shattered something in you, and before you could stop yourself, you hissed back almost pleadingly, “Then stop treating me like I’m made of glass. Stop acting like I’m anything less than what you are to me.”

You leaned into him, into the scent of smoke and rain still clinging to his clothes, into the warmth of a man who’d built walls taller than anyone else’s and was finally letting you inside. His thumb traced along your jaw, lingering, and when you looked up into his eyes you saw the truth there, laid bare and unflinching.

The silence that followed was thick as smoke, hot as fire. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingered, then snapped back up.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle, not at first. It was sharp, messy, born of anger and fear and the ache of almost losing everything. His hands framed your face, rough and trembling, pulling you closer as if to prove you were alive, here, his.

You clutched his coat, gasping into his mouth, matching the urgency because you felt it too. That desperate edge, that awful realization that love had grown out of the battlefield like a stubborn weed.

When the kiss finally broke, he pressed his forehead to yours, breaths ragged, voice breaking.

“Not losing you,” he whispered. “Not ever, sweetheart.” And for the first time that night, you believed him.

Support! - Buy me a Coffee☕

You came back to the med bay after a short meeting, humming under your breath, half your mind already on the reports you still had to finish. The first thing you noticed was the smell...disinfectant and lemon cleaner, stronger than usual. The second thing was the sound. Something clattering, followed by a low, distinctly Scottish curse. You paused in the doorway. Soap was crouched in front of one of the lower cabinets, a screwdriver in one hand, a look of deep concentration on his face. “...Johnny?” He jolted so hard he hit his head on the counter. “Ah, shite! Don’t sneak up on a man at work, bonnie!” You raised a brow, arms crossing. “Work? You’re not assigned to med bay maintenance, last I checked.” “Naw, but yer cabinet hinge was squeakin’, remember? Thought I’d fix it for ye.” You leaned around him and immediately regretted it. The cabinet door was off its hinges. Screws were scattered across the floor like shrapnel. The hinge itself looked like it had gone through a blast test. “Johnny… what did you do?” He blinked up at you, screwdriver still in hand. “Well, it was squeakin’… now it’s no’!” You pressed a hand to your temple. “Because it’s detached.” He paused, following your gaze to the destroyed cabinet, then back up at you. “...Aye, well. Small setbacks in the name o’ progress, eh?” You couldn’t help it. You started laughing. Full-on, can’t-breathe laughter that had him grinning sheepishly. “Alright, alright, I buggered it up a bit.” “A bit?” He stood, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink. “Tell ye what...ye take a break, yeah? I’ll clean this whole place up. Make it sparkle. Swear it on me mohawk.” “Johnny, you don’t-” “Already started, lass!” Before you could argue, he was off wiping down counters, sweeping the floor, reorganizing supply trays like he’d been possessed by domestic guilt. The smell of disinfectant filled the room as he hummed some Scottish tune, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you were watching. By the time he was done, the place looked immaculate. The cabinet was still broken beyond repair, but every surface gleamed. He leaned on the counter, grinning proudly. “See? As good as new.” You smirked. “Except the actual cabinet.” He winced. “Right. The cabinet’s… on medical leave.” You shook your head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.” He tilted his head, eyes twinkling. “Aye, but I make ye smile, don’t I?” That shut you right up. You looked away, warmth creeping up your neck. “Thought so,” he said softly, grin widening. “Worth it then.” And despite the broken cabinet, the chaos, and the mess of screws still on the counter, you couldn’t help but think he was right.

🧷He’s a walking chaos magnet, but he listens when you talk. He might not understand half the medical jargon, but he’ll remember every word.

🧷Always checks in before missions. “You got everythin’ ye need, bonnie?” And always the first face you see when you come back.

When the Others (141) Notice:

🪖The team catches on immediately.

🪖Ghost gives him grief nonstop. Price just sighs, waiting for his subordinate to finally make a real move. Gaz takes bets on when you’ll notice.

The mess hall was buzzing that afternoon, boots scuffing on tile, plates clattering, the low hum of soldiers swapping stories between missions. Soap sat with Ghost, Price, and Gaz at their usual table near the back. But his attention? Fixed on you. You were across the room, laughing with one of the other medics, a streak of sunlight cutting across your face. Soap’s fork hovered midair, his food forgotten, a stupidly soft smile tugging at his lips. Ghost noticed first, of course. The man noticed everything. He leaned just slightly toward Price, his tone dry as sandpaper. “He’s doin’ it again, Captain.” Price didn’t even look up from his tea. “Starin’, or thinkin’?” “Both.” Gaz grinned. “I say we time it. Bet he doesn’t blink for thirty seconds.” Price sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You lot are cruel.” Ghost’s voice dropped into that familiar lazy drawl. “You’re hoverin’ again, Johnny.” Soap blinked, startled, snapping his gaze away like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Am no’! Just keepin’ an eye on the medics, makin’ sure they’re...uh-” He gestured vaguely. “Hydrated.” Gaz snorted so loud his drink nearly went up his nose. “Hydrated? Mate, you’ve been makin’ googly eyes for five straight minutes.” Soap’s ears flushed pink. “Rubbish. It’s called team morale, Gaz.” Price finally looked up, one eyebrow raised. “You’re worse than a lovesick teenager, son.” Soap sputtered. “I am not! I’m a grown man, Captain! A professional soldier!” Ghost tilted his head, mask crinkling just enough to show amusement. “Professional soldiers don’t trip over air tryin’ to hold the door open for the medic lass.” Gaz was grinning ear to ear now. “Oh aye, remember that? You about tackled the poor medic with your soldier-like reflexes.” Soap groaned, sinking into his seat, hands covering his face. “Ye lot’re crueler than any bloody enemy.” “We’re just observin’,” Price said, chuckling. “It’s hard to miss, Johnny. You’ve been orbitin’ her like a lost drone.” Ghost added, “I give it a week before he cracks.” Gaz held up his hand. “Nah, three days. He’s already bringing her tea, and yesterday he tried to fix her cabinet hinge.” Soap peeked over his fingers, indignant. “Aye, because it was squeakin’! Couldn’t have that distractin’ the lass while she’s savin’ lives!” “Of course,” Ghost deadpanned. “because that’s what’s distractin’ ’er.” Soap scowled at him, then risked one more glance toward you. You’d caught his eye this time, smiling a little, like you knew exactly what they were talking about. He froze. You lifted your hand, gave a small wave. Soap waved back automatically… and promptly knocked over his own cup of tea. Gaz cackled. “Aaand that’s thirty seconds on the dot.” Price just shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.” Ghost leaned back, voice low and smug. “Told you. Lovesick.” And Soap? Still red-faced, still grinning like an idiot, trying (and failing) to act normal while you laughed at him from across the room.

When He Realizes It’s Serious:

💥It hits him one night when you patch up a scrape on his cheek. You’re close, calm, eyes focused on your work.

💥He jokes, “Careful, bonnie, ye keep lookin’ at me like that an’ I’ll think ye fancy me.”

💥You don’t even answer, just smile at him and tell him to hold still, and he feels his heart stop.

