🐝

you did not think about where you ran. you did not think at all — only that you needed to get away from there, far from the darkness, from someone else’s breathing above your bed. and only when you burst into his chambers, when the door slammed against the wall with a dull thud, you suddenly realized: you did not come to your brother, not even to your father. you came to him.

maybe deep down you always knew the thing your mind refused to believe: that aerion would kill anyone in the world and die himself if it meant you were safe.

he jumped out of bed in an instant — sleepy, disheveled, in only a shirt, but already on his feet, already ready. his eyes found you immediately, and all the sleep vanished from them in a moment, replaced with worry. “what happened?” his voice sounded low and rough with sleep.

you tried to speak, but the words stuck somewhere in your throat — you only caught air with your mouth, swallowed, tried again. “there… there was someone… i saw… he had a blade…” you forced out broken pieces of words that drowned in all your fear.

you shook your head, unable to continue, and he crossed the distance in two steps, took your face into his hands — firm, but careful, making you lift your eyes. “hey,” he said quietly, and his voice suddenly turned soft, almost gentle. “i am here. you are safe.”

you shook your head again — and tears flooded your cheeks once more, and the trembling returned, and you could not stop it, could not force yourself to calm down, because that silhouette with a blade in its hand still stood before your eyes.

“i woke up because i felt someone else’s presence,” you breathed out, almost in a whisper, and your voice cracked. “and when i opened my eyes — i saw him. he stood over me, aerion. with a knife. i do not know who it was, but he wanted… he wanted to kill me—”

he frowned so hard that a deep line appeared between his brows, and his eyes darkened, turned cold and dangerous like ice. "where the fuck were the guards? whoever he is, i will fucking kill him.”

he let go of your face and stepped back — toward the door, toward the sword, toward murder. and you grabbed his hand sharply, almost desperately. “no,” you breathed out, and there was such pleading in your voice that he froze in place. “do not leave. please. stay with me.”

he stood still for a moment — looked at you, at your face wet with tears, at your hand trembling in his, and his expression softened. the look he showed only to you and only when nobody saw. “come here,” he said quietly and pulled you toward him.

you fell into his arms, pressed your nose against his chest, breathed in his scent and felt his arms wrap around you. one rested on your back and slowly, heavily stroked it — from top to bottom, again and again, chasing away fear with every touch. the other rested on the back of your head, fingers buried themselves in your tangled hair, played with the strands, soothed you.

he rested his chin on the top of your head, and you felt him breathe — steady, deep, and that rhythm slowly became yours, pushing the panic away.

you still trembled — in your thin nightgown, in the fear that refused to leave completely — but with every touch from him, the trembling weakened. his lips touched your temple — slowly, gently, as if he sealed your pain away with that kiss — and stayed there for a long, long time. then he brushed his lips lower — over your cheek, your cheekbone, where the trails of tears still glistened — kissed them and wiped them away. and finally — the corner of your lips. he froze there, feeling you relax, feeling the last tension leave you, feeling your body stop trembling and trustingly melt against him, surrendering to the warmth.

“nobody will touch you,” he whispered against your skin. “let them just fucking try.” you sobbed one last time — quietly, with relief, letting the last pieces of fear leave with that sound.

“i was so scared,” you said, and your voice sounded muffled because you still did not lift your head, still hid your face against his chest. “i do not want to go back there. i do not want to sleep alone.”

he held you tighter. “you will not go back there,” he said. “and you will not sleep alone. you will sleep with me.”

you lifted your head, rested your chin against his chest, and looked up at him with wet, shining eyes. “aerion,” you whispered. “if father finds out…”

he leaned down and kissed you — soft and quick, without deepening it. enough to stop your words and your doubts. “he will not,” he said, pulling away only enough to see your eyes. “and if he does — we are soon to be betrothed. i think i have the right to sleep beside you.”

you looked at him for a long time — at his face, at his eyes where there was no usual mockery, only quiet, tired tenderness — and finally nodded. “fine."

“fine,” he repeated and led you toward the bed, never letting go of you for even a second, one hand holding your waist as if he feared you would disappear.

he laid you down on the bed, covered you with a blanket — thick, warm, smelling like him — and you felt warmth spread through your body, driving away the last remains of cold and fear. and then he simply looked at you — for so long that you started to feel shy.

“stop looking at me like that,” you mumbled quietly.

he smirked. “it is not every day you see a princess in your bed.”

you rolled your eyes — but smiled, and for the first time that night the smile came easily. then you reached your arms toward him, and he did not make you wait, settling beside you. he covered both of you with one blanket, pulled you close, and you felt him breathe, felt his heartbeat — steady, strong, calming. his nose buried in your hair, his hand found your waist on its own, and his thumb started drawing slow circles against your skin — again and again, lulling you to sleep, taking away the last scraps of anxiety.

and your fingers wandered across his chest, tracing patterns even you did not know the names of — simply moving back and forth, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it felt so familiar, so right, as if you had done this your whole lives. “i thought i was going to die,” you said quietly into the silence.

his hand stopped for a moment — and immediately held you tighter, almost painfully. you stayed silent for several heartbeats, feeling the knot in your throat finally melt away.

“the only thing i thought about,” you said even quieter, “was that i didn't have time to tell you… didn't have time to say the most important thing.”

his hand froze on your waist. his whole body tensed at once.

you understood that he stayed silent because he did not know how to speak about things like this. aerion always thought feelings were too complicated — he preferred to act instead of explain. he knew that he needed you, knew that he would never give you to anyone else, knew that you were his — and that was always enough for him. why use useless words that might mean nothing when everything already showed itself without them?

but now he stayed silent not because he did not care. but because he was afraid. you felt it in his tense shoulders, in his uneven breathing, in the way his fingers dug into your skin.

you leaned down and kissed his chest — right where his heart beat beneath the skin. loud, fast, frightened. “i know you will never say it,” you whispered into his shirt. “because you think you are above things like that. but i… i love you, aerion. and i always will. i was afraid i would die — and never get the chance to tell you.”

his hands froze where you left them. the chest beneath your cheek barely moved — he held his breath. one second passed. another. a third. you already thought he would not answer, that he would simply pretend he did not hear — the way only he could.

and then — a slow, long exhale. his hand started stroking your back again — heavy, soft, soothing. and he said nothing. but you felt it — he heard you. you closed your eyes. breathed in rhythm with him. almost fell asleep.

and when you already drifted into sleep, when your thoughts turned slow and weightless, you suddenly heard his voice — quiet, rough, almost impossible to hear.

“me too.”

deep in the night, while you slept — and did not feel how he carefully slipped out from beneath the blanket so he would not wake you. through your sleep you only heard his quiet “i will be back soon,” and then the darkness closed around you again.

in the morning the whole castle talked about nothing except the traitor knight who broke into your chambers. they found him dead in the dungeons — people said he died the most vile, most inhuman death these walls had ever seen.

and you sat in his chambers, lying on his bed, and understood. understood that he did not know how to speak beautifully. that his words would never carry the tenderness you read about in old books. but he always spoke through actions — every single time. and you did not need anything else. this was enough for you.

“what?” your voice came out quiet, trembling, almost impossible to hear.

aerion let out a short, bitter laugh and released your hands, which he held crossed against his chest all this time. and you immediately felt the cold, even though a second ago you yourself tried to pull away from his grip.

“now it is your turn to pretend, huh?” his voice sounded low and rough, and he dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek. he looked at you, and there was no mockery in his eyes — only bitterness, so thick it could choke someone.

“what will you do this time to avoid marrying me? throw yourself off the castle walls? or lie to me again all this time — gain my trust, make me think…” he fell silent for a moment, and his voice turned quieter, heavier. “and then run away to that puppy?”

your heart twisted into a tight knot — painfully, so painfully that it stole your breath. but then anger replaced the pain. how dared he? after all those years when you thought you would die faster from the way your heart hurt than from some illness or accident — how dared he look at you as if you were guilty of everything?

you opened your mouth to answer — but he spoke first. a quiet laugh with not a drop of amusement slipped from his lips.

“tell me one thing,” he leaned closer, and his voice turned smooth, dangerous. “judging by how hard you defend him, did he already shove his coc—”

he did not finish. your hand flew forward before you could think — the sharp slap tore through the silence. every sound disappeared — the noise of the feast beyond the walls, the voices of drunken guests. aerion froze, his head turned to the side, and he did not move. did not turn back. simply stood there, taking the blow.

your voice trembled — from pain, from anger, from thousands of nights you cried into your pillow, and now all of it finally burst out. “it hurt to breathe!” you shouted, and tears streamed down your cheeks, hot like molten metal. “it hurt to breathe from the thought that something could happen to you! never — do you hear me? — never in my life would i say something like that about you. and you… you think i was capable of writing something like that?”

he slowly turned his head, and his eyes met yours. he looked at you — without looking away, without blinking — and you did not know what you saw in his gaze.

you did not stop, because if you stayed silent now — it would tear you apart from the inside. “did you not feel even a drop of respect for me?” your voice cracked, and you did not even try to hide it. “did you really not have even a drop of warmth left to not make up this lie right now? to stop justifying yourself? to stop pretending this is my fault? guilty because you left. because you abandoned me. because you broke my heart, and then i dealt with the consequences alone — all that pain, all that humiliation…”

your voice broke, and tears poured endlessly, and you did not even wipe them away. let him see. let that man see how much suffering he brought you.

he opened his mouth — wanted to say something — and stepped toward you. you flinched back as if his hand was fire, as if he could hurt you with one touch.

his face fell. for a moment something flashed in his eyes —confusion? disbelief? you saw the way he clenched his jaw, the way his shoulders tensed. he did not know what was worse — that you did not even want to stand near him, or that you were afraid he could hurt you.

“i know you never loved me,” you said, and your voice turned quieter, but no lighter. “but making up such a stupid lie just to justify yourself — that is low even for you, aerion.”

you sobbed, closing your eyes, and the tears still slipped through your lashes. it always seemed to you that you cried out every tear in the world — from your mother’s death to the day he left — but somehow new ones still came.

and then you turned around and ran. not walked — ran, grabbing the skirts of your dress with both hands so you would not trip, even though it was pointless — everything blurred before your eyes from tears, and you simply prayed none of the guests walked outside tonight. rumors about your family were the last thing anyone needed now. you did not want the reputation your grandfather and his sons built for years to collapse because you and aerion failed to divide something that never existed. not love, of course. because it never existed.

behind you, fast footsteps echoed. you quickened your pace. aerion was wounded — he could not run at full strength, and you hated yourself for the way your heart still tightened at the thought that every step probably caused him pain. you would give everything you had to every god alive if they granted you the same calm and devoted love for tristan instead. instead of what you felt for a man who was never worthy of you.

you did not look back. you rushed into the castle, made your way through the corridors without stopping for even a second. in your chambers you almost slammed the door shut — it nearly closed completely — but at the last moment his hand slipped through the gap. the door flew open, and he filled the doorway, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

you turned to face him, dragged your palm across your cheeks — wiping away tears even though new ones still fell — and lifted your gaze. “i command you to leave the princess’s chambers immediately.”

aerion breathed heavily one of his hands clenched into a fist, the other pressed against his chest, where the wound hid beneath his shirt. you noticed the movement, and something inside you twisted violently — you almost physically forced yourself not to step closer, not to touch him, not to check the wound the way you used to. like back then, near the old wall, when he was just an angry boy with bloody knees, and you were the only one who dared touch him. you were never able to look at his pain calmly. what a bitter joke — he did not feel the same about you.

“i am not going anywhere,” he said, and there was no doubt in his voice.

“as heir to the throne, i stand above you,” you barely raised your voice, but every word fell heavy like stone. “and i tell you—”

"i do not give a fuck about all these. i am not leaving this room until we fucking talk.”

he stepped forward, and you aggressively shook your head, backing away even though the wall was already close and there was nowhere left to go.

“there is nothing to talk about,” you threw back, and your voice trembled, but you could not stop. “feed your lies to someone els—”

he did not let you finish — grabbed your wrist, pressed you against the wall, towered over you, and you smelled blood. apparently his wound reopened when he chased after you, and that thought caused almost physical pain, even though you should not care about him. should not. but you still noticed how the hand pressed to his chest stained dark and sticky.

“i did not lie to you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “i received that letter.”

you looked up at him — tiredly, so tiredly that you did not even have strength left for anger. “and all those things you said were really written there?”

he stared directly at you, without looking away. “every single word,” he said, and then smirked — bitterly, looked away to the side and added as if spitting the words out. “ah, yes, and ten more lines. about how you regretted the gods ever bringing us together. about how all those septas and all those people were right — calling me mad and saying i belonged in exile. about how slitting your own throat would be less humiliating than becoming my wife and carrying my heir beneath your heart.”

he looked at you again, and there was such emptiness in his eyes that it stole your breath away. “detailed enough?”

your lips parted more and more with every word he said, and you shook your head sharply, unable to believe it. he tried to hide it, but you saw it — saw the pain and hurt he hid behind that smirk. and the sight of it made your heart tighten so painfully that breathing became difficult.

“i did not…” you started, but he did not let you finish.

“and you know what?” he leaned closer, and something new appeared in his voice — almost desperate. “after all those words about me — i still want you more than anything.”

“i would never…” you tried again, but once more he interrupted you with a bitter, joyless smirk.

“me and your knight are on the same level now, huh? what makes me different from that dog?”

“you are not different from a dog?!” the words burst out of you — loud, almost a scream, and they spilled from your mouth on their own, without thought, without restraint.

he fell silent immediately, he breathed heavily, his chest rising and falling hard, and right now he did not look angry or arrogant — he looked empty. you had never seen him like this.

but you did not stop yourself anymore — you could not, did not want to. “i was the pathetic fool who believed i meant something to you!” your voice cracked, and you no longer tried to hide that you cried — tears streamed down your cheeks, and you did not care. “i wrote that letter after i spent an entire week begging father to speak with you! to give you a chance!”

you looked at him — at his confused, tense face — and continued. “do you want to know what i wrote to you? instead of all that filth you just repeated?”

you stepped closer yourself — one step, then another — and pressed your finger against his chest, right where his heart beat beneath the fabric.

“i wrote that father wanted you to prove to everyone else that your intentions were serious. that if you waited for the right moment to announce the wedding — then you should stand before everyone like a man. that if your feelings for me were pure and you loved me, then he would give you his blessing, and we would be married within two moons.”

you pulled your finger away as if burned. “that is what i sent, aerion. not whatever madness you imagined instead.”

he looked at you, and you saw the way he frowned — heavily, slowly, as if he tried to swallow every word you said, but they stuck in his throat like a stone.

you sniffled, and the sound came from somewhere deep inside — from that little girl who sat beside her mother’s bed and did not understand why she would not wake up, while valarr stood behind her and tried to stay strong for both of you. you felt like that same helpless, crushed little fool again.

“i talked nana’s ears off since morning,” you continued, and your voice turned quieter, but heavier. “i told the servants to prepare the best dress. the jewels — the ones mother used to wear.”

you squeezed your eyes shut — the memories pressed down on you, hurt physically, as if someone squeezed your ribs.

“because i wanted to look like your bride,” you breathed out, opening your eyes. “we talked about it for so long, and i wanted that day to be memorable. i wanted you to think i was the most beautiful woman alive. do you know how happy nana was? how she said she would tell our story to our children?”

his face changed — his brows pulled together, his lips parted slightly. he looked at you as if you spoke in a language he did not understand, as if he heard all of this for the first time. he did not take his eyes off you for even a second.

but you did not let him say a word — you sobbed again, unable to stop the trembling in your voice, and you noticed the way he twitched automatically, wanting to step closer, but you immediately stepped back, and he froze in place, not daring to follow you.

you slowly shook your head, and your hand grabbed at your heart so tightly it felt like you could tear the fabric of your dress apart. “i stood in the rain and waited for you,” you said, and your voice broke into a whisper. “i stood in that cold garden for three hours. my dress soaked through completely, my hair came undone, i could not feel my fingers anymore. i thought i would die from the cold, but i did not leave — because you promised. you promised you would come.”

you squeezed your eyes shut — and suddenly that night stood before you again, the cold garden, the empty benches, and you alone, small, worthless, waiting for the earth to split open and swallow you whole.

“then i heard footsteps,” you continued, and your voice trembled. “and do you know something, aerion? i was so happy. i could barely stand, but it was enough that you came.”

you opened your eyes and looked directly at him. “it was tristan.”

his body tensed immediately — his jaw clenched, muscles moved beneath his skin, and you knew that even hearing that man’s name infuriated him. but it was not aerion who stayed with you that night. not him who covered you with his cloak. not him who took responsibility for explaining everything to the royal family while the servants led you back to your chambers and forced hot bath.

you struggled to breathe — the air disappeared, your lungs burned, and it felt like you would collapse right there at his feet. “that was when i understood,” you breathed out. “that you were not coming. and then tristan told me…”

you could not finish. your voice broke, you shook your head, covered your face with your hands, and your shoulders trembled with silent sobs.

this time he did not stay still. he approached quickly, soundlessly, towered over you and pulled your hands away from your face. carefully, almost gently. “what did he tell you?”

you shook your head, tried to pull away from his hands, to move back. “it does not matter, aerion,” you whispered, and your voice cracked. “none of this matters anymore.”

“what the fuck did that dog tell you?” he repeated, and there was steel in his voice, bordering on desperation.

you stopped resisting. lifted your gaze to him — swollen, red, with wet lashes clumped together from tears. and you spoke — quietly, almost soundlessly, but every word felt like another step into nothingness.

“he said people saw you leaving a brothel.”

you did not hold back anymore — tears poured endlessly down your face, and you no longer wiped them away, no longer tried to seem strong, because you had no strength left at all. for anything. “while i stood beneath the pouring rain and froze, while i breathed onto my numb fingers and shook from the cold, you… you chose that easy pleasure instead…”

he shook his head sharply, almost violently, and tried to catch your gaze, but you saw nothing, heard nothing except your own voice tearing the silence apart.

“i was always beside you, aerion. there was nobody i loved more than you. nobody. and on the day when you were supposed to tell the entire kingdom that you loved me… you chose them. you chose these women instead of me.”

you sniffled, your chest heaving, and you almost choked on your own sobs.

“no,” he said, and his voice sounded dull, desperate. “i nev—”

but you did not hear him. you stopped hearing him completely.

“all this time, while i believed you felt at least something for me, at least something small that looked like love… you went there and…”

he stepped closer — right against you, took your hands and pinned them to the wall on either side of your head, leaned so close that his breath mixed with yours.

“i was never there,” he said, and there was no steel in his voice now, no anger, but something else you never heard from him before. pleading. “i swear on my dead mother, i was not there. how could i even do that?”

you froze. because he never joked when it came to his mother. never. you lifted your eyes to him and saw his face — confused, pleading, more open than ever before. he looked at you as if you were his last hope.

“i was not in a brothel or anywhere else,” he continued, and the words rushed out quickly, unevenly, as if he feared you would stop listening. “i swear. i got that letter, got angry, and left immediately. i could not even think straight after that wretch handed me the lett—”

he stopped in the middle of the sentence. you saw the way his eyes scanned your face, and with every second something new appeared in them — understanding, heavy and cold. his brows pulled together tighter, deeper.

you were not foolish children. both of you understood in the same second.

there was only one person who needed all of this to happen. the one who could easily switch your letter — you studied under the same septa, even if he was often absent because of his duties. the only person besides aerion and your family whom you trusted completely, without ever asking for proof.

and he used that trust.

something cruel and dark appeared on aerion’s face, and his voice turned low, almost into a whisper. “i will kill him. he will die the most painful and shameful death.”

he pushed himself away from the wall, turned around, and you grabbed his forearm sharply, with the last of your strength. he turned back to you, looked down at you, and that cold fury still burned in his eyes.

“don't,” you said.

“are you still protecting him?”

you stayed silent. because you knew his words were not empty threats. if he wanted to kill tristan, he would do it. right now. and maybe somewhere deep inside you wanted the same thing. but tristan was your friend, your brother, your support. the person who stayed beside you when nobody else did. and your heart still could not believe that he spent all those years saving you from pain he created himself.

so you said the thing that would work. you knew it was not a lie — just not the whole truth. “can you stay with me?”

he looked at you for a long, long time — and you saw the rage fighting with something else inside him — he knew exactly what you were doing. knew you distracted him, bought time, saved someone who maybe did not deserve saving.

but he was too tired. or maybe he always allowed you too much. either way, he let out a deep painful breath and then sharply pulled you closer.

his lips crashed against yours — not softly, not gently. there was nothing careful in this kiss.

he pulled you by the waist so suddenly that you cried out against his mouth, but the sound drowned in his silent groan. your hands slid over his chest on their own, wrapped around his neck, fingers buried themselves in silver hair — so soft, so familiar, so him.

he bit your lower lip — not painfully and there was so much desperation in the gesture that it stole your breath. using your short gasp, he deepened the kiss, and his tongue pushed into your mouth — greedy, demanding, tasting you as if he wanted to memorize every part of you, every tiny piece.

he kissed you as if he wanted to devour you whole, swallow you completely so you would always stay inside him, beneath his skin, in his blood, where nobody could ever take you away. and you answered him the same way — pressed yourself against him, tugged at his hair, bit his lower lip, and he groaned, low and rough, and there was so much desperation in that sound that it made your chest tighten.

“finally,” he breathed directly against your lips, and his voice cracked, and you felt his smile — too unexpected and too rare.

he pulled away from your lips — but not from you, his mouth started wandering across your face, covering it with small, lingering kisses: your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your lips, your eyelids that you already squeezed shut.

“how could i ever want anyone else,” he kissed one cheek, then the other, “when you are the only thing i have ever needed?"

you only breathed out quietly, melted against him, because you no longer felt that heavy guilt that suffocated you for years every time you thought about him. the pain of all those years did not disappear — it stayed there, beneath your skin, in your memories, in those nights. you did not know if you would ever forgive him, if you'd forget. but right now, while he kissed your face and held you as if you could disappear, you thought maybe you could think about that tomorrow.

he was never a master of tender words. but now — it seemed even this stubborn, unbearable man could not hold himself back anymore.

he lifted his hands, brushed your hair back, exposing your forehead, and kissed it for a long time — simply stood there with his lips against your skin, breathing in your scent as if he would not survive a single day without it.

“never,” a kiss to your cheek, “nobody,” a kiss to your nose, “was or ever will be worth more than you. i realized that after you started coming to my training sessions.”

you stayed silent for a long time, simply pressed against him, feeling his heart beat in rhythm with yours. then you hummed quietly, lazily, hiding your smile. “actually, that was my reading spot long before your training sessions.”

he smirked — softly, without any sharpness — and kissed your temple. “whatever you say, my love.”

he held you tighter, and you stood there for a long time, you felt his fingers stroke your back — slowly, soothingly, felt the way he breathed — steady, deep, pulling you into himself.

you pulled back just a little to look at him, and he immediately resisted, pulling you close again. you did not want to ruin this moment — the one where you could finally be with him openly, not in stolen one. but you could not stop yourself from saying it. you could not do this to yourself again.

you lifted your head and met his piercing gaze. in the light of the few candles his eyes looked only at you.

“if you truly love me, you will let tristan win the tourney.”

a/n: i genuinely believe this story needs sad ending. pt5 is in process ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

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At last, Maekar wrote to Dorne. Your father was not the ruling prince, but from Lord Orran Martell, his brother. Close enough to matter, far enough to manoeuvre. When the letter reached him, he read it once, then again, then a third time, slower. Only then did he allow himself a smile.

The carriage carried the scent of cedar and dust, and the road behind you stretched longer with each turn of the wheels.

Your father had spoken plainly. No softening, no illusions. He laid out the value of the match, the reach it offered, the place it would secure. He spoke as he would to a man he trusted with consequence. That was his way of showing regard.

He did not pretend the groom was good. He did not ask you to pretend either.

You are strong enough for this, he had said. I would not send you otherwise.

He had expected hesitation, perhaps fear, but he had not found it.

You watched the land shift through the narrow window, red stone fading into green, dry air thickening with damp. The world changing in slow increments.

You turned the name over again and again, testing it.

Aerion Brightflame.

You had heard the Ashford story, of course, everyone had. The mercy of the hedge knight that some called wisdom and others called weakness. What stayed with you was not the cruelty itself, cruelty was common enough among men with power and power made men careless with other people.

I am no man, he had reportedly said. I am a dragon.

You found this almost amusing.

Not because it was foolish, though it was. Because it told you something useful. A man who believed himself a dragon was a man who had built his entire self upon a story. And stories had seams, they could be read, they could, if one were careful, be rewritten.

Maekar thought he was sending you to tame his son. You could feel it in the careful tone of his words, you could feel the hope through the careful diplomacy of his acceptance letter, which your father had allowed you to read. The prince wanted a strong wife for his son. A steady hand. Something that might anchor Aerion to the earth before he burned everything around him.

But you intended to do something more interesting than that.

The journey north gave you time, and you used it well. The rhythm of the road settled into your bones, wheels creaking, hooves striking dirt, the quiet murmur of voices beyond the curtains. Long hours where nothing changed except the light.

You let your thoughts arrange themselves without forcing them. That was how it always worked best. Piece by piece.

By the time you reached the Crownlands, the structure of your plan had taken shape. You named it: Seven Steps to Tame a Beast.

King's Landing announced itself in smell before sight, woodsmoke, salt, something sour beneath both. Too many people, too little space, all of it pressed together and left to simmer. The Red Keep rose above it all, pale stone against a dull sky. It looked less like a crown and more like something grown in the wrong place.

The reception was brief, formal and efficient.

Maekar received you himself. He stood solid and broad, the years written into his face in hard lines. His hair had gone mostly to silver. His eyes were sharp, searching, measuring. You held his gaze just long enough, then gave him courtesy and nothing more.

Aerion was not there, you noticed.

STEPT 1. Keep Your Distance from the Wild.

A wild creature does not welcome approach. Every movement is weighed, every sound judged. You do not step into its space uninvited. You do not reach. You watch. You learn the rhythm first. Where it rests. What startles it. What draws its attention and what it ignores. Rush, and it turns. Wait, and it forgets you are there.

You did not seek Aerion in those first days, even if it took some effort.

There were servants willing to arrange a meeting. Courtiers who offered, curiosity thinly veiled. You declined each time, politely, with reasons that could not be pressed. Fatigue, settling in, amild headache.

In truth, you were mapping him. You began where he could not avoid being seen.

Meals.

He sat very straight, almost too straight, not relaxed. Every movement placed with care, hands set just so. Shoulders squared. The stillness was deliberate, the kind that came from control, not comfort. He ate little. Drank more than he should, though he kept it from showing. His eyes moved often. Not restless. A sweep, measured, taking stock of the room without drawing attention to it. He noted everything.

He laughed twice in three days, both times it was wrong. Too quick, it stopped at his mouth and went no further. The men around him laughed as well, they always did. You watched them more than him in those moments. Watched how easily they bent to it. Mirrors, all of them, they gave him back what he wanted to see.

On the second day, a steward stumbled over a name. A small mistake, barely worth notice. But Aerion noticed. His jaw tightened, just once. A brief pause before he spoke, a fraction longer than natural. Then it passed, the steward went on, unaware. You did not miss it, he disliked error. Disliked imprecision. The world, in his mind, should hold its shape. When it did not, something in him bristled.

On the third day, there was a gathering. Music, wine, low voices. People playing at ease.

You took a place near the edge, beside a column. Your handmaid stood with you, quiet, unobtrusive. You spoke when required, smiled when expected, nothing more.

Aerion crossed the room twice. The first time, he did not look at you. The second time, he did. A brief glance, flat and measuring. The kind given to something not yet worth attention. You were already looking elsewhere when it happened. Your focus set just past him, as though he were incidental.

Still, you saw enough. The slight tension at his mouth, the way his gaze held for a breath, then moved on. He knew you were there. Of course he did, and he was not interested.

Good.

Interest that comes too easily is useless. It has no weight; it does not last. Curiosity had to be earned.

That night, you sat by the window and let the city settle into silence beneath you.

He was proud, that was obvious, but there was something under it. Control, carefully maintained. He was not as unrestrained as the stories suggested. It meant the outbursts were not constant. They built. Pressure, then release.

He was intelligent. More than most around him allowed. That kind of mind, left without challenge, turns inward. Finds its own amusements, not always good ones. He had been told he was exceptional for too long. Ordinary things no longer held him.

Boredom, then. Boredom as a spark.

You suspected he had never been met with anything real. Only reflections and performance. That would have to change. You drew your braid over your shoulder, thinking.

You were not satisfied. You never were, this early. But you understood the ground beneath your feet now. Where it dipped, where it held. You had not spoken to him yet; you had barely shared a room. And still, you were closer than anyone here knew.

The ceremony took place at dawn.

Black candles burned low, their smoke thick and sweet, curling into the corners of the chamber. The maester spoke in High Valyrian, his voice steady as he shaped words that had existed long before the Conquest. Pale light slipped through a narrow window, thin and colourless. Maekar stood off to the side, his posture rigid, his expression set in that familiar way of a man who no longer expected much in return for doing what was required.

Aerion arrived on time.

He was dressed as expected, red and black, pale hair brushed to the side. He took his place beside you without hesitation, carrying himself like a man waiting out an obligation he could not avoid. He did not fidget; he was too controlled to do so. Instead, he held still, composed to the point of absence, his attention drifting toward the candles now and then as if searching for something that was not there.

When the maester's words required it, he took your hand. His grip was exact, dry and cold. It lingered only as long as custom demanded, then released at once, as if he had touched something hot and withdrawn before the burn could catch.

You kept your gaze forward and before you let your mind move forward, it was over.

The feast was small and slightly mournful. The kind of gathering where people ate and spoke because it was expected, not because they wished to. The food was well prepared, the wine even more so. Conversation moved carefully, never quite settling.

You were seated beside Aerion.

He spent the early portion of the meal demonstrating how effortlessly he could ignore you. He spoke across you, around you, treating the space you occupied as if it had always been empty. It was not for your benefit, it was for the others, for himself, for the quiet need to show that nothing had changed.

During the second course, he turned his head slightly in your direction, just enough to acknowledge you without granting you the full courtesy of attention.

"You are quieter than I expected. I was told Dornish women always had opinions about everything."

It was not the sharpest thing he could have said. You suspected he was holding the sharper things in reserve, testing whether blunt instruments would serve before reaching for finer ones. You let your fingers rest on the stem of your cup before answering.

"We do," you said. "We simply learn early which conversations are worth having."

Then you returned to your plate.

The silence stretched. You could feel it tighten, like cloth pulled just a little too far. You did not look at him; you did not need to. Beside you, he drank, then turned away, letting the moment dissolve.

Across the table, Maekar was watching. When the music began, it was him who moved first. You saw the decision before he acted. He crossed the room with purpose and spoke low to Aerion. You did not hear the words, but you did not need to. There was no request in the exchange.

Aerion turned toward you. He extended his hand with slow precision, making absolutely certain that every person in the room understood this was costing him something.

"Will you honour me, dear wife," he said, the words shaped correctly, the tone less so.

You placed your hand in his.

The floor was not crowded. The other couples kept their distance, leaving a space around you that felt exposed rather than open. He danced well, you noted without surprise, he had been trained to do everything.

This close, you could see the pale sweep of his eyelashes, lighter than his hair, catching the faint light when he blinked. The depth of his lilac eyes was clearer up close, not just colour but something layered beneath it. He had two scars under his cheek, but his skin still looked almost unreal in its smoothness.

His hand at your waist was the same as his grip during the ceremony, measured, controlled, with no warmth.

“Let us understand one another,” he said, his voice low enough to remain private, though there was nothing intimate in it. "I did not want this. I want you to know that I know what my father intends by it, and I want you to know that it will not work."

You let the music carry you through a turn before answering.

“I know you did not want it," you said. "I did not ask for your wanting. I asked for nothing at all, if you recall.”

"You will want things eventually. All wives do."

"Perhaps." You met his gaze briefly, then let it drift past him. "But I did not come here to want things from you, Aerion. I came because the arrangement was made, and I do not refuse an arrangement simply because it is inconvenient."

His hand tightened slightly at your waist, not painfully, but enough to notice.

"You think you can manage me." he said almost curious.

"I think, that they have been trying to manage you your whole life." you said. "And it has not served you much. I am not interested in managing you. I am interested in being your wife. That means I will keep this household in order, I will hold my place properly, and I will do what is required of me. Whether you choose to be part of that is yours to decide."

Another turn as the music continued.

"But I will be here," you added, quieter now. "That part is not negotiable."

He said nothing after that, but you did not mistake the silence for agreement.

Your chambers had been prepared with careful attention as expected. The fire lit, the bed done, everything arranged with quiet precision. You dressed for the night and sat near the hearth with a book open in your lap, though you were not reading.

You waited but he did not come.

The fire burned low. The sounds of the city shifted beyond the walls, settling into the deeper quiet of night. Somewhere, the watch called the hour and you closed the book.

You were not offended; you were not disappointed. You had already known Aerion would rather spend his wedding night in a brothel.

You extinguished the candle by the window and watched the room fall into shadow.

STEPT 2. Become a Familiar Shape.

Constant presence, always at the same distance, without sudden change. Given time, you stop being something to watch for. You become part of the world itself.

In the days that followed, you made yourself ordinary. It took more care than it appeared. True ordinariness had to be consistent. Too much absence would be noticed. Too much presence would draw the eye. You chose your places and kept to them. The great hall in the morning, a corridor near the training yard in the afternoon, a chair by the window in the library, once, where you read for two hours without lifting your head when he entered.

You did not seek him out and you did not avoid him. You were simply there. Aerion noticed.

