nextra8

Reed Richards doesn’t expect you to be a problem.

You’re qualified. That’s obvious from the file. Smart, disciplined, careful. The kind of person programs like this are built for. Temporary. Clean. In and out.

He expects competence.

What he doesn’t expect is how quietly you fit.

You don’t hover on your first day. You don’t try to fill the silence. You read. You listen. You wait until you’re sure before you speak. Reed notices that right away — not because it’s impressive, but because it’s rare.

Most people want to be seen.

You seem more interested in being right.

The first week passes without incident. Reed keeps things formal. Distant. He gives instructions, you follow them. No friction. No spark. Exactly how it should be.

Then you correct him.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t interrupt. You don’t challenge his authority. You just… ask a question.

“Why are we assuming stability here?”

The room goes still.

Reed looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s recalibrating something internal. He answers you calmly. You nod, then explain why the answer doesn’t work.

You walk to the board only after he gestures for you to do so. You don’t erase anything. You add. Build. Adjust.

When the model fails the way you said it would, Reed doesn’t smile. He doesn’t bristle either.

He just says, “She’s right.”

That’s it.

After that, things change.

You start staying later. So does he.

At first it’s practical. Deadlines. Momentum. Then it becomes habit. Reed doesn’t comment on it, but he notices when you pack up early. Notices when you don’t.

You don’t assume access to him. You always ask if he has time. You leave when he says he doesn’t. That makes him say yes more often than he should.

Conversations stretch. Drift. Not into personal territory — neither of you lets it — but close enough to brush against it.

You mention future plans like they’re solid. Real. Reed listens like someone overhearing a language he used to speak.

Sometimes you catch him watching you think. He looks away when you notice.

That should bother you.

It doesn’t.

The age difference sits between you like something unspoken.

Reed feels it constantly. In the way you recover faster. In how you talk about what comes next instead of what’s already happened. In how easily you believe effort will pay off.

You feel it differently.

You notice how careful he is with himself. How little space he allows for anything unnecessary. How loneliness doesn’t look like emptiness on him — it looks like routine.

You don’t want to fix that.

You just want him to stop pretending it isn’t there.

The night you fall asleep, it’s late. Later than either of you planned.

You tell him you’re fine. Just tired. You sit down while something runs, rest your head for a second.

Reed notices immediately.

He always does.

He comes closer quietly. Kneels so he’s level with you. You look younger like this, he thinks — and hates himself for thinking it.

He puts his jacket over your shoulders.

His hand lingers for half a second too long.

That’s enough.

He steps back like he’s done something wrong.

When you wake later, the jacket is the first thing you notice. Warm. Heavy. Not yours.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But after that, he changes.

He gets distant. Subtle about it. Professional in a way that feels intentional.

Praise becomes emails. Conversations get shorter. He stops standing close. Stops letting silence stretch.

You feel it immediately.

You wait a few days. Then a week. Then you stop waiting.

“Did I mess something up?” you ask from his office doorway one night.

He looks up too fast.

“No.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m being edged out?”

He hesitates. That’s new.

“You’re not,” he says.

You don’t believe him.

“I don’t need protection,” you say quietly. “I need honesty.”

Reed leans back in his chair like the weight finally caught up to him.

“You don’t understand what this would cost,” he says.

“You’re assuming I don’t.”

“I’m assuming I do.”

That’s the moment it clicks.

He isn’t worried about you.

He’s worried about himself.

“Wanting you would be irresponsible,” he says, and it sounds like something he’s already told himself a hundred times.

Not wrong.

Not impossible.

Irresponsible.

You nod slowly, even though it hurts.

“Then you should’ve told me sooner,” you say.

He doesn’t answer.

That night, after you leave, Reed sits alone and opens the transfer paperwork.

He tells himself it’s the right thing.

He tells himself discipline is the same as care.

He tells himself this will pass.

The doors slammed down hard enough to shake the floor. Red lights. Sirens. Bucky barely had time to swear before gunfire lit up the hallway.

“Y/N!” Steve shouted, shield already up. “Move!”

You didn’t.

You just stood there.

For a split second, Steve actually thought you were frozen. Shock, maybe. Fear. Then you turned around, calm as anything, and spoke into your comm.

“They’re inside,” you said. “You can come out now.”

