Raven's Whimsical Corner

“No, sir,” one of the patrol officers taking cover behind the cruisers lining the street says.

You aren’t sure what Karadec asked but given the long sigh he releases after hearing no, you assume the negative is a bad thing in this scenario. Twisting to the left, you ensure that Oz and Daphne are behind solid cover, then spot Morgan hovering beside a plain-clothes Sherrif’s Deputy. Your entire team is here, and every second that you don’t know what is happening inside the target house is a second the people you care most about are in danger.

“I can make entry on the four side,” you offer. “911 caller insisted that the back would be clear.”

“And 911 callers are never wrong,” Karadec snaps. “We hold here for SWAT.”

“Any shots fired?” you ask the officer on the other side of Karadec.

He swallows, glancing nervously between you and Karadec. “Uh, n-no, ma’am.”

“Has anyone seen the suspect?”

“No.”

“Then as far as we know, he isn’t even in there,” you tell Karadec. “I’m not asking anyone else to go into an unknown scene. I’ll get in and clear it.”

“I gave you a direct order,” he reminds you as you move toward the end of the car.

Daphne gestures when she sees you move, silently asking if you want her to join you. You shake your head, then run to the fenceline, making your way toward the back door. Karadec might be mad at you, but at least he’ll get to go home. That’s your primary focus every day you step into the Major Crimes bullpen — to get everyone home safe.

The back door isn’t just unlocked, it’s standing open. So, you ready your weapon and slip in without disturbing anything. The floor doesn’t creak, surprisingly, so you move along the wall, clearing rooms silently. When you reach the bedroom closest to the front of the house, you find a well-dressed man loading a shotgun.

“LAPD,” you say, aiming your weapon at his chest, not even thinking of the dangerous position you’ve put yourself in by confronting him in a close space. “Set the weapon on the floor and show me your hands.”

“Or what?” he scoffs.

“I have a feeling you know what happens if you resist. Put the gun down.”

“You’re not SWAT,” he realizes, turning on his chair to see you better. “What are you? Some kind of hero?”

“When I need to be. Last chance. Put the gun down.”

Oz and Daphne rush to you when you push the suspect out of the front door and step onto the porch. A few uniformed officers take the cuffed man toward a transport van while you smile at your team.

“Are you okay?” Daphne worries, holding your shoulder as she scans your face.

“I’m fine,” you assure her. “What about you? Have you been drinking enough water? This weather is brutal.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she answers softly. “I’m good.”

“And, Oz,” you add. “I noticed you didn’t bring lunch again today. There’s extra food in the blue container in the fridge back at the station.”

“That’s great,” Karadec deadpans. His hands are in his pockets, his jaw set as he asks, “Why do you have the time to take care of all of us but not to listen to me before running into a house with a crazed gunman?”

Because I refuse to make the same mistake twice. Because I was selfish once and watched the people around me pay for it. “You sound like you like me, Karadec,” you joke.

“Look, we care about you,” Oz explains. “And we appreciate that you care about us and take care of us all the time, but you need to take care of yourself too.”

“Right,” you agree. “I’ll try. Karadec, have you heard from Soto?”

“Unfortunately,” he murmurs. “We’re up next on Captain Wagner’s plan to get involved with every aspect of his department.”

Daphne’s groan communicates your shared feelings about the news. It also distracts everyone from the grimace that flashes across your face when you move your left side.

“Can I ask a question?” Morgan inquires as you move toward your cars.

“Sure,” you answer, left alone when your team keeps walking.

“How bad’s the pain?”

Well, almost everyone, you muse. “It’s an old injury,” you say. “Just a flare-up. I’m good, Morgan.”

“May I?” Captain Wagner asks when he joins you in the elevator.

“Sure,” you agree, nodding as you press the button for the ground floor. “Although, if you really want to see our team’s approach, Detective Karadec may be more helpful, Captain Wagner.”

“Nick,” he offers, a devastating smile accompanying the invitation. “I don’t care about the title, just the people I can help.”

You aren’t entirely convinced of that after hearing Daphne and Oz whispering about their conversations with the new captain. But you remind yourself Nick Wagner is not your primary concern today. The case is.

“How long have you been with Major Crimes?” he inquires, walking to your car. He approaches the driver’s side, and for a brief moment you think he’s going to get in, but he only opens the door for you.

“A few years,” you answer then.

When Nick is in the passenger seat and has his seatbelt secured, he nods. “Do you like Major Crimes or is it a steppingstone to something else?”

“I love this job,” you admit. “I can’t imagine leaving it.”

“Not even if Jim Street wanted you to join LBPD SWAT?”

“You checked up on me,” you hum, focused on the road rather than how Nick is looking at you.

“I flipped through everyone’s files,” he defends. “You’d be hard to replace.”

“Just call Morgan in more often.”

Nick doesn’t respond to that, letting his eyes wander your profile, your hair, and down your arms to where your hands hold the steering wheel. He felt drawn to you on his first day in the station, the moment he saw you in the bullpen, laughing quietly with Daphne. Though he hasn’t spoken to you nearly as much as he’d like to, Nick Wagner knows there is something in you worth seeing, worth appreciating… worth loving.

“Did you join us for this case for a specific reason?” you wonder. “Or was it just convenient timing?”

“I wanted to start with Major Crimes,” Nick answers. “I would’ve shadowed you- your team this week even if you’d been tied to the station.”

“Start with the best,” you hum, smiling. “I like it.”