At first, it was nothing clear. A pause when he entered a room and found you already in it. A shift in his attention, brief and controlled. The smallest recalculation. He had expected something from you. You could see it in what he did not find. No coldness, no wounded pride, no performance at all.

You gave him nothing to work with. Three days after the wedding, he passed you on the library and spoke to you for the first time since the feast.

“I trust you slept well. I confess I cannot say the same for the woman I spent the night with. She complained I kept her awake until dawn.”

You stopped reading and looked up at him.

“Kept her awake, or kept her waiting?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “There is a difference, I find, between a man who exhausts a woman and a man who simply prevents her from sleeping. One leaves her satisfied. The other leaves her staring at the ceiling." A brief pause. “From what I have heard of you, I suspect she saw rather more of the ceiling than she would have liked.”

You walked away with your book before he could answer.

You had learned early that a voice could betray a person faster than any blade. Most people used it badly. They made it loud when they wanted to be heard, sharpened it when they wanted to cut. They filled it with weight and urgency, as if force alone could make something true. Your father had taught you otherwise. In his solar, he spoke with the same measured evenness whether he was discussing grain yields or deciding a man's fate. A voice that only rises when threatened, he had told you once, is a voice that teaches people when you can be threatened.

You remembered that.

STEP 3. Let It Hear You Before It Sees You.

A calm voice, used often, without command. No edge to it, no sudden movement tied to the sound. The creature learns the voice first, without reason to fear it. Given time, the sound settles into the background. Familiar, expected, something it turns toward without quite knowing why.

So, you began to speak.

The first time was nothing. A grey morning, the stone still holding the night’s cold. Aerion walked the corridor outside the great hall with two of his usual companions, and you were walking alone, and there was no reason to say anything, silence would have served just as well, would in fact have required less effort, but you spoke anyway.

“The easternmost courtyard is iced over this morning,” you said as you went by. “If you are riding, the south gate will be quicker.”

You did not look at him as you said it. You did not look back after.

Behind you, there was a brief silence, and then the low sound of his companions resuming their conversation. You could not tell if he had answered, it did not matter. The point was the sound itself, your voice, steady, offering something useful and nothing more, left behind in his morning like a small, ordinary fact.

You did this again two days later. And again, after that.

An observation about the kitchens. A remark about a particular courier who had been delayed. Once, on the stairs, a quiet comment about a book you carried, spoken into the space without asking for anything in return.

He said nothing the first time. The second time, he gave you a look, the same one you had seen before, sharp and narrow, weighing, deciding whether what it saw was worth the trouble of attention. The third time, he answered, briefly, as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

You counted this as exactly what it was, progress.

The friction came eventually. Midday meal, smaller than the evening gatherings, the kind where people allowed themselves to speak a little more freely. You were seated across from Aerion rather than beside him, which meant you had the less comfortable position of being visible to him rather than adjacent.

He had been in a particular mood all morning. You had seen it earlier, out in the courtyard. A tightness in the way he held himself, a coiled irritation that suggested some earlier conversation had not gone as he'd wished. He kept it contained, but it showed in small places. The set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered a fraction too long.

Halfway through the meal, he looked at you directly.

“I saw you speaking with the hedge knight this morning. The boy could barely look at you.”

“Ser Duncan,” You corrected, “Could barely look at anyone,” you said. “He has learned that drawing attention to himself is dangerous. A useful instinct, when one lives in a dangerous environment.”

Around the table, the shift was immediate. Eyes moved away, shoulders shifted, someone found their cup suddenly very interesting. No one wanted to be part of whatever this was.

Aerion's mouth curved, but not warmly.

“You say that as an observation. I wonder if you mean it as a criticism.”

“I mean it as neither.” You set down your knife. “A knight who flinches is a knight who has learned what happens when he does not. That tells you something about where he lives.” You looked at him steadily. “The more interesting question is what it tells you about yourself.”

“I am not in the habit of concerning myself with knights anymore.”

“No,” you said. “But you might concern yourself with the fact that a man who fears you will serve you only as long as he must. Fear is a short leash, and the moment it slackens, the moment you turn your back, a frightened man will not think of loyalty. He will think of himself.” You picked up your knife again. "Respect holds longer. It is less satisfying, I imagine, but considerably more reliable."

The table was very quiet.

Aerion's expression did not change, which was its own kind of change, in the vocabulary you had spent weeks building. The muscles around his jaw held with a precision that was not natural stillness. He was choosing his next words with more care than usual, which meant the previous ones had landed somewhere he had not expected them to reach.

“You speak as though I require your counsel,” he said almost thoughtful.

“I speak because the observation seemed worth making,” you said. “What you do with it is your own concern.”

You returned to your meal.

He said nothing more. But he did not look away for a longer moment than was comfortable, and when he finally did, it was not with a quick dismissal, it was with adjustment.

In the library, three days later, you found him already there when you arrived.

This was unusual. Aerion was not, in your observation, a man who spent mornings in libraries by preference. You entered anyways and took the chair you usually took, near the far window, which had the best light and a view of the inner yard, and opened the book you had brought.

For a time, neither of you spoke. The fire cracked softly. From outside came the steady rhythm of steel on steel, practice in the yard below.

“The Celtigar boy.”

You did not look up immediately. You marked your page, then lifted your eyes.

“The one my father is considering for a trade agreement,” he went on. “You spoke with him yesterday.”

“Briefly.” you said.

“He is not what he presents.” There was something restrained in the way he said it. Irritation, perhaps, or reluctance, as though the act of asking you something, or almost asking you something, cost him more than he was willing to fully account for.

You studied him for a moment. “No,” you agreed. “He is not. His family's debts are larger than they've admitted, and his uncle's position in the city has been weakening for two years. The trade agreement would favour him considerably more than it would favour the crown.

Aerion's eyes moved over your face, his gaze precise.

“You gathered that from a brief conversation.”

“From the conversation, and from the days before it,” you said. “People show where the pressure is, if you pay attention.”

A pause.

“My father should know,” he said.

“He should,” you agreed. “I thought you might be the appropriate person to tell him.”

You let that rest between you without elaboration, the implicit suggestion that this was a useful thing, that you were offering it to him rather than taking the credit for it, that you were treating him as someone worth offering useful things to. You did not dress it in sentiment. You did not soften it into a gesture. You simply left it there, plainly, for him to take or ignore as he chose.

He chose to take it. Not gratefully, not with any acknowledgment of the exchange's nature. He simply gave a short, almost inaudible sound of agreement and turned back to his book.

You had met, in your life, exactly three people who understood the particular discipline of the open hand.

Your father was one of them. A merchant woman in Sunspear who had built a trading empire from a single stall was another. The third was a maester who had served your household for eleven years and who had, in that time, quietly accumulated more influence over its workings than anyone with an official title. None of them had achieved what they achieved through force, or through the performance of authority. They had achieved it through the same mechanism, over and over, they gave things away, then let them go.

STEP 4. Offer Without Expectation.

Something of value left within reach, knowledge, advantage, ease. Then you step back. You do not insist. You do not demand. You do not watch too closely. The creature must come to the thing on its own terms, or the thing carries the smell of a trap. Patience here is not passive. It is the most active thing you can do, the discipline of the open hand, extended and then stilled, asking nothing, waiting without the tension of waiting.

You began small, that was where patterns took hold.

The first thing was almost accidental, simple enough to pass unnoticed.

Over weeks, you had seen how Aerion’s mornings turned. When his correspondence waited in disorder, something in him tightened. It was a small irritation, but it spread, it created a particular friction that compounded into the broader texture of his day. His steward handled it unevenly, some days careful, others careless.

You said nothing about this to anyone.

Instead, you mentioned to the steward’s assistant, a young man called Pell, anxious and observant. You mentioned once, that mornings that begin clean tend to stay that way, as though sharing a general philosophy, and then you moved on.

Next day, the letters were sorted before Aerion reached his study. You were nowhere near him when he noticed. You were in the eastern courtyard, the air sharp enough to sting your throat, walking slow circles over frost-hardened ground.

The second offering was more direct, and more deliberate.

The previous night, you had lingered in the great hall long enough to catch a conversation not meant for you. Two of Maekar’s advisors, careless in their angle, speaking of the Plumm family, a loan, a disputed inheritance, a claim that had the potential to become inconvenient for the crown if left unaddressed. The kind of thing that moved slowly until it did not.

You wrote it down, simply a single sheet of paper, placed beneath a volume you had observed Aerion taking from the library shelves twice in the past fortnight, angled just so, easily visible to someone reaching for the book.

You were gone before he arrived, you did not check if it had been taken. This was the discipline, the open hand, and then the stillness.

He found you in the corridor outside the great hall two days later. The way he approached told you enough, straight line, no hesitation, you knew the paper had been found and used.

“The Plumm family matter,” he said. “My father addressed it this morning. He mentioned information that reached him through unusual channels.”

“Did he.” you said.

“He did not know the source.” A pause. “I did.”

You met his gaze, nothing more. “Anyone listening could have heard it,” you said. “I assumed it was worth noting.”

“You assumed,” he repeated sceptical. “And the assumption led you to leave an unsigned document in a place you knew I would find it, rather than simply speaking to me, or to my father directly.”

“Speaking to your father directly would have made it mine to claim. It seemed more useful for it to be yours.” You said, you were well aware that he needed to slowly gain his father’s trusts again.

“You expect me to believe you want nothing in return.” He said.

“I expect nothing from you,” you replied. “I noticed something that seemed relevant to your interests. I noted it where you could find it. That is all.”

He studied you for a long moment, measuring again, then stepped past you without another word. You turned in the opposite direction and continued walking.

The pattern continued.

Days filled with small things, each one easy to miss on its own. A map left open to the right page before a meeting. A quiet word to a knight whose behaviour toward Aerion had been developing a particular insolence. Not a warning, only a reminder of how quickly favour could turn. The knight corrected himself. Aerion noticed the change; you were reasonably certain he had chosen not to address it directly.

During a meal he caught you refilling his cup before the servant reached it, an automatic gesture, barely conscious, and he watched your hand as you set the jug down.

“You do not behave like someone who dislikes me,” he said.

“I am not certain I dislike you,” you said, truthfully. “I have not yet seen enough of you to decide.”

“You have been living in the same castle for a month.”

“So, my husband has taken to keeping track now?” you said, a light note of teasing slipping in despite yourself. You lifted your cup and took a slow sip, letting the taste of the wine linger as a small, knowing smile curved at the corner of your mouth.

He exhaled through his nose, not quite a scoff he meant to share. He didn’t answer. His gaze lingered, a fraction too long to be careless, as if he were trying to smooth over something that had caught him off guard. There was a faint tension in his face, in the set of his jaw and the stillness of his shoulders, the sort of thing that suggested he was trying very hard not to let any hint of embarrassment show.

Later you noticed he took the map you left on his desk. Maekar’s manner afterward told you enough, less strain and more thought behind his words when he spoke to his son.  Aerion did not mention it and you did not either.

The absence of acknowledgment said what it needed to. He would take what was useful, he would not name the source. Pride held that line, but still, he had used it. He had accepted the offering, even reluctantly, even silently. That mattered more.

Which meant the distance was slowly shrinking.

He came to your chambers late on a Thursday, when the castle had settled into its quieter rhythm and the corridors carried only the distant steps of the watch.

You sat at your vanity, drawing the brush through your hair in slow, even strokes, winding you down toward sleep. Your sleeping gown was light, meant for the warmth of the room and the privacy of it, nothing more. Your hair hung loose, longer than it appeared when pinned, falling across your shoulders in a way that belonged to a version of yourself you did not generally allow the castle to see.

The door opened without warning, but you did not turn.

You watched him through the mirror instead. It gave you a clearer view than facing him outright. He stepped inside, then paused when he saw you, or the version of you caught in the glass. Something flickered across his face, quick and unguarded, before he shut it down.

You kept brushing your hair.

He crossed the room at an unhurried pace. No sudden movement, no sign of haste, still, there was weight in it. He stopped behind your chair and rested both hands on its back. In the mirror, his eyes met yours directly, without the usual angle or distance.

You held his gaze and continued the brush stroke to its end.

The silence lasted several seconds. In the mirror you watched him watching you. The loose hair, the gown, the particular version of you that belonged to this room and this hour, and you watched him notice that he was watching, and tighten slightly around it.

“I have been really patient with you,” he said at last, his voice low. “I have watched you move through this household for weeks. The documents, the steward, the arrangements that appear before I ask for them.” A pause. “No one does this without a ledger. Show me yours.”

“I told you I keep no ledger,” you said.

“Everyone keeps a ledger.” The words came sharper now. “Whether they admit it or not.”

You set the brush down on the vanity and folded your hands in your lap, and looked at his reflection. The candle shifted, and for a moment the light caught him differently in the mirror. The closeness of him. The space between you that had narrowed without either of you naming it.

“You are angry,” you said. “Not because you think I want something from you. You are angry because you cannot determine what it is, and that distinction is troubling you more than you would like to admit.”

His grip tightened slightly on the chair, his frown deepened. “Do not tell me what troubles me.”

“Then tell me yourself.” You said. “You came here and opened that door without knocking. If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

“What you have offered me,” he said, and this time the control thinned, sharpened into something colder, “is the manner of a woman who wants something. The oldest trick there is. Every woman I have met wanted things. Every woman in this castle wants things. You-” and here something almost contemptuous entered his voice, directed less at you than at his own inability to solve you “-stand there with your quiet gestures and your useful information and expect me to believe it costs you nothing, that you want nothing from me.”

“I told you I expect nothing from you,” you said, for the second time in your acquaintance “Which is not the same as wanting nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. For a moment, his gaze dipped, catching on the fall of your hair over your shoulder, the line of your neck in the candlelight, before returning to your reflection with more force than before.

“Then what do you want,” he said lowly, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You watched him for a moment. The tension in his shoulders. The way he held himself still, as if movement might betray him. The closeness of him, the warmth of it at your back.

“To see you for what you truly are,” you said, now turning around to look up at him. “When no one is performing fear at you.”

The room went quiet.

He did not move at once. His hands remained on the chair, though you felt the subtle shift in them, the restraint in it. His breathing changed, barely, but enough to notice. His gaze stayed on yours, searching now in a way it had not before.

Then he straightened. His hands lifted from the chair with care, as if he had to think about the motion before making it. He held your gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable passing through it. Then he turned and left.

The door closed with a loud thud behind him.

You looked back at your reflection in the glass. The room holding a trace of him still, something unsettled in the air. You reached for the brush and finished what you had started.

A man like Aerion did not adjust. He did not take pressure and reshape himself around it. His world ran on confirmation, on power answered with submission, on a rhythm that reassured him of his place in it. You had been interfering with that rhythm since the morning you arrived. Quietly, consistently, without giving him anything he knew how to answer.

A disruption like that never passed without consequence.

STEP 5. Survive the First Test of Teeth.

Before any bond forms, there is a test. A feint of violence, a warning, a measure of what you are made of. Not always meant to hurt, but whether to see of you will break or bite back. If you do, is over.

You held this thought in the quiet of your morning as you dressed carefully and went about your day.

The argument started in the corridor outside his study, late in the afternoon, when the light came through the western windows, catching dust in the air, turning it gold. You had passed him with the usual moderate acknowledgment, not ignoring him, not seeking him, the same distance you had maintained for weeks, and he had stopped walking.

“You were in my father's solar this morning,” he said.

“I was,” you said. “He asked my opinion on a correspondence from the Arbor.”

“He asked your opinion on that matter,” Something tightened in his face. “Instead of asking me?”

“He did.”

“You have been very busy these days,” he said, “Making yourself useful, to my father, to every corner of this household except the one that is actually your concern.”

“You are my concern,” you said. “Which is precisely why I do not sit waiting for you to need something."

“I do not need anything from you.”

“No,” you agreed. “You have made that very clear last time we discussed. And yet here we are, having this conversation, which you initiated.”

He turned and walked into his study. Not an invitation, but not a dismissal either, and you followed because the conversation was unfinished.

“You think you are very clever,” he said, moving behind his desk, putting wood and distance between you, like it might help him sort what he could not name.

“I think I am.” you said defiantly.

“You think,” he said, and the voice had dropped into its most dangerous register. “That you can arrange yourself into something that suits you, move pieces across a board you were not invited to play on, smile at my father in his solar, look at me like that, and that none of it will have a cost.”

“I have never believed anything is without cost.” you said.

“Then if you are so clever, you should have calculated more carefully.” He stepped past you, toward the door. “You will remain in this room until I say otherwise.” The words came out with anger and the door shut behind him.

You stood in the centre of the room for a moment. Then you moved to his chair, behind his desk, and sat in it, and looked at the documents arranged across the surface, and began, with the unhurried attention, to read them.

Three days later, in the great hall. You had not sought Ser Duncan out specifically. You had spoken with him before, briefly, like with most people in the Keep, and found him to be earnest, possessing more native intelligence than his manner suggested. He was easy to be around. You were in the middle of an unremarkable conversation about the road conditions north of King's Landing, he had travelled them recently, and you had asked a practical question. You felt the shift before you saw him.

A hand settled at your waist. Firm, claiming, meant to be seen, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. Ser Duncan's expression went still, not quite discomfort and not quite confusion.

“My wife,” Aerion said. “I was looking for you.”

Duncan inclined his head and stepped back. You kept your expression exactly as it had been. Aerion’s gaze lingered on you, then flicked once toward the knight, measuring, assembling something he did not like. The hall had gone quiet.

“Is this a game to you,” he said under his breath. An accusation that had the shape of a question.

“No,” you said.

“Then what is it.” He moved in front of you. “What are you doing with the hedge knight-” He stopped, jaw tightening. “Are you provoking me, deliberately.”

“I was having a conversation about road conditions,”

“Do not.” His voice dropped further. “Do not use that voice with me.”

“Which voice would you prefer then? One where I lie?”

“You know,” he said quietly, to you, only to you. “What he did to me.”

“I know what happened at Ashford,” you said, equally quietly. “As does most of the kingdom-”

The struck came fast. Mid-sentence, mid-breath, in front of the hall and the fire and Ser Duncan's suddenly rigid stillness. The back of his hand across your cheek with a force that turned your head and produced a sound that silenced the nearest conversations.

You straightened. You did not touch your face. You did not look at Duncan, who you could feel in your peripheral vision. You looked at Aerion, directly, steadily, with the same expression you had worn in the study, and you said nothing at all.

His jaw was tight and the hall was watching it all. He gripped your wrist, hard, the mark already beginning, and turned toward the corridor, and you went with him because the scene that would result from not going would cost you more.

In your chambers, he released you without a word and left. The door shut and the lock clicked.

You sat by the window. The light had shifted, pale now, moving slowly across the stone. You looked at your wrist, at the faint marks forming. You were not afraid and you were not angry, so you waited with patience.

Maekar went to Aerion that same evening, of course he did. No one told you outright, but you knew before a word reached you. The servant who came to open your chamber door avoided your eyes, her hands slower than usual on the latch. Raised voices, you guessed. Maekar did not shout often, but when he did, it carried. Aerion would have been made to stand there and take it. For the insult. For making a spectacle of his own wife. For stepping, once again, where he had been warned not to. You could almost hear it. The sharp edge of Maekar’s restraint, the threat beneath it.

You let out a slow breath. This would not help. It would tighten something in Aerion, push him further into himself before it loosened anything at all.

He did not return that night, or the next.

On the third, you woke to the sound of your door.

The room was dark, the fire long since reduced to coals and a faint red glow. The kind of hour when even the castle seemed to pause, caught between one watch and the next. You lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds that followed the door, unsteady footsteps, the sounds of a man navigating a familiar space with less precision than usual.

You had smelled the wine, thick and sour on the air, and something else beneath it, cheap perfume and sweat. You had passed enough doorways in this city to know it came from a brothel.

He moved through the dark toward the bed with care that bordered on effort. Not quite stumbling, but close. You lay still with your eyes not quite closed and your breathing steady and you watched him through your lashes.

He stopped at the bedside. For a moment, he only looked at you.

He was less put together than you had ever seen him, his hair dishevelled, collar open, his clothes carrying the evidence of hours spent in places this castle was not and had not bothered to hide it well. His gaze moved over you, slower than usual, lingering in places he would have ignored in daylight. There was anger in it. That much you knew. But there was something else tangled into it, something the drink had loosened.

Then his hand shot out and closed around your throat.

The force of it drove the breath from you before you could think. His grip was sure, fingers settling with a familiarity that made it worse. The ceiling tilted as your body reacted, instinct rising fast and sharp. His face was above yours, close, and it was not the face of a man in full command of himself. His eyes were bright, unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with the dark. His grip tightened.

You felt the tightness clearly, the pressure at your windpipe, the pulse hammering under his hand. The animal instinct toward struggle that rose in you like a tide and that you identified and still you did not move.

And then, quietly, helplessly, from somewhere underneath the shock and the constriction and the absolute clarity of your own danger, you laughed. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Not shaped for him, not meant for anything at all. It simply came, as if your body had found something in the moment that did not fit the rest of it. Simply absurd and honest and almost intimate in its desperation.

The sound of it, barely audible, stopped him completely.

His hand did not leave your throat, but it stopped tightening. His expression shifted, confusion cutting through whatever had driven him here.

“What are you-” he said. It came out raw, his voice rough, stripped of its usual control. “What are you doing, what are you doing to me.”

You said nothing. You held his eyes in the dark and did not struggle, you did not look away.

“I hate you,” he said. The words came out flat, almost tired, like a confession.“I hate what you do. I hate that I cannot-.” His voice broke across the unfinished sentence. “I cannot find the edges of you. I cannot-.”

His grip loosened, fractionally, and then fractionally more.

Something in his face gave way. The control slipped, not all at once, but enough. His shoulders dipped, the tension draining in uneven pieces. Something beneath the surface rising without permission. His forehead dropped, his weight shifted, and then, with the slow, helpless gravity of exhaustion, he leaned against your chest, his hands still loosely at your throat, his body giving what his pride would not. Choked sobs forming on the back of his throat as his shoulders trembled.

You lay still beneath him. The room held its silence. No voices in the corridor, no movement beyond the walls. Only the weight of him, and the strange, unguarded vulnerability he had not allowed himself before.

Carefully, you lifted your hand. Slow and measured. The way one moves around something that might startle.

He felt the motion before you completed it.

He pulled back at once. Your hand knocked aside, not gently, but not the way he had struck you before either, with less force and more reflex. He was off the bed and standing before you had fully processed the movement, and the reassembly was happening in real time, you could watch it, the walls going up stone by stone, the expression reorganizing, the posture recovering its usual architecture.

He did not look at you as he wiped his tears with the back of his hand, and left.

You lay in the dark for a long time after the door closed. Your throat ached. When you touched it, you could feel where his fingers had pressed, the marks already forming under the skin. You let your hand fall back to the bed. You had survived the teeth.

There is a particular kind of silence that follows a storm.

It is not peace, peace settles. This waits, it hangs over what is left, thin and watchful, as if the ground itself is deciding whether anything will take root again. You lived in that silence for six days. You ate in it, walked the corridors in it, spoke when required and otherwise let it sit around you, like weather that refused to move on.

Aerion was never where you were. Not once, not even by accident.

You noticed the pattern the way you noticed everything else. He left rooms when you entered them, not with obvious avoidance, but with quiet efficiency, but avoiding something nonetheless, something that he had not yet decided how to face. The corridors he had habitually used became corridors he did not use. The hours he had kept became hours he abandoned.

Like he was afraid of you. Not in the way people feared harm. In the way they feared being seen too clearly.

STEP 6. Allow Contact on Its Terms.

The first touch is not taken, it is allowed. A still hand. No pressure. No attempt to hold or redirect or claim. The creature must choose the contact, or the contact means nothing. It is the most fragile moment in the entire sequence the one where everything that has been built can collapse in a single wrong movement. Patience here is not strategy. It is something closer to faith, the belief that what has been established is enough to bear weight, if the weight is placed gently enough.

You dressed with care that seventh night, with a specific kind of nightgown your hair loose again, and went to him.

His chambers were deeper in the keep than yours, further from the outer walls, further from the sounds of the city, the kind of rooms that held heat and shadow in equal measure. The door was heavy. The light beneath it was the particular amber of firelight rather than candle, which meant he was awake and the hour was not the reason.

You did not knock.

The room was larger than you had expected, and sparser. There were maps on one wall, detailed ones, and a writing table covered with papers that had the disordered quality of work abandoned mid-thought. A shelf of books, several displaced at a specific angle with care. On a low table near the window, a cup and a flagon, mostly empty. The fire was high, built up more than the room's warmth required, the kind of fire you build when you want something to look at.

He was standing before it.

He turned when you entered, and the firelight caught his face in a way that daylight had never been permitted to. His eyes carried the particular redness that came not from drink but from something that had happened before the drink. His shoulders, which were always exact, held themselves with an effortful maintenance, but it took effort to keep it that way.

You closed the door behind you. The latch caught with a sound that was very small in the quiet.

“You should not be here,” he said.

“Probably,” you agreed. You did not move further into the room yet. You stood near the door and looked at him across the firelit space between you and said “What is wrong.”

“Nothing that concerns you.” He turned back to the fire. The set of his shoulders said the conversation was over, but the fact that he had not told you to leave said something else.

You crossed the room.

Slowly, without purpose written into the movement. You stopped beside him. Not close enough to require acknowledgment, not far enough to be a withdrawal, and you looked at the fire.

Neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled, wood settled with a low crack, and you waited.

A minute passed, then another. The fire shifted, settling lower in the grate, and in the new configuration of light you saw it, brief, barely visible. A single track of tears, catching firelight, at the corner of his jaw.

You did not look at it directly.

“Aerion,” you said.

“My father-.” he began, and then stopped, like the words had caught on something.

You let the silence hold.

“He saw,” he said with flatness. “The marks on your neck. He saw them. Someone spoke of what happened at the hall too.” His jaw tightened. “He made himself very clear.”

“How clear,” you said.

“In all his wisdom, has threatened me, again, to send me into exile.” The word sat between you. Heavy enough on its own. “He called it a last chance. He has called it that before.” Something crossed his voice that was not quite bitterness. “The words had begun to lose their meaning, but it felt too serious now”

You turned to look at him then.

He was still facing the fire, but the profile of him had changed. The structure of his expression had begun to crack. Not enough for others to notice but enough for you. He looked, in the firelight, less like the man who had locked you in his study and struck you in the great hall and more like something earlier than that, rawer and less certain and considerably more alone.

You reached out. Slowly, with the deliberateness you had promised yourself, no force, no urgency, no claim. Your hand found his and held it with the lightness of something offered rather than taken.

He looked down at it.

“I should have covered the marks better,” you said. “I misjudged the consequence. That was my error, and I am sorry for it.”

“That is not-.” He stopped; his hand had not moved. “That is not what this is about.”

And he pulled away fast. Almost startled by it. With the sudden, electric motion of something that has allowed contact and immediately regretted the allowing. He stepped back, something sharp and unsteady in his eyes.

“Do not,” he said, and the word came out wrong, cracked across the middle of it. “Do not do that. Do not stand there and apologize and take my hand and look at me like-.” He stopped again, breath uneven. “Like there is something worth-.” He stopped again. His hands had closed into fists at his sides and he was breathing with effort. “You do not know what I am.”

“I know what you have done,” you said.

“Then you know enough.” He turned away. “You know I hurt people. You know I cannot-.” His voice fractured. He pressed on through it. “I cannot stop myself… there is something wrong with me. There has always been something wrong with me and everyone who has come close enough to see it leaves or breaks. And you are here, in this room, at this hour, and I do not-.” He stopped.

The fire was the only sound.

“I am a beast,” he said, very quietly. Tears running free down his cheeks. “That is what I am. That is all I am.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You are a man,” you said, “who has been told a story about himself for so long that he has stopped questioning whether it is the only story available.”

“It is not a story. It is evidence of everything I have done.”

“Evidence can be read in more than one direction,” you said. 

“Do not make me into something I am not.”

“I am not making you into anything.” You held his gaze. “I am telling you that what you are is not to be fixed. That the thing you have been, it is not the only version of you that exists. And that-.” You paused, because the next words required accuracy, and accuracy required care. “You matter to me. Not the prince, not the name. You. What is underneath all of this. That matters to me.”

The room was absolutely still.

He looked at you with an expression you had no entry for in the vocabulary you had built of him, something unguarded, almost frightened, like he has been handed something he does not know how to hold and is not certain he can afford to drop.

Then something gave way.

Not loudly. Not all at once. His breath shifted. His shoulders dropped. Whatever he had been holding together slipped. His breathing changed. You did not move toward him, but you did not need to.

He crossed the remaining distance himself without thinking about it, and then his forehead was against your shoulder and his hands were at your sides without grip, without force, simply present, and he was not making a sound but you could feel the shaking of him and the wetness against the fabric of your nightgown and the weight of him.

You stood very still.

You did not put your arms around him. You did not make any movement that could be felt as claiming. You simply held yourself and let him use it, and the fire burned lower as he came apart quietly against your shoulder without asking permission and without being asked to stop.

You did not know how long it lasted. Long enough.

You raised your hand slowly, slowly enough that he could have pulled away again, enough to be refused, and brought your fingers to his hair.

It was shorter than it looked. Silver-pale and fine, the kind of hair that carried light rather than colour, and beneath your fingertips it was softer than you had anticipated. You drew your hand through it once, carefully, from the crown of his head down to the nape of his neck, where the hair ended and the skin began, warm and taut over the column of his spine.

He did not move away.

He leans into your touch involuntarily, as if starved for contact. His eyes flutter shut, a shudder running through him at the simple gesture. It's a chink in his armour, a crack in the façade he has built around himself. He hates how good it feels, how desperately he craves your gentleness, like something that had been starved for so long it had forgotten the word for hunger until the smell of food arrived. He hates that it's you, a woman he has dismissed as a nuisance, a distraction.

You kept your hand still at the nape of his neck and waited until the tension in him eased, just a little, then you took his hand. He did not resist the guiding.

That told you more than anything else had. Aerion Brightflame, who resisted everything, who turned even small things into contests, let himself be guided across the room, no argument, no pause. Just the quiet, spent compliance of someone who had nothing left to push with.

You lay down and he lay beside you.

For a moment he remained on his back, staring upward, and you could feel the effort in him, his composure still running even now, still attempting to impose order on something that had moved past the reach of order.

Then, slowly, as if testing each inch of the movement, allowing himself permission one fraction at a time, he moved closer. His head found your chest. His arms came around your waist, and the grip that followed was not gentle exactly, it had too much need in it for gentleness, but it was not aggression either, it was anchoring.

“Don't mistake this for weakness,” he muttered, eyes fixed somewhere above you, studying something very far away. “Or tenderness.” A pause. “I merely refuse to let my father's words haunt me alone tonight.”

“All right,” you said.

You brought one hand up to his hair again. The same movement, slow, unhurried, from crown to nape and back, repeated with the consistency of something that asked nothing in return. Your other hand rested against his back, barely any pressure at all.

The fire had burned low and the room was mostly shadow.

“If you much as breathe a word of this to anyone,” he murmured into your chest, his voice rough but stripped of its usual edge, “I'll deny it until my last breath.” His arms tightened slightly, involuntarily. “Stay with me tonight… please.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” you said.

As the night went on, Aerion slowly succumbed to sleep. Something about being held, about your gentle touch, brought a peace he had rarely known. He did not dream of dragons or conquests, for once. His sleep was free of the constant restlessness that usually plagued him. He burrowed into your chest, unconsciously seeking more of your warmth, of your presence.

You lay awake longer than he did. Not from discomfort, too much to process, lying in the dark with their thoughts arranged in rows like objects after a flood.

His breathing had changed, his weight against you had changed. The man who had come apart was now simply sleeping. With his face against your chest and his silver hair tickling your collarbone and his arms loosely maintaining their hold even in sleep, the grip eased to something that felt closer to a choice rather than necessity.

You ran your hand through his hair one more time, very slowly. He made a small sound, low and entirely unconscious, and pressed closer.

You looked at the ceiling for a long time and eventually, sleep took you too.

The room was in the grey-dark of late night, not yet dawn, but the black had thinned to something softer. His breathing had changed again; he was watching you.

His breath caught as he took in the sight of you, soft, vulnerable, beautiful in the unguarded way of sleeping things. A strange warmth curled in his chest, foreign and unsettling. He hesitated. His fingers twitched toward your hair, as if to brush a stray lock from your face, then stopped. He scowled at himself, at this weakness. But the scowl faltered when his gaze lingered on the way your lashes rested against your cheeks, the rise and fall of your breath.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted closer, draping an arm over your waist as if claiming you, not with arrogance, but with something dangerously close to possessiveness. His lips pressed against your temple in a fleeting, uncharacteristically tender kiss.

You opened your eyes. The ceiling was grey above you. Beside you, or rather, around you, Aerion had stilled, as if caught in the act of something he had not meant to do.

“Is something wrong?” you asked quietly.

He cleared his throat, his thumb idly tracing circles on your skin, trying for normalcy, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted at your proximity.

“Are you comfortable?”he asked.

“Yes,” you said. You turned your head slightly to look at him. “Are you?”

He gave a noncommittal hum, not meeting your gaze. The truth was he had slept better than he had in years, but he was not about to say so. That would imply weakness. He shifted slightly, the arm around your waist drawing you a fraction closer without him seeming to notice. His fingers continued their circles, almost absentmindedly, as though he were lost in thought and the touch was the only thing keeping him tethered.

The grey outside the window had begun its slow migration toward something lighter. The fire was entirely cold now, the room held only the warmth of the bed, of proximity, of the particular heat that accumulates between two bodies in the hours before dawn.