The words didn’t land right away. They slid past his brain, didn’t make sense. Like hearing a language you almost recognize.

Bucky pulled Steve down as bullets tore through the air.

“What the hell is she doing?” Bucky yelled, firing back, metal arm smoking.

Steve couldn’t answer. He couldn’t stop looking at you—at the way you stepped back, out of the line of fire, like you’d planned it all along.

Because you had.

They barely made it out. Barely. Steve’s ribs were bruised, Bucky’s shoulder was bleeding through his jacket, and neither of them spoke the entire ride back.

The silence was loud. Heavy.

Bucky was the first to break it.

“She knew,” he said, staring at the floor. “All of it. The layout. The timing.”

Steve nodded, jaw tight. “She wouldn’t—”

He stopped himself.

Because you already had.

timeskip——-

They didn’t sleep that night.

Steve sat at the kitchen table until morning, hands wrapped around a cold mug of coffee, replaying every moment he’d trusted you. Every time he’d turned his back. Every mission briefing where you stood at his shoulder like you belonged there.

Bucky sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled in, breathing slow like he was trying not to lose control.

“She used to sit with me,” he said quietly. “When the nightmares got bad.”

Steve closed his eyes.

timeskip——-

When they found you, you weren’t running.

That hurt worse than anything.

You were waiting in an old church, standing near the front like you didn’t know what else to do with yourself. You looked exhausted. Smaller somehow. Not the person who had walked them straight into a trap.

Steve didn’t ease into it.

“Why,” he said. Not loud. Just raw.

You swallowed. “They have my sister.”

Bucky stiffened.

“They told me if I stopped helping them, she’d die,” you said. “I believed them.”

Steve ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “You could’ve told us.”

You shook your head immediately. “You would’ve gone after her. Both of you.”

“And you didn’t think we deserved the choice?” Bucky snapped.

You looked at him then, really looked at him, and your face cracked.

“I didn’t think I could survive watching you die,” you said. “Either of you.”

That did it.

Bucky laughed, short and broken. “So you decided we were expendable.”

“No,” you said quickly. “Never.”

“But we were,” he shot back. “The second you pulled that trigger.”

You flinched like he’d hit you.

Steve stopped pacing. His voice was quieter now. Controlled, but barely.

“We’ll get her back,” he said. “But understand this—what you did doesn’t disappear just because we understand it.”

You nodded, tears slipping free. “I know.”

Bucky finally met your eyes. There was no anger left in his face.

Just loss.

“You don’t get to be safe with us anymore,” he said. “Not like before.”

That was worse than being yelled at.

You stood there, alone in a way you hadn’t expected, realizing that saving one person had cost you the two who mattered most.

König didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the edge of the break room counter until his knuckles started to ache.

The door had barely finished swinging shut behind the sergeant—still echoing with the frantic scuff of boots retreating down the hall—when König finally exhaled. It came out sharp, ragged, like he’d been holding it in his chest for days. Which, in a way, he had.

Six days.

Six fucking days of you coughing yourself awake in the middle of the night, of your skin burning one moment and freezing the next, of him hovering uselessly at your side with water glasses and damp cloths and whispered reassurances he wasn’t sure you even heard. Six days of watching the strongest person he knew reduced to shaking hands and a hoarse voice that kept apologizing for being “a burden.”

He drags a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly in his beard. He hates that he lost his temper. Hates that it happened in public, that rank and discipline slipped because his chest had filled with something hot and ugly and protective the moment he’d heard that cough echoing through the room again.

But God—he hates even more that it ever happened to you.

The image of you curled on the couch flashes behind his eyes uninvited. Blanket pulled up to your chin. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy but still bright when you look at him, like you’re trying so hard to be okay just for his sake. You’d joked weakly the first night, voice wrecked, “Guess I’m not invincible after all, huh?” and he’d laughed—but it stuck in his throat.

He straightens slowly, rolling his shoulders like he’s shedding armor. Colonel König again. Controlled. Measured. The beast locked back behind steel doors.

Still, his jaw tightens when he imagines that sergeant’s careless coughing, out in the open air, not a thought spared for anyone else. It wasn’t just the sickness. It was the idea that someone’s thoughtlessness had hurt you. That he hadn’t been there to stop it.