Nick has grown quite comfortable at your side, you think. Three days into the kidnapping case, he’s made small talk in your passenger seat, offered theories or feedback from a chair he pulled up to your desk, and has even sent you a text message after leaving the station to inform you of the lab’s findings. Though you haven’t asked outright, you don’t think he’s been this open and engaged with the others.

“Perhaps you could accompany Detective Karadec, Captain,” Soto suggests when you get a possible location for the missing man.

“You ready?” Nick asks you rather than responding to your Lieutenant.

You look at Selena, and she shrugs. She’s leaving the decision up to you.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Let’s go.”

The foreclosed house on a busy street gets overlooked thousands of times each day, making it a perfect location to keep someone against their will. Based on your investigation, you think this kidnapping was a business venture gone wrong, a proposed deal that ended with hatred and a deviant attempt at revenge.

“SWAT is nearly an hour out,” Karadec says, meeting you, Nick, Daphne, Oz, and Morgan on the curb. “We can’t wait here that long.”

“Then we breach,” Oz suggests.

“No,” Nick interjects. “Call the sheriff’s department, see if they can spare anyone with tactical training.”

Turning, you see a loose piece of plywood tapping the stucco on the front of the house. It recoils as if it has just been released from someone’s hand. Whoever is inside knows you’re here.

Without a word, you run toward the house, skirting around the porch to disappear down the western side of the home. Karadec calls after you, grumbling under his breath as he lifts his phone to his ear.

“Why are you just standing here?” Nick demands. “You’re letting her go up there alone?!”

“She does this,” Karadec explains. “We’ve tried to talk her out of it. She just… She doesn’t think of the dangers.”

“And you…” Nick trails off, then pictures you going into this house with no sightlines and no backup. “Get someone here,” he instructs. “Now.”

Karadec nods, and Nick runs toward the house, following the same path you had taken. The back door is open, the door jamb splintered as if you kicked it in. Nick pulls his weapon, holding it at his chest as he steps into the empty residence. After two turns, Nick finds himself in a standoff with you. You drop your gun first, your brows furrowed as you look at him. Nick blinks, realizes he’s still aiming at you, and drops his hands.

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly.

“What are you doing?” Nick counters. “You can’t just run in here while your team is discussing a plan!”

You roll your eyes and turn away from him, moving deeper into the hall. Nick’s steps thud softly behind you. For the first time in a while, you have backup, but your heart beats faster at the idea of Nick getting hurt because he followed you into this death trap of a house.

The gun fires before you even see the man crouching by the plywood-covered window. Nick grasps the back of your shirt and pulls you backward, his arm wrapping awkwardly around your chest and shoulder to keep you upright. He plants one foot between yours, reaching past the end of the wall to fire a single shot.

Your chest heaves against Nick’s forearm, your heart racing at the realization that you would have been killed if Nick hadn’t been here to pull you out of the doorway. When you drop your chin to try to catch your breath, you see blood on Nick’s arm. Your hand raises instinctively, your fingers prodding his arm gently in search of the wound.

“What are you doing?” Nick asks.

So, he’s fine, you muse internally. Your hand moves to your face, and you find the source of the blood.

“Suspect down,” you radio, moving your shoulders forward until Nick releases you.

“Whoa,” he breathes out when he sees your bloody face. “Are you—”

“I’m fine,” you insist, looking at the downed suspect. “We need to find our victim.”

“We need to get you checked out,” Nick argues. “The others can finish the search.”

You shake your head adamantly, attempting to walk past him to reach the other side of the hall. Nick holds your shoulders, his touch firm but kind.

“I’m calling EMS,” he decides. His voice drops to plead, “Don’t make me pull rank on you.”

“I am fine,” you repeat slowly. “Get off of me.”

“You just got shot; you are not fine!”

“Shot?” Daphne repeats from the back doorway. She sees the blood smeared across your cheek and down your neck and gasps before rushing to your side.

“Clear the rest of the house,” Nick tells Karadec and Oz. “And call EMS for your suspect and your detective.”

“Come on,” Daphne urges softly, holding your arm as she leads you toward the door.

“What happened?!” Morgan exclaims when you step into the doorway.

“I’m fine,” you promise. “Go find the vic, Daph,” you urge. “Please.”

She nods and releases you, then returns to the house. You lean against the side of the house, your chest tightening as you remember the last time you came this close to being killed. The day that someone else died for you; the last time you put your own needs before someone else’s.

“Hey, hey,” Morgan calls, her voice distant even as she gets closer to you. “Deep breath in. Breathe, detective.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

“Ambulance is here,” Nick barks from the back door. “Go.”

You blink, unsure why he sounds so mad. Shaking your head, you can only hope Morgan understands what you’re saying. You can’t take an ambulance that someone else might need. Not for something as straightforward as a graze.

“I think Daphne has a med-kit in her car,” Morgan murmurs. “I’m no expert, but I can use a butterfly bandage, so you stop bleeding on your cute pants.”

Nodding, you say, “Thank you,” and then heed her advice to take a few deep breaths before moving.

Daphne and Oz fret over you when you return to the bullpen. While Karadec interviews both the suspect and the victim — both of whom will recover completely from their injuries — in the hospital, Nick paces in Soto’s office, his hands moving animatedly as his voice rises.

“Here,” Oz offers, setting a plate of warm food and a glass of water at your desk.

“I’ll fix your hair,” Daphne adds. She moves slowly, each movement gentle.

Nick doesn’t even look at you when he storms out of Soto’s office. Only when he’s out of the bullpen does Oz make a comment about him being very mad for someone who didn’t get shot.

“Am I in trouble?” you ask Selena.