Then awareness settled in him fully. Of the closeness. Of the precise arrangement of you against him, the warmth of your body, the thin fabric of your sleeping gown, the way the hem had shifted in the night to lie differently against your skin. His hand tensed briefly.

He swallowed.

You felt it, the shift that moved through him, the awareness sharpening into something specific, something that did not belong entirely to the vulnerability of the preceding hours. His lips parted, but no words came. He looked at you with an expression caught precisely between irritation and something he could not arrange into anything controllable, frustrated by the evidence of his own body, by the want that had surfaced without authorization.

You could feel it, the warmth of him. The unmistakable pressure of his want against your hip, present and unambiguous, and the particular tension of a man who has noticed you noticing and does not know what to do with it.

Neither of you spoke.

His hand, which had stilled, began very slowly, as though testing whether the motion would be stopped, to move again. Not the idle circles of before. Something more deliberate, more aware of itself, tracing the line of fabric against skin, as if testing whether the moment would break.

You did not stop him.

Not passive, there was nothing passive in the attention you were giving to this moment, to his breathing, to the fractional shifts of his weight and the warmth of his mouth near your temple and the press of him against your hip that had not diminished. But still in the way you had always been still near him, present, available, making no demand and offering no resistance, letting the space between you be defined by what he chose to do with it.

He exhaled.

“You are-.” he began, and stopped, his jaw tightened. He tried again, and the words he found were not the ones he had started with, “This changes nothing.”

“I know,” you said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do,” you said.

His hand moved again with less hesitation, no longer tentative, something with more intention behind it, and his body followed, shifting against you with the weight of a man who has been resisting something for weeks and has arrived, at last, at the particular exhaustion of wanting and the decision to stop pretending otherwise.

His mouth found your throat, the same throat he had gripped days ago in the dark. You brought your hand to his hair, fingers threading through silver.

Aerion exhales slowly, a controlled breath that does nothing to conceal the tension wound through his jaw, his shoulders, the deliberate stillness of his hands. He's beautiful in his conflict, you think. Unbearably so. That sharp face, that proud mouth, carved for cruelty or for this, and tonight the line between them seems very thin.

He opens his eyes again, his gaze locking with yours again. He looks almost pained, his pride warring with the desire that's quickly consuming him. He wants you. Gods, he wants you so much it hurts, and he hates that he can't bring himself to deny it any longer. He hates how powerless he feels at your touch, how he craves more despite his better judgment. His breathing is ragged as he leans over you, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Stop me. Say... say no.” The words come rough, almost like a plea.

You looked at him for one long moment, you take in the conflict laid bare for the first time, the stubborn pride, the hunger he can no longer hide, the exhaustion of holding both apart.

Then you kissed him first.

He kisses you back like a man drowning who has finally stopped fighting the current. His hands come up to grip your face, not gently, and the sound that escapes his throat is low, rough, barely human. The careful prince, the controlled and calculating Aerion Targaryen, dissolves in the space between one breath and the next. What replaces him is something rawer. Hungrier. Something he's kept caged behind violet eyes and cutting remarks for far too long.

The kiss deepens without hesitation, consuming. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of desperate precision, tasting, claiming, as if he's cataloguing every detail through touch alone. You feel the heat of him, radiating off his skin like fever, like fire, like something that has been burning in secret for too long and has finally found air.

His hands roam your body with a feverish desperation, as if trying to memorize every curve, every gasp, every shudder beneath his touch. His kisses trail from your lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin, marking you as his, branding you in the only way he knows how. His hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, letting you feel just how badly he aches for you. He's lost in the sensation, in the fire between you both, consumed by it. He's not gentle about it. He leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive point where your shoulder meets your throat. He wants to mark you, to make you scream his name, to make sure there's no doubt in your mind or anyone else's of who you belong to.

His free hand slides under your nightgown, his fingers trailing up your thigh, leaving trails of fire in their wake. His touch is possessive, demanding, as if he's making up for every minute he's denied himself this pleasure. Your breath hitches as his fingers trace higher, teasing, taunting, every brush of skin against skin sending sparks through you. His lips return to yours, swallowing your gasp as his touch grows bolder, more deliberate. He plays with your breasts, kneading them and pinching at your nipples until you arch into him, your back lifting from the mattress like a prayer. His hands clutch at you, clinging as if you're the only solid thing in the world. He's panting now, his control frayed to the breaking point.

“Gods,” he breathes against your collarbone, “I've been waiting-.” He cuts himself off and bites down instead of finishing the sentence, leaving a bruise.

He buries his face in that spot on your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his lips roaming feverishly as if he can't get enough. Then he kisses down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of hot, wet marks down your stomach, your hip, your inner thigh. His hands slide up your legs, his touch rough but reverent, the touch of a man who has never let himself experience something so wholly, so completely. He moves with the focus of someone who has thought about this, who has imagined and resented and wanted in equal measure.

He pauses for a moment, looking up at you, the desire in his eyes burning hotly as he takes in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast.

“Gods, woman...” His voice comes out low, cracked at the edges. “You look exquisite.”

Your hand goes to his hair, gripping it, silver-pale between your fingers, and you guide him where the ache pulses hottest. He goes willingly, like a man possessed, his lips tracing a path to the very heart of you. He worships at your altar, exploring you with a fervour that borders on madness, his tongue drawing slow, deliberate strokes against your folds, lapping at the slick heat of you with a thoroughness that makes your thighs tremble. He kisses your core the way he kissed your mouth, thoroughly, hungrily, as if he intends to ruin you for anything else.

He slides one finger inside you, curling, exploring, while his tongue continues its work, finding the rhythm that makes your hips roll helplessly toward him. Then two fingers, stretching you slowly, his pace maddening, his silver head moving between your thighs while his free hand pins your hip to the mattress. He teases. He draws it out with the patience of a man who has denied himself too long and now intends to take his time about the undoing. Every time you feel yourself cresting toward the edge, he eases back, withdrawing just enough, slowing just enough, his eyes flicking up to watch your face with something that looks almost like satisfaction.

The third time he pulls back from the precipice, you take a fistful of his hair and drag him up.

“Now,” you tell him. “Take me now.”

A feral smirk curls his lips at your demand. He rises up over you, his chest heaving, his entire body taut with anticipation. He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, you taste yourself on his tongue, one hand gripping your thigh, the other cupping your face as if to brand the moment into your memory.

“As my lady commands,” he growls against your mouth.

He shifts his hips, pressing himself against your entrance. Then, with one sharp thrust, he buries himself inside you, filling you completely, claiming you in every way possible. The moment he's sheathed inside you, a ragged groan tears from his throat, half pleasure, half disbelief. His forehead drops against yours, his breathing ragged, his fingers digging into your hips as if he fears you'll vanish.

“Gods,” he chokes out. “You feel so- warm. So tight.”

He's barely coherent. That, more than anything, undoes you.

His hips roll against yours in slow, deliberate strokes, each one deeper, more possessive than the last. He watches your face, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, as if this is the only thing that's ever truly mattered. His eyes, those violet eyes that have looked at you with contempt and hunger and everything in between by now, are dark, pupils blown wide, and he doesn't look away. He watches you as if watching you is a compulsion he can no longer afford to deny.

“Look at me,” he rasps, when your eyes begin to close. “Don't you dare-.”

And you do, you hold his gaze.

His jaw tightens. Something moves across his expression that he doesn't have the composure left to conceal, something raw and frightened and ferocious all at once. His strokes deepen; his grip hardens.

Then he flips you, without warning, rolling you onto your stomach with the ease of a man accustomed to taking what he wants. The mattress shifts beneath you. His hands find your hips and drag you up to meet him. One palm presses flat between your shoulder blades for a half-second, then slides up, fingers winding into your hair, pressing your face into the pillow.

His lips find your ear, his voice low and rough as he whispers, “I won't be gentle, sweetling.”

It sounds like a warning. It sounds like a promise.

“I don't want you to,” you answer.

The sound he makes at that is almost feral, something ripped from somewhere deep in his chest that he would never willingly give you in daylight. His fingers dig into your hips as he takes you with a force that borders on brutality, each thrust deeper, harder, driven by pure unrestrained need. His lips drag across your shoulder, teeth sinking into your skin to stifle his groan as he loses himself in the heat of you. He releases your hair so both hands can grip your hips, holding you in place, as if he fears you might slip away if he doesn't, his fingers leaving half-moon marks you will feel for days.

His pace is relentless. Desperate. Driven by a hunger that has been building since the first moment he looked at you and hated that he wanted to keep looking.

“I can't-.” you gasp, the pleasure coiling impossibly tight.

“Come for me,” he growls, the words bitten off, rough and low. “Come on- I want to feel you. All of you.”

And you do, you shatter. Your whole body arches into it, trembling beneath him, clenching around him, and you hear his sharp, broken exhale, feel the way his rhythm stutters.

His release hits him like a storm, violent, consuming, unstoppable. His body tenses, his fingers digging into your flesh as he spills inside you with a ragged groan, his forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. For a moment, he just breathes against your skin, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks.

Then, slowly, he collapses over your back. His weight settles, heavy, present, real. His lips move against one of the bruises he's left on your shoulder. Then another. Not in apology, Aerion Targaryen does not apologize. But in something. Acknowledgment, perhaps.

Neither of you speaks.

His arm slides around you, not tenderly, but with a kind of quiet insistence, as if placing himself between you and something invisible. You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast, still. Then slower. Then slower still.

The silence stretches. It does not demand anything from either of you. His breathing deepens, but his grip does not loosen. You close your eyes.

Sleep comes for you both like a tide, not gentle, not kind, but inevitable. The way all true things are.

STEP 7. Never Cage What You Cannot Break.

A beast is not tamed by taking away its fangs. That only makes it weaker, and weakness is not the same thing as trust. It is tamed, if it ever is, by giving it a reason not to use them. It stays because it chooses to. It stays… because it chooses to.

The manse Maekar had given you sat at the edge of a quieter part of the city, near enough to court to satisfy obligation and far enough to breathe in peace. It was smaller than the Red Keep, less grand, but that suited the both of you. No one had said so out loud, yet it was clear enough. The walls were warm stone. The windows faced east and caught the morning light instead of shutting it out. Lavender grew along the outer walk, planted by someone before your time, and it had survived the winter with a stubbornness that felt almost personal.

Inside, signs of a shared life had gathered in slow, ordinary ways. His books beside yours on the shelf. Your embroidery frame positioned near the best window, which he had moved without comment one afternoon when he noticed the light falling wrong. A second cup on the table by the fire, already poured.

None of it was dramatic, all of it mattered to you.

You settled deeper into the chair, adjusting your weight carefully. The pregnancy sat heavy in your lap, in your lower back, in the way you rose slowly from chairs and descended stairs with one hand trailing the wall. Seven months had left their mark. Your belly was full and round beneath the loose linen of your gown, warm to the touch, occasionally shifting with the insistence of someone who had not yet been born but already had opinions on its own.

You pressed a hand briefly to your side where the movement was. A flutter, a press. I know, you thought at it. I know you're there.

The fire crackled. Across the room, Aerion sat at the writing table with his back half-turned to you, working through correspondence with the focused quiet of a man who had learned, slowly, imperfectly, to channel his energy into something productive rather than destructive. Candles burned at either side of the table. His silver hair, longer now, caught their light and held it.

He had not spoken in some time. Neither had you.

The silence was not tense. That distinction still struck you sometimes, even now, the difference between his silences then and his silences now. Before, quiet had been the space between provocations, the held breath before a storm. Now it was simply the room at rest, two people existing in the same warmth, without the need to perform that fact.

Your needle moved through the embroidery. A branch. Leaves in pale green thread, stitched slowly because you no longer rushed things that deserved to be unhurried. You had learned that too, somewhere along the way, though you weren't certain when. Perhaps it had been a lesson you taught yourself while teaching him.

“You've been rubbing your back for the better part of an hour.”

His voice came without him turning. Your hand had drifted there without you noticing. You lowered it. “I'm fine.”

“I didn't say you weren't.”

You went back to the embroidery and the scratch of his quill resumed.

You looked at the back of his head for a moment, at the set of his shoulders, the long line of his spine. He was still proud in his posture. That had not changed, nor would it. But there was something different in it now. Less like a man braced for attack. More like a man who had simply grown comfortable inside his own frame.

Maekar had expressed quiet satisfaction, the last time you had attended court. Not in words, the prince was not a man for words where a look would suffice. But satisfaction nonetheless. You had understood it without needing it explained. So had Aerion, which had caused a complicated expression to move across his face, something between pride and the ghost of old resentment, before easing into something closer to acceptance.

He was still Aerion. He could still cut with a word when he chose to. His patience was a thing learned rather than natural, and it occasionally showed its seams. Two weeks prior, at a supper that had run overlong, he had said something to Lord Peake's second son that had made the table go briefly silent. But he had stopped there, he had not pursued it. He had reached instead for his wine and redirected the conversation with a deliberateness you recognized, because you had practiced that deliberateness in front of him, repeatedly, until he understood what it looked like.

He was not fixed, he was better. There was a meaningful difference.

The fire shifted, throwing new shadows. You set down the embroidery and pressed your palm flat against the side of your stomach, feeling the weight of it, the warmth. The child moved again, long, slow, like something turning in a dream. You breathed around it.

The scratch of the quill stopped.

You did not look up immediately. You felt, rather than saw, the moment his attention shifted, the feeling of being observed by Aerion, which you had long since learned to recognize. It was different now too.

You looked up.

When you looked up, he had already turned in his chair. He was watching you with those violet eyes of his, pale in the candlelight, and there was something in his face he had learned to hide less well over time. Not because he had grown careless. Because keeping it hidden had begun to cost him too much, and he had finally decided, with the quiet certainty he brought to every important thing, that it was no longer worth the price.

Then he rose from the table.

He crossed the room at an unhurried pace, the way a man walks when he has already made up his mind. When he stopped in front of you, his gaze dropped from your face to your hands, then to the rounded curve beneath the linen. Then he knelt.

Not in surrender. Not in show. One knee to the floor, steady and deliberate, bringing himself level with what he meant to honour. He reached out, and his hand, the same hand that had once gripped and demanded and taken, settled with impossible gentleness against the side of your stomach.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the fullest part of you.

He stayed there a moment, forehead resting lightly against you, his hand curved around the life you carried. His breathing evened out. His eyes were closed. He did not speak at once, and you did not ask him to.

Then, very quietly, without lifting his head, he said, “I love you.”

You looked down at the top of his silver head, at the broad line of his shoulders bent in a shape that was not quite defeat and not quite humility, but close enough to make your throat tighten. You thought of the man who had once watched you across a banquet table with cold, assessing eyes and found nothing in you worth his attention. You thought of all the months between then and now. The arguments. The patience. The slow, stubborn work of remaining.

You reached down and touched his face gently. He looked up at you. The candlelight made his eyes very bright.

You held his gaze and said, simply, “I love you as well.”

No strategy in it. Just the truth, spoken in the same quiet room where you had spent months learning each other's silences.

He turned his face and pressed one more kiss to your stomach, almost habitual, as if he had already developed the instinct, then rose slowly and settled himself on the arm of your chair. His hand remained at your side, warm and present. You returned to your embroidery. His shoulder rested against yours, and he did not move away.

The fire burned low. The night spread softly around the manse.

Later, when he had drifted into sleep beside you and his breathing had gone slow and even, you lay awake in the dark and thought about the whole path that had brought you here.

Seven steps, written out with the clean, measured certainty of someone who understood that hearts, even difficult ones, had their own structure. You had approached him with respect for what it was, patience for what it could become, and no illusions about the process between.

But somewhere in the long careful middle of it, something had shifted that no guide could have anticipated, or perhaps the guide had always known it and simply not named it. The method had worked. But the method had not been the point.

The point was that he had changed.

Not because you had fixed him. Not because you had caged him or diminished him or stripped away the things that made him difficult. He was still proud. Still sharp. Still capable of the particular cold cruelty that had earned him his reputation, though he used it less now, and never against you.

He had changed because he had chosen to. Because somewhere in the accumulated weight of all those quiet days and careful moments, something in him had found a reason.

And he, Aerion Targaryen, the Bright Prince, the man they called Brightflame for the way he burned, had stayed too.

His hand rested over yours in the dark, light and warm and present.

The beast doesn't need its fangs removed, you thought, closing your eyes. It just needs something worth protecting more than it needs to bite.

Sleep came, slow and complete, and took you both with it.

November, 2019

The first morning you’d thrown up, you had chalked it up a bad batch of jerky and nothing more.

The second morning you’d thrown up, you had realized you’d missed last month’s menstrual cycle and were several weeks late.

By the third morning of waking up sick to your stomach, there was no doubt about it—you were certain that you were pregnant.

A twenty year old home pregnancy test you had managed to get your hands on confirmed it just a few days later.

You thought that you already knew what it felt like to have everything come crumbling down into pieces around you back two decades ago when the fucking world ended—but as it turns out, that was nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to how it felt seeing that little pink plus sign on that motherfucking test. Not that you needed the damn thing to confirm what you already knew, but still. Part of you, the part that was in complete denial, almost deluded yourself into thinking that it would somehow produce a negative result. Even now, a small voice in the back of your mind tried its hardest to convince you that this was all just some kind of fucking mistake; that there had to be a different explanation for the missed cycle, the nauseating sickness, and for all of the other small, but noticeable changes that had been happening to your body lately.

No. There was no mistaking it at all. You were fucking pregnant.

Tess sighed heavily as she leaned back against the cramped kitchen counter and watched you, a look of slight disgust on her face brought on by the horrid sound of retching noises that filled the room. She’d returned from her latest run earlier than anticipated and walked into your shared apartment only to find you sitting there on the stained linoleum floors vomiting violently into an old, rusted bucket nestled between your legs. “That was my bucket,” she muttered, her nose wrinkling as you hunched over, tossing what little stomach contents you had right into it.

“Sorry,” You managed to say to her, shaking your head. “I think I have some kind of stomach bug or something.”

“Cut the bullshit.” Tess pushed herself away from the counter and walked over to you, her hands on her hips. “When exactly do you plan on telling Joel?”

You froze.

She knew. Of course she fucking knew.

Tess fucking knew everything—including the fact that the moment she had stopped trying to make a romantic relationship work with her smuggling partner, Joel Miller, you’d stepped in and taken her place.

It hadn’t been intentional, not on your part and certainly not on Joel’s either. Tess had met him first, she’d had him first, and you didn’t have a choice but to stand back and respect it all. You tried your hardest to ignore how it felt to watch them together; the way they would look at one another other, the way they would touch each other, and the way that they would fall asleep in each other’s arms every night in the bed right beside yours. For the most part, you were successful in keeping your feelings about the situation under wraps, and it helped that Tess and Joel would blatantly deny their relationship to anybody who had the balls to ask them about it, yourself included. Not that it mattered, though, because in the end, whether their relationship was real or not real, the man that you wanted could never be yours anyway.

The logistics simply weren’t in your favor—between life in the QZ, his involvement with Tess, and not to mention, the significant age gap in between the two of you, Joel Miller was simply out of your reach. Or so you had thought he was out of your reach.

One night after coming home from your work detail, you’d found Joel drunk and alone in the apartment. After an important trade had gone south, Tess had gone off and said something stupid to piss him off on purpose—although you could not remember word for word, what you did remember was Joel being upset over the fact that Tess had all but said that he meant nothing to her, that he was nothing more than the muscle she needed for smuggling and how she could replace him too easily if she really wanted to. Since then, Tess and Joel had stopped a bed together. Most nights, Joel would sleep on the old, broken down couch nestled over in the corner of the apartment, but at one point, it became evident that the damn thing was wreaking havoc on his back; as much as you’d tried to resist the urge to offer him a space beside you on your mattress, you ended up doing it anyway.

Surprisingly, Joel accepted it.

Weeks went on, and even after he and Tess finally talked about it and made some fucking peace, he continued to share your bed. He chose to continue sharing your bed instead of going back to hers. One thing led to another, and one night while Tess was out on a solo run outside of the QZ, you’d found yourself naked and underneath Joel. Whiskey, that disgusting, cheap whiskey of his, had been to blame. Thinking it had just been nothing more than one time, drunken mistake for both of you, you were shocked when Joel came back to you for more—and this time, both of you were as sober as sober could be.

The rest was history.

Although Tess reassured you over and over that she couldn’t give any less fucks about you being involved with Joel, it was clear to you that it still stung her every now and again, particularly when she’d noticed how Joel wouldn’t hide his relationship with you the way he’d hidden his relationship with her. He was a man of very few words, but he still had his ways of making sure every man in the QZ knew who you now belonged to. He’d never done that for her and it had to have felt like a slap in the fucking face. In the beginning, you felt so conflicted about it all because you cared a great deal about Tess. She had always been someone you looked up to for the last several years, and she was also your friend. But your feelings for Joel were undeniable. If it ever came down to it and Tess asked you to give him up, you weren’t all too sure you could be selfless enough to comply with that request.

He meant too much to you. The sad part was, he meant something to her too, a hell of a lot more than she let on. And just like you had done at one point in time, Tess forced herself to be okay with it all.

“Well?” she prompted you.

“I’m not telling him,” You finally replied, swallowing back the bile that was slowly creeping its way up your throat. “And neither are you. Got it?”

Tess hummed. “Hm. Not exactly a secret you can hide for very long, buttercup,” she reminded you. “How far along do you think you are?”

You sighed and quickly calculated in your mind. “Probably about six weeks, give or take. It could be months before I start to show. Right?”

“You’re a goddamn twig,” Tess scoffed. “Give it another few weeks and when you start to blow up like a fucking blimp, Joel’s going to start asking questions. We definitely don’t have enough food for you to blame any sudden weight gain on overeating, either.”

You lightly kicked the bucket full of your own sickness away from you and dropped your head, groaning. “He’s going to fucking murder me when he finds out,” You muttered, miserably. “Joel basically relies on me to track my fucking cycle and ovulation—Jesus Christ, he’s going to be so fucking pissed, Tess.”

“Damn straight he is. But you need to tell him,” she said, reaching for your hand and pulling you up to your feet. “And the sooner you tell him, the better. So we can figure out what the fuck we’re going to do about it.”

Though you knew what Tess meant by that, you shoved the thought out of your brain. You didn’t want to think about it, at least not yet.

“Tess, please. I’m begging you,” You pleaded her. “I don’t want him to know yet. I just need a little more time.”

She stood firm. “We don’t have time to waste. If you don’t fucking tell him, then I will.”

“Tell me what?”

Neither of you had heard Joel enter the room—odd considering how damn old and rickety the place was. How had you missed the sound of his heavy brown boots on the creaking floors?

Your throat went dry like sandpaper. “J-Joel. You’re home early.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “What were you two talkin’ about?”

Tess nudged you forward and crossed her arms over her chest. “She has something to tell you, Joel. And you might want to sit down for this one.”

You tossed a scowl over your shoulder at her. Fucking thanks, Tess.

Joel’s dark brown eyes flickered over from her to you. “The fuck does she mean by that? What’s goin’ on?”

“Um—well you see,” You felt another wave of sickness come over you and prayed you didn’t vomit in front of him. “Tess is right. Maybe you should sit down for this,” You muttered, shuffling anxiously from one foot to the other.

He glanced between you both, his brows pulled together and a frown on his face. “Why are the two of you bein’ so goddamn dramatic?” he questioned as he dropped down into one of the mismatched wooden chairs at the table. “What the hell is goin’ on? Did somethin’ happen in the zone today I don’t know about? You in some kind of trouble?”

“Joel…” You hesitated and looked over at Tess, fearfully.

She gave you a subtle nod of encouragement.

“Joel.” You paused once again, bracing yourself. “I’m pregnant.”

Joel stiffened in his chair ever so slightly, but he said nothing. He did nothing.

You knew him better than that, though. You knew it wasn’t a sign that you were in the clear. It was the calm before the fucking storm.

His reaction was in his dark eyes, and even from where you stood you could see it. The mixture of shock and anger, the complete and utter disappointment in the news that you’d just dropped into his lap like a ticking time bomb. The emotions that swam in his gaze as he locked it on you caused you to shrink back. You would rather be face to face with one of the infected right about now.

“Tess.” He spoke, his voice low and cold. Threatening. “Leave.”

“No, no, Tess, you stay right here. Please don’t leave.” You grabbed at her arm in a sheer panic. Of course you knew that Joel wouldn’t ever, ever lay a on you, but whatever was coming next still terrified the hell out of you. “I need you here as a murder witness.”

His nostrils flared slightly as he stood up from his chair and stepped towards you. “How can you even think about crackin’ a stupid fuckin’ joke at a time like this? You think this is fuckin’ funny?” he bellowed at you.

“Of course not, I—”

Joel cut you off sharply. “How the fuck could you let this happen?”

You dropped your hand away from Tess in shock, feeling a chill run up and down the length of your spine. “Fucking excuse me?”

“You heard what I said. How could you let this happen?”

Sure, maybe it had been your responsibility to track your cycle every month. But how could he act as if he had nothing to do with this? As if this were solely your own fault? As if he didn’t know the risks of you two having unprotected sex, regardless of how closely you’d tracked your shit? He’s the one who fucking knocked you up. It wasn’t all on you and you sure as hell weren’t going to let him act as if you’d done this on purpose and just let this happen.

“Wait just a goddamn minute! Don’t you fucking pin this all on me. It takes two fucking people for this to happen, Joel.” What fear you had felt just mere seconds ago was now gone—replaced with anger in the blink of an eye. “I didn’t let this happen, it just fucking did, alright? So back the fuck off!”

Joel stepped closer until he stood right in front of you, so close that it took every ounce of strength you had inside of you not to back down, not to cower away from him. There was a reason he was feared by so many in the zone, after all; all it took was the clenching of his jaw and it would send anyone running in the other direction. He towered over you, looking down as he seethed, “You were supposed to track that shit! That was the deal. So this is on you, you understand me?”

Tess stepped between the two of you, lightly shoving him away and out of your face. “Alright, alright. Let’s all just take a fucking breather here for a second and calm the fuck down,” she said, shaking her head. “There is no need to point the finger, what’s done is done and the next thing we need to do is fucking handle it. The sooner we do, the better.” She turned to you as she said, “Let’s just think of the best method to help her get rid of it.”

Your hand subconsciously went to your midsection.

Get rid of it.

Of course. That was the obvious solution. The only solution, actually.

Getting rid of it was the only option you had—there were no others.

Bringing an innocent child into such a terrible, unforgiving world like this one was cruel. Selfish. Evil. Getting rid of it was the right thing to do and you knew that—so then why did the mere thought of it cause a sharp ache to shoot through your chest?

Joel ran a hand through his thick, graying dark brown hair and let out a heavy sigh. “Supplies here are limited as it is, Tess. Medicine is one of them and we all know FEDRA has full control over that shit. Doubt we’d find anythin’ useful here in the zone and smugglers don’t just go carryin’ around a supply of abortion pills on them. He paused, sighing again as he realized, “And even if they did, those pills would be about two decades too old and too expired. Might not be effective enough to do the job and it would just be a waste of a trade.”

Tess shrugged. “Maybe there’s some kind of herbal remedy we can look into? Make some kind of tea for her to drink that’ll terminate the pregnancy?”

“And where do you think we’d find those fuckin’ herbs, Tess?”

As they continued to throw ideas back and forth with each other, you stood there between them in complete silence, hot tears threatening to fall from your eyes. Your heart pounded heavily in your chest and it took everything you had in you to resist the sudden urge to tell them both to shut the fuck up.

There was a part of you that didn’t want to terminate—it was just a tiny part of you, but it was certainly there. You knew that to do the right thing meant to end your pregnancy as soon possible, but that tiny part of you was screaming otherwise, screaming that there had to be another way, another alternative. But there wasn’t.

“Hm.” Tess lifted a hand to her chin. “I do know someone who might be able to help us out.”

Both you and Joel looked at her, asking in unison, “Who?”

“Friend of a friend. Knows a man and his wife, they do a procedure—”

Joel held up a hand to stop her. “I ain’t sendin’ her to get some coat hanger abortion, Tess.”

“Then you think of something better,” she shot back.

Your mouth fell open slightly.

You wanted nothing more than for Joel to stand firmly against it; the idea of sending you to a couple of random strangers for a potentially dangerous abortion procedure should have been shot down without an ounce of hesitation. But when Joel turned to look back at you, the expression in his dark brown eyes said it all. He wanted nothing more than for you to terminate your pregnancy right away—and it seemed like he wanted it no matter what the cost could be.

The realization caused the blood in your veins to run cold. You gave him the iciest look you could muster before before turning to Tess.

“Who are these people and where can I find them?” Your voice was stiff, rigid. “I’ll go right fucking now.”

“His name is Collin and he works with the help of his wife, Linda. She used to be a nurse back in the day,” Tess had explained to you as she led the way up a crumbling apartment building just blocks away from the building where you stayed. “They’ve done this a few times before. More than a few, actually. Women get knocked up, after a while they realize this world is no place to raise a child and they come see Collin and Linda for some help.” She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly, as if what she were talking about was completely ordinary. “I was told that they know what they’re doing—they’ve never lost anyone.”

“Thank you so much for the reassurance,” You muttered out bitterly in response as you trailed behind her down a long, dimly lit hallway.

Joel had stayed behind. Not that you wanted him to come along for this anyway. He hadn’t uttered a single fucking word to you, not even so much as a goodbye before you’d left.

You knew him too well. Him and his shitty ass fucking ways of coping.

Deep down, Joel had a soft spot for you. Cared about you, even.

Still, it didn’t make the way he handled things hurt you any less.

“Hey.” Tess whirled around and put a hand on your shoulder. “This is for the best and you know it. What kind of life would this kid have if you went through with having it? Hmm?” She didn’t even give you the chance to answer her question. “Joel’s in his fifties now. For how much longer can he keep you safe, let alone keep a child safe? What’s going to happen when he’s gone some day? Do you think that if it came down to it, you could handle keeping it safe all by yourself? Without him?”

Although you knew she was talking logically and realistically, it didn’t make you feel any less angry about the situation at hand. You shoved her hand off your shoulder roughly. “Shut the fuck up, Tess.”

Once you and Tess arrived to Collin and Linda’s place, Tess escorted you inside of their unit and introduced you to the older couple. They were both as shady looking as any motherfucker who did shit like what they were about to do to you could possibly look, but you hadn’t expected anything less.

You knew Tess, and you trusted her with your life. You knew that she wouldn’t bring you to anyone that she didn’t think was legit, but even legit people who knew what they are doing could make a mistake, and a deadly one at that. The thought of potentially having a botched procedure that could leave you injured or possibly even worse, scared the ever loving shit out of you. But what other choice was there?

Once you paid them your due rations, Linda informed you it was time to prepare you for the abortion. As if things couldn’t possibly get any more fucked up than they already were, it turns out that the couple performed their procedures in the same bedroom they slept in every night.

“Want me to go in there with you?” Tess offered, noticing the look on your face.

You tightly shook your head. “No. I can do this alone.”

She opened her mouth to protest but knew better than to insist. She simply nodded. “If you change your mind, I’ll be right outside. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turned towards the older woman. “Let’s get it over with.”

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry you’re in this awful position,” Linda shot you a look of sympathy as she took you by the arm. She led you away from Tess and off into the small bedroom. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head. We’re going to take care of this problem for you. It’ll be like nothing ever happened, alright?” The first thing she did was give you something to help you relax along with something that was going to help ease the pain; she handed you two round, white coated tablets along with a glass of water. You weren’t too sure what pills you’d just taken, but they were already working their magic just a little too well for your liking—the tense muscles in your body instantly began to go loose, and a feeling of drowsiness started coming over you.

You were then asked to strip from the waist down. “My limbs feel like fucking jello,” You mumbled, gesturing to the woman for a hand.

She helped you out of your boots, jeans, and your underwear, setting your clothing items off to the side on the floor before she guided you over to the old, makeshift gurney that was pushed up against the wall, right next to the couple’s bed. As you laid back, Linda draped a thin sheet that might have once in its lifetime been white over the lower half of your body to cover you up.

You softly exhaled a long breath.

As angry as you were with Joel for wanting you to do this, part of you suddenly wished he was here with you. He was the only damn person on what was left of this fucking planet who could calm you with just a glance, the subtle nod of his head or a quick squeeze of your hand.

But it was too late for that now. He wasn’t here.

“She’s ready,” Linda called out to her husband.

A moment later, Collin entered the room holding long, thin silver wire in one of his gloved hands. He noticed the way your eyes widened in fear and immediately looked at his wife for some assistance.

She patted your shoulder lightly. “It will all be over before you know it, honey. I promise that you won’t feel a thing, not with what I gave you. Now, let’s get you into position.” She reached down and maneuvered your legs, spreading them apart and helping you bring your knees off of the gurney. “There we go. Just take in deep breaths and relax your body, okay? Oh and close your eyes. It helps if you don’t watch.”

You swallowed dryly and nodded at her instructions. Squeezing your eyes shut tightly, you braced yourself for the inevitable.

Colin cleared his throat lightly. You then felt him place his free hand on your bare knee. “Let’s begin. Remember to relax—”

“Joel! Joel! Don’t fucking go in there!”

There was a loud crash outside of the door, causing your eyes to snap back open. One single nanosecond later, Joel had burst through the bedroom door, nearly breaking the old, rotted wood in half. He looked as livid he’d ever been with his switchblade clutched tightly, angrily, in the palm of his hand. “Back the fuck off,” he uttered in a low growl, a warning tone. “Both of you. Get the fuck away from her. Now.”