💥Later, he can’t sleep. He’s thinking about your laugh, your hands, how gentle you are, how you never tease him back too hard because you know he’s genuine underneath the noise.

💥That’s when he knows: he’s gone. Absolutely smitten. Seriously in love.

When You Finally Call Him Out On It:

The hallway outside the med bay was quiet, the hum of the vending machine the only sound. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching as Johnny “Soap” MacTavish strolled up with another steaming cup of tea in his hand. He looked far too casual for someone on his third coincidental tea delivery this week. You arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess. You were in the general area and thought I could use a little pick-me-up?” He froze mid-step, caught. “Aye, well… saw ye looked a wee bit tired, bonnie. Figured I’d help.” You took the cup from him, deliberately slow, your smirk growing. “Uh huh. Johnny, are you ever gonna tell me why you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy lately?” His grin faltered for just a second before returning in full force, too bright, too quick. “Followin’? Me? Naw, just lookin’ out for the team medic! Safety first, aye?” You took a sip, pretending to think. “So safety includes carrying my bag… bringing tea… fixing my cabinet hinge at one in the morning?” Soap scratched the back of his neck, that nervous little half-smile creeping in. “Couldnae sleep,” he muttered. “Thought I’d be useful.” You took a step closer, eyes narrowing playfully. “Useful, huh? You sure you’re not just trying to impress me?” He blinked, thrown off his rhythm. “Impress ye?” His accent thickened when he was flustered, every syllable rolling rough and warm. “Well… obviously I’m just tryin’ tae impress the bonniest lass in base.” The words hung between you, unguarded, too honest. You couldn’t help it. The laugh bubbled out before you could stop it. Soap’s eyes softened instantly. He looked at you like that sound alone could stop his heart. For once, he didn’t have a comeback, didn’t crack a joke. Just stood there, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d forgotten how to breathe. And maybe that’s what made you do it. You reached up, curled your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, and kissed him. It was quick, but real, warm, a little daring. For a second, he didn’t move. Then he made a low noise, deep in his throat, and his hand found your waist, pulling you closer. When you broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, breath shaky. His grin came back slow and dangerous, blue eyes gleaming with that mix of mischief and tenderness only he could pull off. “Rookie mistake, bonnie,” he murmured, voice rough. “Now I can’t ever let ye go.” He squeezed your waist gently, that lopsided grin spreading. “You’re mine now, eh?” You laughed again, but softer this time, your fingers still clutching the front of his shirt. “You really don’t know how to do subtle, do you?” “Not when it comes tae you,” he said, simple as breathing. And just like that, between the warmth of his hand on your hip, the grin that could melt steel, and the taste of coffee still lingering on your lips, Johnny MacTavish was yours. He always was.

Taglist: @kwandabear @ilovesoapandnotthebar @revnatheshadow @plump111 @missj609 @Tessakate @Asura-rose

A/N: Part 2 with a happy end woohoo. Do you want more of Soap?

After a rather sleepless night, Y/N started early, instinct guiding her: coffee brewing, eggs sizzling, pancakes flipping. A usual American breakfast. Something for everyone. By the time the first footsteps echoed down the hall, the air smelled like cinnamon and butter.

The first to arrive was a mountain of a man with a grin that could power a small city. “Is that real food? Cooked?” Alexei boomed, sniffing the air.

“Last time I checked,” Y/N said casually, flipping a pancake. “You’re Alexei, right? I'm Y/N.”

“Ah! You know of me!” He puffed his chest, already drooling over the pancakes. “You're new team cook. The Red Guardian never forgets a pretty face. I will have… five of those.”

“You’ll have two,” she corrected, setting his plate down. “We’ll work up from there.”

He blinked, then laughed loud enough to rattle the cupboards. “You’re funny woman. I like you. Strong character, but weak body, like squirrel.”

“Good,” she said. “I'll take that as a compliment, better than crying myself to sleep tonight.”

By the time the rest trickled in, Yelena was raiding the fridge for hot sauce, Walker wad asking about protein content of the food, Ava was hovering like a ghost at the edges of the kitchen counter and Y/N (after losing her last nerve) already felt the rhythm forming. The banter, the chaos, the quiet moments between bites. They were a team.

And then, there was him.

He came in almost unnoticed, shoulders sloped, eyes soft and downcast. Robert Reynolds looked like he was trying not to exist too loudly. He offered a polite nod when Y/N greeted him, by name, like she greeted everyone else. Bob didn’t sit with the others. Didn’t take a plate.

Y/N watched him from the corner of her eye as she cleaned up the breakfast mess she'd created in the kitchen. Everyone else she could read, but somehow not him. Which irked her, because she could always get a read on anyone in the room...

By the end of her first week, Y/N had everyone’s food patterns memorized. Alexei needed meat, protein, lots of unnecessary second helpings, and third helpings if you turned your back on him for too long. Yelena was simpler, she loves anything spicy and crunchy. The trick with her was to crush chips into her food and put hot sauce on top of everything. Walker and Ava had similar eating habits, more on the boring, but consistent side. They ate their food quietly, without complaining, often while standing up (Ava more than Walker). Walker also wasn't one to be picky, an old military habit, Y/N assumed. Bucky was also pretty simple and reliable. He was a big breakfast guy, coffee, eggs, toast, that's it. Dinner not so much. Lunch, forget it. He lingered to help Y/N with dishes sometimes, talking about anything in the world. They started a comfortable camaraderie, all small jokes and easy silences.

But Bob... Bob was the blank space in her notes. A blank canvas. Y/N wasn't even sure if or when he even eats. Which greatly concerns her, not only as the teams personal cook. He certainly has never eaten while Y/N was around (the leftovers from the evening before were always gone in the morning, though...).

He’d pass through the kitchen sometimes. Never in a rush. Always gentle in his movements, as if afraid of breaking something invisible. She noticed his hands trembling occasionally when he reached for a mug.

The others didn’t comment. Which meant they’d gotten used to it.

Y/N, however, had never been the type to leave a mystery unsolved, especially one that looked like it hadn’t eaten in days.

One night, she stayed late, organizing the pantry. It was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Then she heard it, a soft clink of glass, footsteps light as breath.

She peeked around the corner into the kitchen.

Bob stood at the counter, holding a jar of honey and a piece of toast, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with either.

“Caught ya,” she said softly, as if not to startle him.

He froze. “I-I’m— sorry. I didn’t mean to... I was just...”

“Hungry?” she interrupted, leaning against the counter. “Relax, Bob. You’re allowed to eat here, it's a kitchen, you know.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t considered that. “It’s just… I don’t always—”

“Want to eat? Know what to eat?” she offered gently.

He nodded. Eyes darted to the floor. Almost like he was ashamed to admit it. Y/N understood, though. She had her fair share of people, who she's cooked for, with PTSD or depression that forgot to eat or simply had no appetite.

“Okay,” she said casually, and went back to stacking cans. “When you do crave something small, I make a mean strawberry milkshake. Ask and you shall receive, you know... it's kinda my job around here.”

That earned her the smallest, shyest flicker of a smile.

It all started with said milkshake.