“No,” she says, smiling. “But we need to make some changes.”

When Daphne finishes your hair, you excuse yourself to use the restroom. Outside the bullpen, you walk past the restroom and get on the elevator.

Nick doesn’t seem overly surprised to see you in his doorway, but he gestures for you to close it and the impending sense of doom you had before returns. Just because he didn’t get you in trouble with Soto doesn’t mean you aren’t in trouble with him.

“What do you want?” he asks.

“I, uh… I just wanted to say thank you,” you answer. “For saving me today.”

Nick nods once. “I won’t be joining your team again.”

“Oh. Did you finish what you wanted to do?”

“No. But I can assure you that the Major Crimes team will never have my company on another case.”

You remain quiet, watching as Nick looks away immediately after noticing the bandage on your face. His explanation of not joining the team feels personal, like a punishment on the group for your actions. Your actions that recovered a kidnapped individual and closed a case. Your actions that Nick interrupted without warning.

“Why are you so mad at me?” you blurt out, suddenly unaware of why you want to know, of why you care.

“I’m not mad at you,” he grumbles.

“Well, there’s clearly something wrong. I’m sorry that encountering a very common job hazard of injury created some kind of rift between you and my team.”

“Your team?” Nick repeats with a flat, humorless laugh.

“Is that what this is?” you scoff. “You think my team isn’t a team because I went in alone?”

“You know what, fine,” Nick snaps. He pushes against his desk to stand, his eyes dark as he looks at you. “I can’t watch you rush into danger as if no one will care if you get hurt. You have a team that needs you.”

“I know!” you reply hotly. “I need to protect them! Are you seriously trying to tell me that I’m wrong for not wanting anything to happen to my teammates?”

“Who’s protecting you?” Nick yells.

Immediately, the room falls quiet. You’re both breathing heavily, staring at one another with tensed muscles and feelings that are hard to express anywhere, but harder to deal with in a police station.

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice much softer than before.

“You protect everyone around you, no matter the cost,” Nick says. “But you won’t let anyone protect you from all the things you put yourself in front of.”

“No one has to.”

“Doesn’t mean no one wants to.”

You swallow, then nod. “Okay,” you agree. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Start by thinking things through,” Nick encourages, rounding his desk. “Don’t run into an unknown scene just so your team doesn’t have to. Don’t put yourself between me and an armed suspect. Don’t just think about all the things everyone else needs.”

“I can try,” you promise.

Nick nods, then raises a hand to hold your jaw. His thumb brushes beneath your bandage, his eyes softening as he looks at your lips, then the line of your nose, and to your eyes. “Let people take care of you sometimes,” he whispers.

“While I’m getting better?” you check, gesturing weakly to your head.

“Forever,” Nick corrects.

A week later, when you’re back from a short medical leave after seeing your doctor for a headache, you keep Nick’s advice in mind. Losing your partner a few years before you joined Major Crimes was a pain like nothing else you’ve ever experienced. And you blamed yourself. Nights were spent lying awake wondering what you could’ve done differently — you could’ve gone into the house first or volunteered to clear it alone, you could have set your self-preservation aside and insisted on taking the lead. Instead, you let fear and comfort dictate your decisions and could do nothing but watch as a fellow officer was gunned down. Now, you’re realizing that rushing into danger just puts someone else in your past position. If Daphne had to watch you bleed out because you ignored the danger and went into a dark building with unknown suspects, she might face the same fears and doubts you had. It’s a cycle that has to end.

Oz and Daphne seem to realize that you need the care you’ve always shown them, too. Daphne brings you your favorite drink when she gets coffee, Oz buys you lunch while you canvass, and Karadec gives you a look that says take a break. It’s not an easy adjustment, but it’s one you don’t have to make alone.

Plus, there’s Nick.

Nick came over the night after your doctor’s appointment and made you dinner. He brought Ingrid with him and the three of you sat on the couch together through the night, talking, laughing, and getting to know each other. By the time the sun rose, Nick was far more than your captain, and you found that idea wasn’t as terrifying as you thought it would be.

The day you return to work, you get a text inviting you to his office. He closes the door behind you, ushers you to sit in his chair and drink a cup of calming tea he made you while he checks in with you. The last time you were in his office, you asked him why he was mad at you. Today, you ask, “Could we have dinner again?”

“My place,” Nick agrees immediately. “I’ll order from the bistro you like.”

“You sound like a stalker,” you hum, leaning into his touch. “We just met.”

“And you got shot for me, so I think it’s fair.”

“Grazed, not shot.”

“Getting shot makes for a much cooler story.”

You consider his argument, then lean forward and hug him.

Three Months Later

For the first time since you joined Major Crimes, your team is at the scene before you even leave the station. You ran a check on the owner of the property and had a few other things to look into before you step onto the elevator to meet them. Captain Wagner is in the elevator, and he smiles at you as the door closes.

“Case?” he checks.

“Mmhmm,” you reply. “Landed about an hour ago. I did some research, but I’m heading to the scene now.”

Nick hums, then turns quickly. His hand finds your waist as he moves you backward. Pinned between him and the wall of the elevator, you have no choice but to meet his eyes as his thumb moves in an arc below your ribcage.

“You have to come back safe,” he reminds you lowly. “It’s not enough for you to keep everyone else alive. Look out for each other and let them look out for you.”

“I will,” you promise. “I’ve gotta get home to someone now.”

“Right,” Nick agrees.

He tips his head, but before he can kiss you, you mutter, “Ingrid needs me.”