Knowing Joel Miller’s reputation, they didn’t need to be told twice before they took several steps back away from the gurney, their hands up in the air as if FEDRA had just burst into their apartment.

You closed your legs and tried sitting up, although the drugs you’d been given were now kicking into their full effect. Your limbs, your entire body, every single part of you started feeling heavier and heavier with each passing moment. “Joel?"

Stashing his knife away, Joel rushed over to you. “Are you okay? Did they touch you?”

“No,” You managed to reply drowsily. “Joel, why are you—?”

He reached down and grabbed your clothes and boots from the floor. “C’mon, let’s go. Let’s get you out of here.”

“Joel, just what in the fuck are you doing here?” Tess appeared in the room, looking thoroughly confused. “You can’t seriously be thinking about letting her fucking keep it! That’s the dumbest fucking decision—”

“Unlike you, I did my research on these two morons. Botched at least three procedures in the last six months. I ain’t lettin’ her risk her life.” Joel looked over and eyed the wire in Collin’s hand. “If you and that fuckin’ thing don’t get out of my sight right fuckin’ now...”

He grabbed his wife and they quickly scurried out of the room.  

“What?” Tess gasped into her hand. “Joel, I was told they were legit—holy shit, I’m so sorry. Joel, I swear I didn’t fucking know that!”

Joel ignored her as he helped you up into a sitting position. “C’mon, baby, work with me here. C’mon now,” he urged, doing his best to hurriedly help you back into your jeans. At this point, you were almost dead weight. He turned to Tess and narrowed his eyes. “Jesus Christ, what’d they fuckin’ give her?”

“Something for the pain? How the fuck am I supposed to know?”

“How much?” He asked, and when she didn’t reply, he barked over his shoulder, “Tess, how fuckin’ much did they give her?”

“I don’t know! She didn’t want me in the room with her!”

“Joel?” You uttered his name groggily. “I’m tired. So tired.”

“I know baby, I know,” he said, quickly zipping your jeans. He pulled at your legs, bringing them over the side of the gurney. “We’re gonna get you home and you can sleep there where you’re safe with me. It won’t be long, promise. Can you stand?”

“Think so,” You slurred as he hoisted you up to your feet.

You stood on your own for maybe a second or two before collapsing right into his arms.

When you finally regained consciousness sever hours later on into the night, you were at a complete and total loss.

The last time you’d been this confused after waking up was five years ago after you foolishly tried to outdrink Tess and Joel one night. You’d ended up blacking out. This felt eerily similar to that time, only minus the throbbing headache.

You opened your eyes and blinked furiously, your mind in a thick and clouded haze. Through it, though, you managed to remember it. The silver wire in the man’s hand. His wife letting you know it would all be quick. His hand on your knee. Him telling you relax.

You gasped and shot up into a sitting position, looking around wildly.

“Hey, hey, take it easy.” Joel was down on his knee at your side in an instant. He took your hand in both of his, his touch bringing you back to reality, letting you know that you were safe. “You’re okay.”

“Joel?” Confused, you raised your eyebrows at him and then looked around the dimly lit room. You were back home in your apartment, in your bed. “It’s over? How did I—when did I get home?”

He squeezed your hand. “You don’t remember anythin’ at all?”

“Remember what? What are you talking about?” You looked down at yourself as if expecting to see some kind of drastic change to your body. “Did it work? Is it gone? They got rid of it?”

Joel remained silent, lips pressed into a thin, tight line.

It took a minute or two, but piece by piece, the broken fragments of what happened all started coming back to you. Seeing Collin with the wire, Joel bursting through the door of that room and stopping the abortion procedure just before he could—Jesus Christ.

“I’m still pregnant,” You then realized, your free hand flying to your stomach.

Joel exhaled sharply, nodding his head. “You’re still pregnant.”

“Why did you stop him?” You asked him softly. “I don’t understand. I thought you wanted me to get rid of it?”

“I did want that. I do want that,” he admitted, quietly.

His admission stung a little, but you knew his desire didn’t come from a place of malice. You knew it came from a place of fear. He’d already lost one child once before and now here he was, facing the possibility of losing another.

You pulled your hand out of his. “So then why didn’t you just let them do it?”

“Because. As fuckin’ much as I'm against bringin’ a kid into this world, to think there was a chance I could’ve lost you had you gone through with it....” He stopped, shaking the mere thought of anything happening to you out of his head.

“What the hell are you talking about, Joel?”

Joel reached up, cradling your cheek in his hand. His rough, calloused thumb lightly grazed along the soft skin of your jawline. “After you and Tess left, I did some diggin’ around and turns out, three women died after goin’ to those crooks for the same thing. Botched. Never reported the deaths to anyone. They conspired with FEDRA authorities to get rid of the bodies.” He paused, shaking his head as he answered the question he knew was coming. “Tess had no idea either. She feels like a sack of shit. She hasn’t been home in hours. Might be a few days before she can face you.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but clamped it shut, suddenly feeling sick to your stomach. And it sure as hell had nothing to do with morning sickness.

“I wasn’t gonna risk losin’ you.” He gently swiped his thumb across your trembling bottom lip. “I just—I couldn’t risk it.”

“So what are we going to do?” You whispered, your eyes meeting his. “The chances of finding someone who can get us a pill are slim to none. No one fucking trades that shit, Joel, and even if they did, a twenty year old pill might not do anything. You said it yourself.”

Joel’s hand dropped away from your face. He placed it lightly over yours, which you hadn’t realized was still resting on your stomach.

You stared at him in disbelief. “You mean...keep it? Are you serious?”

“I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna do it,” he confessed, warily. “I really don’t. But what other choice we got?”

Part of you was relieved. Another part of you was fucking terrified.

You were pregnant. You were going to stay pregnant. Here. In the QZ.

You swallowed harshly. “I’m scared, Joel.”

“I know.” Although he didn’t say it, the unspoken words were in his eyes. Me too. “We’re gonna figure this shit out one way or another,” he assured you. When you glanced away, he reached up and took your chin, softly but firmly turning your face and forcing your gaze to meet his once again. “Look at me. We will figure this out. Okay?”

You let out a shaky breath and nodded in agreement. “Okay.”

“For now, we worry about keepin’ you healthy.” Joel paused for a moment before adding, “Keepin’ the baby healthy.”

The baby.

Hearing him say it out loud sounded so strange, foreign even.

“We don’t tell anyone about this. You wear my clothes when you start showin’ and hide it as best you can. I’ll have Tess see what she can do about findin’ vitamins or somethin’ for you, you’re gonna need them. You’ll need to start eatin’ more soon, so we need to figure out food supply,” Joel let his hand drop from your face as he leaned back and continued thinking out loud. “If we keep you healthy, chances are you’ll have a safer delivery. Less risk of complications and less risk of anythin’ going wrong with either of you when the time comes.”

You nodded again. “Okay. And then what?”

“And then we worry about keeping it safe. Alive.”

You turned towards the apartment window, your eyes falling on the old radio Joel and Tess had nestled against the wall.

That’s when it suddenly came to you. There was another alternative.

“Joel.” You turned back to him, your eyes going wide. “Bill and Frank.”

“Bill and Frank?” he repeated, furrowing his eyebrows together.

“After the baby is born, they can take it. Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Wait. You wanna give the baby to Bill and Frank? You serious?”

“Why the fuck not?” Your hand shot out and took his. “They live in a safe place, in a beautiful house. Frank would make a great father,” You added. You could picture him already, grinning ear to ear as he sifted through boxes of baby clothes, putting together matching outfits from the boutique.

Joel stared at you almost blankly.

“We have that option,” You told him, giving his hand a squeeze. “At least we know it would be safe with them. And we can still see him or her every now and again if we choose to.”

Joel scoffed lightly. “Bill isn’t gonna want—”

“Frank will convince him. Just like he always does.” Warm tears brimmed your eyes, threatening to spill over. The baby was probably the size of a bean in your womb and already, the idea of giving him or her up to live a life without you and Joel was tugging painfully at your heart strings. But it was for the best and you knew that.

So did Joel.

“It would be the right thing to do. It’s the best shot that this baby could possibly have. Don’t you think so?”

After a long moment of silence, Joel finally nodded. “Okay. We’ll get to Bill and Frank’s sometime in the next couple of months. We’ll talk to them, ask them to take the baby into their care once it comes.” He eyed you with a glint of concern. “You think you’ll have it in you to give it up once it’s born?”

“You want the truth?” You asked and he gave you a subtle nod. You shook your head. “I’ll do it, Joel. No question about it. But it’s going to hurt me like fucking hell. Somehow, it already does.” A tear slipped down the side of your face as you uttered, “How is that even possible, Joel?”

“Baby…” He sighed. He didn’t have the answer.

“Jesus. I feel like an idiot,” You forced a small laugh, dabbing at your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater. “Crying over something that hasn’t even happened yet. Fucking pathetic, huh?”

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You ain’t gotta fight it for my sake.”

A small whimper escaped you.

He was putting his arms into the sleeves when you entered. A couple of light steps, and then Joel smiled when he felt your arms wrapping around his torso. He glanced over his shoulder at you.

“You took your sweet time in the shower,” he pointed out, and he could feel your smile when you pressed your face to his back.

“We finally have hot water, so I’m gonna use it every chance I get.”

“You left some for me?”

You huffed a laugh and went around him, moving his hands away and starting to button his shirt yourself.

“There would be, if you took a shower with me.”

“Next time, sweetheart,” he chuckled and leaned in to kiss your forehead softly, combing his fingers through your wet hair. He hummed. “Your hair smells nice.”

“It’s that shampoo Ellie didn’t want.” You shook your head with a smile. “I have no idea why, it’s fantastic.”

You buttoned up the last button and smoothed your palms over his chest and down, lastly resting them on his waist. Internally Joel furrowed his eyebrows, wondering if he could always feel this fold when you put your hands in that place.

“You look handsome,” you whispered, looking up at him with twinkling eyes and such a soft, love-struck expression on your face that Joel felt his throat constricting. Everything but the sight of you faded from his mind, and he joined his hands behind your back, pulling you closer into his chest and basking in this precious smile you blessed him with. “Especially with the bed hair.”

“It’s your doin’, you know,” he murmured in response, nudging your nose with his and reminiscing how you tugged and raked your nails through his hair the night before. “You gotta be careful with it, sweet girl. If you continue doin’ it, m’gonna go bald soon.”

You hummed noncommittally and leaned against his chest, standing on your tip-toes. “I’ll take it under consideration. No promises, though.”

Joel lifted his hand to the back of your neck and kissed you slowly, reveling in the soft sigh that left your lips. You rested your palm above his heart, leaning forward to the point that you would fall over if he wasn’t supporting your weight.

But Joel held you tight and close to his body, gladly steadying you as you deepened the kiss, once again tugging on his graying hair in that way he adored. He wanted to tease you about it, but his thoughts strayed to the image of his body again when you lowered your hand from his chest to his side.

“You remember that tonight is this party?” you asked suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. Joel gave up pondering about his physique and sighed heavily at your question, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Yeah, I remember. Regrettably.”

“I don’t want to go, either,” you whispered with guilt, as if someone would hear you both. “But Tommy really wanted us to come and… Just don’t make me go alone.”

“Hey, darlin’.” Joel took your face in his hands and looked deeply into your eyes. “I promised, didn’t I? M’not gonna leave you there on your own.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, smiling against them. “And mind you, I gotta make sure no one will try to seduce and steal you away from me.”

You giggled, and you were standing so close that Joel could feel your eyelashes tickling his skin. He held you close when you tried to take a step back, and your lips collided again.

“That is the one thing you don’t need to ever worry about,” you murmured quietly into the space between you two. “How could I even look at other people when I have you all to myself?”

Joel’s reflection in the mirror flashed across his mind again and a small wave of uncertainty rippled through him, but it quickly disappeared when you opened your eyes and looked at him with this raw love radiating from them. Your every word, every affectionate gesture only confirmed his conviction that you meant every word you said.

So why did he still feel so uncertain?

*****

Life in Jackson was perfect. Considering the state of the world right now, living here was like winning a lottery.

Joel had a lot to be thankful for, he was well aware of that. No longer had he any fears or sense of guilt about going to sleep and leaving you and Ellie defenseless if something were to happen. He didn’t have to count rations anymore, worrying that the kid would be forced to march all day hungry. There was now no need to keep a watchful eye for new clothes if someone’s worn off, ripped or got soaked from walking in the rain, posing a threat of you or Ellie catching a cold.

Back in Boston it wasn’t much different, though he and you had at least a bed to sleep in, as uncomfortable as it was. But there was never enough food for all those people Fedra kept there, and the winters were cold as hell, leaving at least one of you a bit sick every year.

None of those things were keeping him awake at night anymore. The only people he had to take care of – you and Ellie – were safe and comfortable. None of you had to starve or freeze, and you all didn’t have to continue walking across the country for days and days without end, struggling to survive.

Maybe that was the problem.

Joel wasn’t stupid. He knew that those luxuries he had an access to now were at the root of his problem. Before you all settled in Jackson, you were constantly on the move, fighting for your lives in one way or another, so of course he was… leaner and more fit back then. It was never something he paid attention to, though, never something he concerned himself with.

But now you three were living here, surrounded by more people than Joel could count, and he couldn’t help but… notice things about them.

Especially about all those men and women who looked at you in a different way.

Due to the nature of the party Tommy invited them to – mainly consisting of dancing and talking in the biggest bar in Jackson – Joel had a lot of time to ponder about his situation, all while nursing his drink and looking at you from across the room with his elbows resting on the table.

You were chatting with one of your friends near the counter, laughing and smiling so beautifully. No matter where Joel’s eyes strayed, they always came back to your person, as if you were the moon against the pitch black sky, reflecting some imperceptible light.

Some guy he knew by sight – Chuck? Bart? – walked up and tapped you on the shoulder, and from what Joel could tell, he was offering you a drink. He was standing way too close, though, and you took a step closer to your friend, shaking your head. Chuck – or Bart – persisted for another half a minute, but eventually shrugged and shuffled off, his movements tense.

Joel didn’t move. He knew from experience that you’d let him know if you needed his help.

As if sensing his gaze, you turned your head and sent him a radiant smile. He mirrored it, lifting his glass slightly like he was toasting you, which made you do the same before resuming the conversation with your friend.

His smile disappeared as soon as you stopped looking at him. Joel sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingers, feeling a headache coming from the dull lights and loud chatter all around.

It were moments like this when it hit him just how old he was compared to you.

You were a sweet, young thing. Funny, sharp, drop-dead gorgeous… No wonder some people were seeking your attention. That guy was just one of the half a dozen he saw or heard about since you moved to Jackson.

Joel knew you were a loyal sort – God, he knew that, he knew you for so long now – but every time he saw you talking to someone else, his treacherous mind started to wonder if he wasn’t somehow keeping you chained to his person.

It was probably alcohol talking, but Lord, if he wasn’t reminded of how old he was compared to you every time he saw you next to your peers. You still had so much life ahead of you, and he was pushing sixty, for fuck’s sake. Before long he’ll be old and decrepit, unable to bring something useful to the table or help you in any way, and you’d still be as pretty as ever, trapped in a relationship with an old man.

For example, that guy – Chuck, or whomever – was way closer to your age, had handsome features, and Joel knew for a fact he was working at tree felling, so he had to be muscular, too.

Joel was once, too. Once.

He subtly ran his hand across his stomach under the jacket, his brows furrowed, and leaned back on the bench to get rid of those damned fat folds.

He sighed and downed the rest of the liquor in his glass, trying very hard not to think about it, not to put himself down like that and let those cruel thoughts fester in his mind, but no matter what, he couldn’t stop comparing himself to this guy, and also… how you looked next to him.

Shit. What if he was doing you more harm than good by continuing to stay with you?

“I could pickpocket you and you wouldn’t notice.”

Joel looked up, abruptly pulled out of his thoughts. You were standing over his table with your head tilted and still that beaming smile on your face.

“What are you thinking about, handsome?”

He opened his mouth, glanced in the direction of the bar, and closed it. There was no sign of any of the people you just talked with.

“Nothin’,” he replied, maybe a little too dryly, so he quickly changed the subject. “You havin’ fun?”

“Yeah, it’s nicer than I thought.” You looked around and then spotted the empty glass on the table in front of him. “Do you want me to bring you another one?”

“No, there’s no need,” he grumbled, but you had already put your drink down and sent him a wink.

“I'll be right back, baby.”

Joel hissed your name but you just looked over your shoulder with a smirk, swinging your hips provocatively to the music and ignoring him completely. He sighed heavily, slumping in his seat.

He needed to get his shit together. Fuck his insecurities, he didn’t want to take his frustration out on you when you were nothing but a ray of sunshine in his life, always so good and affectionate.

Joel’s thoughts came to a sudden stop when he searched for you in the crowd and noticed another man, this time one he didn’t know, swinging his arm over your shoulders while you waited at the bar. He tried to read your body language from here, but you didn’t seem particularly uncomfortable with the man’s actions. Joel furrowed his brows, a pit of uncertainty forming in his stomach again... but then you threw the man’s heavy limb off your shoulders and went back to Joel’s table as soon as you got the drink.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he murmured, taking a large gulp despite telling himself earlier that he was done drinking for today. “Were you okay back there?” He pointed his chin towards the bar.

You sat down next to him and smiled innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”

Joel knew you long enough to recognize when you were teasing him, and he smirked despite the doubts swirling in his mind.

“Was that guy givin’ you any trouble?” he asked lazily, deciding to play along.

“Would you beat the shit out of him if I said yes?” you asked with your eyebrows raised, and Joel shrugged, acting nonchalant.

“Probably.”

You giggled and bumped his shoulder with yours playfully.

“Then no. Peter’s a good guy. Just a little,” you seemed to be looking for the right word, “uhm, persistent.” When Joel sent you a dubious look, you rolled your eyes and made a face. “He’s politely hitting on me, but doesn’t get that I’m not interested. He works at the same place I do.”

“If he keeps makin’ you uncomfortable, that’s not very polite.” You squinted at him and Joel lifted his hands in fake surrender. “M’not sayin’ anythin’. You can take care of yourself, I know that.”

You hummed melodically and glanced at the bar, then back at Joel. Then back at the bar again where that Peter guy stood. Joel noticed you biting the inside of your cheek, so he gently nudged your knee with his.

“What’s on your mind, sweet girl?”

“Maybe you could help me make it clear that I’m taken?” you blurted out quickly, making him crack a smile and chuckle under his breath.

It was so very easy to forget about all the problems in the world when you were there, sitting right next to him and warming his soul and body with your mere presence.

“Come ‘ere,” he breathed and tugged you gently to sit on his lap. You faltered, but he gave your hand another light tug, and finally you let him guide you, putting one arm around his shoulders and making yourself comfortable.

Joel’s hand mindlessly went to rest on your thigh and he rubbed it comfortingly. That Peter guy, as he noted with satisfaction, was staring right back at you, eyeing the way your body was pressed flush against Joel’s with a twisted face.

Once the eyes of the both men met, Joel leaned in and kissed your neck, keeping eye contact the entire time. Peter turned away, taking a large swig from his glass.

Joel felt your muscles relaxing, and you giggled adorably next to his ear at his antics, hiding your neck between your shoulders when he nibbled at your skin lightly. Then your hand covered his, the one lying on your thigh, and stroked his skin lovingly.

Maybe Joel was keeping you chained somehow. Then again, he was but a selfish creature after all. He didn’t know if he could bring himself to ever truly let you go.

*****

The next few days – which then turned into weeks – Joel spent wondering. Mostly about what to do with his predicaments.

He had a couple of them.

The first problem was the nights. They became more difficult since he noticed… details about himself that weren’t there before, and which bothered him more and more with each day.

Joel used to love the nightfall, especially since you all settled in Jackson. In those evening hours no one bothered him, he could finally relax, spend some time alone with you, and later collapse on the bed to get a good-night sleep.

Well, not anymore.

The bedtime unexpectedly became the most stressful one for him. He was so fucking mad at himself, because laying down and having a chance to hold you in his arms was something he treasured for the longest time, but now his own insecurities stood in a way of it.

You loved cuddling and being close to him in your sleep, and Joel was never bothered by it – hell, he initiated those moments more often than not. But now he started noticing more and more how this layer of fat on his stomach moved and looked like when you draped your arm around him or snuggled closer to his chest, and it became all he could think about.

It bothered Joel so much that he started wearing a t-shirt to bed, even though he hated it with all his passion. When you asked about it, he lied that he’s cold, but in reality he was always sweaty by morning. It didn’t seem to make any difference to you, though, and you didn’t shy away from pressing your body close to his, and even slipping your hands under his shirt when you were spooning him. Some days Joel was waking up with you lying on his chest or having your arm slung across his belly, and every time it caused a lump in his throat.

He knew you didn’t mean anything bad by it – for God’s sake, you probably didn’t even have any idea that he had a problem with himself – but what once was a wonderful start of the day, now became a bitter reminder of all those things he was insecure about.

Recently he built a habit of waking up before you – he did it often before, but he always stayed in bed and waited for you to open your eyes, too – and carefully disentangling himself from your embrace. It wasn’t like it didn’t feel wonderful to be enveloped by you in this way, but once he stirred awake, lying still was a herculean task. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, his skin was itching and buzzing, he was sweating from nerves and a lot of horrible, self-depriving thoughts were flooding his mind.

So once he woke up, he’d go take a shower, trying to be a little bit louder than necessary in hopes that you’d already be awake when he gets back – so that he wouldn’t feel so guilty about not laying back down next to you.

The second of his problems was that you began to watch him more closely.

He didn’t know when it started happening, but in hindsight he realized it was just a matter of time – he was acting weird, after all, and you knew him too well not to notice anything.

A couple of times in the last few days only, Joel caught you staring at him in silence. Your eyes were solemn and your forehead sad, though you were quick to smile and act like nothing was amiss as soon as he turned your way.

You must have known something was wrong, but Joel didn’t ask about it. Honestly, with all that was happening in his own head, he didn’t want to know.

But at the same time it was as if nothing odd was happening. You were your usual self, a blessing in Joel’s life, and you still sought to be close to him and spend as much time together as possible. You still told him you loved him, surprised him with unexpected gestures of affection…

Just like today – you hugged him from behind while he was dressing up, started kissing his shoulders so tenderly and murmuring sweet nothings into his skin… In those moments Joel could almost forget about everything that was nagging him. It was easy to believe that you still liked the way he looked, that he was deserving of you, when you treated him with nothing but overwhelming love.

But the itch in the back of his mind never really disappeared. Even though he wanted it to.

Those thoughts filled his mind while you were sitting on his lap, telling him some story from work in a soft voice. You two were at Tommy’s, waiting for him to get back from helping his wife with something, and the day was so beautiful that you all went out onto the patio in front of the house to enjoy the unusually warm weather for this time of the year.

Joel’s hand was on your thigh, stroking it absentmindedly, while he nodded to whatever you were saying, but for the life of him, he could not focus.

Has your physique changed as well? Joel didn’t care about those things, of course, and in his eyes you were as breathtaking as ever – maybe even more, since so many of your worries disappeared and he got to see your smile more often. And you still felt perfect under his hands when he was holding you at night, still looked like a goddess every time he got to admire your naked body.

But even though he wouldn’t have cared either way if you gained some weight or looked any different, his body still bothered him.

You rested your head on his shoulder, and Joel fixed his attention to the wind-blown tree crowns in the distance.

Maybe he should start exercising.

Joel never liked the idea of waking up early and running down the streets in a sweat-soaked t-shirt, or going to the gym where everyone seems to stare and judge you, but it was never necessary.

With how much traveling, heavy-lifting and working he had to do, he never concerned himself with the way he looked. Hell, these things are the last on your mind when you’re fighting for your life in this god-forsaken world. But here, in Jackson, it was different. Life was good, and you were happy. And as stupid as it sounded for him, Joel wanted to look good for you.

Maybe he should ask Maria to assign him to extra patrols. He already volunteered for the morning ones, but perhaps…

“You’re quiet.”

Joel didn’t realize you stopped telling your story. He pressed his lips together and his hand on your thigh stilled.

“Sorry.”

“No need for that,” you reassured him quickly. Then you cupped his cheeks and lifted his head gently. “I don’t mean ‘now’, though, I mean… lately, in general.” Your eyes were flickering across his face, like you were hoping to read the answer from his features. “Is there something you wanna talk about?”

No. Hell no. It was bad enough that Joel himself was aware of his issue, he didn’t want to make it even more noticeable by pointing it out to you.

Which reminded him – he moved his torso away from you only a few millimeters.

“No, babygirl,” he answered. He brushed some hair behind your ear, smiling softly even though inside he despised himself for lying to you. “Everythin’s fine.”

You didn’t seem convinced and still were studying his face with concern. Joel resumed petting your thigh, wanting to put you at ease. He could worry about himself, but he didn’t need to concern you with his problems, too.

“I promise,” he added. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

That look in your eyes didn’t disappear, but you hummed and dropped your hands. It didn’t take a genius to know you didn’t believe him.

“If you say so,” you answered at last, and then covered his hand on your leg with your own. “But remember you can talk to me whenever you want. About anything.”

Jesus, your kindness was only confirming his concerns if he was the right person for you. Joel shook his head with a crooked smile.

“You’re gettin’ sappy.”

“It’s because I’m worried,” you shot back without skipping a beat, swatting at his chest with the back of your hand. “And you’re not making it any easier.”

“There’s nothin’ for you to worry about,” he repeated, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. But he failed.

You pressed your lips together and then made a move to get up from his lap without a word. Joel held onto you delicately, not letting you stand up.

“Wait, darlin’,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Didn’t mean to say it that way. I just… feel tired. Sorry.”

Your eyes softened when you took in the regret and weariness on his face. Joel felt your fingertips on his jaw, but before you could question him further, Tommy returned from the inside of the house with a grin.

“Age is a heavy burden, eh, ol’ dog?” he teased, apparently having heard the last bit of their conversation. The younger Miller placed three bottles of beer on the table, and winked at you. “That’s just how it is for us now. Enjoy your youth while you still can, punk.”

Joel felt a sharp jab in his ribs, not unlike being stabbed. He couldn’t find it in himself to look at his brother, less alone laugh at his teasing.

Of course Tommy didn’t mean anything bad by it, but his words were just a bitter reminder of the ever-present pit of Joel’s stomach.

The weight of you on his lap suddenly felt a lot lighter, and he himself felt so, so very heavy and tired.

Old.

Joel could feel your eyes boring into his face, but a second later you turned to Tommy, taking the burden of filling the uncomfortable silence.

“It’s already started for me. Sometimes I feel like my bones want to kill me prematurely.”

“M’sure Joel won’t let that happen. He’d fight your skeleton if you said it’s botherin’ you.”

You snorted and shook your head, but your smile faltered when you turned to Joel again. He almost broke down right then and there from the guilt and tightness in his chest.

And the dark feeling inside him just grew when your eyes stayed sad and concerned for the rest of the day.

*****

It had to end.

Joel could no longer pretend everything was alright like he wasn’t dying on the inside every time you did as much as hold his hand. He felt horrible about lying, avoiding spending time together and denying you affection he knew you so loved receiving.

If he was being honest with himself, he wanted this affection, too. Undisturbed with self-doubts and guilt.

He fucking craved it.

Those last few weeks, his evenings were mostly spent away from you and the warmth of your shared home. The nights, on the other hand, when he would sneak in and quietly lay down next to you (but just a little further away), became full of intrusive thoughts and wallowing in self-loathing.

No matter what excuse he came up with, you were persistent in holding and being close to him during the night, and Joel discovered that the only way to prevent you from doing it was to come to bed after you’ve already fallen asleep.

But it was a damn torture.

The worst part was when he was coming home to the sight of you lying amongst the tangled sheets and blankets in his bed. No matter if you were drooling or a pillow has imprinted itself on your cheek, every time this sight made Joel weak in the knees. You looked like a gorgeous, priceless painting, and it pained him to disrupt your rest with his arrival.

He tried to volunteer for evening patrols, because then he’d have a real reason to come home late, but not only Maria didn’t want to pair him with anyone during those hours – she also suspended him from all patrols whatsoever. Joel was understandably furious, but the damn woman threatened to tell Tommy about it if he kept being ‘a stubborn pain in her ass’. She sent him back home, murmuring something about spending more time with you, which he tried to pretend he hadn’t heard.

Joel sighed, sitting up on the edge of the bed and hiding his face in his hand.

If Maria of all people could see that there were some problems in your and Joel’s relationship, then you had to notice, too.

Christ, he was the worst.

Joel didn’t want to push you away, of course not. He wanted to stay with you more than anything, but that desire did nothing to diminish the guilt suffocating him. For some time, he felt like the luckiest man alive, having the privilege to call you his and every day come home to you. But now with all those little things he started to notice, he felt like a fraud.

It wasn’t even about him not deserving you anymore – it was that you didn’t deserve this fucking treatment he was giving you these past few weeks.

Fuck, he had to tell you the truth. About the patrols, sneaking out, distancing himself, all of it. He couldn’t bear lying to you a day longer.

Joel stood up and pulled his sweaty t-shirt over his head. He wrinkled his nose at the smell and patted himself under his armpits and on the back, then reached for a clean one.

He’ll figure it out. He just needed some time to come up with a way to–

“Morning, handsome.”

Joel flinched and turned around quickly, not having realized you were awake, but whatever excuse he had in mind, it fell dead on his lips.

You stretched with a groan, reaching one arm high above your head and rubbing your eyes with the other hand. A sleepy smile danced on your lips when you looked back at him with sparkles in your slightly puffy eyes, and Joel didn’t have any other word to describe you than ‘ethereal’.

“What are you doing?” you asked groggily, relaxing against the pillow and looking him up and down.

“Uhmm…” he hesitated, clutching the t-shirt that was in need of washing close to his chest. His gaze was drawn to the window. “Goin’ out, actually. I’ve got some work…”

“No, you don’t,” you interrupted him and swung off the covers from his side of the bed. “Get back here.”

Joel looked at you with surprise.

“What?”

“You heard me, Miller. Get your ass back on the bed.”

He crumpled the shirt in his hands, hesitating, but his eyes softened as soon as he looked back at you and your raised eyebrows – like you were challenging him to just try and refuse you.

But how could he, when you looked so pretty lying in his bed and demanding to have him close to you? How could he ever deny you anything?

With a defeated sigh, Joel started putting the t-shirt back on, but the sound of you humming in protest stopped him. Your face was grumpy when he glanced up.

“Nah. No shirt.” You extended your hand in his direction, making a grabbing motion. “Come here.”

Joel didn’t move. “Why?”

You rolled your eyes and dramatically flopped down onto the pillows, looking up at him with an adorable pout.

“Because it’s been a long time since I got a chance to admire my handsome, sexy man,” you answered with sincerity, and then grinned. “Now come here. If you ditch your shirt, I’ll consider ditching mine.”

He still didn’t move. You were patient, but when it became clear that he wasn’t going to do anything, you sent him a small, sweet smile. “If you get cold again, I promise to do something about it, love.”

Joel physically felt his heart softening at your words and at the sight of you.

With a silent sigh – and only a split second of hesitation – he took off the t-shirt and quickly laid down on his back next to you. He felt a bile rise in his throat, though he had no idea why, and it became almost choking when you shifted closer to him, putting one hand on his chest.

“You’ve deprived me of this beautiful view for too long,” you whispered, kissing the place below his collarbone, and then going up to the base of his neck. “I missed seeing you like this.”

“There’s nothin’ to miss,” Joel muttered, not moving a single muscle. He had his hands entwined on his stomach and to look in your direction was the biggest effort anyone could demand from him now. “We sleep next to each other every night, sweetheart.”

“You know what I mean,” you breathed into his neck, leaving love bites wherever your lips strayed. “You’re going out so early these days. And you work late.”

“Patrols,” Joel grunted with gritted teeth, his muscles tense and breathing ragged as your warm palm caressed his waist. “Sorry.”

“You work too hard, love.” You sat up and swung one of your legs over his lap. Joel actually shivered when you took his hands in your own and placed them on your hips. “Let me help you relax.”

Oh, fuck.

Jesus fucking Christ, Joel was sure he was going to drop dead at any second now.

“Darlin’…” he began, but you made a noise in your throat and leaned in to kiss him deeply, pressing your body to his. Joel loved when you initiated those moments between you two, and you looked so fucking hot sitting on top of him – but for the life of him, he could not relax.

“It hits me every once in a while how lucky I am to have you,” you whispered in such a sweet, adoring voice, like you didn’t hear him. You pressed your lips against his stubble again, igniting every inch of his skin with your touch. “Let me enjoy you. I love you so much, you know that?”

“I…”

I love you, too.

Lord, he loved you so much. Why was it so hard to return your affections, then? Why did he feel like the biggest crook by letting you love him?

Joel let out a shuddering sigh he didn’t know he was holding when you pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw, before capturing his mouth in a kiss. It was sweet, but heated at the same time and, without even thinking about it, he found himself wrapping his strong arms around you, bringing you closer to his chest. You smiled against his lips and murmured something he didn’t quite catch.

A groan escaped him when you bit his lower lip lightly, your soft palm going down, from his chest, to his stomach, down…

He couldn’t do it.

Joel abruptly rose to the sitting position and grabbed your wrist, his eyes sad and painful.

“I’m sorry, baby” he said with furrowed brows, gently setting you aside and off his lap, before standing up quickly. “I’m so sorry, babygirl, I love you, I promise, but I can’t… I don’t feel good today. I’m sorry.”