By the time his shift finally ends, the sun is already dipping low, casting long shadows across the base. König doesn’t linger. He doesn’t stop to chat. He doesn’t even remove his gloves until he’s in the car, fingers flexing stiffly as he starts the engine.

The drive home feels longer than usual.

When he finally steps inside your shared apartment, the familiar quiet hits him first. Not silence—never that—but the soft kind. The hum of the heater. The faint clink of a spoon against ceramic from the kitchen.

“Schatzi?” he calls, voice automatically gentler than it ever is on base.

“Living room,” you croak back.

He finds you right where he expected: curled up on the couch, wrapped in far too many blankets, tissues scattered on the coffee table like fallen leaves. There’s a mug balanced carefully in your hands, steam rising lazily from the surface. Tea, probably. He made it before he left this morning, with too much honey because you like it that way when your throat hurts.

His chest loosens at the sight of you. Still sick. Still miserable. Still here.

“There you are,” he murmurs, crossing the room in long strides. He crouches in front of you instead of sitting, big frame folding down until he’s eye-level. His gloved hand comes up, hesitates, then gently presses against your forehead. Not too hot. Good.

You squint at him, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re staring.”

“I missed you,” he says simply.

You snort, which immediately turns into a cough. König is on you instantly, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other steadying the mug as he gently guides it away. “Easy,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles into your back. His touch is careful, like you might break.

When the coughing finally subsides, you sag against him, forehead dropping to his chest. “You smell like outside,” you mumble.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “High praise.”

He helps you settle back against the cushions before tugging his gloves off and setting them aside. Then he sits, long legs stretched out, and pulls you against him without a word. You fit there easily, like you always do, tucked into his side, your head resting just under his collarbone.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

His hand moves through your hair, slow and rhythmic, grounding himself in the simple fact of you breathing against him. Alive. Warm. Safe.

Finally, you break the silence. “You seem… tense.”

He stiffens for half a second before relaxing again. No point hiding it from you. Never has been. “I may have scared a sergeant today.”

Your head tilts slightly. “Oh?”

“He was coughing,” König says, voice low. “Carelessly.”

You hum weakly. “Ah. So he met his end.”

“He lives,” König replies dryly. “Barely.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, raspy but genuine, and the sound is worth everything. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there longer than necessary.

“I don’t like seeing you sick,” he admits quietly. “I don’t like not being able to fix it.”

You shift, turning enough to look up at him. Your eyes are tired but soft. “You’re doing fine,” you say. “You’ve been hovering like a very large, very anxious mother hen.”

“Protective husband,” he corrects.

You smile faintly. “That too.”

He tightens his arm around you just a little. Outside, the world can keep coughing into the open air, keep being careless and loud and stupid. In here, though—here is warm. Here is quiet. Here is you.

The safehouse was quiet, save for the hum of the old heating unit and the distant drum of rain against the windows. You’d just finished wiping down your gear when the door creaked open, and Simon Riley stepped inside. No mask. No fanfare. Just him, heavy boots thudding against the floor, eyes scanning the room—and then landing on you.

He doesn’t say anything at first. He never does. The air between you tightens, electric, as he leans against the doorframe. Broad shoulders tense, jaw set. The kind of quiet that means he’s been holding too much in for too long.

“You alright?” His voice is low, rough, like gravel rubbed over steel.

You shrug, stepping closer. “You’re the one who looks like hell.”

A corner of his mouth quirks, almost a smile, before it disappears. His gaze drops to your hands, lingering a second too long. Then he’s walking toward you, slow, deliberate, each step measured. When he’s a half-step behind you in the hallway, the brush of his glove against your wrist makes you catch your breath. It’s subtle, almost nothing—but it’s enough to know he’s checking. That he cares.

The door to his room clicks shut behind you. That’s when the tension in him starts to fall away, just a fraction. Shoulders drop, the edge softens. He doesn’t hide it anymore. He’s just Simon. Just…him. And he’s yours.

“Hit back there,” you say, nodding toward the bruise forming on his cheek. “You didn’t have to—”

“Didn’t want you seeing it.” He pauses, voice quieter, rougher. “Not like that.”

That honesty—rare, fleeting—makes your chest tighten. You reach for him, fingers hooking into his shirt. He stiffens, like he’s surprised to be allowed to be touched, then lets himself relax under your hands. His own slide to your waist, possessive, grounding, just enough to make your pulse spike.