Nick sighs as you giggle, and you’re still smiling when his lips press to yours. The elevator chimes when you reach the ground floor and Nick pulls himself away from you like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“Movie night?” you check.

“Ask Ingrid.”

You fall asleep on Nick’s shoulder with Ingrid in your lap halfway into the movie. He smiles, shifting carefully so you’re in a more comfortable position.

While brushing his hand over your hair, Nick murmurs, “I love you.”

Ingrid stirs, but you don’t move. Nick knows it’s time to tell you, so he retrieves his phone from the table to make a reservation at your favorite restaurant. The only thing left to do is keep Morgan from finding out and spoiling his confession. Nick traces a scar on your side from years past and realizes that both of you became protectors because you lost someone you cared for. Now, together, you’re protectors and protected, simultaneously. All because you let Nick get attached to you before you got shot. Yeah, he muses, it sounds way better that way.

Nick Wagner Taglist @person-005 @dreamerxo12 @pear-1206 @jennifer0305 @notanotherpotter @multiluvr

https://archiveofourown.org/series/6034951 fanfic link!

Closeups

Then you saw it.

A single cup sat in the center of the kitchen island, white, ceramic, no lid. Steam still rose gently from the dark liquid inside, curling in delicate tendrils into the morning air. And on the paper cup sleeve, from the little café down the road that you liked, someone had doodled a crescent moon. Your breath caught. That was your moon. The same stylized shape you’d doodle on notepads, whiteboards, even the corner of mission maps. The same one that matched the silver pendant you wore around your neck, always hidden beneath your neckline.

You stepped closer. The scent hit you first, a rich, bold roast with a hint of cinnamon and just a splash of oat milk: exactly how you ordered it. You picked up the cup slowly, eyes scanning the kitchen, the hall, even the windows, but there was no one. Not a sound of retreating footsteps, no rustle of movement, nothing.

Except…

Out past the glass, heading toward the training wing, a figure moved briskly across the courtyard. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hoodie pulled up despite the July heat. The way he walked, stiff, precise, like he was trying not to look like he was walking away from something.

Bucky.

You blinked, instinctively stepping closer to the window, the warmth of the cup seeping into your hands. He didn’t look back. His pace didn’t falter. But something in your gut twisted, that odd fluttering feeling, soft and uninvited, like the moment just before a dream becomes something real.

You took a cautious sip. It was the perfect temperature.

There was no note or message, nothing but the doodle and the unshakable feeling that someone, maybe Bucky, had been paying much closer attention than you ever expected.

And for the first time in weeks, the exhaustion faded just a little.

*****

Lunch at the compound was always a strange affair—never quite formal, never quite casual, its tone dictated by who was present and whether the latest mission had ended in triumph or disaster. That afternoon, the kitchen hummed with quiet energy as Sam held court, leaning back with a self-satisfied grin while recounting Steve’s near-collision with a rogue protein shake spill. Natasha smirked into her coffee, Clint chimed in about finishing a thriller on the quinjet ride back, and soon the table had launched into favorite author confessions—Sam swearing by Octavia Butler, Natasha standing firm on Le Carré, and Vision offering a dignified nod to Austen, earning a groan from Sam.

“I used to read The Secret of Rowan Hollow every summer,” you said absently, more to yourself than anyone else, the name tumbling out like a familiar melody. “My aunt had this battered old copy with half the cover torn off. It had these eerie little black-and-white illustrations between the chapters. Felt like magic.”

Wanda glanced over with interest. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“No one has,” you replied with a soft chuckle. “It’s out of print. I looked for it once, but it was like it vanished with my childhood.” You shrugged, brushing it off with a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, then changed the subject before the ache of nostalgia could linger too long.

You forgot about it by dinner.

You remembered it again the next week when you stepped into your room and found the package sitting neatly in the center of your bed.

It was wrapped in brown paper, carefully folded and secured with a thin piece of twine, like something from a quaint corner bookstore . You hesitated, closing the door slowly behind you, and approached it with cautious curiosity. A small white tag had been slipped beneath the twine, but it didn’t have your name, only a tiny ink drawing of your crescent moon.

You slipped your finger under the seam and peeled the paper back.

Your heart stuttered.

The Secret of Rowan Hollow. The exact edition you remembered, aged but pristine, with that haunting forest illustration across the front and those familiar fraying edges you’d once traced again and again as a kid.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, almost afraid the whole thing would vanish if you blinked too hard. Your fingers hovered over the embossed title, then gently opened the cover. Pressed between the pages, page seventy-two, the scene with the ghost in the attic, was a daisy. Dried, whole, and perfectly preserved.

It wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be.

Your mind raced through the few people who might do something like this. Steve? Maybe. Nat? Unlikely. Tony wouldn’t bother. But your gut, your instinct, told you exactly who it was. You looked over your shoulder, half-expecting someone to be watching from the hallway, but it was empty. 

Your eyes lingered on the book again. The flower.

No name, but a shape was starting to form in your thoughts. A tall shadow who moved like he didn’t want to be seen. A man who hadn’t spoken more than a few words to you, but always seemed to be somewhere nearby, watching without watching. Guarding without permission. 

You ran your thumb gently over the soft edge of the daisy, your chest blooming with something warm and fragile.

You didn’t know for sure yet, but you were beginning to suspect.

*****

The training wing always smelled faintly of sweat and rubber mats, sun-baked steel and adrenaline. Mornings here were usually quiet, early risers like Steve and Bucky cycling through punishing routines in near silence, but today, you’d been roped into a sparring session after Natasha claimed she “needed to see your right hook in action.”

Somehow, that had landed you on the mat across from Bucky Barnes.