Two days after the honey-and-toast incident, Y/N came into the kitchen early again. She was halfway through prepping dinner when she caught a flash of gold at the corner of her eye, a small honey jar wrapped in a little bow, sitting neatly by the sink. And next to it, a napkin folded with the precision of a soldier.

Her brows rose. A thank-you? From Bob?

She smiled faintly, shook her head, and reached for the blender.

When Bob appeared that evening, quiet as a breeze, hovering by the doorway, she didn’t turn around immediately. She just called out, casual as anything, “You ever had a strawberry milkshake, Reynolds?”

There was a pause. “I… don’t think so. N-not that I remember at least...”

“Well, that’s a tragedy. Means you haven't had a memorable one yet.”

She poured the pink mixture into two glasses, garnished it with a sliced strawberry, and slid one his way. “You look like a vanilla guy, but we’re starting with strawberry and I've added a little honey too. Let's live dangerously for once, huh.”

He hesitated, then took it. Hands steady, eyes uncertain.

One sip. Then another.

Then his whole expression changed, surprise melting into something warm and vulnerable, like he couldn’t remember the last time something tasted so good.

“It’s... sweet,” he murmured, voice small but sincere, his legs hesitantly dragging him closer to the pretty cook.

Y/N leaned her elbows on the counter, chin resting on her hands. “Good sweet or too sweet?”

He thought for a second. “Good sweet. Like… it feels familiar. Even if I don’t know why.”

That hit her harder than she expected. To make people happier with her food has always been her goal.

“Then I’ll make it again, only for you, Bob. Don't tell the others!” she said softly, more than proud of herself that she finally found something the handsome man in front of her likes.

Bob's eyes started to crinkle and his face broke out in a full-blown smile. He did a gesture, zipping his mouth shut. "Only for me..." he mumbled more to himself.

By the end of the week, the milkshake ritual had become a thing.

It always happened after dinner, when the others had gone or pretended not to notice Bob sneaking into the kitchen.

Bob would show up, silent as ever, and Y/N would already be rinsing strawberries or pouring milk. Sometimes they talked, about nothing. About everything. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. Bob would just stare at her cleaning the kitchen or dry some wet dishes she handed him.

He even started finishing whole meals she's made him more often, too. Small portions at first, then normal ones. Y/N didn’t mention it; she just smiled when she saw the empty plates.

Of course, the others noticed as well.

“You and sunshine boy got a thing going on?” Yelena asked one morning, spooning hot sauce into her cereal (which Y/N had given up questioning).

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lena,” Y/N said, fighting a smile. “He’s just… nice. I like having him around.”

“Nice,” Yelena repeated, unconvinced. “That’s what people say when they’re in denial. Oooh, Yelena, he's just nice, I totally don't want to kiss his stupid, shy smile off his face...”

“Yeah, well,” Y/N muttered, “I’ve been called worse than in denial... He has a pretty smile though...”

Bucky was kinder about it. He leaned against the counter after dinner one day, watching Y/N knead the dough for the fresh sourdough bread Bucky loved having with his morning coffee.

“He’s talking more,” he said quietly. “Bob, I mean. More than he used to, after the incident. That’s mostly you, you know.”

Y/N shrugged. “Maybe he just likes my milkshakes.”

“Sure,” Bucky said, smirking. “And maybe I just like your pancakes.”

She threw a dishtowel at him. He ducked. Freaking super-soldier reflexes.

Bob didn’t understand it either, at first... this constant need to linger when Y/N was near. She gives him a good feeling, she understands him. It wasn’t an appetite, not exactly. It was a different kind of hunger...quieter, more stubborn. A hunger that couldn't be tamed with food. Like the feeling of sunlight through fog. She saw him, really saw him. And he felt her.

He’d been around kind people before, sure. But Y/N didn’t pity him, like everyone else did. She didn’t flinch when he forgot his words and stuttered. She didn’t force conversation when Bob would go mute. She was just patient, funny, beautiful, and impossibly human.

Sometimes, when she talked, he didn’t even hear the words. Just the sound. Like an old song played on the radio, he didn’t know he missed hearing.

And that scared him a little.

Because for the first time in years, he wanted something. To have for himself. Something good.

Someone.

It was raining the night he found her sitting by the living room window, writing recipes in a little leather notebook. The kitchen lights were dim in the background, soft jazz playing from her phone, which she left there on the counter.

“Can’t sleep, Reynolds?” she asked without looking up from her writing.

He shook his head silently. “You?”

“Never can. Too much noise in my head. Kinda like, if the stove's exhaust is always on in my brain.” She looked up, met his gaze for the first time that night. “You want some tea? Might make you fall asleep.”

He nodded again.

They sat in silence for a while, two tired souls wrapped in the smell of chamomile and rain. Then she said, “You know, I've never told anyone here this. But I lost my family when Inwas very young, in a small civil war that suddenky broke out, back home in my country. Didn’t think I’d ever find peace again after fleaing. Now I'm here, with you guys after years of serving as an army cook... and it feels... almost peaceful. Like a real family. A weird one, but a real one.”

He looked at her, really looked, and saw not just the warmth, but the strength that held it up. A strong woman in front of him, that is purely honest with him and Bob saw beauty in her pain.

She smiled faintly, not expecting an answer or anything else from Bob in that moment. Just his presence was enough for her. “Guess I find peace in cooking, too. People eat, they smile, they live another day. That’s enough for me.”

Bob swallowed. “You help people remember what being alive feels like. With your food, sure. But with your personality too, Y/N. You're so strong, it is unbelievable. I could never...”

It wasn’t meant as a confession. But it sounded like one.

Y/N’s heart stuttered. “Careful, Reynolds. You’ll make a girl blush.”

He smiled then, soft and real.

And Y/N realized then and there: he was beautiful when he smiled. And she needs to see him smile every day from now on...

Breakfast the next morning was a circus. Y/N's newfound family was special, to say the least. They had their own little eating habits, which Y/N just adored, because they made them special. She even got the whole team to eat together from now on, and she's trying to make it a regular habit.

The morning itself started with Alexei arguing that he wants “real American-sized pancakes, not tiny European portioned ones!” which led Y/N to pass the first badge of "too small" pancakes to Walker. He'd eat anything she tossed his way anyway. A resourceful man.

Meanwhile, Yelena lectured Bucky and Ava on how maple syrup was “basically soup” and that it is respectable to eat it with a spoon out of a cereal bowl. And in the middle of it, Bob sat very still, trying to disappear into his coffee. At least he sat at the table for once, Y/N thought to herself, happy with the progress.

“Ey, don’t slouch, sunshine boy,” Yelena teased. “You’re making heart-eyes at our pretty cook again.”

Bob nearly choked, coughing violently, still completely in shock. Y/N only rolled her eyes, flipping another pancake onto an already full plate. “Easy, Lena. He’s a paying customer, just waiting for his food.”

“Technically, we all are,” Yelena shot back.

Bucky smirked over his mug. “Some of us might tip you better than others, if you ask real nice, Y/N.”

Bob’s ears turned pink. Y/N hid a grin behind the spatula.