“Joel…” you started, but he shook his head, putting his t-shirt back on and turning away from you not to let you see the absolute wrecked expression on his face and wetness in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he kept saying, feeling like he’s about to throw up from the nerves and the burning shame. He cursed himself internally, wanting to turn around, to take your face in his hands and kiss you deeply, but he… he... “I’m so…”

All strength left him in a blink of an eye and suddenly he slumped on the bed, hiding his face in his hands. Joel desperately tried to get a grip on himself, but his chest felt so tight, and all the worry, all the guilt and fear, and self-loathing came crashing down on him all at once.

“M’sorry, darlin’,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips trembling and that damn muscle in his cheek pulsing when he felt the mattress dipping and your tentative touch on his face.

“No, no, baby, it’s alright,” you started saying quietly, trying to take his cheeks in your hands, but he didn’t let you. “Oh, Joel… Come here.”

You gently pulled him into your arms, guiding his head to rest in the crook of your neck. Joel hid his face in your skin, realizing with dread that his own shoulders were shaking.

For God’s sake, he needed to stop, he needed to put himself together and not show any weakness–

But it was you. It was your warm embrace and your loving hands brushing his hair, and your quiet whispers while you held him. It was your kindness and understanding, and stubbornness coming from love. You weren’t someone he had to hide from.

So he let you in. He let you hold him.

“Joel, please. Talk to me,” you spoke up after some time, and though your tone was soft, it somehow sounded too loud in the silence of the room. “I need to know what’s going on with you, you’re worrying me.”

“Nothin’ is goin’ on,” he answered out of habit, not even moving a muscle. “I just… fuck, sorry.”

“Stop apologizing and talk to me.” Joel pursed his lips, while you massaged his back gently. “Whatever it is, we’re gonna get through it together, okay? It’s gonna be okay, love, I promise.”

He planned on telling you. He wanted to tell you and get it off his chest, but… he wasn’t ready. Not now. Not when he broke down in front of you, for fuck’s sake.

But you deserved to know. If not to help him, then at least to make you aware of what you’ve gotten yourself into. It wasn’t fair to keep you in the dark and at arm’s length because of his absurd fears.

He wetted his lips and inhaled softly, but no words came out.

You gently lifted his head and Joel immediately squeezed his eyes shut, knowing there was no way he’d be able to say anything if he looked at you.

“You can tell me, baby,” you whispered sadly, touching the side of his face. “Anything. I promise everything will be alright.”

Joel was silent for a couple of moments, before he swallowed and took a deep breath, trying to calm down his pounding heart.

“I don’t have any extra work,” he started very quietly, so his voice wouldn’t break. “I was lyin’ to you, and I… I’m so sorry about that. I don’t get sent on any patrols now, actually…”

He shook his head and sighed heavily, faltering. He knew that wasn’t the problem, and although lying to you was one of the things he was guilty of, it wasn’t what started all of it. And you must’ve known it, too, because you kept looking at him, not saying anything.

“The thin’ is, I… God dammit,” he murmured, turning his head away from you and hiding his face in his hands, still keeping his eyes closed. “I can’t… I don’t– I have a problem with myself,” he finally blurted out, not even caring now if you understood his muffled words. “I keep…”

Fuck, man, just say it.

“I’m… I’m not as fit as I used to be,” he murmured, not moving an inch in fear that you’ll spot the wetness on his eyelashes. “I don’t want to do you harm, darlin’, keepin’ you from… Jesus, I don’t know. From livin’ your life, happily and to the fullest.”

“Joel…” You whispered with pain in your voice. “Is this what it is about?”

Joel shook his head, letting out a shuddering breath, still as quietly as he could.

“I’m old,” he said with tiredness he didn’t know he had in himself. “And you… You’re so pretty and young, I…” He lowered his forehead onto his hand, rubbing his temple. “I would like nothin’ more than to spend the rest of my life with you, darlin’. But I’m afraid I’m not… not good for you. You could do so much better–”

“Hey. Hey, none of that.” You forced his hands away from his face by cradling it in your own palms. “There’s no one else I’d rather share my days with.”

Joel just shut his eyes tighter, trying to contain the tears that started to gather in them.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “But in a couple of years I’ll be… God, I’ll be fuckin’ sixty, and you–”

“Do you really think I care about that?” you asked softly, brushing your thumbs under his eyes, but he shook his head, like you didn’t understand. “Joel, I love you more than anything in this world. And I know you love me.” He heard the faintest smile in your voice, and it made him feel so, so terrible with himself – that you were trying to make him feel better when you shouldn’t have, he shouldn’t have been another one of your worries… “So where’s the problem? I want to be with you. Only you.”

Joel pressed his lips together and before he could stop himself, he draped his arms over his lap, like he was trying to hide the evidence of his insecurities from you, even though his torso was already covered by the t-shirt.

“You’re young and beautiful,” he repeated, still unable to find strength in himself to look you in the eye. “And I’m anythin’ but. I just don’t wanna…”

Joel didn’t know what else to say.

He didn’t want you to leave. He didn’t want to spend another night apart from you. He didn’t want to push you away.

“Just don’t want you to be unhappy,” he finally murmured.

You let out something between a short chuckle and a stifled sob, and your fingers found Joel’s, still wrapped around his stomach.

“Do I look unhappy to you?” you asked, almost in disbelief. Joel finally willed himself to glance at you, if only to see for himself – which turned out to be a mistake. Your eyes were sad and teary, but not full of hurt or distaste like he feared, and you still had this faint smile on your face. He quickly turned his head away and you must’ve realized how you looked because your hold on his fingers tightened slightly. “Not right now. In general, did I ever do something to make you think I’m not happy with you?”

“No,” he answered quietly, not even having to think about it. “But it doesn’t…”

“I told you before, how can I even look at anyone else when I have you?” you spoke up when he faltered. “You’re beautiful to me, Joel, even if you don’t believe me right now. You’re amazing and kind, you’re fucking hot, and yeah, maybe you’re stubborn at times, but I love you so much, and every day I find another reason to fall for you all over again.”

Joel met your eyes again, looking for any hesitation or deceit – but he didn’t find any. As always, you were sincere in everything you said.

He realized, with another wave of tears threatening to roll down his cheeks, how much he missed your affection that he alone deprived himself from. How much he longed for this intimacy that once came so easily to him.

“M’sorry,” he muttered at last, lifting his hand to your face and trying to ignore those damn tears spilling from behind his eyelids. “Never doubted you, babygirl, but I just didn’t know how… how to tell you.”

“It’s okay, Joel,” you nuzzled your cheek into his palm, planting a kiss on the inside of his hand. “It’s alright, c’mon here.”

Not letting go of his hand, you tugged him gently and leaned back on the pillows. With great effort he refrained from fighting you, and instead let you pull him down, laying his head on your chest.

And in an instant, everything was alright again. The moment Joel heard your heartbeat under his ear and felt your gentle hands on the nape of his neck and his back… it was like coming home. This feeling of warmth spreading across his limbs made him feel safe for the first time in weeks.

It was so long since he fully let you hold him.

Maybe that’s what he’s been missing.

“I adore you, Joel Miller,” you whispered into the top of his head, holding him close to your heart. “All of you, and just the way you are.”

Joel couldn’t help it – a small smile crept onto his lips.

“Called it,” he murmured. “You’re gettin’ sappy.”

You snorted and kissed his hairline. “I think you need it, handsome.”

“Maybe I do,” he conceded, not moving his head from your chest, and sighed tiredly. “Dammit, missed holdin’ you like this, babygirl. M’so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you countered, but he continued.

“I just didn’t know how to talk about it… How to tell you that I feel bad. About… the way I look.”

Joel felt your hands on his cheeks, and although he really didn’t want to move from the position he was in, he let you lift his head.

“I love the way you look,” you said quietly, in a tone that made Joel’s old heart flutter. “And our bodies change, there’s nothing wrong with that. If anything, I’m really happy that both of us can enjoy this kind of life.” You leaned in and nudged Joel’s nose with yours, closing your eyes. “Every change of our bodies is a sign that we’re finally safe after all we’ve been through. 

“But you look gorgeous as ever, sweet girl.”

“M’glad to hear it, Mr Miller,” you teased, but then your smile turned wistful. “But you know, I was insecure about my looks, too, not sure if you noticed. My stomach and thighs, and,” you rolled your eyes, “well, my butt.”

Normally Joel would throw a playful remark, or try to make you giggle, but this time he stayed silent. He just listened to your soft voice, drinking in your features.

“It worried me for some time. But you still put your hand on my leg when I was sitting with you, and you never shied away from telling and showing me,” you stressed this word, a teasing note in your tone, “how much you like my body.”

“‘Course I do,” he murmured quietly, lifting himself on his elbows and leaning over you despite your huffs and efforts to keep him in place.

“So I thought that maybe you didn’t care about this extra weight, or even didn’t–”

The rest of your words were swallowed by Joel’s lips when he kissed you deeply and hungrily. So many strong emotions were swirling inside his chest, he didn’t know anymore what to do with himself. At first you tried to continue your train of thought, but soon gave up, erupting into giggles when Joel latched his lips onto your neck and wrapped his arms around you in an attempt to bring you in even closer.

“I didn’t care,” he was whispering into your skin, leaving a trail of wet kisses in his wake. “I don’t.”

“Then you see– Joel, stop it!” You squealed when he carried on with his assault, not giving you a second to gather your thoughts.

“M’so lucky to have you,” he whispered while peppering your face in soft kisses. “Thank you, babygirl.”

You finally managed to free your arms, and you cupped his face in your hands with a huge grin that Joel decided he wanted to see every day. Another adorable giggle escaped you when he snuggled his scratchy cheek into your palm.

“I know it will take time,” you said gently, but firmly, looking deep into his eyes. “But no matter how long it’ll take, I will make you understand how incredibly attracted I am to you.” Joel hung his head low to hide a bashful snigger, and your smile grew. “Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah. Understood, ma’am.”

“Good.” You pulled him closer to plant a slow kiss on his lips, and asked seductively: “I can start right now, if you’d want to. I don’t want my handsome man to feel insecure about any part of him.”

God, he loved you so much.

Joel hid his face in the crook of your neck again, his heart squeezing with adoration and disbelief at how it came that he’d been blessed with someone like you.

Rolling onto his back, Joel grunted at the discomfort that appeared along the lower portion of his spine, another reminder of his ageing; thirty-six was not quite old enough to be complaining about his age, though he felt as if his body had aged twice as fast from the extensive physical labour he’d partaken in for the past decade or so. 

Glancing at the digital clock on his bedside table, Joel wondered if he could get away with another hour of sleep, though he was sure that Sarah would be at his door earlier than usual. If he had it his way, he would stay in bed for the day, preferably not even thinking about the significance of the date, though he knew it was a lost cause. At thirty-six, Joel had been viewing everyday as a slow, torturous path that led to an afterlife of nothingness. 

Things did not play out for him as he had imagined at a young age. Sometimes he wondered what kind of conversation he might have with his younger self–how ten-year-old Joel feel when he found out that he never became a famous singer, or how seventeen-year-old Joel would react to finding out that the girl he wanted to marry would pack up and leave him to raise their daughter on his own. 

For the majority of his life, his birthday had only served as a reminder of the many things that he never got to do, or of how quickly his life was moving on. His knees were growing weak, and his back threatened to give out everytime that he lifted something over seventy pounds (which, in his line of work, he did quite often), and he’d begun to notice flecks of silver appearing within his head of dark curls. Meanwhile, his brother had developed somewhat of a stronger sense of responsibility, and his little girl had just celebrated her own birthday–fourteen! Time was passing by in the blink of an eye, and Joel wasn’t entirely sure how to handle it.

Sometimes Joel wondered how he was still there. His life had taken many dark turns, and after becoming a single father at twenty-two, Joel had often suspected that he would run himself into the ground from stress and wondered if he would even make it to thirty. It always seemed that when one good thing happened, three terrible things would come along to poison it, everyday proving to be a more difficult task than the last. He was on the earth to protect Sarah, to take care of her, but what about before that? That couldn’t have been his only purpose.

Then his mind was invaded with thoughts of Y/n–his beautiful former neighbour who he had screwed up with time and time again. Sometimes he still caught himself glancing over at that ugly yellow house, picturing their first night together, and every night that they had spent there since. Nostalgia, some might call it, but he liked to think of it as looking fondly on the past; he couldn’t consider it nostalgia if he didn’t want to return to that day.

Joel had often thought himself to be a man who was gonna die young, but as he turned his head, he was quickly reminded of why he was so glad that he hadn’t. 

His lips curled into a smile as he took in the dishevelled appearance of the woman next to him, hair messy from the work of his fingers and lips swollen, wrapped snugly in the bed linens to protect her own modesty–though Joel couldn’t imagine what kind of modesty she had left to protect in his presence. He reached across, grasping her left hand within his own and dragging he knuckled up to meet his lips, where he pressed delicate kisses along every protruding bone before centering his attention on the diamond on her finger. 

She moaned at the touch, body shifting as she began to rouse from her slumber. Her eyes met his own, thick with sleep and adoration as she shifted closer to lay against his bare chest. Joel rearranged himself, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to hold her snugly against him while he continued to hold her left hand over his chest. 

“Good morning, darlin’.”

“Morning,” she tilted her head to gaze up at him, a sleepy smile appearing on her lips, “Birthday boy.”

He grunted in response, continuing to run the pad of his thumb over the diamond, “Don’t remind me.”

She laughed at him, “Sorry for wanting to celebrate the birth of my favourite guy ever.”

“Don’t let Tommy hear you say that. Bastard’s still heartbroken over the engagement.”

“Well, at least I know I have some options in case you decide to be an idiot again.”

Joel frowned at her, “Insulting me on my birthday? Jesus, and here I was thinking you were gonna wake me up with some lovin’.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, curling one leg around his hips, “Ew, don’t call it that. You’re really starting to sound like an old man, you know that?”

“I am an old man. That means you’re probably gonna have to do all the work.” Joel smirked as he dragged her up to straddle his hips, sheets pooling around her waist to reveal her nude figure to him.

“Oh, so like usual?”

The hand that had been cradling the small of her back made quick work in gliding down to pinch one of her cheeks playfully in response before migrating around to settle on her swollen belly, admiring the small bump that had begun to show, “Baby, we both know that you weren’t doin’ shit the night that this happened.”

Y/n shook her head at him, leaning down to press an eager kiss to his awaiting lips, shifting her hips to line herself up with his member and sliding down onto him as steadily as she could manage. The pair breathed matching sighs of relief at the tight fit of him inside of her, lips moving together lazily as she allowed herself to adjust to his size.

She sat up, hands resting on his chest for leverage as she began to rock her hips. She stared down at him through hooded eyes, smiling softly at him as she took in his scrunched up expression, “Just lay back and enjoy, baby.”

Joel nodded eagerly, hands holding her hips gently. His head tilted back into the pillow beneath him, eyes fluttering shut as he began to wonder how he got so lucky.

DECEMBER 15, 1999

Joel tapped his foot anxiously, eyes glancing between the landline on the side table and cheesy film on the television. He considered just sucking it up and calling her rather than waiting for her to call him, though he knew that any contact that he made would only lessen his chances of making it up to her. 

Give me some time, she had told him, I’ll reach out when I’m ready to talk.

That was almost two weeks ago, after what was probably his twentieth attempt to get her to talk to him after her birthday. His mind had been a complete and utter mess since that night, snapping at the guys at work more regularly, drinking a little bit more, and having a considerably shorter temper when it came to Sarah misbehaving. The last thing he would ever want when it came to dating is for a relationship to come in between him and his daughter, and he would apologise to her each time he got a bit cross with her, though Sarah had been speaking to him with just as much edge since he had forgotten Y/n’s birthday. 

Joel jumped to his feet as the shrill ringing of the phone filled his ears. Normally, he might have been ashamed of how much animosity coursed through his movements as he leapt over the coffee table and reached the phone in two long strides. 

“Hello?” He gruffed into the phone, sounding remarkably calm considering how quickly he had rushed for the phone.

“Joel?”

The man closed his eyes in disappointment as his brother’s voice reached his ears, leaning his forehead against the wall, “Yeah?”

The other end was quiet for a moment before Tommy spoke again, “She still hasn’t called?”

Joel hated how blatantly obvious his feelings for Y/n had been to everyone, especially now that she wasn’t speaking to him, “The hell do you want, Tommy?”

The younger man chuckled through the phone, his voice slurring slightly, “I need you to give me a ride to the bar.”

“You’ve got your own truck. Drive yourself.”

“See,” Joel could practically hear the grin in his brother’s voice, “My truck’s at the bar. I need you to give me a ride back there.”

Joel frowned, “Damnit, Tommy. Can’t you get her to drive you back?”

“Uh-uh, she’s passed out. Guess I got a little–”

“Don’t finish that,” Joel grunted, sighing as he reached for his truck keys. He glanced at the open beer can on the table, thankful that he had only taken a few sips of it before the phone rang, “Where are you?”

– – –

Y/n hugged her knees to her chest, eyes trained on the little pink phone on her bedside table. She pinched herself for putting this off so long. Yes, Joel had fucked up, and yes, she had every right to end things with him for that, but the fact of the matter was that she simply didn’t want to. She needed some time to collect herself and figure out her own feelings before she spoke to Joel again, not wanting her emotions to take control, but she had not anticipated waiting this long, and had even been working up the courage to dial his number everyday for the last week.

At the foot of her bed, Manny whined curiously at her, clearly sensing his owner’s fluctuating emotions. She ran a gentle hand over his head three times, smiling to herself as his eyes fluttered closed at the affection, head lowering to rest comfortably on his paws. 

Shaking her head, Y/n felt a surge of courage rush through her veins. Her arm shot out, grasping the handset and dialling the number before she could convince herself to do otherwise. 

Her heart pounded at her ribcage like it was hoping to escape, handset growing slippery in her clammy palms as the dial tone droned on hauntingly in her ear. She wasn’t even sure if he would answer; it was nearing eleven o’clock, and if there was one thing that she knew about him was that he’s probably been passed out on the couch for at least an hour now. 

Hi! Sorry we missed your call, please leave your name and number and my dad will call you back!

Y/n smiled at Sarah’s sweet voice, slightly higher pitched than it was now–the voicemail was clearly from a few years ago before her voice had begun to mature a little. The beep of the answering machine made her jump in surprise, tripping over her own thoughts to figure out what to say.

“Uh–hi. Joel, it’s Y/n. Sorry I took so long to call, I didn’t think… shit. Would you wanna go get a coffee or something sometime soon? Just call me back whenever you get this. Bye.”

– – –

Tommy hiccupped, stumbling through the doorway and throwing himself across the couch lazily. Joel followed closely behind, a scowl present on his lips as he watched his brother reach for the beer that he’d left on the coffee table, downing it. Tommy had been far too drunk to drive himself home from the bar, leaving Joel to begrudgingly take him home with him. The younger of the brothers tugged on the throw blanket that had been draped along the back of the sofa, pulling it snugly around his neck as he snuggled into the couch. 

Joel ignored his drunken babbling, turning his attention to the answering machine on the hall table. He began pressing buttons, a pathetic hopefulness filling his veins.

“You think she called?” Tommy giggled to himself, “I’m telling you, brother, I’ve got half a mind to head on over there myself. You really lost yourself a dime piece.”

Joel sneered at him, “And I’ve got half a mind to break your jaw. Now shut up ‘nd go to sleep.”

Tommy raised his hands in surrender, but the mocking smile did not leave his face as he listened intently to the robotic voice as it began reading out the missed call log. Joel’s face lit up as the electronic woman recounted one missed call, and his heart almost stopped when he recognized the next feminine voice to come through the machine.

Uh–hi. Joel, it’s Y/n. Sorry I took so long to call, I didn’t think… shit. Would you wanna go get a coffee or something sometime soon? Just call me back whenever you get this. Bye.

Tommy laughed joyously, beating his chest with his open palm, “Shit, Joel. Maybe you’re not as hopeless as we all thought.”

Joel made a mental note to give his brother hell in the morning, but ignored him in favour of rushing for the phone. It wasn’t until the dial tone began to play that he realised that he was calling her late at night, almost twelve now. He cursed to himself, moving to slam the handset back down when a voice reached his ears.

“Hello?”

His stomach erupted with butterflies, a deep sigh leaving his lips, “Hey, darlin’.”

“Joel.” The sound of his name coming from her lips sent a shock of sparks through him.

“Yeah, it’s me.” He cleared his throat, “Sorry I’m calling you so late. I can call you back–”

“No,” she cut him off, “No, I was still up anyways. Finals, and all.”

“Right. Well if you’re busy…”

It was silent for a moment, and Joel wondered if she had just hung up on him.

“Can I come over?”

Joel glanced over his shoulder at Tommy, whose head had tipped back over the arm of the couch as loud snores fell from his open mouth.

“Yeah, please.”

His ears picked up on a shaky sigh, “Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

Barely fifteen minutes had passed before he found himself sitting across from her at his dining table, both sitting with their hands clasped in front of them and expressions of uncertainty clear on their faces. 

“I–”

“So–”

They both stare at one another with wide eyes.

“Sorry–”

“You go–”

Y/n pursed her lips, shaking her head at him, “Can you tell me what happened that night? No excuses, no sugarcoating, no bullshit. Tell me what actually happened.”

Joel cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as that familiar sense of shame came over his entire being once more, “What actually happened? I forgot. That’s what happened.”

A crestfallen look crosses her features, “You just forgot? Jesus, Joel. I know we weren’t going out for that long but I thought maybe I meant something a little more than that.”

“No,” Joel murmured, only to repeat it more firmly, “I forgot, yes, and I’m gonna have to live with that shame for the rest of my life. But don’t you dare question how much I care about you. I just–fuck. I had a hard day at work, I ended up having to work overtime, and those fuckin’ pricks wouldn’t give me a break, and…” He smoothed a palm over his face, doing his best to level his nerves and keep his voice from raising, “Do you know how many women I’ve dated since Sarah’s mom took off on me?” He paused for a moment, as if he was expecting her to answer for him, “Three. Do you know how many have lasted past the first date? One. I’m never gonna forgive myself, baby. I was tryin’ to do a good thing for you and Sarah and I ended up fucking everything over.”

She furrowed her brows at him, “What do you mean ‘trying to do a good thing’?”

Joel shook his head, “I took that extra job because they were paying a hell of a lot more than anyone else. I know you’re plannin’ on goin’ home for the holidays, so I figured I could try to book us a little weekend getaway.” He shrugged, “No details on it yet, I was gonna ask you to see where you wanted to go.”

The expression on her face was difficult to read. Joel couldn’t decide what she was feeling; the scowl on her lips implied that she was still angry, though the red rim around her eyes betrayed the sadness within her, and the way that her brows scrunched together let him know that she was genuinely confused. She shook her head, leaning forward on her elbows.

“I’m not gonna pretend that I’m just over what happened. It was a shitty thing to do to someone, and it was humiliating to sit there and defend you from my family. But I care about you, a lot. I can’t just let this all go just yet.”

Joel raised his brows curiously, slowly reaching across the table to test the waters, and taking her hands in his own when she didn’t pull away, “What are you saying?”

Y/n rolled her eyes as she squeezed his hands, “I’ve been wanting to go to New Orleans since I moved down here.”

A wide grin split across Joel’s face, his chair scraping the kitchen floor as he rounded the table. His large hands grasped her biceps, pulling her to her feet and into his chest tightly. 

“New Orleans, it is.”

She laughed wetly into his chest, a few tears spilling over her waterline as she wound her arms around his waist, “You’re gonna be making up for this for a while, you know.”

He chuckled, “I know, baby.”

DECEMBER 31, 1999

Y/n had somewhat grown used to the dry heat of Texas in her three-and-a-half years of living there, discovering exactly what products worked best to keep her looking normal rather than a shih-tzu that had been struck by lightning. She was thankful that she didn’t meet Joel until after this discovery, leaving her without the embarrassment of looking like a fool in front of the one guy in Texas that she actually gave a shit about. Though, she could not escape the same fate when it came to Louisiana.

This could have been predicted–New Orleans is famously built around swampland, and yet she arrived back to their hotel room each night with smudged makeup and frizzy hair. No matter how much Joel had insisted that she looked fine, she couldn’t help but notice his eyes narrowing in at the dark circles of melted mascara beneath her eyes, and Sarah had commented on the state of her hair after their first day there. Unfortunately for her, she was on a student budget and couldn’t rationalise the purchase of an entirely new makeup kit for the remaining two days of their trip.

She felt a bit guilty when Joel had suggested staying in for New Years Eve. She couldn’t help but wonder if he was putting off any plans just because of the fact that she had expressed her discomfort about the climate–not that they would have been able to do much anyway. Most of the celebrations taking place in New Orleans for the holiday were not child-friendly, and neither one of them were comfortable with leaving Sarah in the hotel room on her own. She was, however, more than glad to entertain the young girl with a dance party and makeovers while her father had stepped out to get dinner for the three of them. 

Sarah had been ecstatic that morning when she had wandered downstairs to find her dad in the kitchen with Y/n in his arms–she was wearing his shirt, and her appearance was a bit dishevelled, so Sarah could tell that she had spent the night. Not to mention Tommy’s incessant teasing once he dragged himself off of the couch–making innuendos that she didn’t quite understand but could tell that they were dirty based off of the reactions that it pulled from the other two adults. She was a bit let down when she discovered that the woman would not be there for Christmas, but had nearly burst into excited tears when they broke the news about the trip. 

It came to no surprise when the excitement came to a height around eight that evening, forcing Sarah into a deep slumber not much later. She had insisted that she was going to stay up and celebrate the New Year with her father and Y/n, though neither of the adults seemed to be too disappointed with her absence, pouncing on one another the moment that Joel had tucked her into the bed. 

They hadn’t been intimate since they had gotten back together, both Y/n’s wish to take things slow and to punish him coming to a close the moment that his hands tracing patterns through her shirt, watching impatiently as she slid her hand beneath the faucet in the tub to check the temperature of the water. It had been his idea to move to the large jacuzzi in their ensuite, and yet he was the one who did not seem to want to wait a moment longer. She laughed, swatting him away with directions to grab that fancy bottle of prosecco she had brought along. 

When he returned, the tub was half full, and Y/n had abandoned her own clothes in favour of the fluffy white robe that had been hanging on the door. She had perched herself on the edge, her feet dangling into the tub and swirling the bubbles around the rising water. Joel groaned internally at the sight, distracting himself with filling the two glasses that he had brought with them. 

She accepted the glass with a grateful smile, taking a slow sip of the pink liquid without tearing her gaze away from him, admiring his figure from behind as he slowly began to remove his clothing; his watch clanked against the countertop first, followed by his belt. Soon enough his pants, socks, and t-shirt had been thrown onto the tile floor, leaving him in his boxers as he took a seat beside her. His fingers brushed her bare thigh from where it peeked out of the slit in the robe, smoothing the pads of his digits along her flesh and watching in amusement as goose pimples appeared in his wake. 

Y/n bit her lip, watching the path of his fingers intently before jerking away, leaning forward and turning the tap off clumsily. The waterline was not much more than halfway up the side of the tub, but it would rise once both of them got in. 

Joel stepped into the steaming tub first, ditching his boxers with the remainder of his clothes and spreading his legs to make room for her to join him. He watched shamelessly as she untied the robe, sliding down the expanse of the arms and letting it drop to the floor, exposing her bare body to his gaze. His eyes darkened as he took in her figure, tracing over her curves and settling for a few moments too long on her breasts as she clambered in, settling snugly against his firm chest. 

She sighed as she relaxed against him, turning her head to nuzzle into his neck softly as the stress removed itself from her muscles. Joel seemed to notice this, moving his hands up to begin massaging her shoulders gently, chucking to himself as she moaned in delight. 

“Thank you,” She sighed, “I really needed this. After finals, and then going home for the holidays…”

“Hey, hey,” He interrupted her, “You don’t need to explain. You deserve a break,” he paused to press a line of kisses against the slope of her neck, “You always work so hard. ‘Sides, family can’t be that horrible.”

Y/n groaned, leaning into his touch, “They weren’t, until I broke the news that we’re back together.”

Joel shrunk into himself, “Yeah, I can imagine they might not be too happy ‘bout that. Tell me, how deep is the hole that I dug myself into?”

Y/n shrugged, turning in his embrace to face him, “Well, my parents were probably the most angry of the bunch, but the others all let me know their two cents.” 

“So I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me,” his rough palms moved up her spine, fingertips pressing into the warm flesh, “But I guess I knew that already, heh?”

Y/n laughed, pressing a burning kiss to his shoulder, “Yeah, you do. But don’t worry about them, they’ll get over it eventually. Hell, my mom’s forgotten more birthdays and anniversaries than I can count, and my dad is the worst for just letting it slide. Besides, you won’t need to worry about them too much ‘til they come back for my graduation in June.”

“So what you’re telling me is that I’ve got six months to get you back on my side?” Joel grumbled, withholding the moan that threatened to escape under the tender tracing of her lips against his hot skin.

“Baby, I’m already back on your side,” She hummed against him, “Until you do something stupid again. I don’t give third chances.”

“I’m praying that I’ll never need a third chance,” one of his hands grasped the back of her neck, tilting her face up to look directly into her eyes, “If I do, I give you full permission to kill me.”

“Kill you?” Her eyes widened dramatically at his words, “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

He grinned charmingly at her, “Baby, I can’t live without my heart.”

She pushed against his chest playfully, “My, my, Mr. Miller. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that you were just trying to get in my pants.”

He cocked a brow at her, “What would you say if I was?”

Y/n smirked, reaching for her glass and downing the remaining liquid, then snatching his own glass out of his hand and repeating her actions, “I would tell you to take me to bed already, cowboy.”

FEBRUARY 15, 2000

A strange mixture of hail and rain fell on the windshield, disappearing as soon as they appeared at the touch of the hot glass. The parking lot was mostly empty, aside from a few vehicles on the far side and the dark truck parked in the very middle. If it weren’t for the deafening sound of water hitting the pavement, one might have been able to hear the soft humming of old country music playing over the worn speakers or the laughter that fell from the painted lips of the woman in the passenger seat. 

Joel had been disappointed when he had discovered that Sarah’s big soccer tournament had to be hosted on Valentine's Day, of all days. He, of course, had to work during the day, and had hoped to catch the tail end of her final game of the evening, leaving him very little time to plan anything for himself and Y/n to do on the special day. He wondered if this would be the final straw–he’d already messed up the last important day that they had meant to spend together (not including New Years). He was relieved to hear that Valentine’s Day was not entirely feasible for Y/n either; she had a big midterm the next morning, and promised that she would very much appreciate doing something special with him afterwards to serve as either a celebration or a consolation, all depending on how she felt about her test. 

The pair had initially hoped to grab some take-out from Joel’s favourite Mexican place in Austin and head to the only drive-in theatre in the surrounding area; Y/n had spotted their flyer on campus, promoting ‘A Week of Romance: February 13-19,’ and they would be playing one of her favourite that night.

Early on in the day, Joel was hopeful that things would go off without a hitch. He had gotten away from the worksite earlier than originally planned–Tommy having waved him off with only a few things left to do, equally tired of hearing Joel’s ‘mushy-gushy bullshit,’ and excited for his brother to have finally patched things up with the girl. Joel had managed to shower, get himself ready, and feed Sarah with ten minutes to spare. 

Y/n had turned up at his door right on time, dressed in a pretty sundress and a pair of boots, teeth glittering in the early evening sun beneath her scarlet lips. Joel stared at her lips for a few moments, entranced by the careful shape that she had drawn in that dark red colour that he loved so much. He grumbled to himself when she cut his kiss short, patting his chest affectionately as she murmured something about messing up her work.

Even Tommy had shown up on time to watch Sarah, allowing the couple to head off on their merry way with a cheeky wink. Their food was ready early, as well, allowing them extra time to find the perfect spot to park so that they could see the screen–though Joel was hoping that they weren’t actually going to be watching too much of the film, too eager to smudge that pretty red lipstick. 

Then, it started to rain.

Joel could have screamed at the sight of the first drop on the windshield, praying to any god that would listen that it would just be a few drops, but as the sky turned grey and litres began to fall, he knew that the night that the two had planned had been ruined.

Well, ruined may have been a dramatic term to use in this case. The only thing that had changed was that there was no film being played. They both still sat in their seats in the same parking spot, eating the same take-out and laughing over the same story that Joel had planned on telling her. 

“Oh, I like this one,” Y/n reached out, turning the knob on the radio to raise the volume as her head bobbed along to the Conway Twitty song. 

Joel turned to her with a raised brow, “You know this song? Wasn’t it just last month when you told me you hated country music?”

“I never said I hated country music,” she shook her head at him, taking another large bite of her food, “I said that I don’t love a lot of the stuff you listen to. There’s a difference.”

“Oh, is there?” He laughed.

“You will never catch me dissing Shania, Mr. Miller,” she pointed at him firmly, “But if you must know, just because I don’t like it, doesn’t mean I’m not gonna listen to it. You’re my guy, I’m gonna have to listen to deal with your shitty music taste, whether I like it or not.” 

His gaze softened as he reached a hand out across the console, fingers brushing some hair behind her ear before moving down to cup her jaw, “Darlin’, you’re sweeter than I think you know.” 

She gave him a pointed look, “Oh please, you think I don’t know how sweet I am?”

Joel pulled his hand back, rolling his eyes dramatically, “Forgive me for trying to be romantic for Valentine’s Day.”

“That was yesterday,” she argued, “And I’ve definitely seen you be more romantic.”

“Yeah well yesterday, I spent the day dealing with a bunch of assholes at work and then another bunch of assholes at a goddamn soccer field.”

“And I spent it dealing with a bunch of assholes at school, and then crying over a bunch of wildly expensive textbooks.”

“I think you’re just proving my point here, baby.”