He stood across from you now, calm and composed, arms loose at his sides, chest rising and falling beneath a slate gray T-shirt that clung just a little too well to the sculpted muscle beneath. His vibranium arm glinted under the overhead lights, that beautiful, sleek Wakandan design that hummed with silent power. There was a strange softness to him today, like he’d sanded down the sharpest edges.

His blue eyes flicked to you, unreadable. “You ready?”

You gave a playful roll of your shoulders, brushing a lock of hair back with the back of your hand. “Unless you’re scared of being shown up by a girl.”

A flicker of something, a smirk, maybe, tugged at the corner of his mouth. It vanished just as quickly.

“Nope,” he muttered, voice low and steady. “Just don’t want to break you.”

You laughed, stepping forward into position. “Try me, Tin Man.”

Ten minutes later, your lungs were burning and your knuckles smarted.

Bucky moved like water, fluid, efficient, and effortless. You could feel how much he was holding back in the way he dodged just enough to avoid contact, how he didn’t follow through on openings he could’ve exploited. He was careful, like if he hit too hard, you might vanish in a puff of dust.

You pushed harder because of it.

You landed a glancing blow to his side that made his eyebrow tick up. That was reward enough.

But then you tried a more ambitious combo, a sweep, a pivot, and a right cross that didn’t quite land right, and you felt the jolt immediately.

Pain burst across your knuckles, dull and pulsing. You hissed, pulling your hand back and shaking it out.

Bucky stepped forward instantly. “You alright?”

His voice dropped, concerned now. You nodded, stubborn, even as you cradled your hand against your chest.

“Fine,” you said through gritted teeth. “Just... overextended.”

He looked at your hand, then at your face. His jaw clenched. “You need to stop when that happens.”

His concern was real, edged with guilt, and something softer, tucked beneath the careful blankness in his expression.

You tilted your head, voice dipping just enough to sound coy. “Didn’t know you cared so much.”

His eyes flicked to yours, a full second of silence, then back to your hand. His next words were quiet.

“I notice things.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “Yeah?”

A beat. His lips parted like he might say something more, but instead, he nodded once, turned away, and muttered, “You should ice that.”

And just like that, the moment slipped from your fingers.

You made your way to the locker room alone a few minutes later, hand throbbing despite your best attempts to play it off. You sat on the bench, peeled off your gloves, and sighed at the angry red swelling across your knuckles. You were already dreading the stiffness.

Then you opened your locker.

Inside sat a small black zip-up pouch, a first-aid kit. Not the standard-issue kind the compound kept on hand, but a personalized one. Inside were your preferred flexible bandages, a cold pack, some gentle antiseptic balm, and, taped to the top, a square of dark chocolate and a yellow sticky note.

The handwriting was neat and blocky. You recognized it.

“You held your ground today.”

You stared at the note, your fingers curling around the chocolate like it might vanish if you didn’t hold onto it tightly enough.

It was him. It had to be.

And if you weren’t sure before, the tension in the gym, the way he watched you like you were some kind of impossible equation he couldn’t solve, the look in his eyes when you teased him, now you were certain.

You had a secret admirer. And his name was Bucky Barnes.

*****

It had been an offhand comment, one of those throwaway observations you make when you’re running on caffeine and a few hours of sleep, chatting just to keep your brain from turning off. You and Sam were walking side by side, each holding to-go mugs from the kitchen, trading bits of small talk on your way to the admin wing.

You tucked your free hand into your hoodie pocket and let out a breath. “My room still feels like a rental unit.”

Sam looked over, raising a brow. “You’ve lived here for over a year.”

“Exactly.” You sipped your coffee, wincing slightly, too hot. “I keep saying I’m going to decorate, but then missions happen, or someone blows up a hallway, or I just, I don’t know, forget.”

He smiled knowingly. “So decorate. What do you want?”

You hummed, thinking aloud. “I don’t know. Just something small. A plant, maybe. Something green. I feel like it would brighten things up a little. Bring some life in.”

Sam gave you a mock gasp. “You? A plant parent?”

You grinned. “Only the kind that doesn’t judge me for neglect.”

“Maybe you need something cursed and dramatic,” he teased, giving your arm a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Like a poisonous orchid that only blooms at midnight.”

You laughed as you turned the corner. “You joke, but I’d probably forget to water that too.”

The conversation drifted to other things, mission updates, Steve’s growing obsession with protein powder, the truly wretched breakfast Tony had tried to make earlier, and you didn’t think about the plant again after that.

But someone else had.

The admin wing of the compound was always cooler in the late morning, its temperature carefully calibrated to keep Stark’s precious server systems from overheating. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as you made your way through the hallway, the soft soles of your sneakers whispering against the polished floor. You'd only stopped by your desk to drop off a signed report, half expecting a clutter of outdated files and a broken pen or two, but what you found instead made you stop short in the doorway.

It was small, simple, and alive.

A pothos plant sat neatly on the corner of your desk, its deep green leaves spilling over the ceramic edge of a round, glossy pot. The color of the planter was dark, nearly black with a faint shimmer in the light, like night sky glaze, and the leaves looked freshly watered, vibrant and thriving. Tied to one of the stems with a bit of twine was a hand-lettered tag made from thick, soft paper. Your fingers brushed it gently as you read:

“Low maintenance. But still needs care.”

Your stomach fluttered, not from confusion anymore, but from confirmation. Whoever had been leaving these things knew you. Or at least, they were trying to. It was thoughtful and deliberate, almost tender.