The teasing was light, good-natured. It meant they’d all accepted her and, in a way, him or them together? Whelp, Y/N was just glad everyone got along, ever the peace-loving person.

That afternoon, a good amount of time after breakfast, Y/N found Bob standing by the pantry, staring at a bag of flour like it had personally wronged him.

“You ever bake bread before, superhero?” she asked, startling Bob a little in the process.

He hesitantly shook his head at her. “Never baked anything before. Haven't trusted myself not to burn something.”

“Then today’s your lucky day, Bobby. Because we'll be making dough together for Bucky's breakfast bread.” She walked up to him, pushed the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows, and handed him a large bowl. “We start simple. Mix, don’t beat it to death.”

He blinked down at his hands a little take back from the sudden contact. “I might mess it up.”

“Good,” she said, smiling. “Means you’ll learn something.”

And so they worked side by side, their shoulders brushing now and then. Y/N guided his hands when he kneaded the dough too slowly, or too fast. Her fingers lingered a little longer each time. He didn’t pull away either, but rather leaned into her warmth.

When the dough finally sat resting, she dusted his nose with a dot of flour. “You survived. No burns, yet.”

“Guess I did.” He smiled, soft and amazed. "I mean, we haven't used the oven yet..."

Y/N shook her head lightly. "Using the oven? That's a lesson for another time. You have to sign up for my advanced cooking class to learn that one."

"I- I would love to learn more about cooking from you...honestly. I had so much fun...always have fun with you, Y/N." He told her (mumbling the last part more to himself) with so much genuineness in his voice.

Something in his tone made her heart flutter. For a man who could split atoms with his bare hands, he sounded like he’d just discovered joy.

Later that night, the compound had gone quiet.

Only the kitchen light was on, and Bob stood there again, staring out the window, milkshake glass half empty.

“No sleep for Mr. Reynolds again, huh?” Y/N asked, curious why Bob hadn't gone to bed yet.

He reluctantly shook his head. “Y-you know... when I close my eyes, it’s… loud, too. Seems like my body can't rest anymore, ever since I became the Sentry...”

She came to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “Yeah. Like I said... I know that kind of noise.”

He turned to her then, words catching on his tongue. “I've hurt people, Y/N. Back then. When I— when it... -uh he took over. I keep thinking maybe I shouldn’t be here. Maybe I don’t deserve…”

“Peace?” she finished for him.

He swallowed hard. “Yes, peace, a sense of family or people like you, that care for me.”

Y/N’s hand moved before her mind caught up. She touched his cheek, a steady, grounding touch.

“You’re not what happened to you, Bob. You’re what you do after.”

For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed. His hand came up slowly, covering hers. His skin was warm, trembling.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “For seeing me.”

“Always,” she said, barely audible.

As faith would've wanted it, Yelena saw them during their intimate moment in the kitchen that night.

She’d wandered into the common room looking for late-night snacks and instead found something better: Bob and Y/N standing in the kitchen, soft light, soft voices, her holding his cheek. He was looking at her like she hung the moon. Yelena froze halfway through opening a bag of chips, grinning like a cat who’d just found the best gossip.

She didn’t say a word, at least not then. But by breakfast, everyone knew.

“Okay, listen up,” Yelena announced to the team, slamming her hands down on the table of the meeting room with military seriousness.

Yes, Yelena has called an emergency meeting for all the active duty members of the New Avengers, just so Y/N and Bob couldn't hear them talking about the situation.

“We have a situation.”

Walker sighed. “What, you call a meeting because we’re out of hot sauce again, Belova?”

“Worse,” she said, lowering her voice dramatically. “Y/N and Sunshine Boy are still dancing around each other. It’s painful to watch, really. They act like little virgin teenagers. Something must be done. Immediately.”

Alexei looked up from his pancake plate, that he took with him to the meeting room, nodding sagely. “Yes, yes, I see it too. He stares like lovesick puppy. She stares back, like she want to keep him in her pocket at all times. It is romantic tragedy!”

Ava smirked behind her mug. “And your plan is what? Lock them in a closet together until they confess their undying love?”

“You know what...” Yelena said brightly. “That is not a bad idea.”

Bucky, sitting at the end of the table, set his coffe cup down. “You can’t just lock two people in a closet and force them to confess to each other.”

“Why not? Worked for me once,” Yelena said with a shrug. “Long story.”

Walker groaned. “You’re all insane. That's a crime by the way.”

“Agreed,” Bucky said, though he was smiling a little. “They’ll figure it out on their own, I'm sure. They are both half-functioning adults.”

“Maybe they will,” Yelena countered, pointing her finger at him violently. “But maybe they also need a little nudge from their favourite group of ragtag heroes. You, Bucky Barnes, don't know shit about feelings or love.”

“Not wrong,” he muttered.

Alexei grinned wide. “I vote yes. We create opportunity for romance. Very noble mission. Help pretty cook and Sentry make baby in closet. Let's go Thunderbolts!”

“Fine,” Ava sighed, “but if Val finds out, I’m blaming you, Yelena. And if they really make a baby, I will move out of this building.”

“As you should,” Yelena said, already sketching something on a napkin that suspiciously resembled the supply-room floor plan.

That same afternoon, Y/N and Bob were assigned to restock the food rations. Coincidentally, the others all seemed very busy elsewhere.

The two of them had barely started unloading boxes when the heavy door swung shut with a loud metallic clunk.

Y/N blinked. “Did you-”

Bob shook his head, eyes wide. “No. Did you?”

From outside came muffled voices and the faintest sound of suppressed laughter.

Y/N groaned. “Oh, for the love of—Yelena!”

“WHAT?” came the not-at-all-innocent reply.

“You better open this door right now!”

“Can’t!” Yelena called. “Door is… uh… broken! Very tragic coincident!”

Alexei’s booming laugh echoed down the hall. “Do not worry, pretty cook! We fix it… later!”

Y/N pressed a hand to her forehead, half amused, half mortified. “They’re unbelievable.”

Bob’s cheeks flushed pink. “I-uh... I think they’re trying to -um…”

“Set us up,” she finished dryly. “Yeah. It's always the people closest to you, huh?”

Silence settled for a moment. The air in the tiny room was warm and faintly smelling of coffee and canned tomatoes. She turned to find him watching her again, that same look Yelena had seen the night before, soft and unguarded.

“What are you thinking, superhero? You're using your super-strength to get us out of here?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated, then smiled shyly. “No, I was thinking that maybe I don’t mind being locked in here. Not if it’s with you.”

Her heart nearly tripped over itself. “Watch it,” she murmured. “You keep saying things like that, and they won’t have to lock us in next time.”

His smile widened. “Yeah, maybe they won’t need to.”

Before she could reply, the door finally creaked open. Yelena stood there, grinning ear to ear, Alexei looming behind her like an accomplice.

“So,” Yelena drawled, “did you two—”

“Out!” Y/N barked, pointing. “All of you. Out!”

Yelena saluted dramatically. “My work here is done. New Averngers baby might be on the way. Let's prepare, Dad.”