Y/n shrugged, “Well maybe I’m just trying to agree with you, something wrong with that?”

Joel scoffed, “Something tells me you’re just tryin’ to pick a fight with me right now.”

“So first you think I’m dumb and ugly, and now you’re accusing me of this?”

The man looked bewildered, glancing out the windshield as the curtain of rain in confusion. He couldn’t recall saying those things to her–hell, he knew he would never outright say them, but had he said something that might have implied it?

Y/n laughed, leaning across to smack his bicep lightly, “I’m just fucking with you. This is a very romantic belated Valentine’s Day celebration, baby. Even if the rain kind of spoiled the movie.”

He smiled softly at her, leaning ahead as she moved to lean across the console and press a soft, appreciative kiss to his lips. He hummed into her, lips following after her eagerly as she pulled away. 

She chuckled at him, reaching out and rubbing away the lipstick that had transferred onto his plump lips with her thumb, “Woah, cowboy. Save some for later.”

“So I’m gettin’ lucky tonight?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her flirtatiously.

Y/n scoffed, rolling her eyes at him playfully, “We’ll see.”

JUNE 24, 2000

Y/n bounced her knee anxiously, her flesh burning under the sweltering heat of the packed auditorium, counting down the moments until she was able to rid herself of the satin robe. Her degree was already pinched between her manicured fingertips, all she had left to sit through was the Dean’s seemingly endless closing speech. Her eyes kept darting out to the expansive audience, squinting into the darkness in search of the group that had come to see her; she wondered how Joel was doing, having to meet her parents for the first time in this circumstance–hell, she was wondering if he was even still alive.

The final farewell was called out, and the graduates each stood, tossing their caps in the air with a thunderous cry. Y/n grinned to herself, shaking the hands of the people around her as she struggled to withhold her own tears, knowing that her mother would insist on taking hundreds of photographs. 

Her eyes shot around the grassy courtyard in search of her family, finding them posted just beneath a large shady tree. Her mother beamed at her when she spotted her figure rushing towards them, the gown unzipped and billowing behind her in the slight breeze. They met in a hug, both weeping into each other’s shoulders gleefully. 

“Look at you,” her father grasped her shoulders firmly, “My daughter; a lawyer! I can’t wait to gloat all about this to the guys at work.”

Y/n grinned at him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, “Hopefully Saul will give it a rest with his son being a dentist, huh?”

“That’s right!”

Her eyes glanced over his shoulder, falling on the man standing several feet away. Joel’s lips curled into a bashful grin as their eyes met, patiently waiting his turn to embrace her. Her gaze flickered down, catching sight of a small, colourful bouquet gripped tightly in his shaking fist. She could only guess that her parents had either been short with her boyfriend or entirely dismissive to cause this behaviour, though she was glad that she had at least warned him about their feelings regarding their relationship. 

She pulled away from her father, wasting no time in rushing past him and leaping into Joel’s arms. He laughed loudly as he caught her, his large hands spanning across her back as he spun her around, lips meeting her temple tenderly.

“Congrats, baby,” he murmured into her hair, “I’m so proud of you.”

She dropped to her feet, lurching forward and connecting their lips in a frenzied kiss. He smiled against her, pulling away and stroking his thumb over her cheek for a moment before forcing the bouquet into her grasp.

“Thank you, baby,” she kissed him once more on the lips, turning back to her parents and wrapping her arm tightly around his waist, leaning snugly against his side. 

“So,” Y/n’s mother cleared her throat, all signs of joy having left her features, “Joel, would you mind taking some photos of me and my family?”

Joel smiled tightly at her, letting Y/n out of his grasp and reaching for the outstretched camera in her hand. Y/n wordlessly patted his side on her way past, sending him a reassuring smile as she slipped in between her parents. She smiled brightly at the camera, though it was truly aimed at the man standing behind it. 

“Mom,” she pulled away from their embrace, turning to her parents with a hopeful smile, “Would you mind grabbing a few of me and Joel, too?”

Her mother’s smile soured, any genuinity falling from her features as she took the camera back, “Of course, dear.”

– – –

Joel’s backyard had been extravagantly decorated with streamers, balloons, and a small, handmade banner that read “ConGRADulations, Y/n!” Tommy and Sarah smiled cheesily at the group as they flooded in through the patio door, both offering the girl tight hugs.

“We’ve been hard at work all day, took you long enough to get here,” Tommy joked, patting her on the back, “Congrats, kid. Now I got a lawyer on speed dial, all my problems are fixed.”

“I’m like two years younger than you, Tommy,” she scowled at him, not missing the alarmed expression that appeared on her face.

“And when he says we,” Sarah frowned, crossing her arms, “He really means me.”

Y/n laughed, hugging the girl again, “I figured as much. Thank you.”

The small party had fallen into a pleasant hum of chatter. Thankfully, despite their distaste for Joel, Y/n’s parents were open and welcoming to Tommy, Sarah, and the rest of Y/n’s friends. Joel had occupied himself for the most part at the grill, serving out burgers, hot dogs, and sausages like he was born to do it. He watched her from a distance, a content smile crossing his features when he noticed her coming closer. 

“You gonna keep hiding behind the grill all night?” She asked as she sidled up beside him, bumping his hip with her own and setting a fresh beer on the table next to him, “Is this about my parents?”

“I would be lyin’ if I said no,” he shrugged, “but don’t you worry that pretty brain of yours; I’ve got a plan. By this time tomorrow, your parents will be asking for my blessing.

“Oh really now,” she raised her brow, “Well, if you’re so sure of it then–”

“I am.” He turned, resting his hands on her hips and pulling her closer, “Have I told you just how beautiful you look today?”

She grinned coyly, “Surprisingly, I’ve only heard it from my other boyfriend so far.”

He snaked one hand around to pinch the fat of her backside, “Well, let me be the second to say that you look very beautiful today, darlin’.”

“Thank you,” she hummed, pecking him on the lips before tugging at the collar of his plum-coloured shirt, “And you look very handsome. I love this shirt on you.”

“Well, I thought it was fitting; I wore this on our first date.”

She scoffed, “Oh I remember, but I don’t really consider that to be our first date.”

“No?” He furrowed his brows, “I don’t know… movie, drinks, a little bit of lovin’...”

“So we’ve got a real teen romance thing going on, then,” Y/n laughed, “I like it.”

Joel laughed, kissing her one more time before sending her on her way with a hot dog and a tap on the bum.

AUGUST 21, 2002

Y/n glanced up at the road briefly, then back down at her stretched out hand, admiring the glittering diamond on her left ring finger. The smile had not left her face since they had left the beach. To her left, Joel admired her side profile with a cheesy grin on his features. He was positive that Y/n hadn’t been expecting the proposal–they’d already planned on going to San Diego for a little getaway they’d been saving for over a few months, and he’d had the ring for almost a year by this point so he saw it as a perfect opportunity. 

The journey up to their hotel room was filled with quick kisses and bashful giggles, both of their hands practically glued to each other’s bodies, though her left hand was almost permanently stuck out in front of her while both stared down at the ring in awe.

Joel unlocked the door, tugging her insider and pressing her to the other side while he attacked her lips. He massaged the fat of her hips as he slipped his tongue past the barrier of her lips, fingers finding home beneath the fabric of her dress. 

“Joel,” she whimpered, “hang on a sec, babe.”

He pulled away, stepping back to allow her to walk past him, “Everything okay?”

“Okay?” Y/n beamed at him, digging through her purse in search of her cellphone, “Joel, we just got engaged. I’m a little more than fucking okay. I need to call my mom.”

Somehow, Joel’s plan at Y/n’s graduation party had actually worked out. Maybe they weren’t ‘asking for his blessing,’ as he had suggested, but they were certainly more accepting of the fact that he and Y/n were together; this may have been the product of a stern talking to from their daughter, and perhaps a reminder of the mistakes that they’ve made in their own relationship, but Joel was willing to take the credit for himself. 

“Can’t that wait?” He groaned, flopping down on the queen sized bed dramatically, “I have big plans for tonight, all of which do not include your mother.”

“It’ll be quick, I promise.” She sent him a glare over her shoulder as she fished the phone out of the purse, “I have big plans for tonight too, you know. One of which involves my mother, the other involving me sucking the soul right outta you. Now, be patient.”

Joel groaned once again, wincing at the feeling of his pants tightening around his growing member. He covered his face with his hands, then rolled his head to the side as he heard her beginning to speak.

“Hi mom, I’m good, yeah,” She grinned to herself, gazing down at the ring again, “Actually I have some big news–no I’m not pregnant.”

He chuckled to himself, wondering exactly how he got so lucky. Once upon a time, he had considered his life to be a task. Wake up, eat, keep Sarah alive, work, sleep, repeat. He didn’t hate his life before Y/n came into it, though he couldn’t look back on it and remember anything that was particularly beneficial to his view on life. His life changed with Y/n’s appearance; he’d never been more glad for Tommy’s uncontainable urge to flirt with everything that walks. 

Joel Miller once thought himself to be a man who was gonna die young, but now, as he watched the love of his life excitedly recount the proposal over the phone, her body glowing under the golden glow of the late summer evening. His heart swelled at the sight, imagining her body developing and swelling with their first child, maybe even second and third–he would give her as many children as she wanted. He imagined her growing alongside him, of her and Sarah baking together in the kitchen and greeting him with playful sternness when he ended up working late. He saw a life for them, and though it may not have been perfect or without difficulty, he wanted it to be long and he wanted it to be with her. 

Only he could not have predicted that just over a year later, he would have been grieving the loss of his daughter, his unborn son, and the love of his life.

tags: @am-3-thyst @sirtommyholland @intoxicatedapple @corvusmorte @lanabobana @virgogaia @ediediwurld @xmollzx @moonylantsovs @brie-annwyl @she-who-writes-things @lizziesfirstwife @writevanna @imaginescoma1d-blog @2181bigbuss @cameronsgfbtw @angstylittlepascal @vampseddie @stevengmybeloved @cllxlily @ale0m @bigjuicy-jumpsuit @lumpypoll @glitteryllama101-blog @onlyrealjoy @eleganthottubfun @bundled-flowers @kpopslur @harperdoodle @hopefulfangirl24

@jeriiva

Twenty-odd years ago, he was a relatively young man, and a rather fit one at that. As a contractor, his body had developed and hardened from the amounts of physical labour that he was constantly performing, and while he was still physically active after the outbreak, his age made it more difficult to prevent his belly from softening and his joints from weakening. He was less willing to admit that he was insecure about his physical appearance, though he did very little to hide it. In fact, he had batted her away during their first few times having sex when she had tried to unbutton his shirt, instead choosing to stay mostly clothed while she was nearly bare. She did her best to assure him that she was very attracted to him, though it still took quite a bit of coaxing before he was willing to shed his clothes in her presence. 

Her attraction was not phased by his age, in fact, it may have been accelerated by it, though she could not deny the fact that it definitely frightened her. When she first met Joel, she was a bright-eyed twenty-year old who was morbidly turned on by the sexy fifty-year old man next door, and was wildly ignorant to the looming danger when she had started a relationship with him a few years later; the world was not built for long lifespans anymore, and there would come a day when Joel would no longer be there with her. During their early relationship, Joel warned her of exactly that, but she waved him off and promised him that it didn’t scare her.

And it hadn’t, until fairly recently. She was grateful that she, Ellie, and Joel had come across Jackson; she was able to let her guard down, socialise, and thrive in the new community. She and Joel were able to settle into their new home while Ellie set up camp in the garage out back, and they could look forward to actually living rather than basic survival. The lessened worry in her life allowed her to see what was right before her for the first time.

She had comforted Joel before when he complained about the pain in his knees and hands, though she was truly seeing the effects that it was having on him since their arrival in Jackson. Just last week, the man had nearly thrown his back out from laughing a bit too hard at something that Ellie said, and his salt-and-pepper hair seemed to have lightened considerably more. 

She had even noted his lowered libido, having gone from wanting her at least once a day to once or twice a week–though she was certain it wasn’t for a lack of physical attraction on his end, as he had been eager when she began to kiss him, only his body seemed to be working against his wants. That was his greatest insecurity yet, especially since it had begun happening on a more regular basis. He was always quick to apologise, offering to help her out in other ways, though she always assured him that everything was fine, and it was.

Everything was fine, but her fear of that changing was growing exponentially with every physical sign of his ageing. She did her best to hide her concerns, knowing that they would only be proof of his insecurities, and instead made an effort to keep him healthy in a more subtle manner, such as suggesting that he eats less red meat, inviting him on long evening strolls through the town, and forcing him to join her for long bubble baths to soothe his aches and pains. If he had picked up on this, he hadn’t mentioned it, and she could always tell when he did, because he would wave it off or do something ridiculous that would only end up proving her point.

Then came the final straw.

She was working in the gardens with Maria that day, chatting back and forth happily and they worked to tidy up the growing crops. They had become good friends in Y/n’s time in Jackson, bonding over their shared love for the Miller boys. Maria had been rambling, going on about something that Tommy had done to piss her off earlier that week, finishing her story with a shake of her head before she changed the subject.

“Oh, I meant to ask you,” the woman turned her head, “How’s Joel feeling today? Tommy told me about what happened, that’s an awful scare. At his age, chest pain is not something to be taken lightly–not to say that he’s old or unhealthy, but you know how it is.”

Y/n froze, tilting her head at the woman, “Tommy told you…chest pain?”

“He never told you.” Maria’s expression tightened, realising that the younger woman had no idea what she was talking about. She sighed, dropping her tools and turning to face Y/n as she placed her hands on her hips, “Look, I don’t mean to be the one causing issues between you two, but this isn’t something to mess around with. The other day, while Joel and Tommy were out on patrol, Tommy said that Joel suddenly got dizzy, weak, and was complaining about some pain in his chest. Now, in saying that, I know that he’s been to the doctor, and he’s probably got his reasons for not telling you.”

Y/n pursed her lips, face hardening at the sudden burn of tears at her waterline, “Yeah, I’m sure he did. When did you say this was?”

“Earlier this week. Tuesday, I think.”

She shook her head. It was Saturday, meaning that it had been almost an entire week since this happened and Joel had neglected to tell her. Y/n chose not to respond, quickly finishing up her work before bidding Maria goodnight, heading back to her shared house with Joel.

When she arrived, there was no response to her call, but Joel’s coat thrown on the back of the couch betrayed that he was home, and the soft sounds of his guitar coming from the back porch revealed his location. The strumming came to a stop as the backdoor creaked open, his eyes turning to face her with a soft smile.

“Hey, darlin’-” His peaceful expression shifted to one of worry when he took her in own sombre face, “What’s the matter–did something happen?”

She shook her head, shrugging as she leaned against the railing, “I don’t know, did something happen? Because today, when I was with Maria, she seemed awfully concerned about how you were feeling.”

Realisation dawned on his features, his brows furrowing as he moved the guitar out his lap and ran a hand over his face, “Baby, it’s nothin–”

“Don’t do that,” she scowled at him, “don’t tell me it’s nothing when it’s so clearly not nothing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you worrying about me.”

She scoffed, “Fuck, you did a great job of doing that, didn’t you? What am I supposed to do when I hear from someone else that you had to go to the infirmary almost a week ago because you had chest pain? I mean, really, that’s not something to fuck around with, especially–”

“Especially what?” He challenged, already knowing what she was thinking.

Y/n stopped, debating whether or not she wanted to say it, “Especially at your age.”

He stood up and marched to the other side of the patio and rested his hands on the railing, looking out across the small backyard. Y/n could practically feel the emotions that radiated from him; a mixture of anger, annoyance, embarrassment, and shame. 

She sighed, moving to rest a hand on his back, “Joel, you know I don’t care about your age. I love you, but I need you to start taking care of yourself. This needs to be a wakeup call, I mean, it definitely is for me.”

“Why,” he huffed, “you finally coming to your senses? Finally realising that sooner or later I’m gonna–”

“Please don’t say it,” she whispered, sniffling softly as she rested her forehead in the middle of his back, “Please, please, please.”

Joel scowled, sliding away from her grasp, “About time you start to face reality, darlin’. I’m old, I’ve accepted it. Maybe you should wisen up and go find someone who’s not gonna leave you sooner or later, huh?”

Joel escaped into the house and out the front door, slamming it shut behind him. Y/n let out a shaky breath, moving to sit on the bench where Joel had been when she had gotten home, curling into herself and letting silent tears streak down her cheeks. It was only moments later when she heard her own name being called, Ellie creeping out onto the patio nervously.

Y/n wiped her cheeks, smiling weakly at the girl as she sat next to her, “Hey Jellybean.”

Ellie smiled at the name, having not heard it for a while now. She felt somewhat bad about that, having been a result of her requesting to be treated more like an adult, “Are you okay? I didn’t mean to eavesdrop but I was just over there, so…”

Y/n smiled at the teen, curling her arm around her shoulder affectionately, “Yeah, I’m fine. Just…concerned, I guess.”

She nodded, leaning against the older female, “Are you guys gonna be okay?”

Y/n smiled at the child-like question, as if she were asking her parents if they were getting a divorce–which, to be fair, she sort of was, “Yeah, baby. We’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure?”

The uncertainty in Ellie’s voice caused her breath to catch in her throat, finally thinking over the fight. Were they okay? Maybe you should wisen up and go find someone who’s not gonna be leaving you sooner or later. Those words in themselves felt like a knife driving into her gut–was that him ending things? She had dealt with Joel’s insecurities before, but he had never blatantly told her to leave him behind, nor has he ever explicitly pointed out that he would probably die long before her. Before she could even finish her thought, her head fell forward and a loud sob escaped from her throat. 

Ellie was quick to pull her into a hug, awkwardly trying to soothe her as she wept into her shoulder. She listened to her ramble on, struggling to understand everything that she was saying, frowning to herself as she made a mental note to go after Joel the moment that she felt comfortable enough to leave Y/n to herself.

– – –

Y/n’s eyes fluttered open as she felt the mattress shift beneath her. Her foggy vision took in her side of the room, dimly lit by the lamp on her bedside table before she glanced over her shoulder, finding Joel’s back as he leaned down to untie his boots. His back cracked as he straightened up, reminding her of their fight, though she was feeling more confident that he hadn’t broken up with her considering that he had come to bed with her. 

She reached out tiredly, fingers brushing over his back as she murmured his name. He turned his head slightly to acknowledge her, but he didn’t entirely face her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice hoarse from crying, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” he sighed, finally twisting his body to sit sideways on the mattress. His own face showed signs of stress, and his eyes were rimmed with red, “I know, baby. I’m sorry too.”

Joel apologising was no small feat, that much she knew. Normally when they fought, he would give a simple you were right and do something nice for her, but it was very rare for him to actually apologise.

“It’s just…” she pushed herself to sit up, “I know you don’t like to think about this, but it’s really scary for me. I’m not stupid, I know you’re older than me and I know that there’s no stopping the inevitable–” she choked, “but I won’t apologise for trying to prolong it as much as possible.”

He dropped his head, “I know, I’m scared too. Just the thought of leaving you here all on your own…”

She crawled across the bed, smoothly working her way onto his lap and engulfing him in a tight hug. The weight of his arms around her pulled yet another sob out of her throat. His large hands found purchase on her back, sliding up and down her spine as his chest shook with his own tears. 

She pulled her head out of his neck, staring up at him with large, teary eyes. Her hand came up to cup his cheek, forcing him to meet her eyes, “Please let me help you. I’m not ashamed of you or your age, but I don’t know how I’m gonna live without you, so please tell me next time.”

He nodded, “I’m sorry. For not tellin’ you, and for being so fuckin’ old.”

Your old man is a mean, mean man.

Hardened by the cruel apocalypse that befell him, he punished anyone who dared to cross an inch into the line he had drawn as revenge to the rest of the world for all that he had lost. Old testament God punishment.

He lost a lot and he acted like it. Mean. Bitter. Dominant.

But everything that was ripped away from him had bloody, ragged claw marks on them.

That was just the kind of man he was. He fights for the things he holds dear – would pound mountains into dust if that’s what it took. He wasn’t losing anyone or anything anymore – not without a fight to death.

Especially you.

The sweet, young, little thing that not only crossed all his lines but completely obliterated it with your insistence to make a home in his heart. He tried – God, he tried – to keep you away. To not touch your soft body with his bloody rugged hands but you refused to let go. Catching him at the small moments he let his guard down and chipped away at his stone heart until you had made it yours.

He never says it – doesn’t say the three words you would fall in your knees for to hear. But he never had to. People might say you were stupid for even looking at him, idiotic for catching his eye, and suicidal for running straight into his arms when he opened it.

Because he was a mean, mean man – but God, you loved him the same. Loved him even more knowing he would turn on the world to stay by your side.

The rest of the world may not know it and he may think he does a good job at hiding it but the grip on your waist as he leads you on the dangerous street of the apocalypse, the biting kisses he leaves all over your body almost as a stamp every night, or the gentle finger that carefully removes stray pieces of hair out of your face as you drift off to sleep told you he would fight God himself if it meant he get to keep you in this lifetime.

Even just in this lifetime.

“You enjoying yourself, daddy?” you whispered, pulling on his belt loops so you can wrap your legs around his waist, wanting him as close as possible to you all the time.

He scoffed, finishing the rest of his bottle and placing both his hands on the table you were sitting on to cage you in, “You know I hate crowds, mama.”

Even until this time the endearments – an inside joke, a secret dream – still makes your stomach warm.

It came from one of your late-night trysts where, in your drunken pleasure, you had begged him to cum inside.

“Soon, sugar, I promise,” he gasped, unrelenting in his thrust which got deeper once the word slipped out your mouth. “Gonna make you a mama. I’ll find a nice cabin, far, far away from everyone and I’m gonna keep you full, okay? When it’s safe – for you and the little ones.”

You remembered the tears streaming down your face at the thought that even at the end of the world where everybody thought you were an idiot for loving a man who will never be able to love you as much, he decided to prove them wrong by daring to dream a future for the two of you. No matter how hopeless and unrealistic it may have been.

Even though he might try to pretend he didn't remember a single word when he woke up with the worst hangover he had experienced in a while.

“Why are you here then, old man?” you teased, giggling at the kisses he was slowly pressing into your neck as he drowned out the rest of the drunken club behind him.

If you hadn’t slipped out of his apartment, he liked to lock you in when he got home late, leaving nothing but a note and one of your pretty panties letting him know exactly where you were and what you weren’t wearing he would’ve been more than satisfied to spend his entire night listening to you talk about your day while he suckles on his trusty whiskey.

Satisfied with the new hickey he had tattooed just below your ear, he kissed your grinning lips, “Heard there was something sweet in the menu around here.”

You couldn’t even snark an answer back as he had already roped you in a deep kiss that just got more inappropriate as time passes by. His hand gripping your waist hard enough to make you gasp so he could snake his dominating tongue into your mouth, “They were right,” he growled. “The fucking sweetest.”

Joel doesn’t like you working – would risk his life fighting clickers every day if it meant you stayed home like he wanted you to. Where he knew it was safe.

It infuriated you at first. Your first job wasn’t even dangerous and you wouldn’t feel too good bartering the rations he worked so hard for with pretty clothes and trinkets that caught your eyes. So, at your insistence he pulled some strings and found you a job cleaning and maintaining a small pub every morning while the owner was gone, making sure you were already home or he was already picking you up before the sun could set and the men could arrive to drink the rest of their lives away.

He'd been at their shoes before. He knew what they would do just for a sweetest piece of you in their hands.

And the first time he slipped and forgot to check on you when you went overtime to cover up a sick mother's shift and found you wincing when some drunken asshole tried to drag you to him, he had decided to make an example out of him to everyone.

It wasn’t until three men were holding him back and finally saw the bloody pulp, he had made out of his face that he turned his eyes to you.

He expected a lot – fear, disgust, horror.

Instead, a familiar haze in your eyes and a shudder in your breath greeted him and he knew then you were so fucking perfect.

You liked it. You liked the violence and goodness was it the only thing he was good at anymore.

You liked seeing how strong he was and just how reliable -- how protective, how territorial. You liked the craze look on his face and how his jaws locked as he threw one heavy punch right after the next with the clear intent to kill this man who had dared to redden an inch of your soft skin, he bruised with his kisses every night.

“Joel …” you whimpered, and he swore every man in that bar held their breath with him.

Wiping one of his less bloody hands on his pants he reached out for you, “Come here, suga’.”

And like the stupid little girl you were, you ran into his arms.

Just like you always do when he calls.

You heard shouts and drunken screams behind the door but you were too busy running your hand on his hair and cradling each side of his face to deepen your kiss to care. Even more when he dragged you off your seat that you were basically getting lifted by his crotch, making you whine as you humped his rough jeans.

“D-Daddy, “you whined. “Want you.”

“Not here, sugar,” he muttered strictly yet made no effort to stop kissing you. “Bed.”

He didn’t give you another chance to protest as he lifted you off your seat and into the separate room where the bed he had made himself was situated. It was in a room with no windows and where you felt safe the most. It was where he likes to hide you and stare at you from the couch on the other side of the room, calming his ever-running head by letting himself physically see that you were safe and right in front of him.

That you weren’t some fucked up, beautiful illusion he had made in his head so he doesn’t go crazier than he already is.

You were here, in his territory. You were real. You were safe. And you are so fucking beautiful.

“L-Luh you,” your words were muffled with his tongue but it made him crack a semblance of a smile as he busied himself by making sure you were as naked as possible. The blood in his knuckles smeared on your breast, waist – a small patch just under your eyes that he was quick to wipe away. “So much.”

So fucking beautiful.

He made a soft sound as he watched you spread your legs in submission, the splatches of red in your skin making him harder than he already was.

[You're safe.]

He ran a clean finger up your slit.

[You're real.]

He pushed your legs to your chest and pressed a deep kiss in your sweet, sweet cunt that he would eat until his last days in this god-forsaken land.

“You’re so beautiful, sugar,” he rasped, not letting you get a word in as he plunged his entire length to you in a single thrust, hand pressing into your mouth to muffle your scream of pleasure.

He grinned cruelly as your eyes rolled to your skull – he really was so mean.

He was like an animal, if you didn’t know better you would’ve thought he was infected as sucked and bit on whatever piece of skin he could reach, his beard irritating your skin.

But you doubt even the worst of the Clickers would be as ravenous as him.

The entire room sounds pornographic. The wet smack of his heavy balls on your skin as his cock bullied your cunt, your muffled moans, and his eyes that were nearly red in desire as he refused to even blink – too drunk of the pleasure in your face.

When you felt your climax coming your forced your eyes open and with just a single look he knew exactly what to do.

“Just like we practiced, okay baby?” he whispered and you nodded.

Gently, he guided your hands around his waist, one of his hands beside your head, the other cradling your head into the crook of your neck where a familiar scar reopened when you bit into it. When you were right where he wanted you he doubled the speed and intensity of his thrusts, the bed creaking in protest as the two of you chased your highs that were muffled into your own skins.

It was animalistic but so full of pleasure especially as you reached your peak and he followed you with just two more thrusts burying himself so deep inside you until you whined from sensitivity.

He comforted you with gentle shushes, the hand cradling your head gently rubbing your hair until you were done sobbing and choking over your own cries.

“Luh you so much, so much,” you mumbled.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered, flipping the pillow under you and laying your head on the cold fresh sheet.

Pulling out, he removed his flannel and shirt, just now realizing the contradiction of your nakedness and the nearly full gear in his body.

Finding it too tiring to go to the bathroom, he used his shirt to wipe whatever spilled out of your pussy, making sure to be gentle and to press a kiss in your knees every time you whined like a baby.

A few minutes later you were already calling for him, eyes closed and arms raised, making him chuckle when he slipped out of his clothes and into your arms, flipping the two of you off so you were laying now on his chest.

Your fingers immediately playing with the greying hairs on his chest.

“Hey,” he called but when you tried to look up he pushed you under his chin.

“Joel?”

“I …” He should say those three words – the words you were begging to hear but he couldn’t. He might never be able to find the courage to say it. Saying it would mean everything was out in the open. Saying it would mean he has something to lose.

He’s so tired of losing people.

He wasn’t gonna risk it with you.

So he doesn’t say it but he doesn’t have to.

He cleared his throat and you let him find his words and form his thoughts despite your confusion. Finally, after a long moment of silence you felt him let out a breath, cupping your cheek and looking down at you, and – ah, he really doesn’t have to say it.

It was written all over his being.

“I found us a cabin up north.”

Hiiii!

Im not fully back, still in the middle of the internship but I had gotten so obsessed with Joel I just needed to write this. This story was inspired by A LOT of amazing works I have read especially @toxicanonymity and @softlyspector (who actually gave me the idea about Joel being so territorial about the people he loves) so please check out all their works!

Also this song is inspired by a lot of lana del rey song but the title is from "How to disappear"

Enjoy,

Was a life without love worth living? Every time that question enters your mind, you swat it aside. It’s like a nagging fly that buzzes around you until your persistence finally drives it away completely. Of course you could live without love. You’d been doing it just fine these past fifteen years. 

Living without attachment proves useful in the new world you find yourself in. It makes the countless people you lose along the way easier to move on from. In the early days, your heart still twinges as the people around you drop like flies. Most fall victim to the bites of clickers, some to raiders’ gun, a few by their own hand. 

The first group you had travel with is filled with Midwesterners who see the terrors of the new world and still somehow have a smile and a joke for you. Their joviality can’t save them, though. Clickers swarm you one rainy night two years after the fall of civilization. The sight of Gail, a woman who reminds you of your grandmother, having her stomach ripped out by an especially voracious clicker cures you of your need for any connections to the living. 

Over the years, you make your way to the East Coast. Smiles, defiant in the face of adversity are replaced by permanent grimaces etched into the faces of everyone you meet. It seems as though every survivor has lost the ability for happiness of any kind. Good, you think, they’re finally learning. You wonder what took them so long. 

Tales of peace the Canadian wilderness has to offer reaches your ears. In your heart you know it is most likely a tall tale spread by desperate survivors. But the good thing about a zombie apocalypse is you now have nothing but time on your hands. Working your way north, if all goes well, you’ll reach Saint John by May, continue to Port Elgin and then decide if you’d try for Prince Edward Island or turn east to Nova Scotia. 

Plans are made to be broken, though, and yours, along with your ankle, break clean through one day as you make your way through Boston. It would have been over for you if not for the two survivors that find you nursing your injury in a department store that will most likely be swarming with clickers by nightfall. 

The woman, after she puts her gun away, introduces herself as Tess. The man doesn’t offer his name, preferring to keep the barrel of his shotgun pointed at you. As they argue quietly over what to do with you, you observe their faces. Both are etched hard with years of loss and worry. Even harder than your joyless face. It’s impressive albeit in a sad kind of way. 

Tess had somehow persuades the man to help you back to the Boston QZ. Joel. You hear her call him Joel. “Fine,” he had grumbles as he places your arm over his shoulder for support, “but if she scans red, I will not hesitate to put her down.” Oddly enough his threat somehow makes you almost like him. You sense a kindred spirit. Another follower of the “no love, no attachment” way of life. 

You do not, in fact, scan red and are allowed to enter the QZ. An apartment is assigned to you, a crappy little studio with faded lime green paint. The old you would have adored it, called it quirky and planned out how best to decorate it with your meager funds. The new you just appreciates a safe place to sleep. 

After your ankle heals, Tess invites you to join her smuggling scheme. Thoughts of Canada flee your mind for the time-being and you gladly welcome something to keep yourself occupied. 

“But what about the cowboy?” you ask. 

“Joel? What about him?”

Your eyebrows arch, “He threatened to shoot me.”

“Only if you were infected. Just don’t get infected.” She says it like you’re discussing the weather. 

Joel allows you into the group begrudgingly, probably because he thinks they can use you as bait or a distraction if needed. Fine. Let them label you bait. You’ve been called worse before. 

The first few months working together are tense. Joel reprimands you for the smallest mistakes and warns Tess you’ll get them all killed. At first, you bite your tongue, reminding yourself of the part he had in saving you. But one night after he scolds you for the millionth time about not checking your blind spots for clickers, you snap. “Fuck off, Joel! I survived the clickers for fifteen years. I think I know what I’m fucking doing!.”

He holds up his hands in surrender, wandering off with a hurt pout like he wasn’t the one who was just being the asshole. You wonder why your victory leaves you feeling hollow. 

After that, Joel keeps his mouth shut around you. No nagging, no “helpful” tips. Just the bare minimum of whatever he needs to convey. You’ll never admit that it hurts. You don’t have to, though. Tess, at the end of her rope, explodes one night as the three of you eat dinner in awkward silence. “Couple of fuckin’ babies I’m working with,” she seethes. “If you don’t grow up I’m finding a new crew.”

It’s decided that you and Joel will do the next supply run to Bill’s. Alone. No Tess there to act as buffer between you and him. Joel grunts at that but doesn’t argue, always deferring to your leader. The trip to Bill’s goes as well as you can ask. There are no arguments between the two of you at least. You’re sure you even see Joel crack a smile. Of course it’s when you clumsily tripped over a raised tree root…But hey, progress is progress.

With the supplies in tow and Frank’s compound behind you, you actually think this trip might be a success. A gang of raiders lying in wait to sabotage you dashes your hopes of that. They had seen the two of you lugging your supplies and thought it would be an easy win. At first, they are correct. They outnumber you and Joel in size and wickedness. The four of them aren’t content to kill you outright. They tie you up and discuss what to do with you next. 

Of course their attention quickly falls on you. The man with an ugly gash across his face leers at you. “Maybe we should keep her around awhile. She looks like fun.” Try as you might to act tough, that sends the blood rushing through your ears. 