Your lips curved upward, slow and involuntary. The kind of smile that bloomed without thought, the kind you couldn’t hold back if you tried.

You turned slightly, scanning the hallway through the glass wall beside your desk. At first, you only glimpsed empty space, but then you saw him.

Across the corridor, half-shadowed near a supply alcove, stood Bucky Barnes. His back was to the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you in the stillest, quietest way.

He didn’t flinch when you met his gaze.

For a moment, one long, suspended beat, the air between you pulled tight, like a cord drawn taut between two ends. You could feel it in your chest. He wasn’t looking through you, pretending his focus was on something else. He was watching you, unblinking, like he needed to memorize something before it was gone.

And then, just like that, he looked away.

He pushed off the wall with one slow movement and walked down the hall without a word, shoulders hunched slightly, head down like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

You stood frozen in place, one hand still resting lightly on the edge of the plant’s pot, heart fluttering in your chest like a trapped bird.

He’d seen you smile. He’d stayed just long enough to make sure you did.

*****

The common room was unusually quiet for a Saturday. You sat curled up in the corner of the sectional, an open tablet on your lap, one leg tucked under you and the other swinging slightly over the edge. You weren’t really reading. You’d scrolled past the same paragraph three times, barely seeing the words. Your focus had drifted elsewhere, into a quiet, persistent question you could no longer ignore.

Your thumb idly traced the rim of your mug as your mind replayed the moments in reverse. The quiet footsteps down the hallway. The look across the admin wing. The way Bucky had stood there, half in shadow, watching you smile at something he’d left, like he needed proof that he hadn’t gotten it wrong.

You couldn’t deny it.

It was him.

And he wasn’t just being nice. These weren’t generic gestures, they were personal. He was showing you the kind of attention no one ever gave unless they were really listening. 

You shifted on the couch, heart pounding as the realization settled in. You’d been seen in a way that was careful and quiet and completely unspoken.

But the part that made your chest ache was that he hadn’t said a word.

He watched, he gave, and he disappeared.

A part of you wanted to march straight to his room and say something, anything, but there was still that invisible wall between you. You could feel it every time he left a room just before you entered, or how his eyes would flick to you like a reflex before darting away again. Like he was afraid of being caught wanting something he didn’t believe he was allowed to have.

You set the mug down gently and rose to your feet.

You didn’t know what he was afraid of: rejection, being wrong, being seen in return. But you already knew he didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

Tomorrow was your birthday.

And if he left something again, just one more silent offering, one more tender, wordless gift, then that would be it.

You’d stop pretending you didn’t know.

You’d knock on his door and ask him why he was trying so hard to love you from a distance.

*****

You weren’t expecting anything.

That was the lie you told yourself as you stood in front of your door the next morning, fingers hesitating just inches from the handle. You hadn’t mentioned your birthday to anyone. It was buried somewhere in your file or an HR calendar no one ever looked at, but it wasn’t the kind of day you usually drew attention to. Too many birthdays had come and gone with more silence than celebration. You’d gotten used to carrying the day quietly.

But this year felt different.

Because this year, you weren’t alone. Not since the coffee, the book, the chocolate, the plant, and the way he watched you like you mattered, even if he never said it.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and opened the door.

A small gift bag sat on the floor. The tissue paper inside was a muted silver, and it rustled softly as you knelt down and pulled it aside with tentative fingers.

Inside was a slice of cake, your favorite flavor, still chilled, the frosting wrapped neatly in wax paper to keep it from smudging. There was a candle tucked beside it, unlit, but the message was there all the same: someone remembered. Someone cared enough to make sure some sweetness was waiting for you.

You set it aside carefully, breath catching as your hand brushed a small box at the bottom of the bag.

It was velvet. Midnight blue. The kind of box you knew to open slowly.

Inside was a delicate pendant, a teardrop moonstone set in a fine silver chain, iridescent and pale, glowing faintly as it caught the morning light. You gasped before you could stop yourself. You had told Nat once, months ago, in the middle of a stakeout, bored and shivering in the dark, that you always loved moonstone. That it felt like carrying a piece of the sky close to your skin. You hadn’t thought anyone was listening.

Beneath it, folded with near military precision, was a piece of paper.

His handwriting.

You’re the brightest thing in a place full of shadows. I didn’t want to ruin that by being near it. But I hope this still means something. Happy Birthday.

No signature, no initials, but you didn’t need either.

You were already moving down the hall, heart thudding like a drum inside your chest, bare feet whispering across the cold floor. You didn’t even think. Your body knew the way before your mind caught up, past the kitchen, past the empty lounge, until you stood in front of a door you’d walked past a hundred times without ever knocking.

Bucky’s.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your knuckles hit the wood, three soft raps that somehow echoed louder than they should.

The door opened slower than you expected, like he’d known it would be you. He stood in the doorway, hoodie slung low over his brow, dark hair curling slightly at his temples, eyes wide and unreadable.

You held up the bag gently, “You’ve been leaving things for me,” you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your chest. “All this time.”

Bucky’s expression shifted immediately, from blank surprise to something closer to panic, his jaw tensing, eyes flicking down the hall as if looking for a way out.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, voice a little too fast, too tight.

“Bucky,” you said, gently, not moving from where you stood. “Don’t do that.”

He shook his head once, almost like a reflex. “I didn’t— It wasn’t me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He didn’t answer.

“I guess someone else happens to know exactly how I take my coffee. And my favorite book. And the exact brand of bandages I like to keep in my locker. And how I’ve always wanted a moonstone pendant.” You took a slow step forward. “Was it Sam?”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

“I did mention the plant to him.” you pushed, tilting your head. “Maybe Tony? I mean, someone left this outside my door this morning. With a note. In your handwriting.”