“You’re shakin’,” you murmur.

“Adrenaline,” he mutters. Then softer, almost shy. “And you.”

A laugh escapes you, breathless and low. He leans in, forehead resting against yours, the world narrowing to the warmth of him and the faint scent of smoke and leather. His thumb brushes slow circles at your hip, testing, tracing, leaving fire in its wake.

When he kisses you, it’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything else he does, measured, restrained, but heavy with a need he’s spent years bottling up. You tilt your head, and he doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds yours, and the quiet of the room swallows the world.

His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying, memorizing. He doesn’t cage you—not fully—but the heat of him presses you against the door, holding you close without pinning you. Every brush of lips, every careful tug and press of his hands, makes your chest ache with anticipation.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice low and rough.

You don’t.

So he kisses you again, deeper this time, letting just enough of himself go to prove that he trusts you—and that he wants you. Jaw tight, breath ragged, he pulls back slightly, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your lips as though memorizing the taste.

“World’s loud,” he murmurs. “But it goes quiet with you.”

You press a kiss to the scar along his cheek, tracing the line gently. “You don’t have to be on all the time with me,” you whisper.

His eyes close, and for a man who lives behind armor and ghostly walls, this is the closest thing to softness he allows himself. Arms lock around you like an anchor, holding you steady in the storm of his life. You stay pressed together, no rush, no expectation—just breathing, heartbeat to heartbeat, trust passed silently between you.

“Stay,” he finally says, softer, almost afraid to ask.

You do.

Simon isn’t good at softness in public. He walks a half step behind you through the safehouse hallway, broad shoulders tense, skull mask tucked under his arm instead of on his face. Anyone watching would think you’re just teammates. Anyone paying attention would notice the way his gloved hand brushes yours every few steps, like he’s checking you’re still there.

The door to his room shuts behind you with a quiet click.

That’s when he exhales.

It’s subtle, but you feel it—his shoulders dropping, the edge in him easing the moment it’s just you. He turns, eyes already on you, that unreadable stare softened by something warmer. Hungrier.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low, rough from disuse and too many cigarettes.

You nod, stepping closer. “You took a hit back there.”

“Yeah.” A pause. Then, quieter. “Didn’t like you seeing it.”

That honesty is rare with Simon. It always pulls you in.

You reach for him first, fingers hooking into the fabric of his shirt, grounding him. He stiffens for half a second—like he always does when he remembers he’s allowed to be touched—then his hands are on your waist, firm, possessive, like he’s making sure you’re real.

“You’re shakin’,” you murmur.

“Adrenaline,” he mutters. “And you.”

That earns a breathy laugh before he leans in, forehead resting against yours. The air between you feels tight, electric. His thumb brushes slow circles at your hip, deliberate, testing. When you tilt your head up, he doesn’t hesitate—his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s unhurried but heavy with intent.

Simon kisses like he does everything else: controlled, intense, like he’s holding himself back. It’s not desperate. It’s restrained. That somehow makes it worse.

Better.

His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying like he needs the contact. You feel the heat of him, the way he cages you gently against the door without ever pinning you there. He pulls back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours again.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You don’t.

So he kisses you again, deeper this time. His grip tightens, just a little, like he’s reminding himself you’re his and he’s yours—something solid in a life that’s anything but. When your hands slip under his shirt, he sucks in a sharp breath, jaw tightening as he fights the instinct to retreat.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice breaking just enough to make your chest ache.

You feel the moment he lets go—not completely, never completely—but enough. His mouth trails to your jaw, your neck, lingering there like he’s memorizing you. His breath is hot against your skin, his voice barely above a whisper.

“World’s loud,” he says. “But it goes quiet with you.”

You turn your head, pressing a kiss to the scar along his cheek. “You don’t have to be on all the time with me.”

His eyes close.

For a man who lives wrapped in armor—physical and otherwise—this is as close as he gets to vulnerable. He pulls you in, forehead to yours, arms locked around you like an anchor.

You stay like that for a while. No rush. No need to prove anything. Just the steady beat of his heart under your palm and the unspoken promise that, for tonight at least, he’s safe. And so are you.

When he finally speaks again, it’s softer. Almost shy.

“Stay,” he says.