You almost don’t hear Joel snarl at them. “You lay one finger on her and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” The venom in his voice snaps you back to reality. While their attention is on him, you discreetly start ripping at your bonds with the little pocket knife you thankfully decided to stow in your back pocket. 

They beat Joel senseless by the time you get free. You honestly think you’re too late as you stab the goon nearest to you in the thigh, by some miracle hitting his femoral artery. The others turn to you, blindsided as you go wild at the sight of your bloodied and broken companion. Gash-Face comes roaring at you, all brawn no brains. The look of surprise as you lodge the knife in his neck makes you smile with sickening glee. 

The remaining two corner you, murder in their eyes. Your gun is just beyond them, taunting you to come retrieve it. The only “weapon” you have is the belt you’re wearing, it’s clasp heavy and silver. You undo it and swing it at the nearest man. He grabs it, cackling victoriously as he uses it to pull you closer. In their grasp, you become the target of their blows. You curl into the fetal position, angry that after all the near death experiences you’ve had, this will be the way you go out. 

A shot rings out, then another. Two thuds on the ground next to you make you open your already swollen eyes. As you look up, you realize your savior is Joel. Back from the dead. His face is covered in blood, like some kind of ghoul. But in that moment, you have never seen someone look more like an angel. The two of you limp back to the QZ where Tess nurses you as she simultaneously curses the deceased thugs. 

Joel corners you in the bathroom the next day as you study your bruised face. “You could have run,” he hisses at you, making you jump. You don’t know what he wants so you just shrug. He invades your space, making you back against the counter. “Why didn’t you run?” His voice has gone low, anger simmering just beneath the surface. 

Faces inches from each other, all you can muster is a weak, “We’re a team. I wasn’t going to leave you.”

Several emotions flicker across his face in quick succession. Anger, fear, worry and something you can’t quite put your finger on. Pride? Maybe that was you projecting but you hope you were right. Joel studies you for a moment longer, then reiterates, “Next time, you run.”

******

After that, things change. Joel is still a man of few words but the ones he does grace you with are softer and more intentional. Instead of berating you for the knowledge and skills you lack, he takes them time to teach you. He shows you how to identify fake ration cards and to spot the kind of guard you can bribe. Nights are spent with you following behind him like a shadow as he shows you all the secret ways in and out of the QZ. When your hands shake during target practice, he places his calloused ones over yours. It steadies your hands but frays your nerves, threatening to awake a feeling long thought dormant. 

It goes both ways. Joel lacks attention to detail in certain situations and you show him how to read people and ascertain their flaws that can be exploited. During your runs you point out the flora that can be consumed safely or used as medicine. At Flynn’s, the only bar in the QZ, you teach him how to play pool. An essential to survival? No. But it sure helps you win a huge stash of ration cards from your fellows survivors. It also gives you an excuse to sidle up behind him and mold your body around his, all in the name of helping him get the “proper pool stance.”

Your excuses to fleetingly touch one another became more and more common. They are all perfectly innocent but carry the weight of something elicit, at least to you. Joel is never one to give away his innermost thoughts, happy to wear a permanent poker face. For all you know he couldn’t care less about you. Maybe he just knows keeping you alive is good for business and that’s why he takes a particular interest in making sure you’re safe. Whatever the reason, you hope he never stops. 

******

During one supply run, a torrential thunderstorm forces you to spend the night at Bill and Frank’s. You know it makes Joel nervous to be indebted to anyone for such hospitality but you can’t hide your glee. A night there means a cozy bed and a hot shower, something hard to find in your home where the water runs tepid at best. 

Afterwards spending way too long in the bathroom, you curl up in your bed, toasty and content, only to find sleep won’t not come. Your hosts are dear to you, even the grumpy Bill, but their snoring through the wall you share makes hopes for a deep sleep impossible. 

After an hour of tossing and turning, you decide to go make your bed on the couch. As you tiptoe down the stairs you run into Joel, on his way up . “Going somewhere?” he drawls, exhaustion making his voice deeper than usual. You shrug, “Couldn’t sleep. There are two buzzsaws in the room next door.”

Joel chuckles, “I’ve had that room before. Can’t say it was the best night of sleep I’ve ever had.” You lived for these little snippets into Joel’s life before you came around, always eager to hear more. But the trek to the house through never-ending sleet and over the turbulent river left you more tired than you had felt in years. Right now all you want is to get where you could pass out immediately. “I’m just gonna make camp on the couch,” you say, stifling a yawn. 

Joel shakes his head. “You take my room. The couch is good enough for me.” This man. Hadn’t anyone told him chivalry is dead. You sigh tiredly and beckon for him to come back up the stairs with you. “It’s a big bed. We can share.” There is silence behind you where there should have been footsteps. Joel’s smile disappears as his forehead creases in thought. “Please,” you pout, “I can’t sleep in my room and I won’t get any rest knowing you’re crammed on that dainty little loveseat.”

It takes far more coaxing than it should but finally Joel gives you a little nod and follows you into his - your - room. You gesture to the bed, “Care which side you get?” Joel thinks, then shrugs. “Left is good.” You flop onto the right side, eyes immediately drooping shut. Once again, there is no movement from your companion. Without opening your eyes, you chide him, “If you’re gonna be weird and watch me sleep all night then you can go sleep on the couch.” That got him moving again. 

The sound of the shower turning on lulls you to a sleep that is disturbed only when you feel the dip of the bed several minutes later. You watch through barely opened eyes as Joel does a strange shimmy under the covers. It’s clear he’s trying his best not to wake you. The sight makes you laugh softly and his head whips to you. 

“Thought you were asleep,” he murmurs. 

You hum, “I was. You woke me up.” 

It’s meant to be a joke but Joel grimaces. “Sorry.”

The sight is sweet and your heart flips, his frown making him look almost boyish. “It’s ok. It’s your bed.” 

As you burrow into your cocoon of blankets, Joel props himself up, a pillow behind his back. He looks from you to the bedside lamp and back again. “You mind if I read for a few minutes?” 

That surprises you. In all your time together you had rarely seen Joel do something just for the pleasure of it. There was usually no time. But Bill and Frank’s is a sanctuary and even the hyper-vigilant Joel Miller is able to slow down here. You nod enthusiastically, perking up. “What are you reading?” 

It’s like you had asked him what his darkest secret was. He reddens, then finally grabs a book from the table. Pride and Prejudice. He stammers, “It’s just…I never had a lot of time for reading before and this was a favorite of…it was a favorite of somebody I knew.”

“You can read out loud to me if you want,” you offer with a grin. Honestly it was half in jest and half a serious hope. It had been decades since anyone had read aloud to you. Joel, always thinking you were making some sort of fun of him, smirks sarcastically. “Not a chance.” 

Your glower slowly melts away at the sight of him putting on his reading glasses and settling in. Silently you curse as you feel your hardened heart crack just the tiniest bit. Idiot that you are, you try to talk yourself out of your own feelings. You aren’t attached to Joel. How could you be? He’s just a handsome, rugged man who keeps you safe and reads Jane Austen in his spare time. Maybe some lesser fool would fall for him but not you. No, sir.

The next morning, you find yourself curled into him, chest pressed against his back and arm draped over his side. Like a bomb diffuser, you carefully try to extricate yourself from the position, every movement slow and precise. Joel, still asleep, lazily grabs your hand, keeping your arm around him. He sighs contentedly as you settle back down and you swear under your breath, nestling your head at the crook of his neck. You are so that lesser fool. 

******

The thunderstorms of summer give way to the pleasant days of autumn. Those good days don’t seem to last long enough. You should have appreciated them more while they were there but so is the way of being human. 

Winter in Boston isn’t fun. Ok that’s an understatement. It makes you long for the soul-sucking, never-ending Midwestern winters you had lived through for most of your life. There is something about being next to the ocean that makes everything feel colder. 

The nights are especially hard, the wind seeping through the cracks in the walls of your apartment. No matter how many blankets you tuck around yourself, your body never truly feels warm. Runs to Bill’s or anywhere outside the QZ become less frequent and more difficult. Only those deemed truly necessary are attempted and even then there is always a long discussion beforehand weighing out the pros and cons. 

Runs between the months of November and January are too risky and after much debate, it  is decided you three would lay low in the relative safety of the QZ. In the meantime, you’d assess your stockpile, make connections over the radio and wait for the spring thaw. With less food smuggled in from the outside, you decide to put your energy into earning ration cards. Even though no one could argue you don’t pull your weight in the group, you often feel like the weak link. Making sure Tess and Joel have a hot meal every night is the least you could do. 

Joel had always told you to stay away from sewer work. It paid double what the other jobs did but at a high risk. Besides not being able to wash the stink off for days, the tunnels under the city were treacherous. Many had gone down there only to be blindsided by a stray clicker or jumped by a loner who made their home away from society up above. Some just got lost in the labyrinth, never to be heard from again. Or at least you had been told. You hoped those were just myths. 

You and three other desperate souls are sent down to the sewers with the task of clearing the rubble from a recent cave in. A hard day’s work definitely but you were optimistic that you could get it done in a few hours time and be on your way.

The first few hours go well, the biggest pieces of the concrete being cleared easily enough. Your back aches and callouses quickly form on your palms. But still, all of that you can deal with, mollifying yourself with the thought of the stack of ration cards you’ll proudly gift to Joel and Tess. 

Maybe if you hadn’t been daydreaming you would have heard the shouts of your fellow volunteers sooner. Finally coming back to reality, you move just in time to avoid another piece of falling rock. You save yourself from being crushed but lose your footing, coming down hard on your shin. 

A stream of bright blood instantly trickles from the gash and you swear as you try to keep the tears that spring to your eyes at bay. Wanting to prove yourself, you brush off your group’s insistence that you go get it checked by the doctor. It doesn’t matter if you complete ninety percent of your shift. You still don’t get your payment if you leave early. So you suck it up for another hour, slogging through the muck as you finish the job. It’s fine, you tell yourself, it’s just a scratch. You’ll wash it off when I get home and be good as new. 

With the job done and ration cards tucked away in your pocket, you hobble back towards your apartment. The thought of a shower, as lukewarm as it will be, is the only thing keeping you upright. That is until you feel someone putting your arm around their shoulder. Joel helps you the few blocks to your house, his icy silence hurting you more than the cut that now throbs with every jostle. 

It’s only after you get inside and are deposited on the couch that Joel speaks. He rolls up the leg of your jeans, cursing as he sees the already festering wound. “I told you to stay out of the sewers.” 

You suck in a pained breath as he starts wiping away the dirt. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cut. Besides, it was worth it,” you pull out the stack of ration cards and present them to him proudly. The sight gives him pause. But the look on his face isn’t one of gratitude, it’s worried exasperation. His signature grimace returns, “It’s not worth it if you lose your leg.” And people claim you’re dramatic. 

Pushing him away with a shoo, you rise, limping to the bathroom. “I just need a shower. Then I’ll be right as rain.” As you peel off your now ruined clothes, Joel hovers on the other side of the door. “I can hear you pacing,” you call over the sound of the warming shower. 

Even through the almost closed door you can hear Joel sigh. “I just think we should take you to the doc. Make sure you’re alright.” The water hitting you makes you audibly moan, the filth on your body washing down the drain and with it, the memory of the hard day. You appreciate the concern but all you want to do know is forget about the day. You call out to a still pacing Joel, “I’m fine. You worry too much!”

******

It turns out Joel worries the right amount. Of course he does. As eager as you are to forget about your day, it’s not long before you can’t ignore your leg. The wound is an angry red and the area around it has swollen, leaving it tender and throbbing. Thankfully you have Joel there to dress it because, honestly, you can’t stomach the sight of it. These past years have been filled with much blood and gore at your own hands. But there’s something different when it’s your own blood. 

In any other circumstance you would have reveled in the feeling of Joel holding your leg so tenderly, his fingers brushing against your skin as he wraps the bandage around you. It would have driven you insane seeing him crouched in between your legs as he is now. But at the moment all you can think about is how you much pain you’re in. 

You try not to show your discomfort, but your poker face is nonexistent. Joel’s eyes flick up to yours as you slowly exhale, trying to keep calm. Avoidance has always been one of your favorite tactics when dealing with uncomfortable situations so you pipe up, overly perkily, “See? All better. Now about those ration cards, I was thinking for dinner-“ 

Joel rolls his eyes, standing with a groan, his knees audibly cracking. “The only thing you’re gonna do tonight is rest.”

You slowly turn your body to prop your leg up on a pillow as he watches. Pouting has never worked on Joel but you figure it never hurts to try. “I still have to eat,” you mope. 

“You will. I’ll open a can of soup or something.”

The disappointment is real and bubbles to the surface quicker than you realized it would. “I just wanted us all to have a nice dinner. You and Tess do so much and I feel like…” Thinking how you feel is different from saying it out loud and you have to psych yourself up. Joel’s softening gaze helps you continue. “I feel like I’m useless. I just thought this was one thing I could do to really contribute.”

The silence between you feels heavy as you avoid his stare. Finally, he speaks, confusion contorting his features, “Of course you contribute. We wouldn’t have kept you around if you hadn’t.” It’s meant to make you feel better but it doesn’t, especially in your current laid up state. 

“So are you going to get rid of me if I’m no longer useful?” you gesture at your leg, feeling your eyes beginning to sting with tears. 

Joel sits down next to you. Your fear has made you defiant and you meet his gaze, wanting to fight. But Joel speaks in a soft, level voice, as if teaching a child a lesson. “First of all, you’re going to get better. You just need to be patient. Second, you’re thinking there’s only one kind of way to be useful.”

“I can’t shoot like you two can. I can’t fight. I can’t threaten people into getting what I want. I can go on runs and earn ration cards. That’s it. I’m too soft for anything actually important.” 

Joel frowns, “You say that like it’s a bad thing. ‘Being soft’ in a world like this is an act of defiance. It’s brave as hell. What you consider important? I don’t want that for you.”

Warmth spreads through your chest as you observe him. He’s trying so hard to find his next words, to make you believe his truth. “Me and Tess, we let the world harden us more than it needed to. It was easier that way. But having you around reminds us there’s still innocence and good out there.”

The angry tears have turned to ones of gratitude. The sentiment is too much for you, unused to such vulnerability from Joel. You give him a small smile and he returns it, leaning over to wipe a tear off your cheek. “You’re useful just being you.”

While you still wish you matched Joel and Tess’ levels of badassery, the conversation helps ease your mind. You might not think much of your survival skills but you remind yourself that you’ve stayed alive in a world that wants you dead. Fifteen years you’ve been fighting and surviving and that’s nothing to look down on. 

“And for what it’s worth, “ he adds, “you scared the hell out of me the first time we met.”

You grin at him, shocked, “Really?”

He nods, smirking cheekily, “Really. Still do sometimes.”

******

Joel heats up a can of tomato soup for you to share. You try not to think of how old it must be as he prepares it. But actually, it’s not bad, the taste reminding you of your childhood. 

It also helps that you’re sharing it with someone you care about. A part of you hates that how easily you’ve let him into your heart. The one thing you swore off all those years ago is now all you can think about as you watch him sitting across from you, ladling out the steaming liquid. 

He catches you staring and breaks the silence, “Were you even going to tell me you got hurt today if I hadn’t run into you.” The fuzziness of your feelings for him makes your brain a little mushy and instead of having a grownup conversation, you reply with a childish, “No, I thought I’d let it be a soup-rise.” 

Joel rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. You chuckle and continue eating your rapidly cooling dinner. You sober up a bit and add, “The extra ration cards will be good, though. Right?” 

He nods, “Yeah. I think it’s soup-er.” His eyes flick up to yours as they crinkle, the only sign that he finds himself amusing. 

After dinner, Joel excuses himself to go work his overnight shift. When he leaves and you’re left along, the throbbing in your leg returns with a vengeance along with a mild fever. Your usually chilly apartment now feels stuffy and you have to remove all of your layers except your t-shirt to be even somewhat comfortable. 

Worry creeps in as you sit there, alone and increasingly unwell. You long for the company of Joel or Tess, anyone to reassure you that you’re fine. But you’re alone and the dark thoughts creep in, whispering in your ear that whatever is brewing is not good. Unsure of what else to do, you slip in to bed, hoping that whatever this is will be better by morning. 

******

You don’t wake for two days. Or at least, you have no real memory of the past 48 hours. Later, when the worst is over, Joel will tell you the details of that lapse in your memory. He’ll recount how you faded in and out of consciousness, sometimes submitting to your fever for so long that he wasn’t sure you were coming back. His voice will waver as he remembers how bad it got and how fragile you looked…

But for now, he stays by your side, foregoing his own health to make sure you stay alive. The first thing you remember is waking up to the sounds of Joel and Tess arguing in hushed tones. 

“We need to get her to a doctor. Now.” Joel’s voice sounds strained, like he’s trying desperately not to lose it. 

Tess still maintains her signature composure. “We can’t, Joel. It’s too late for that.”

Joel must make some kind of face because Tess sighs and re-words. “It’s too late to take her in because if we bring her to the hospital all they’ll focus on is her fever. They’ve put people down for way less. You know that.”

In your addled state, you wonder who they’re talking about. Your throat hurts to much to speak up though and ask. 

“The doc will give us the meds. We’ve bribed him before.” 

Tess shakes her head, “Antibiotics are on lockdown. Shipments have been delayed because of the weather. No one gets any without FEDRA knowing. Breaking in guarantees we get caught. We’re no good to her dead. ”

Joel scoffs, “So what do you suggest we do?”

“She rides it out.”

“She’s been ‘riding it out’ for two days. Look at her,” Joel’s voice gets closer as he peers down at you, “she’s fighting but she’s losing.”

Oh. Fever may have taken hold of you, making your brain fuzzy and concentration near impossible, but you understand now that you are the subject of their argument. For Joel to sound so forlorn you must look bad. 

If you’re dead soon, you want to let them know to leave it and just let you slip away. Your well-being means nothing if it puts them in unnecessary danger. Rule be damned, they’re your family now and you care about them. If you’re being honest, you’ve cared about them since you met them. It breaks your heart thinking you won’t be able to tell them that now. It nearly kills you right then and there to know you won’t get the chance to tell Joel you love him…

Opening your mouth to articulate all of that takes great effort and when you do try and speak, all that comes out is a strangled groan. The two rush over, Tess sitting down beside you. She takes your hand, an uncharacteristic show of tenderness. Yep, you’re dying. 

“You’re ok, kid,” she whispers, “you just have to hang in there.” It would be easy to ignore reality and blindly trust her. But you’ve always been stubborn and so you shake your head and continue trying to speak. Again, nothing comes out but garbled nonsense as you writhe around trying to make your limbs do what your brain wants. 

You must look a sight because Joel lets his anger overflow. “Maybe you can sit here and watch her die, but I can’t.”Heavy footsteps and Tess yelling are all that you can focus on as you fade back into oblivion. 

******

Living is hard and unconsciousness is addicting. Peaceful and cozy are feelings you can scarcely remember having. It would be easy to stay in that enveloping darkness but the feeling of the back of someone’s hand on your clammy forehead pulls you back to the realm of the living. You grumble weakly as you’re made to come to. 

Everything is painful. Stabbing jolts of electricity radiate up your leg from the cut. Your chest is tight, making breathing troublesome and your eyes can barely stand the dim, watery sun coming through the shades of the window. Someone places a damp cloth on your forehead to keep the fever at bay. Still out of it, you try and swat it away. 

A gentle hand grabs yours, shushing you. “It’s alright. It’s only me.” 

Joel. Maybe you have died and this is heaven. The man you love by your side, nursing you so tenderly. It’s more than you could have ever hoped for. This might be the afterlife believers talk about if only you weren’t in so much pain. The neurons in your brain begin firing more rapidly as your fever dies down. They remind you that you and Joel aren’t lovers. Your cowardice, disguised as intelligence, has kept you from telling him how you feel. 

“What’s happening?” Your voice comes out croaky and soft but at least it’s intelligible. The bed dips as Joel moves closer to you. As you peer up through barely opened eyelids you can see him leaning over you. His tired eyes look down at you as he caresses your hair. 

“You got real sick, honey. That cut you got festered and turned into a fever. We thought we were gonna lose you.” The slight falter in his voice makes your already tight chest contract. 

“How long was I out?”

“Three days. We got you some meds, though. You’re gonna be ok.” He says it firmly, which does some good in easing your worry. 

Trying to open your eyes a bit more you continue your questioning, “Where did you get the antibiotics from?”

Joel hesitates, “Bill and Frank had some.”

You try and sit up, angry that he made that trip and put himself in danger. Even now, you can see the snow whipping around outside your window. Knowing he made the trek there and back through that storm makes you curse. Joel tuts and puts a gentle hand to your chest, keeping you down and resting. 

“It’s done. No use getting angry about it now.”

You glare up at him even though you’re really just upset with yourself. “Why would you do something so stupid?”

His smiles peacefully down at you, exhausted but eyes bright. “We’re a team, remember?”

It’s too much for you to handle. You cover your face just in time to hide the angry, relieved and grateful tears that spring to your eyes. Silent sobs wrack your frame, making you seize with pain. 

Joel pulls you into him, shushing you as he resumes stroking your hair. You hide your face in his side, trying to regain your composure. Crying shouldn’t be something you feel the need to earn. But you’re all sorts of broken, so you take this rare opportunity to not judge yourself and weep with abandon. You almost died, for Christ’s sake. Surely that warrants some show of emotion.

After a few minutes, the tears stop and your breathing calms. Peeking up, you see Joel has his eyes closed. His face is the most serene you’ve seen it in ages, most of the worry lines softened. There’s still a few that refuse to relax, though. The crease in between his eyebrows remains stubbornly indented. You gaze up at him as he continues to run soothing patterns along your back. 

Feeling the weight of your stare, he opens his eyes. Coward that you are, you glance away. “Thank you,”is all you can mumble out as he gazes at you. After a moment, you add a shy, “I would do the same for you. You know that, right?”

Joel pulls you gently into him, almost to remind himself you’re still here with him and that the danger has passed. He nuzzles into your hair, murmuring an affectionate“I know, honey. I know.”

******

After a few more hours and another dose of antibiotics, you begin to feel more like yourself. Joel still won’t let you get out of bed yet, except for a trip to the bathroom for a quick shower. Even though you’ve been dead to the world for much of your ordeal, you’re quickly getting bored with bed rest. But you’ve learned long ago that resistance is futile with Joel. So you shower like a good patient, scowling as the water hits your scabbing cut. 

Once you finish, Joel hops in and washes the grime and worry of the past three days off. As you settle back in bed, you can hear him singing softly to himself. Through the patter of the water you can hear his soft rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s Songbird. It’s one of your favorites, too, and you hum along as you settle back into your pillow. 

After a few minutes, sleep still won’t come. You toss and turn as Joel finishes getting ready for bed. He comes in to find you still awake. “I thought I told you to get some sleep.” He says it like a loving mother gently scolding their rebellious child. 

You flail as you try and get comfortable. You shoot back a moody, “But I’m just not tired.” Joel chuckles as he sits down into the arm chair next to your bed. He smooths back his wet hair and gives you a faux stern look. “Your body’s been through a lot. You need rest.”

“What are you doing?” you ask. 

Joel looks confused, wondering what he did wrong. “Sorry I just thought I’d sleep here tonight in case you need anything. I can leave, though.” 

“No!” you yell out, completely abandoning any hope of looking cool. You give him an apologetic smile, “I want you to stay but you’re not sleeping in that chair one more night.”

Joel glances to the spot on the bed beside you, then looks to you for confirmation. He sighs, a smile playing at his lips. “If I stay will you promise to go to sleep?”

You nod very seriously. “Of course.”

Joel grins, knowing you too well to believe you. “Liar,” he chuckles but still gets up and makes his way to the other side of the bed. You pull back the blankets so can get in, then cover him up. Settling on your side, you watch as he suddenly looks lost, unsure of what to do now. It’s cute, this powerful man rendered helpless by something as innocuous as sharing a bed. 

You can’t help but laugh at him and he looks down at you, eyes wide. Taking pity on him, you make a suggestion. “If you’re not tired you could read to me.” Joel opens his mouth to refuse but you blurt out a quick, “I did almost die, you know.” He glares at you but his lip quirks up. He grabs the book from the other room then flops back down in bed, opening to a spot in the middle. 

Frowning, you reach out to touch Joel’s arm. “Do you mind starting from the beginning?” He rolls his eyes but flips back to the first page. You grin triumphantly as you settle into his side. Joel places his arm around your shoulder as he begins to read. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…” 

His southern drawl mixed with the Romantic Era style of writing makes for an amusing but  pleasant combination. After a few chapters, your eyes get heavy and Joel feels you nodding off against him. Jane has just been invited to Netherfield Park but even that can’t keep you awake. Joel puts the bookmark in to save your spot and places the novel on your bedside table. 

You grumble in weak protest as he tucks you in and turns off the light. “We can keep reading tomorrow. But right now you’re going to sleep.” Joel lies down beside you and with the pale light of the moon through your curtains you can see him studying you. He caresses your face and you close your eyes, delighting in the sensation. 

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he whispers. 

You force your eyes open, needing him to see the truth of it when you pledge a soft,“I won’t. I mean it.”

Joel nods gratefully and you reach out for him. He slides into your arms and you rest your chin on the top of his head. He’s watched over you for long enough. It’s your turn to take care of him and reassure him that, in this moment, you both are safe. 

For most, an outright admission of affection is needed to understand how you feel about the other person. But you and Joel are cut from the same cloth, stubborn and slow to reveal your feelings. In this world, for people like you, ’I love yous’ are rare and replaced with actions and deeds. 

You realize that even though you've never told Joel that you love him, you’ve shown it. Joel has been showing you all this time too and you were just too dull to realize it. While you know you’ll long to say the words to him soon, for now it’s enough to have him in your arms. 

Joel’s breathing deepens and you feel him completely give himself over to sleep. Looking at his face bathed in the moonlight he looks like a new man. His edges soften and his vulnerability brims to the surface. It tugs at your heart and you understand how rare of a sight this is for Joel to allow anyone to see. 

Smiling sleepily, you close your eyes and nestle into him. This feeling coursing through you is something foreign but familiar, an old friend you thought you had said your final goodbye to long ago. The love you have for Joel will leave you vulnerable. But it’s a price you’re willing to pay a thousand times over. 

The whiskey burns your throat on the way down. You’re on maybe your third or fourth, but it’s still not enough to burn away the sight and sound you came across earlier.

You don’t have any claim on Joel, not really. Nothing has ever happened between you, even though there’s been a few close calls, but you were almost certain that he felt the same way about you as you do about him.

Until you walked in on him and Tess. Now you can’t get the image out of your head, the sight of her beneath him, the sounds…

You slam your empty glass down on the bar. It’s a shitty dive of a place in the QZ, one you all know well enough.

“Whoa there.”

You turn your head to find yourself face to face with Joel’s brother, Tommy, concern etched into his face. He’s not bad looking, not really, but you’ve never really been interested in him. Until now. Now, he’s looking pretty fucking good. Or maybe you’re just noticing him. Who cares.

“Come on, let’s get you home before curfew.” He holds out his hand to you. You don’t need it, not really, you aren’t drunk enough, but you take it anyway, let him lead you out of the bar and onto the streets.

“Why’d you come looking?” You ask as you let him walk you home.

“You didn’t show up to drop off this afternoon. Figured something was wrong, figured I’d find you here.”

“Didn’t think anyone would notice. Joel and Tess seemed too busy to care.” You can’t help the bitterness that creeps into your voice as you mention it.

“Ah.” Tommy shrugs, “try not to worry about it. My brother’s an idiot.”

Normally you’d argue. Jump to his defence. Tonight you just don’t feel like it, too hurt by what you saw to argue. Reaching your apartment block, you turn to him.

“You gonna come in for a drink? Least I can do after you walked me home.”

You know what you’re implying, don’t mind if he takes the hint that you’re offering more than a drink. You almost don’t expect him to follow you, but he does, up the stairs and into your apartment, shutting the door behind you both while you fish out two glasses and a bottle.

“Make yourself at home.”

You pour the liquor while he drops himself down onto your couch, spread out and lazy. Really, he’s quite attractive. You’ve never really noticed before, and maybe it’s the fact that you’re so angry and hurt that’s making you see him in this light, but still.

You hand him one of the glasses, down your own before you sit yourself down on the floor by his feet. You’re being forward as hell and you know it, but you’re tipsy and hurt and you just want to forget for a short while.

He looks down at you, surveys you with dark eyes so similar to Joel’s. The thought makes your heart hurt, so you push it away.

“What are you doing, hon?” His hand comes down to catch your cheek, tilting your head up to look at him.

Tommy doesn’t know what’s going on between you and his brother. Knows that Joel’s an idiot if he doesn’t realise that you’re interested. If he was a better man, he’d push you away, but, well…

It’s been a while since he’s gotten anything, and if his older brother is too stupid to realise you’re right there, dumb enough to fuck around with your feelings and Tess? Well, he doesn’t mind being the collateral.

“Trying to decide whether or not to suck your cock.” You admit, not bothering to be coy as you look up at him.

“Oh, yeah? What’s holding you back?”

“You haven’t said that I can.” You shrug, fingers creeping up his thighs.

“There’s a pretty girl on her knees for me askin’ to suck my dick, you think I’m gonna say no?” Amusement colours his tone.

“Well… I wanted to be polite and ask.” You smirk as your fingers find the zip of his pants, tug it out the way, your small hand reaching in and wrapping around his cock, stroking lazily.

He just leans back into the couch, watches you as you rub your thumb over the head of his cock, brushing across beads of precum, collecting them on your fingers to lick them up.

“Christ…” his eyes darken as he watches you, your eyes on his as you lean in and press feather light kisses to the tip of his cock. He’s nice and big, thick, slightly curved, and you love the slightly salty taste of him.

You don’t like to brag, but you know you’re good at this, enjoy it even, pressing little kisses along the length of him, tiny kitten licks to the slit in the tip, teasing until he fists a hand into your hair and yanks your head down onto his cock, almost making you choke.

You recover quickly, sucking his cock like he’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted, moving your head up and down, guided by the heavy hand in your hair.

“Fuck…” he rocks his hips up into your mouth, getting deeper into your throat, “such a sweet little mouth…”

You hum around him, urged on by the praise, eager to keep pleasing him, so desperate to be wanted…

You know full well this is messy and sloppy, your drool coating his cock, eyes watering slightly as you look up at him. You can’t see it, of course, but you’re a vision to behold, on your knees for him, mascara running down your face as your cheeks hollow out for him, his cock disappearing into your throat like you were made to take him.

God, he’s impressed, both by how well you worship his cock, and by how quickly you’ve worked him up.

“Gonna make me cum, pretty thing…” his hand releases your head, strokes your cheek lazily.

You pull away from him for a moment, wrap your hand around his cock and stroke slowly.

“Cum on my face.” You tell him, hazy with lust and drink. “On my tongue.”

He groans, moves to guide your mouth back to him, but you move faster, wrap your lips around him and let him rut up into your throat, moaning around him. Fuck, he tastes so good, exactly what you needed.

You can feel him becoming more erratic, groaning softly before he pulls out of your mouth, wraps his hand around his cock and strokes it roughly as your lips part, tongue flicking out to catch the hot ropes that spurt from his cock as he groans.

Fuck, you’re a sight to behold, on your knees, makeup a mess, lips parted with his cum on your tongue and your face. You lean in and lick him clean, swallow every drop you can get.

His fingers reach out, swipe through the mess he’s left on your lips, press them into your mouth.

“Suck ‘em, that’s a good girl.”

You do exactly as he says, swirl your tongue around his fingers until you’re satisfied they’re clean.

“You want me to -?”

You shake your head. You’re exhausted, your throat hurts, and while the offer is nice, you don’t think you can stay awake for it.

“Nah, ‘s okay. I just wanted to give you something.” You offer him a small smile as you get to your feet, watch him tuck himself back into his pants.

To his credit, he’s not a jerk. He makes sure you’re safely in your bed with a glass of water beside you before he heads off into the night, leaving you almost wishing you’d taken up his offer.

——

A week later, you’re sitting in the same bar with one of your friends, pointedly ignoring Joel a few seats away.

Once again, you’ve had a few too many to drink, and it’s loosening your tongue.

“So, what’s the deal with you and that guy anyway? The mystery man you were telling me about the other day?” Your friend knows exactly the right questions to ask, and while normally you’re not the bragging type, seeing Joel again has sent that spike of bitter resentment and jealousy through you.

Sure, it’s not like he’d ever promised you anything, but he’d damn well seemingly made it clear he was interested. Only for you to walk in on him fucking Tess like he loved her.

You hate him for it. Hate him for hurting you. More than that, though, you hate yourself for not being brave enough to confront your feelings.

But right now, you’re feeling spiteful, and you know damn well he can hear every word you say.

“Oh, it wasn’t really anything, just a one night thing.” You shrug.

“What did you say his name was again? Jimmy?”

“Tommy.” You run your finger around the rim of your glass.

“As in Miller?”

“Mmhmm.” You can feel Joel’s gaze burning into you as you speak. “He walked me home, one thing led to another…”

“Fuck, he’s so hot though…” your friend sighs, “I bet he has a great dick.”

“I mean… I liked it.”

You giggle, a very uncharacteristic sound, but still. You don’t regret what happened, not at all. You like giving head, and it wasn’t like he had an unpleasant dick. If anything, you kind of wish you’d let him fuck you. Maybe another time, seeing as Joel is clearly no longer interested.

“Are you gonna give me any details, or?”

You’re about to open your mouth when a hand clamps down on your shoulder.

“Outside. Now.”

You don’t need to look to know Joel’s pissed; you do anyway, are met with his stormy glare.