He flinched.

“Bucky,” you said again, softer now, letting the weight of everything between you settle into your voice. “You’ve been leaving things for me in secret. And I want to know why.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the gift bag, then to the floor. His voice, when it came, was barely audible.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bag, then back to yours, throat working around a reply he wasn’t sure he was allowed to give. “Because I didn’t think you’d want to know it was me.”

You took a step forward, holding his gaze. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Bucky’s hand curled around the edge of the doorframe. “Because... I didn’t want to ruin anything. You’re warm. You’re light. I didn’t want to get too close and put shadows over that.”

Your heart cracked, full and aching. “You could never ruin anything.”

He still wouldn’t look at you. “I just wanted you to have good things… And I didn’t think I could say that out loud.”

You reached into the bag, pulled out the moonstone pendant, and held it up between you.

“You did say it,” you whispered. “You just didn’t use words.”

For the first time, he met your eyes and you saw the fear, the tenderness, the desperate hope that maybe he hadn’t misread every silent smile, every teasing comment, every glance you thought was too brief to matter.

“Can I take you out sometime?” he asked, voice low and careful, like it might shatter on the way out.

You smiled, and it felt like sunlight pouring out of your chest.

“Only if next time you get me something,” you said, stepping into his space, “you give it to me in person.”

His breath hitched, and then, for the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled, soft, lopsided, and real. 

“Tim!” Lucy calls as he walks into the bullpen.

He stops and watches her as she skips toward him. Even though he rolls his eyes and shakes his head, she continues smiling and bounces when she reaches him.

“What are you doing for my best friend’s birthday?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Tim answers. “I will be doing something for my girlfriend’s birthday, though.”

“Just admit that she likes me more than you.”

“No.”

“Tim,” Lucy groans. She punches his arm playfully, then ignores his offended glare as she asks, “What do you have in mind?”

Tim shrugs and admits, “I’m not sure yet. I was thinking I may just take her to Costco or something.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding,” Wesley interjects.

“Why are you here?” Tim asks as he looks over. “And it’s none of your business, or yours, Lucy.”

“A trip to Costco is not romantic, Tim,” Wesley says. “But I have a client who needs my help. It seems you do, too, but Lucy can handle your girlfriend issues.”

“No one is handling anything!” Tim snaps.

“I’m with Wesley,” Angela comments from her desk.

“It never ends,” Tim sighs.

“She does love Costco,” Lucy agrees. “She’d enjoy going with you.”

“Wait,” Angela says. She chuckles as she looks up at Tim. “Your girlfriend, the shyest person I’ve ever met, likes going to Costco? The busiest store in existence?”

“Is it too late to back out of this conversation?” Tim asks.

“Absolutely,” Angela answers. “So, just a trip to Costco. That’s all the birthday girl gets?”

“I’d like to do more, but-“

“I’ve got it!” Lucy cheers, slapping Tim’s arm again.

“Stop hitting me!” he demands as he steps away from her.

“What if you surprise her at Costco? Like, her friends could ‘run into’ her while shopping, and then someone can have a cake or something at the café. It would be so fun, Tim!” Lucy suggests.

“That’s… it’s not a terrible idea,” Tim murmurs. “I don’t know how she’d feel about interacting with a bunch of people, though.”

“She loves us,” Angela reminds Tim. “Just a quick ‘hey, happy birthday’ and then she moves on. We don’t have to draw attention to her or anything.”

“Fine, yeah, let’s do it,” Tim agrees.

“Yay!” Lucy yells. “I’ll go invite the people she likes.”

Tim watches Lucy run through the bullpen and shakes his head. It’s a good thing you like Costco and Lucy, he thinks, because it’s certainly nothing he would have planned alone.

“What are you doing?” you ask softly.

Tim sets his phone aside and then places his arm back around you. As he pulls you against his side, he sighs.

“Checking to see how many seconds are left until your birthday,” he jokes. “Lucy had a question.”

“Is it going to be terrible?”

“It’s your birthday. It’s going to be great.”

Tim jostles you gently, and when you turn your face against his shoulder, you feel him chuckle. He enjoys making you shy, or simply reminding you of how shy you were when you first met. With your birthday coming up, you know that Tim has something planned. You can only hope that it’s a good surprise. As Tim pulls you closer, you listen to his heartbeat.

“I got Kojo treats at Costco today,” you tell him.

“Of course, you did,” Tim murmurs before he kisses your head.

“Go get ready, birthday girl,” Tim says.

He takes your plate to the kitchen, and you sneak Kojo a bite of your breakfast leftovers. Waking up to Tim making you breakfast was special, but since he told you that he had more planned for your birthday, you’ve grown more curious and more excited.

“To go where?” you ask.

“Shopping.”

You furrow your brows but stand and push your chair in regardless of your confusion. Tim isn’t a big fan of shopping, so you assume this particular shopping trip has to do with what day it is. After you’re dressed and ready, Tim takes your hand and leads you to his truck.

When he pulls into a turn lane, you feel confident you know where he’s taking you. You frequent Costco often; it's fun to browse and kill time in a place where you can disappear and go unnoticed every once in a while. Tim usually teases you for how much you use your Costco card, but he hasn’t made a single sarcastic comment today.

“Are we going to Costco?” you ask excitedly.

“We are,” Tim answers as he turns. “Unless you want to do something else.”

“No, this is great!”