As the door closed again, Y/N caught Bob still smiling, the faintest laugh escaping him. "What the hell is an Avengers Baby?"

She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Don’t encourage them.”

“Hey, hey, I wasn’t going to,” he said softly, eyes still on her, raising his arms in mock surrender.

Later that night, Y/N found herself in the kitchen again... surprise, surprise.

The day’s chaos had long faded, but her mind refused to rest. She was still thinking about Bob’s words in the supply room. Not if it’s with you.

She busied herself cleaning up, mostly to distract herself from replaying his smile on an endless loop in her head. That man had singlehandedly reduced her to a blushing mess, and he didn’t even realize it. Probably. Hopefully.

The soft sound of footsteps behind her gave him away before he spoke.

“Hey,” Bob said quietly, voice rough like he hadn’t used it in hours.

She turned, smiling faintly. “Sleepless again?”

He shook his head yes. “Guess so. You too?”

She shrugged. “You know me. Kitchen’s my therapy. Keeps me from overthinking.”

“Well, does it work?”

“Sometimes,” she said honestly. “Other times, I just end up baking enough muffins to feed a small army.”

He smiled a little. “Then I guess we’re both here for comfort, huh?”

Y/N leaned against the counter, crossing her arms. “Guess so. You want a milkshake or tea?”

He hesitated. “Tea. If that’s okay.”

She nodded, set a pot on the stove, and reached for the chamomile. The silence between them wasn’t awkward anymore. It was… full. Warm.

When she finally turned back, he was watching her again, that soft, almost reverent gaze that made her stomach flip.

“You’re staring again, superhero,” she teased gently.

He looked startled, caught. “Sorry, I just… you make things look so easy. So beautiful.”

She smiled. “Cooking?”

He shook his head. “Existing.”

That hit her like a sucker punch, the way he said it, so genuine and soft, it nearly broke her.

Y/N set the spoon down, heart pounding. “You know, for someone who barely talks, you really know how to ruin a woman’s emotional stability.”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and lovely. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she murmured.

The tea kettle whistled softly. She poured two mugs, slid one toward him, and leaned her elbows on the counter next to his. Their hands brushed, neither pulling away.

Bob took a slow breath, staring at the steam curling between them. “I keep thinking about what you said that one night. About family. About peace. I don’t think I’ve ever had either. Not really.”

Her chest tightened. “You do now, Bob. You have Yelena, Bucky, every single one of them. And you have me.”

He looked up, eyes glassy in the golden light. “You mean that?”

“Of course, I do,” she whispered. “We’re all a little broken here, Bob. But you... you fit right in. More than you think.”

He swallowed hard, his voice barely audible. “Y- you make me feel human again, Y/N. Like I’m not just... what I was made into. Like maybe I can still be good. Not hurt people.”

She reached out, hand finding his cheek again, that familiar, grounding touch. “You are good, Bob,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly. “You’ve always been. You just forgot how to feel good, how to enjoy life.”

His eyes searched hers for a long moment, something raw and hopeful sparking behind them.

“Y/N, I think I want to do something that'll make me feel good...” he breathed, “can I—?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “You can.”

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed or clumsy; it was careful, almost reverent. Like he was afraid she might disappear if he moved too fast. But when she leaned in, closing the space completely, he let out a shaky sigh, one that sounded like release, like he’d been holding his breath for years.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, both smiling like idiots. Bob got even more bold and leaned in again. This time a little too excited, pushing Y/N against the counter lightly and pulling her in a more heated kiss.

“Easy, loverboy,” she whispered teasingly. "We prepare food in here.”

Bob laughed, quiet and genuine, his thumb brushing over her jaw. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“How so, Bobby?”

He smiled, eyes glimmering. “You make me want things again. Feel things...”

Epilogue

The next morning, Y/N came downstairs to find the whole team gathered in the kitchen before her and for once, they were silent.

Too silent.

Her instincts screamed ambush.

Sure enough, Yelena was the first to break. “So…” she drawled, grinning like a cat. “Did it happen?”

“Did what happen?” Y/N asked innocently, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

Alexei gasped dramatically. “They deny! But I see it in her cheeks! Look, she is glowing like newly polished dagger!”

Walker rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, let them breathe.”

Bucky, leaning against the counter, smirked into his mug. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Alright, everyone, settle down,” Y/N said, trying to keep a straight face. “You’re all insane.”

“Maybe,” Yelena said, shrugging. “But your behaviour means that our great plan has worked.”

Right on cue, Bob appeared in the doorway, hair still slightly messy, hoodie pulled over his head. He froze when he saw the grinning faces.

Yelena raised her brows. “Morning, Sunshine Boy.”

Bob blinked. “Uh… morning.”

The team burst out laughing. Y/N covered her face with one hand, groaning.

“Welcome to the freaking circus,” she muttered.

Bob chuckled softly, slipping beside her to grab a mug. His hand brushed hers, deliberate this time, and when she looked up, his eyes were warm, unashamed.

He smiled, small but certain.

And Y/N knew. Whatever this was, the teasing, the chaos, the strange new family. It was home.

A few weeks later, a new note appeared on the fridge in Y/N’s handwriting:

Team Info: Milkshake night officially moved to Friday Nights. As per Bob’s request. -Y/N

And underneath, written in Bob’s careful scrawl:

Only for me. No one else is invited. DON'T COME TO THE KITCHEN FRIDAY NIGHT! -Bob

Yelena groaned loudly. “I hate them. They are disgusting. It’s adorable.”

Bucky chuckled, sipping his coffee. “Told you they’d figure it out on their own.”

Yelena crossed her arms. “Yes, yes. You win, Grandpa. But I’m still taking credit. My initial plan made them talk about feelings and stuff.”

Across the room, Y/N rolled her eyes, laughing quietly as Bob leaned closer, whispering something that made her blush.

He smiled again, soft, real, the kind of smile she swore she’d want to see every day from now on.

His Version of Flirting:

🧨Chaos. Absolute chaos. He flirts like he’s in a pub brawl for your attention. Loud, teasing, full of nicknames.

🧨His flirting comes with zero filter and too much charm. He’ll tease, wink, then panic internally when you actually flirt back.

You were wrapping a bandage around his forearm, trying to ignore the smirk he’d been wearing since he walked in. “Careful wi’ those bandages, bonnie,” he said, eyes glinting. “Ye might wrap me heart up too tight.” You didn’t even glance up, keeping your tone smooth and teasing. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. If I wanted your heart, I wouldn’t need bandages.” He blinked. Once. Twice. The grin faltered, replaced by wide-eyed surprise, and then that slow, helpless smile spread across his face. “...Aye, alright then,” he muttered, a laugh bubbling up. “Didnae realize the medics here came armed, too.” You tied off the last strip of gauze, leaning back just a little. “Always do. Occupational hazard...gotta know how to stop bleeding and cause it.” Soap looked like a man who’d just been sniped by Cupid himself. “God help me,” he whispered, hand over his chest.

🧨100% the type to flex while you’re stitching him up.

🧨If you compliment him even slightly? He’s red for a week. “Aye, I do look guid in this uniform, don’t I? …wait, ye meant the patch job? Right. Right, aye.”