Tim smiles and when he glances at you, you try to control your excitement and watch the road instead of him. You have a mental list of things you’d like to look at, and maybe treat yourself to since it is your birthday after all. Tim extends his hand over the console of his truck, and you happily lay your hand in his. He interlaces his fingers through yours and squeezes twice. The moment he parks, however, your hand is pulled from his as you exit the truck.

You walk through the entrance and take Tim’s hand again as you look at the promotional items in the front of the store. Tim watches you as you read signs and stop to touch an oversized stuffed animal. He knows what’s waiting for you inside, but seeing you so excited was worth the trip, he thinks.

“Well, look who it is.”

You turn quickly and smile when you see Angela. She pulls you into a hug as Tim and Wesley shake hands. They share a look, and you pinch your brows as you step back from Angela.

“Happy birthday,” she tells you. “Has Tim bought you anything yet?” “No,” you answer with a chuckle. “I’m just glad he finally came with me.”

“Tim Bradford saying no? I can’t imagine it.”

You laugh at Angela’s sarcasm, and Tim smiles at how happy you are. You’re always fun to be around, even if you are hiding against him because he made you shy, but birthday joy is a good look on you.

“There’s a sale on rings, Tim,” Wesley says.

Your eyes widen before you drop your gaze to the floor. There has been no discussion of getting engaged or married in your relationship with Tim, but it’s certainly somewhere you can see yourself going.

“It’s her birthday,” Tim chides. “Don’t do that to her.”

“Well, we have to get back to the kids,” Angela interjects. “They’ll riot soon if they don’t get their snacks. Enjoy the rest of your birthday!” “Thanks, Angela.”

You hug her once more and wave at Wesley before Tim lays his hands on your shoulders and steers you toward your favorite section of the store. He keeps a hand on you as you browse, moving when you do. It was a surprise to see someone you know, and on your birthday, no less, but you don’t think too much about the coincidence.

Until someone says, “Happy birthday!” down the aisle from you, at least.

“Hi, Sergeant Grey, Luna,” you greet.

You look toward Tim quickly, but he shrugs and lays his hand across your back.

“Will she ever call me anything other than Sergeant?” Wade asks Tim as Luna hugs you tightly.

“I’ve been trying to get her to call me Sergeant, but she won’t do it,” Tim laments.

“Ignore them,” Luna encourages you. “How’s the birthday going?”

“It’s great,” you answer. “Tim made me breakfast and hasn’t tortured me yet.”

“Yet,” Tim scoffs.

“We just ran into Angela and Wesley, too.”

“Small world,” Wade muses.

“Big city,” you argue, looking toward Tim.

“Do me a favor and buy yourself something amazing for your birthday, and I will see you at lunch next week,” Luna tells you. “Bye, Tim.”

Tim waves as they pass, and you cross your arms to look at him.

“What?” he asks with his brows raised.

“You’re doing something,” you accuse. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

“I am doing something,” Tim admits. “Loving you.”

You drop your arms and tip your head back, which Tim takes as an opportunity to wrap you in a bear hug. You grip the back of his shirt, somewhere between shy because of the public affection and relieved because you need a hug.

“Alright, let’s go find you something to buy,” Tim declares. “For me to buy for you, I mean.”

“You don’t have to,” you say quietly.

“It’s your birthday, and it’s my boyfriend-ly duty.”

“That’s not a word,” you mumble as he leads you to the next aisle.

You browse several aisles before you see someone else you know, and now you’re convinced that Tim has orchestrated this. After running into at least a dozen people that you know and choosing not one but three things that you like, you and Tim approach the checkout lanes. He pays for your gifts and takes your hand.

As he leads you to the café seating area, you see your best friend, Lucy. Tim grumbles as you release his hand to approach her. You stop short when you see a birthday cake sitting on the table beside her.

“Happy birthday!” she calls as she rounds the table to hug you. “I’m so happy to see you!”

“You did all of this?” you ask, looking between Tim and Lucy.

“It was Tim’s idea, I just helped,” she says.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Don’t get shy yet, you have half of Mid-Wilshire to share that cake with,” Tim replies.

On cue, everyone you’ve run into today approaches the table to give you more birthday wishes and a few gifts. The attention makes you shy, but they’re your friends, and you appreciate them and their kindness more than you can, or would, say.

Lucy passes you a piece of cake and stands beside you as everyone else begins eating.

“Was it really Tim’s idea?” you ask.

“Yeah. He said he was going to bring you to Costco, and I just recommended a cake,” she says. “Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for the cake; Tim ordered it. Oh! I also have a gift for you in my car, so don’t leave before I give it to you.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did. We’re best friends, and you are the kindest, most special person I have ever met. If anyone deserves this kind of love on their birthday, it’s you.”

You set your plate down to hug Lucy and only release her when Tim grabs your waist. He laughs when you lean against him but drops his head and whispers to ask if you’re okay. Very early in your relationship, he learned your tells. He knows when you’re overwhelmed, when you’re getting shy enough that he needs to give you a minute, and every other little thing about you.

“I’m great,” you answer. “Thank you for all of this.”

“It’s the least I could do.”

“Seriously, it is,” Wesley adds. “Making you use your Costco card to get into your birthday celebration was certainly… a choice.”

“It’s perfect,” you say. “And all my friends are here.” “Plus these people,” Lucy jokes as she gestures to everyone else.

“You’re just her best friend because you can carry both sides of the conversation, so she never gets shy with you,” Nyla teases.

“And our mutual disdain for Tim’s weird humour,” Lucy adds.

“What’s that?” Tim asks, tipping his head toward you. “You want to leave now? Okay, let’s go.”