When He Tries (and Fails) to Hide It:

💬Soap decides he’ll try to be professional around you. That lasts approximately six minutes, then he is back to flirting 24/7.

💬Every time you walk into the room, he straightens up, tries to look busy, then immediately blurts out something dumb like, “Bonnie! Need me tae test yer heartbeat monitor? Could start wi’ mine, aye?”

💬He gets flustered when you treat him like any other soldier. You’re calm, efficient, and gentle. He’s chaos incarnate. It kills him that you don’t seem affected by his flirting at all. He is the flirtiest man in the world after all...

💬When you give orders during a mission, he follows them to the letter, no questions asked. He jokes that it’s because “ye’ve got the scary doctor tone,” but truth is, he just likes making you proud. Also, your serious demanding voice turns him on.

The Signs You’ll Notice:

💡He’s suddenly everywhere. You head to the mess hall? He’s already there. The firing range? “Funny seein’ ye here!” The med bay? “Oh, I just happened tae get stabbed during training again, lass.” Would 100% beg Ghost to stab him a little so he could go see you...

💡He carries your supplies. Every. Single. Time. No matter how small the bag is.

💡He brags about your skills to everyone. “Aye, our medic’s the best, fixed me up right quick. Hands like an angel, that one.”

💡You catch him looking at you constantly. When you call him out, he just grins. “Can ye blame me? Yer face’s better than any sunrise, bonnie.”

💡Soap pouts if someone else gets your attention for too long. Ghost once caught him sulking after you laughed at Price’s joke.

The team was gathered in the rec room between briefings, scattered around the table with mugs and paperwork. Price was in the middle of telling some story, something about a mission years ago, a bad cup of field tea, that the captain nearly cried over. You laughed. Really laughed. Head back, shoulders shaking, that warm sound that filled the room. Soap froze mid-sip of his own drink, watching you from across the table like he’d just been personally betrayed by the laws of attraction. Price grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “See? She gets it.” “Aye, aye,” Soap muttered into his mug, the Scottish lilt sharper now. “But what’s funny about tea that’s too strong, anyway? That’s how it’s supposed tae be. Put hair on yer chest.” Gaz chuckled. “Jealous, mate?” Soap shot him a look. “Jealous? Me? Pfft. Naw. Just sayin’, it’s no’ even a good joke. Man tells a story about tea and suddenly it’s a comedy show.” Ghost, sitting beside him, leaned back in his chair. “You’ve been starin’ daggers at Price for five minutes, Johnny.” “I have not!” “You have,” Ghost said flatly, mask hiding what was definitely a smirk. Soap huffed, slumping in his seat and stabbing at a biscuit like it had wronged him personally. “Dinnae even make sense and the lass is laughing like Price is the funniest man alive...” he grumbled under his breath. Across the table, you looked over, noticing the pout. “You alright over there, MacTavish?” He perked up instantly, grin returning like nothing happened. “Aye, peachy, bonnie! Just enjoyin’ my properly brewed tea, unlike some people.” You laughed again, and this time, it was at him. Ghost elbowed him, deadpan. “Congratulations. She’s laughing again. And you’re the reason. You can unclench now.” Soap glared sideways, slightly less tense now.

Taglist: @kwandabear @ilovesoapandnotthebar @revnatheshadow @plump111 @missj609 @Tessakate @Asura-rose

How You Notice 🛠 You’ll notice him in the hallway at just the right times. He swears he’s “checking on the lads,” but somehow that means he’s always near when you’re around.

🛠 He won’t let you carry heavy files or boxes. The second he sees you with your arms full, his voice is behind you: “What’re you doin’, love? Gimme that before you break your back.” And suddenly, he’s hauling everything with ease.

Your arms are full of files, the stack wobbling dangerously as you try to make it down the hall. You’re determined to manage on your own until a familiar voice rumbles behind you. “What’re you doin’, love?” You nearly jump, glancing back to see Price looming there with his cap pushed back, brows raised. Before you can answer, he tuts under his breath and plucks the entire stack straight out of your arms like it weighs nothing. “Gimme that before you break your back,” he says firmly, shifting the load into one hand with insulting ease. He starts down the hall, glancing over his shoulder. “Where to, then?” You roll your eyes but can’t hide the little smile tugging at your lips as you hurry to catch up. “I had it handled, Captain.” “Mm,” he grunts, not buying it for a second. “Handled straight to the floor, maybe.”

🛠 Meetings? He’ll insist on in-person even if it could’ve been done by email. He likes the excuse to sit across from you, elbows on the table, nodding along as if every word out of your mouth is vital to mission success.

His Subtle Flirting 🔍 He’s not flashy, but he’s deliberate. You’ll hear him murmur, “Don’t work too late, love. Hate the thought of you rattlin’ ‘round here on your own.”

You’re still at your desk when Price passes through the office, cigar in hand. He pauses at your door, leaning against the frame with that casual weight that makes him look like he’s got all the time in the world. “Don’t work too late, love,” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “Hate the thought of you rattlin’ ’round here on your own.” Your heart does that ridiculous skip, but you just smile, trying not to look too obvious. “I’ll head out soon, Captain.” “Good girl.” He gives you one last look. Fond, steady. Before carrying on down the hall. Unbeknownst to you, Soap is standing a few feet away, files in hand, jaw practically on the floor. He whips around toward Ghost, eyes wide. “Did ye hear that?!” he whisper-shouts, smacking Ghost in the arm with the folders. “Did ye hear that? The man’s bloody smitten, I swear it!” Ghost just gives him a slow blink, like he’s known for months and doesn’t see what the fuss is about. Soap, however, is pacing now, running a hand through his hair. “He’s callin’ her love, tellin’ her not to work too late. Christ, he’s walkin’ her out like a proper bloody husband!” “Johnny,” Ghost drawls, unimpressed. “I can’t be the only one seein’ this!” Soap groans, throwing his hands up. “Man’s actin’ like her knight in shinin’ armour and she’s sittin’ there blushin’ like he didn’t just bloody say the most domestic thing I’ve ever heard come out his mouth!” Ghost doesn’t answer. He just adjusts his mask, glances toward where Price disappeared down the hall, and mutters, "Just leave 'em be.” Soap looks like he’s about to combust.

🔍 His compliments aren’t generic. They’re thoughtful. “That’s a good color on you, sweetheart.” Or “You’ve got a good eye, makes my job easier.” Said so casually, but it sticks with you.

You’re hunched over your desk, frowning at the neat stack of reports you’ve just finished combing through for errors. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, but you’ve stopped noticing after hours of staring at the same lines of text. The creak of the door pulls you from your concentration, and you glance up to see Price leaning in the frame. His cap is tucked under his arm, his sleeves rolled, that familiar scent of smoke and aftershave following him into the room. “Got an eye for detail, you do,” he says easily, nodding toward the papers. “Makes my job easier.” You blink at him, caught off guard. He doesn’t sound like he’s flattering you, he sounds like he means it. Your face warms as you duck your head, mumbling, “Just doing what needs doing, cap.” Price hums, stepping closer, his gaze sweeping over you with quiet ease. “That’s a good color on you, sweetheart,” he adds casually, as though it’s just another observation, no different than commenting on the weather. But it hits you square in the chest. You can feel the heat creeping into your cheeks, the little flutter in your stomach. He doesn’t linger on it, though. He just leaves the compliment hanging in the air between you, moving on with that steady calm of his, like he hasn’t just completely unraveled your focus for the rest of the night. When he leaves, the reports blur in your vision, and all you can hear is his voice, low, certain, and far too good at getting under your skin.

🔍 He teases you gently, almost dad-like. You’re clumsy, and he'll gladly catch you every time you fall.

Your hands are full. A mug of tea in one, a folder tucked under your arm, and you’re trying to juggle both as you head down the corridor. You’re not watching where you’re going, not really, and before you know it, you collide with something solid. Well. Someone solid. The tea sloshes dangerously close to the rim, and you gasp, stumbling back, only to feel a strong hand wrap around your elbow, steadying you before you can spill a drop. “Careful there, love,” Price murmurs, his voice low and steady, that calm rumble that makes your stomach flip. His hand is warm where it holds you, thumb brushing lightly against the inside of your arm as he guides you back into balance. You glance up, wide-eyed, only to find him watching you with that infuriatingly composed half-smile, like bumping into him was exactly what he’d been waiting for. “Can’t have you knockin’ yourself over, hm?” His gaze dips briefly to your mug, then back to your face, amused. “Or spillin’ that down your front. Here-” he adjusts his grip, gently turning your wrist until the mug is steady in your hand. Your pulse is hammering now, too loud in your ears. He’s so close, so nonchalant about it, like it’s just second nature to keep you upright in his orbit. When he finally lets go, his hand drifts away slowly, fingertips brushing over your sleeve before falling back to his side. That damn half-smile lingers as he tips his head toward you. “Mind your step, sweetheart,” he drawls, already moving past you down the hall. “Wouldn’t want you fallin’ for some other guy down the hall.” And you stand frozen in place, tea forgotten, trying to convince yourself your knees aren’t actually weak.

He’s Protective Without Overstepping 💙 At the end of the day, you’ll hear his voice: “I’ll walk you to your car.” You protest, and he just gives you that look, the one that brooks no argument. “Better to be safe after hours. Humour me, love.”

💙 If someone gives you grief, Price doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. He simply steps closer, arms folded, expression cool and unimpressed. Whatever was happening ends immediately.

💙 He has this way of noticing when you’re tired before you even admit it. You sit down at your desk and there it is: your favorite tea, steaming, next to a little pack of biscuits. A note in his tidy handwriting: Eat up, sweetheart. —P.

His Love Language 🎁 Acts of Service: If something’s broken in your office, it mysteriously gets fixed overnight. Supplies appear without you asking. He won’t mention it, but you know it was him.

🎁 Quality Time: He lingers just a bit longer than necessary. Pretends he’s there for work reasons, but the way his eyes soften when you talk says otherwise. “Go on, love. I like hearin’ you talk.”

🎁 Words of Affirmation: Old-fashioned, steady, sometimes slipped out without him realizing. “That’s my girl.” or “Knew I could count on you, love.”

Every trip to the mess hall became another dig at the laundry mishap and a poke at the “little surprises” tucked away in your cargo pants:

Ghost dropped onto the bench beside you, so close his thigh brushed yours. He plucked your cup off the tray, took a sip, then set it back down.

“You always this neat?” he asked, eyeing the perfectly arranged food on your plate. “Or is it just your laundry that gets mixed up?”

Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. He leaned closer, lowering his voice until only you could hear.

“Careful, birdy. Leave things lying around, they might end up in the wrong hands. And next time, someone else might not be so generous about givin’ them back.”

You choked on your stew. His gloved hand thumped your back, slow and steady. “Easy now. Don’t go dyin’ on me. Not before I get the matching bra. Gotta unlock the whole set.”

Soap, three seats down, barked a laugh. You wished the floor would open up. Ghost only smirked under the mask, savoring your crimson face.

Even when he corrected your posture on the shooting range, his words came laced with innuendo:

He stood behind you as you adjusted your stance, watching you line up your shot. His hands came down heavy on your hips, dragging them a fraction lower.

“Good girl,” he muttered, gravel low. “Don’t lock up so tight. Need to stay… flexible. Wouldn’t want you tearing your pretty lace if you bent the wrong way.”

You stiffened. “Excuse me?”

He clicked his tongue like you’d disappointed him, though his eyes were glinting. “You heard me, love,” he said smoothly, deliberately unconvincing.

The shot you fired went wide. He chuckled.

You knew what he was doing. He wanted to crack you open like a lock, to prove that the innocent little rookie wasn’t so innocent after all. Ghost had a corruption streak you could feel in your bones, a hungry edge behind every sarcastic jab, every slow glance. And God help you, you could feel yourself bending toward it, like a match leaning into a flame.

One night, lying awake in your bunk, you decided you weren’t going to just take it anymore. If Simon Riley wanted to see what lay under your shyness, then you’d damn well give him something to look at. Maybe make him blush for a change...

That’s how you ended up standing in your room with a Polaroid camera in hand, pulse hammering so hard it blurred your vision. You’d pulled the black lace set out of your drawer, the same kind of lace that had started this whole mess, and slipped it on with shaking fingers.

The click of the shutter was louder than you expected, harsh in the still air. You stared at the glossy square as the image ghosted into being: a close shot of your hipbone, lace biting sweetly into skin, the faint curve of your thumb hooked under the waistband. Suggestive but not explicit. The kind of picture that would make him stop cold and then imagine the rest on his own. So you took a few more.

Your hands trembled as you shook them dry. Then, heart in your throat, you crept down the quiet corridor to the lockers. Ghost’s was easy to spot. Everything he touched was neat, squared away, as if chaos itself couldn’t get through his discipline. You slipped the first Polaroid into the top shelf, angled so it would tumble the second he yanked the locker door open.

And when it landed at his boots later that evening, rattling against the concrete like a discarded bullet casing, the world inside his head went still.

He bent down slowly, gloved fingers pinching the white border. The photo came up into the dim light, and there you were, in the lacy panties he knew all too well. The soft flesh of your hipbone clad in lace, just a slice of you, but enough to send his pulse crashing in his ears. His first thought was brutal and immediate: she took this for me. dirty girl.

He looked around the locker room suspiciously, emptiness, silence, and then back at the photo. The corner of his mouth twitched under the mask.

“Well, well,” he muttered to himself, voice low, rough, a laugh buried somewhere inside it. “My good girl 's not so innocent after all.”

But he didn’t put it back. He didn’t throw it away. He slipped it into the breast pocket of his tac vest, close against his heart, and closed his locker with a thud that echoed down the corridor.

For the first time since the panties incident, Ghost felt the control shift. You weren’t running from the game anymore. You’d just upped the stakes.

The second Polaroid was a little riskier.

It happened during a briefing. Ghost flipped open his field notebook, ready to jot down coordinates, when something thin and glossy slid into his lap. He caught it one-handed before anyone else saw.

Another Polaroid. This is gonna be good. This one was an upper-body picture. Lace stretched over the swell of your breasts, your fingers pulling the bra straps down just enough to show a dangerous suggestion. No face, no words. Just flesh on ink.

His throat went dry.

Gaz glanced sideways. “You good, Lt? You’ve been so quiet.”

“Fine,” Ghost said sharply, snapping the notebook shut. His palm flattened the photo beneath the page before Soap or Gaz could get all nosy.

Price continued droning on about patrol shifts, none the wiser. Ghost wasn’t hearing a word. All he could think about was the note you’d scrawled across the back in block letters:

Still think I'm not a lingerie girl?

He wanted to drag you out of the room by your wrist and see for himself.

Next came breakfast. He’d poured himself coffee, the bitter steam curling up under his mask. He lifted the mug, his favourite mug, and froze. Tucked under the lip of the ceramic, just waiting for his fingers, was another Polaroid.

This one was your back. Bare from shoulder to waist, bra straps cutting black against pale skin. One hand pulling your hair aside, the curve of your neck exposed like a gift.

The back of the photo read: Bet you’d like to bite. Leave some marks on me.

He nearly choked after reading it.

“Alright there, Riley?” Price asked from across the table.

“Went down the wrong pipe,” he croaked out, slipping the photo into his glove discreetly before anyone noticed. His pulse was hammering like he’d been sprinting. Simon decides then and there that he likes this... the hunt.

By now, he was jumpy, half-expecting every piece of kit to have one of your damned Polaroids stashed in it. He was right.

Opening his ammo tin before a training op, one slid free onto the bench. He snatched it quick, thankful Soap was too busy lacing his boots to see.

This one was the boldest yet. Your thighs, spread just enough to see the lace stretched between them, your fingers ghosting over the hem. Cropped above the knees, below the chest, but his imagination filled the rest in violently fast.

The back text almost made him moan out loud: Nearly unlocked the whole image, Lieutenant.

“Oi, Lt, what you got there?” Soap leaned over suddenly.

Ghost slammed the tin shut. “Nothing. Shut up. Load your mags.”

Soap grinned, suspicious. “Aye, looks like ‘nothing’ put a blush under that mask of yours, Riley.”

“Fuck off, Johnny.”

He tucked the Polaroid into his plate carrier, heart pounding. If Soap had leaned in a second earlier, he’d have had to break his nose, maybe his eyes and mouth too.

The last one wasn’t hidden. It was waiting. For him.

He returned to his quarters late, bone-tired and aching. But on the center of his bunk lay the final Polaroid, perfectly placed. The climax of this slow-burn waiting game you were playing with him.

And this time, it was all of you. Kneeling on your bed, clad only in the black lace set, hands resting demurely in your lap. Your chin tilted just so, innocence painted in your posture but razor-sharp in your eyes. This might be his favourite yet. His heart was nearly skipping out of his chest.

Come find me, Simon.

Ghost stared down at the written invitation, the air gone thin in his lungs.

For weeks, he’d been in control, teasing, corrupting, making you blush just to feed his hunger. Now? Now you’d flipped the board on him. Every photo had chipped away at his restraint, and this one shattered it completely.

He picked it up with gloved fingers, turning it over once, twice, as if it might dissolve. His mask hid the feral twist of his mouth, but if anyone had walked in, they’d have seen the truth in his eyes.

They had no idea. And they never would.

Soap’s voice echoed in his head: blush under that mask.

And Gaz’s suspicion: You good, Lt?

Because right now, Simon Riley was already halfway to your quarters, each step harder than the last to keep measured, the Polaroid burning in his pocket like a brand.

He didn’t even remember crossing the base. One moment, he was staring down at the last Polaroid, blood roaring in his ears, and the next, he was moving through the corridors like a man possessed, boots thudding against concrete, shadows swallowing him whole.

He kept picturing it, you, kneeling in lace, waiting like a prayer he’d never had the right to ask for. He knew you were taunting him, daring him. And God help him, he wanted to lose.

By the time he reached your quarters, his pulse was a war drum, loud enough he thought it might give him away. The door was cracked open, lamplight spilling across the floor. He stopped there, one hand braced against the frame, staring at the sliver of you through the gap.

You were sitting on your bunk. Not posing this time. Just… waiting. Head bowed over the book in your hands, legs drawn up, the picture of innocence, except he’d seen the Polaroid, hadn’t he? He knew what lay beneath the surface.

His jaw flexed. Enough waiting.

He pushed the door open, slow but unyielding, until it clicked shut behind him. You looked up instantly, startled, the book slipping a little in your lap.

“Lieutenant?”

His name sounded too formal on your lips, too soft, too untouched. He crossed the room in three strides, each one louder in the silence than the last. He didn’t speak until he was standing over you, looking down, shadow draping your whole frame.

“You think you’re clever, hm?” His voice was low, dangerous, but threaded with something else, hunger, restraint fraying to pieces. He tugged the Polaroid from his pocket and held it up between two fingers, shaking it slightly. “Leaving me these?”

Your mouth parted, but no sound came. A flush rose on your neck.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing behind the mask. “What’s the game, sweetheart? Tryin’ to kill me? Or just makin’ sure I lose my mind first?”

You swallowed hard. “Well, y-you called me innocent and naive, so...”

His laugh was dark, sharp, not quite sane. “Not after this, baby.” He flicked the photo down onto your blanket, the image of you staring up between you like evidence at a trial. “Not after you’ve been prancin’ around in lace and takin’ pictures just for me.”

You looked up at him then, eyes wide, daring in the smallest way. “I wanted you to know that I'm not. Innocent, I mean...”

Something inside him snapped. He grabbed your chin in one gloved hand, not rough but not gentle either, tilting your face up to his. His shadow fell over you, his breath hot through the mask. For a moment, he hesitated, his gaze flickering to the door. One last chance to walk away. Keep things professional. But they haven't been professional. They have never been. Ever since you started working under him.

You've always been his.

“Stay. Please,” you whispered, barely audible.

That was it. That was all it took.

His mask was pulled down with a swift, deliberate motion, stopping just below his chin. And then his mouth was on yours, hot, hungry, overwhelming. It wasn’t the kiss of a man testing boundaries. It was a man starved, finally allowed to eat.

You gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound like it was his. His other hand slid to your waist, gripping tight, pulling you forward until your chest pressed flush against his tac vest.

You clutched at his shirt, breathless. He deepened the kiss, teeth grazing your lip, tongue pushing until you opened for him. The taste of you went straight to his head, dizzying.

When he pulled back just an inch, his voice was ruined gravel, eyes burning down at you. “Christ, look at you. My good girl.” His thumb brushed the corner of your wet mouth, slow and filthy. “You’ve no idea what you’ve just started.”

And then he kissed you again, harder this time, pushing you down into the mattress, his body caging yours like he’d been waiting forever.

The Polaroid lies forgotten beside you, evidence of the game you’d both been playing. Only now, there was no game left. No teasing, no running. Just the two of you, and the hunger neither of you could deny anymore.