“Nice to see you too, Joel.”

“I mean it. Outside, now, or I’ll drag your ass out.” One look at him tells you he’s not kidding.

Sighing, you excuse yourself from your friend. Follow Joel out of the bar into the street, or rather, let him tow you out. Let him drag you by the wrist back to your apartment. Nobody wants to be caught in the streets at this hour.

“What the fuck, Joel?” You demand as soon as he’s slammed the door behind you.

“Don’t you what the fuck me.” He growls, crossing his arms over his chest as he backs you into the small room.

“I absolutely will, what’s your goddamn problem?” You hiss at him, furious. Furious and still hurt, because the last time you saw him he was fucking another woman, and no matter what you do you can’t get rid of that image.

“You! You’re my goddamn problem, running your mouth in that bar where anyone could hear you.”

You roll your eyes at him, your own temper flaring.

“How is what I was talking about any of your business?” You demand, glaring at him. “How is what I do any of your business?”

Admittedly you’re not very intimidating in comparison, but still.

“You were making a damn fool of yourself. Do you ever know when to keep your fucking mouth shut?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your brother? He seemed to know how to shut me up.” The words come out before you can stop them.

Joel exhales slowly, pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger.

“Is there a reason you’re being such a goddamn bitch? Fucking my brother included.” He’s so damn frustrated right now, not understanding what’s gotten into you.

Usually you’re so sweet to him, the pair of you dancing around the mutual attraction you share. He’s not going to push it if you don’t, but maybe he’s misread things?

You stare at him.

“Are you fucking serious right now? You don’t know why I’m mad at you?”

He just stares at you.

“I heard you and Tess, you asshole. So yeah. I know that for all your sweet words and the way we’ve been dancing around the subject? That’s just how you are, right? Anything to get laid, I guess.” You spit the words.

Something in his gaze snaps as he crosses to you, backs you against the wall, slams one hand into the cracked plaster beside your shoulder, the other settling on your throat.

You’re too angry to be scared, even though you know he’s dangerous, know you’ve pushed him too far, like poking a goddamn angry bear.

“First, don’t fucking assume that you know any goddamn thing about what happened that day.” He’s leaning right down to you, you can smell the whiskey on him, but still you aren’t afraid.

“Second, don’t presume that I’m that sort of bastard. You really think I’d do that to you?”

You glare at him.

“You already have.” You hate that your voice shakes as you say it.

Joel sighs as he looks at you.

“I’ve known her almost as long as you’ve been alive. Almost but not quite. There’s a difference between me fucking her when it means nothing, and what you’ve done.”

You glare at him again, because you don’t see any difference.

“It may not mean anything to you, but it definitely does to her.”

“And that’s her fucking problem, I’ve made it goddamn clear to her that I don’t see her that way, that that would be the last time. Then you go and fuck my brother?”

Somehow, suddenly, it becomes important to clarify. As if somehow it will make him less angry.

“Technically, I didn’t fuck him.”

“You-“ Joel stops mid sentence and looks at you. “You didn’t?”

“No. I mean, I sucked his dick, but… I was angry, I was so fucking angry and I just wanted to feel something. I just wanted to feel wanted.”

Joel stares at you like he’s never seen you before. Like he’s trying to understand you.

“And I don’t make you feel wanted?”

“Not when I walk in on you fucking someone who hates me, no. Not particularly.” You look away from him, before you do something stupid, like cry, which is a very real possibility whenever you think about what you saw, what you heard.

“Guess I need to change that.”

His hand drops from the wall, the other one releasing your throat as he leans in and devours your unsuspecting lips in a kiss. It’s desperate and angry and hungry, but you cling to him, your fury and your need pouring into it as he lifts you up, carries you across the room and into your room.

You pull him down on top of you, not letting go when he sets you down on the mattress, kisses still full of fury and rage but of something else, too, something you’ve been holding back for far too long.

“Still can’t believe you let my goddamn brother touch you.” Joel growls it into the soft skin of your throat, grinding his cock against you, your clothes still in the way.

You shove your skirt up, hands finding his belt. He catches your wrists in one hand.

“Were you this fucking eager for him, too?”

There’s that dark glint in his eyes again, possessive and jealous, even though he started this, even though he knows that really, he has no right to be angry. It doesn’t stop him.

“Does it matter, Joel? You really think I’d have done it if you’d just fucking…”

“Just what, sweetheart?” He releases your wrists, only because he needs his hand to tear your panties down, cup your bare cunt in his rough hand.

“Just fucking admitted you wanted me first!” You snap at him, grinding yourself against his hand in spite of your temper.

“Yeah, well. We all make mistakes, don’t we?” He plunges two fingers knuckle deep into your cunt, effectively stopping you from answering with anything but a strangled moan.

Your hands tear at his belt, yank his jeans down, your hand wrapping around the length of him. Fuck, he’s big, bigger than his brother, thick and hard and dripping pre cum, all for you, all because of you, because in spite of how angry he is, he still wants you.

Just as you want him, your cunt aching and dripping onto his fingers as he fucks you with them, hard and fast and punishing.

“I should make you suck my cock, refuse to touch you; but if I do that, what’s to say you won’t go and whore yourself out to someone else?”

His words are dark, gaze feral as he looks down, watches his fingers disappear inside you.

“Better I just take you, ruin you for anyone else. You won’t want anyone else when I’m done with you, it’ll be nothing in comparison.” He leans in and bites your throat, right above your collarbone.

“Is that right?” Your hand strokes him roughly; you can feel how needy you are for him, feel yourself tightening around his fingers but it’s not enough, you need more.

“Don’t fucking push me, sweetheart.” He growls it, drags his fingers out of you, presses them to your mouth.

Automatically you part your lips, suck on his thick, rough fingers until they’re coated in your saliva rather than your slick, your eyes on him the entire time.

He groans, a sound that’s still closer to a growl than a moan.

“Fuck sake…” he’s still furious with you, that fury coming back tenfold at the lewd way you suck his fingers, as if they were his cock.

“This how you sucked him off?”

“I don’t know,” you challenge, “are you gonna fuck me like you fucked her?”

He glares at you, and for a moment you’re afraid he’ll pull away, that you’ve pushed him too far.

He does the opposite, moves so fast you can’t keep up, lines himself up and slams into you, every inch of his cock pressing deep. You scream out for him, half in pleasure, half in surprise.

Fuck, he’s so big it hurts, you feel so full you’re not certain you can take him, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t give you any time to adjust, one hand bracing himself on the mattress, the other gripping your waist to pull you onto his cock, over and over until your back arches off the bed.

“No,” he growls in answer to your question, “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve.”

He’s relentless, pounding into you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, rough and hard, growling against your skin the entire time, covering every bit of exposed skin with bite marks and bruises.

“Joel…” it comes out half squeal, half moan as he hitches your leg higher around his waist, gets deeper inside you.

“That’s it, sweetheart, can feel how needy you are for me. Don’t think you’ll ever want anyone else, huh?”

You shake your head, mute except for mewls and sighs of pleasure, your nails digging into his arms, trying to hold on, but unable to think straight, barely able to see or focus.

“That’s what I thought, baby, gonna get you so fuckin’ addicted to my cock you’ll forget all about anyone else. This sweet pussy is all mine.”

Fuck, he wishes he’d done this sooner, wishes he’d avoided this entire fucking debacle, because he’s afraid it’ll always hang between you now, unless he fucks you so hard you forget.

“Already was, Joel, always been yours…” you moan it out for him, fingers finding the sweat damp curls of his hair and tugging, hard.

He moans, a deep, guttural sound that you immediately commit to memory, the sound alone making your cunt throb around him.

“Oh, you like that, baby? You like hearing what you do to me?” He shakes his head, grinds into you slowly before resuming his relentless pace.

“Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna…”

Oh, he knows. He can feel you fluttering around him, tight little hole becoming even tighter as he fucks you, leans down and presses a searing kiss to your mouth before he pulls out of you.

You whine at the loss, but before you can say anything else he has you flipped onto your front, face buried in the mattress, ass in the air as he slams back into you, both hands on your waist as he fucks you so hard you see stars.

There’s no holding back, not anymore, your hands clawing at the mattress as your eyes roll back slightly from the pleasure, feeling yourself tighten painfully around him before your climax hits, hard and fast, washing over your entire body, leaving you shaking beneath him, screaming his name loud enough that the entire goddamn building can hear.

“That’s fucking right baby, you scream for me. You tell everyone that you’re mine.” He yanks your hair back, holds you upright as he ruts into you, thrusts becoming more and more sloppy and erratic with each movement.

“Every fuckin’ inch of you is mine, you hear me?”

“Yours, Joel, all yours…” you moan it for him, still on the high of your climax, entire body over stimulated.

“That’s goddamn right.” He slams in deep once more, one final time, grinds against you as he cums, fills your tight little pussy with hot ropes of his spend, groaning the entire time.

He stays there for a moment, catches his breath before he pulls out of you, flops down beside you.

There’s a moment’s pause, where you aren’t sure whether you’ll still see rage in his eyes if you look at him. Aren’t sure whether he’ll see it in you, either.

He saves you having to look, answers the unasked question by pulling you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest.

“I’m so-“

“Don’t.” You reach up to touch your hand to his lips. “Don’t be. I should be the one apologising.”

“I think we both owed each other an apology, to be honest.” Joel says finally, “though, uh… maybe that was a good start?”

You laugh, lean into him.

“Skip the apology and go straight for the makeup sex, huh?”

Joel smirks, presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Oh, darling. That wasn’t the makeup sex. That was the I’m fucking furious sex. You’ll like the makeup sex a whole lot more.”

Smirking yourself, you roll on top of him, lean down so you can press a kiss to his mouth.

“I like the sound of that. How do I sign up for it?”

“You promise we won’t touch anyone else. Ever.”

You press a long, heated kiss to his parted lips.

“Easy enough for me.”

“Good.” Another smirk before he rolls you, pinning your smaller frame beneath him. “I fucked you like I hated you. Now you’re gonna find out how I fuck when I love you.”

Indignation washes over him. Joel takes a threatening step towards you and barks, “You went after someone broken, you’re gonna get someone broken. And don’t you dare start with any a that ‘I could fix you’ bullshit.”

“I don’t want to fix you!” You let out a prickly laugh, you brow drawn up, and you gesture with your arms, “I love you, I loved you when I met you and I’ve loved you ever since, every version of you, I’ve loved, I love you,”

“Stop sayin’ that.” He yells. His insides are screaming. “I don’t know what you want from me.” Even though he knows the answer, he retorts, more for the sake of having something to retort. 

“I don’t want anything from you.”

He rubs his hand over his face. His head hurts. You’re perfect, and you love him and he yearns for you, he loves you like he’s never loved anything, and here you stand before him, begging for him, for anything, for nothing. 

Shaking his head, he starts, “Wrong place at the wrong time. Meetin’ me, just wrong place at the wrong time.” Joel turns away from you, almost hugging himself, gripping his biceps. “Fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut, tearing through the thoughts whipping around in his head, ripping into the stories he’d forced so much faith into to make right all the decisions he’s made about you. “From the moment I met you, everythin’ in me told me to run… I didn’t wanna look at you, I didn’t wanna be near you, I didn’t wanna know you, cause I wanted to avoid this. N’ I’m sorry I didn’t, an’ I know you can’t help it, and I don’t blame you, I blame the world and I blame god for puttin’ you here, the worst possible person at the worst possible fuckin’ time because,” he raises his voice, annoyed at his own words, “I’m no wordsmith so I don’t know how the fuck else t’ put it, but you’re perfect, in every way, you’re perfect, n’ I love you.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and sighs. “I’m sorry I didn’t just pack my shit up n’ leave that first day, cause now we’re all” still facing away from you, he knits his fingers together and tighten them so that when he tries to pull them apart they’re stuck, “intertwined. I’m sorry I didn’t leave when I had the chance, I’m sorry you met me, I’m sorry I’m such a horrible person to love, I’m sorry that I love you, I’m js’… sorry.” he bows his head deeply. 

After a beat, you speak up from behind him, “Why didn’t you ever tell me you love me?” 

He whips back to face you and shouts, “Because I was trying to avoid this! Because I wanted to protect myself from you and protect you from me. I mean, how did you think this would end—”

“I don’t care how it ends.” Your eyes are steady on his, voice gentle but assertive, “It doesn’t matter how it started, or when, or how much you resent it. I’m going to love you anyway. I'm going to want you anyway. I need you anyway.” You take a step towards him. He’s tongue tied, and having made the mistake of turning to look at you again, in your tragic divinity, he’s frozen. “You’re right, you should’ve ran while you could, because now I’m just gonna follow you. You should’ve ran as soon as you met me cause that’s when you caught me. I tried to let you go—I twisted the knife myself, tried to make it so I'd get sick at the sight of you, I tried to make myself hate you. But it didn’t work, I was miserable and I still loved you, I couldn’t shake you. So I gave up trying. I’ve given in.” you take another step forward, “I’m yours.”

Your words strike him like lighting and it devours all of his senses other than sight, spared by and for you. It shoots through cold but ridden by fire and it leaves him with cleaner air, each detail of your breaths now crisp, the space separating you distinct. His breath hitches. “I’m gonna break your heart.” he warns.

“Do what you want with it. I don’t care. I’ll take whatever you give me, I want all of you. If it’s ugly, so am I. If it aches I’ll ache. Put me in agony I’ll writhe for you.” You take another step towards him.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s gonna hurt anyway.” you answer him quickly, “Love always does. My fate’s been decided, you’ll be the death of me,” you step forward, “I’m just asking you to draw it out.” 

“That’s stupid.” 

“I know it is.” you take another step closer, “All this training in self-preservation, doing everything I can to stay alive, to protect myself, and then you come along and it all goes out the window.” The gap between you is now only inches wide. This is the closest you’ve ever been, Joel having always ducked away any time you found yourselves closer together than ‘friends should be’, and it is lovely. Your lips are chapped and you smell like soap but still like you, he holds himself back from sucking it deep into his lungs.

Blood.

You’ve always hated the sight of your own blood.

Ironic for someone who worked in the medical field. You could handle blood, just not your own.

You clench your hand closed, fingers slick with life, and glance around the room, anything not to see the tips of your fingers stained red. You’re on a metal examination table. The only other furniture is a desk with a chair. There’s a reinforced door and what appears to be an observation window disguised as a mirror.

You fight the urge to slam your fist into the mirror and scream, demand that someone hear you, see you. You fight the urge to claw at the door, to become such a nuisance that someone would come.

But it would ultimately get you nowhere. What would you do if the door even opened? Probably you would just earn a beating, or worse.

You aren’t special or super like the people you work for. You would just exhaust yourself and gain nothing.

You needed to be smarter than that.

And calm.

You need to stay calm, to think.

The ache at the back of your head pulses, spikes of pain driving down your spine.

But you can’t focus on that right now. Giving the pain power would only make you panic and you cannot afford to panic.

Even though you’re alone and trapped and dizzy with pain.

You have scratches like claw marks up your legs, bruises loom beneath the soft flesh of the inside of your arms. Your knuckles are bruised, aching and swollen though the skin isn’t broken.

Although you can’t remember it, it's clear that you had fought. There’s dirt, blood that probably isn’t yours, caked under your nails.

You’re wearing a clean pair of soft beige plain linen shorts and a matching t-shirt. You don’t have any undergarments on and it makes you sick to think about unknown hands undressing you, slipping your limbs into new clothes without your knowledge. You don’t own anything like the clothes on your body and even if you did, it wouldn’t have been something you wore to work.

You ease your legs over the side of the metal table, the tips of your toes skimming the tile floor.

It's cold.

Your feet are bare.

A finger of dread digs between your ribs, prods into the soft flesh of your heart.

You don’t have to wonder why you’ve been kidnapped. You can guess it probably has something to do with Bucky.

Despite the chill, you drop down, feet firmly against that freezing floor.

A woozy rush of blood almost makes you tip over, almost makes you faint.

Maybe you should be despairing about your situation a little more, but the pain at the base of your head is making it hard to think. And, luckily or unluckily for you, you’re connected to superheroes who would likely track you down sooner or later. All you had to do was survive until they could find you.

At least, that’s what you want to think.

It’s what you would have thought three weeks ago, had Bucky not disappeared, probably in much the same way you had.

You had spent every moment of the last three weeks looking for Bucky Barnes, working yourself to the bone in the lab to avoid thinking about Bucky, or despairing for long hours - your eyes swollen with the tears you’d shed, the anger and hate you harbored for those who had taken him from you, the echoing empty chambers of your heart pulsing with nothing.

But despite the team’s best efforts, it was like he had never existed. Like Bucky simply departed the realm of this reality.

It had been suggested that he left on his own. He’d done it before and had evaded notice for years. When Bucky didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be.

But neither you nor Steve Rogers had been able to believe that. And fortunately for you, Sam and Natasha nearly always backed Steve up.

It’s Hydra, it has to be, Natasha had said.

And so it probably was, and so it probably always would be.

You despaired to think that the marrow inside your bones, your heart of hearts, your soulmate, your best friend, would always have a shadow following him.

If, when, you got him back, you would never let him go. You would seal him inside yourself if you had to, to keep him safe from those that lusted after the code embedded somewhere inside him, the weight of his blood.

Bucky was more than strength and the miracle inside his blood, more than code and trigger words.

To you, he had become something like the steadiness of a heartbeat, like bread on the table, like the sun rising and falling every single day.

Without him, you aren’t sure what you’ll become.

The universe should not betray you in this way, by stealing the sun from your sky, the blood from your veins.

No.

The universe would pay, everyone would, and you would not mourn for them, only him.

You don’t know what it says about you, that you know this about yourself and that you don’t care. That you’d become the villain of your own story.

Maybe because you know, you know that if the feeling that pulses at the center of your chest anytime Bucky looked at you ever went away, life would cease to hold meaning.

You didn’t believe in feelings that strong before, before him.

You thought it impossible.

You’d seen couples that seemed to need each other like air and thought horse shit, it's all an act. You hadn’t believed in the rumors that soulmates were real, that a connection between two people could be instant and irreversible and life altering.

And then you had met Bucky, and felt the last piece of you snap into place. You’d known why no one else had ever seemed right.

Bucky had felt it too, though neither of you ever verbalized it. Neither of you had ever said out loud, soulmates are real and you are mine.

The science behind it was still being discovered.

Not everyone had a soulmate. It was an incredibly rare phenomenon and even those with the potential to find their other half might never do so due to the rarity, the vast number of people and distance between them. Everything had to go exactly right for soulmates to meet.

Even then, the rarity made people skeptical, and even those with tests to prove they were mates, didn’t believe it so.

To them, they simply had a strong connection. There was no DNA pairing, no stars in their veins that matched perfectly, no twin flames breathing into their bones, lighting them on fire every moment of the day.

He wouldn’t have left you, Steve had said to you a few days after Bucky had disappeared, hand on your shoulder. You had been crying in your office, filing medical reports when he found you. Not without any warning. Not without telling you. Trust me on that. Bucky loves you too much. He’s too loyal.

Steve didn’t know.

You and Bucky never said it out loud. How could anyone else know? How could anyone else know that you were bound, hearts laced together like stitches in a well loved blanket?

It was silly. You know in your bones that you’re soulmates, and yet you had been afraid to say it to him. What if he laughed? What if he didn’t believe in it the way you suddenly did?

You grip the metal lip of the table behind you before stumbling forward, catching your hands against the desk across the small space. The room spins dangerously and you can tell that you haven’t eaten or had anything to drink in a while, though you don’t feel hungry or thirsty.

You rip open one of the desk drawers, not sure what you should be looking for or doing, but knowing sitting on that exam table like a piece of meat wouldn’t do much for you or your psyche.

There’s nothing in the first drawer you open.

The next drawer is the same.

The entire desk is empty.

Your hands shake, and you try to think of what Sam or Natasha or Steve might do next.

But you can’t think.

Your mind is empty and blank with panic and so you fall back into the desk chair and try to calm the patter of your heart, the shaking in your hands. You feel weak, groggy, like you should lie down and sleep some more.

How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Or merely hours?

Like a scratched disk, the only thing you can play over in your mind is what they might be doing to Bucky, whoever they were.

Probably Hydra. The many-headed monster that would never leave the world in peace.

Maybe you’d been taken by someone else.

Maybe your kidnapping had nothing to do with Bucky’s disappearance.

Your ribs feel like they might crack from the force your heart is exerting against them. You were normally calm in an emergency, a doctor that mostly dealt in patching up injured junior agents at the Avenger’s compound.

That is until Bucky Barnes found you, cradling a bloody hand, a wound so deep that even he had needed a bit of help in getting the healing process started.

You’d had to stitch a supersoldier that day, cleanse and bind the wound of a hero.

He’d stood so close to you, head bowed over yours, cool breath brushing the curve of your cheek. The heat of him had torn right to the center of you, and though you’d seen him around the compound before, you’d never been close to him, certainly never felt this way.

Like you would die, should he walk away from you, should he ever stray too far.

You’d begun to believe in that moment in matching stars and fire in the bones of your soul.

The weight of his gaze on yours felt heavy but welcome, like safety, like you never wanted to leave the center of his universe. You wanted to be his center of gravity, his north star.

Bucky had touched your forearm gently and thanked you, his voice soft and gruff and wondering.

You would later tell him, tell him all that you felt in that moment, that it had been like your souls were stitching together, blinding in the effort to close the space. You had refused to use the word soulmate.

Because what if he didn’t believe that soulmates existed?

So you’d kept silent on that front.

But he knew.

He knew he was yours. He knew he belonged to you.

And that was enough.

Bucky had smiled, told you he didn’t have a clue what you were talking about, that he didn’t have a soul to bind to yours.

My heart though, now that’s a different story, honey. My heart has never beat like that. He’d looked away from you, mumbled, maybe it knows it's yours.

He’d smelled like blood that first day, like the metallic clang of a bullet from its chamber. They were smells that should have made you run, but had only served to make you mourn.

Because beneath the blood and iron and rotting death of modern warfare, he’d smelled like the newness of winter ice. Like clean snow, like freshly turned earth and lightning.

And you’ve always loved winter.

Bucky smelled like someone fighting for something.

There was no other way to explain it.

Now, you breathe deeply and try not to think of the memory of him, of the raw humanness of someone that had the blood of man-made godhood inside him, that had all of your soul and spirit and fight inside him.

You don’t think about how you’d found the box with his dog tags inside them a few days before he disappeared, about how you’d always told him you didn’t want a ring, that it would get in your way too much.

That a necklace would do.

You don’t think about how empty your bed had felt that first night after he was gone, so wide with blank space that it might as well have been a sea, you might as well have been stranded in the desert, eyes strained with tears, a chest that ached with the ending of worlds pinched by the beats of your heart.

You don’t think about how you’d curled in on yourself, pain like you’d never known wrenching your gut open as you cried silently, shook with tears.

You tell yourself not to cry now, that crying will get you nowhere.

But you aren’t Natasha or Sam or Steve.

You aren’t special and you can see no way out but through the door. There are no other openings, no vents or grates, nothing that you can use to fashion a weapon for yourself when the door does eventually open.

Life had become empty without the crisp presence of your very own cold winter morning. Bucky’s disappearance had served to show you just how dependent you’d become on him. Soulmates or not, your life’s plan included him, the future had never curved away from your togetherness. You couldn’t imagine life without him.

You’d bonded so quickly, fell so hard, consumed each other with desperation.

It had scared the others at first, made them worry that Bucky - newly healed mind, still shaky in his own skin, desperately loyal - was being taken advantage of.

But you were fiercely protective of him and anyone could see how genuinely you loved and cared for him after only being in your presence for a few seconds.

Natasha was the hardest to convince, though nothing else could be expected.

Bucky had been offended the time you likened him to a winter morning. You had been pressed close to him in bed, duvet tucked around your shoulders, the length of your naked body pressed against the furnace heat of his. You liked the feeling of his skin against yours, liked the heat that poured off him, that nearly burned.

So offended, in fact, that he’d pouted about it for days, until you’d pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth and said, “Just because it's a cold winter morning, doesn’t mean that the sun does not shine. Melt you just a little bit and there’s spring underneath.”

He was like cold sunshine, a miracle in the long darkness of winter. But when he melted, when he allowed himself to thaw just a bit and feel, he was like new spring. Like rainwater and clear smooth lakes, green forests and new earth. Like soil you wanted to kneel in and sink your hands into in a primal urge.

Your memories are shattered when the sounds of locks being clicked back reaches you.

You scramble up and stumble away from the door until you hit the back wall of the tiny room.

The door opens and you clench your hands, trying to remember the self-defense that Bucky had insisted on teaching you.

Self-defense that you had insisted on not learning, much more interested in cradling him to you on the gym mats, of pressing your lips to his, of nipping at the skin of his throat, of wrapping yourself inside the smell of a coming spring rain storm.

Bucky had let you because you’d told him that he smelled more like spring everyday, like the heat of you could melt the sunshine winter within him.

You’ll always be there to protect me anyways. His skin had been warm against yours, the scent of him spiced from the sunshine streaming in the windows.

He had kissed your forehead and breathed you in. I will. I will always be there.

All you can remember now though, is that you should hold your fist a certain way, so that you don’t break your thumb.

You hope that if you’re forced to fight that instinct will take over and your body will remember what your mind can’t.

The door eases open and you drop your hands, palms open in supplication.

“Bucky?” You whisper, relief and despair awash in your voice in equal measure.

But it's not your spring storm.

Part of you recoils from him, from this nightmare incarnate, from the stories you’d heard of the Winter Soldier, the efficient brutality of him.

He doesn’t move.

His eyes are cold, like the depths of the arctic, like seaglass withered away, like caps of ice at the edge of the world.

Gone is the winter sunshine you know, warmth through clouds.

Bucky is clad in the leather of the Winter Soldier garb, even that hated mask is back, positioned over his mouth and nose.

Erased, you think. They’ve taken him from me.

Despair courses through you. Grief.

Panic presses in on every side, the walls closing in on you. Erased, erased, erased, erased, a chant in your head.

Not yours.

Your legs feel watery, like you might collapse at any moment and the wall is the only thing holding you up.

The only difference between him and the pictures and videos of the Winter Soldier you’d seen on TV is his hair. His hair is cropped short now, that part of him is still the part you know.

He is still Bucky, still your partner, your mate, you scold yourself. Still the end and beginning of everything good you’ve come to know.

You straighten your spine, square your shoulders.“Do you know me?” you ask softly. Your voice cracks around his name as you repeat it, “Bucky?”

You were never there before.

Before he was better, before he’d come to know himself again.

You hadn’t been there before he’d become Bucky again.

You don’t know the Winter Soldier, and the Winter Soldier certainly doesn’t know you.

Bucky is your soulmate, that you believe, know in your heart. But is the soldier your soulmate too?

Would he know you?

He tilts his head to the side, his brow furrowing into a hard thick line.

Bucky nods once.

You don’t approach him, don’t move, though you want to collapse into his arms, squeeze until you're fused together.

It’s a lie, something inside you screams. He’s lying. He thinks he’s supposed to say yes.

“What’s my name?”

He doesn’t answer and your heart shivers in your chest, it threatens to crack open. Does he not know or has someone told him not to know? Has he simply forgotten?

You can’t think about that now, you can’t mourn now, and so you change tracks. Your priority is to escape, to keep him safe until you can help him. “Where are we?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But he does move.

He stalks forward suddenly and you shuffle back again though there’s nowhere for you to go.

You never learned how to handle the soldier. You’ve only even known the sweetness of Bucky Barnes, the biting tartness of him.

You only know calm winter mornings and soft rainstorms.

You don’t know this bitterness, the teeth of the tundra in your side, the windswept coldness of a never ending night.

So, you try to back away, feel the crest of your head slam into the concrete behind you in your haste to get away. He fills up every inch of your space, cages in close to you and it's just like that first time.

Where he stood so close and smelled of blood and sunshine in winter, of thunderclaps and snow. When you had felt the fusion of your fate to his, and realized who he was to you.

You press into the concrete wall behind you, dizzy with fear, with blood loss.

He could kill you, so easily, like swatting down a fly.

The soldier takes off his gloves and tosses them to the floor. He’s so close to you, his head bent over yours, the line of his body hard and unforgiving against yours.

He only hesitates for a moment, staring into your eyes, his hand raises and hovers in the space by your cheek. You don’t flinch away, though you want to. You won’t show fear again, you don’t want your Bucky to think you afraid of him, should he remember this moment. You already made a mistake by backing away from him.

But he only touches the edge of your jaw, the tips of his fingers delicate, soft. You tense, not sure what to expect him to do but he just holds his hand to your skin, his thumb tracking back and forth over your cheek when he cradles your face.

He holds his burning skin to yours for so long you think you might actually burst into flame.

It's such a gentle touch and gradually the tension fades from your shoulders, sloughs off you in waves until you can raise your eyes to meet his.

He’s already looking at you, his eyes a blue that could burn the world. His gaze flicks to his thumb that swipes softly over your cheek. And despite yourself, you lean into it, close your eyes for just a moment.

Bucky cradles your jaw, the curve of your cheek, almost with reverence. His fingers slip down your neck and hesitate but you open your eyes when his thumb traces over the hollow of your throat.

For just a moment, he cups his palm over your throat, squeezes enough to make you feel it though somehow you know he’s only trying to feel you breathe.

Despite yourself, heats pools in your belly. Despite your instinct that he means nothing by it.

But it’s short lived and he moves on.

The innocence of it only makes the ache in you grow.

The soldier’s hand continues on, decidedly only touching you with his flesh hand. His fingers drift over your collarbone, your breath hitching at the feeling of rough fingers pressing against the delicate skin. He brushes his hand lower, over your chest. He pauses at the feeling of the peak of your nipple against his fingers and for a moment you are mortified.

Embarrassed, like a stranger is touching you.

The feeling dissolves quickly, replaced by confused lust when he cups your breast and squeezes, pinches your nipple gently.

You hold your breath, determined not to give in to the primal attraction between you.

But god, you want it so bad.

When you first met Bucky, the attraction was emotional. You knew he was yours, that you’d spend your life trying to stay by his side, so you would be partners, keep each other safe from the world, bind yourselves together like nesting dolls.

You feel some of that with the soldier, but stronger is the feeling of physical need. The primal need to be consumed, to be pushed down and claimed, to push him down and claim him in turn.

His hand doesn’t linger, instead sweeping over your collarbone and the line of your shoulders.

Bucky trails his hand back to your throat and then behind your neck, palm cupping the base of your skull as he lowers his forehead to yours. Your eyes flutter shut with his as he presses closer, his body fully against yours, his thigh pressing between your legs. “Mine,” he says, heavy against you. And then again, softer, “Mine.”

You tremble and press your hands over his chest.

You’re wet from the feeling of him so close, of his leg between yours and the growl in his voice, but it's clear that he’s only positioned you that way to bring you closer to him. It's clear that some buried instinct is telling him that you belong to him.

It gives you hope, both that the soldier would not harm you and, on a more selfish level, that every version of Bucky belonged to you and that soulmates were real and immutable.

Bucky leans in and presses his nose to your cheek. You think you feel him inhale and murmur mine again.

Is he feeling the link between you? The soulmate bond that you believed lived inside each of you, yearning for you to split the other open so you could live inside each other, become one?

Maybe, you think dizzily, you’re crazy.

Maybe the winter soldier was told you were the thing he was allowed to possess. Maybe he was so used to not being allowed to take, that he decided you would be his to claim.

It doesn’t matter, you decide, because you feel safe with him, cocooned in his arms, all of your senses taken up by him, all of you focused on him.

The intimacy is short lived however, when he pulls his hand away from your head, his palm wet with the same blood you’d touched earlier.

You can’t believe it's still bleeding so much and your head whirls at the thought of your blood on his hands.

He makes a sound that you can only liken to a growl at the sight of the red on his fingers.

“‘S fine,” you say immediately, carefully only looking at his eyes to avoid seeing your own blood. “Doesn’t hurt,” you lie.

But someone had hurt you, made you bleed, and that was very clearly not going to fly.

His fingers curl into a fist, the lines by his eyes tightening.

Maybe this was the Winter Soldier more than Bucky Barnes, but it seemed like both belonged to you. Bucky would kill someone for lying a finger on you, and apparently so would the soldier.

“Bucky,” you say his name, to grab his attention, because the snarl is at the back of his throat again and his eyes are turning toward the door. You will not call him anything other than his name, you decide. He’s Bucky, no matter what.

You may not understand the Winter Soldier and he may not know who you are, but the bond between you is still there, firm and unbreakable. So when you whisper, “Please don’t leave me here alone,” he obeys, he turns back to you, he touches your cheek again, gently, rubs the pad of his thumb over your lips.

The open door is forgotten for a moment and you’re bound up in his full attention, in the full weight of him. He presses you back into the wall again, his body hard against yours. You’re not used to it, it's almost uncomfortable. You aren’t used to the hard leather of his gear biting into you, you aren’t used to the smell of gunpowder and smoke.

And you realize in that moment just how much Bucky Barnes has been shielding you from the second soul that lived within him.

Did he not trust you to see all of him?

Did he think you would only want half of him?

Like you wouldn’t do anything for any part of him. Like you wouldn’t burn your whole world down, destroy yourself, for the chance of any piece or part of him to survive?

Guilt drags at you suddenly. Why had you never talked about it?

You need to show him then, that it didn’t matter.

Gunpowder worked as well as a lightning strike for you.

He was yours.

No matter what, he was yours and you were his.

You reach out and up, touching the red crease in his cheek where the mask has been tightened harshly against his skin, before you snap the mask away from his face and toss it to the ground.

“What did they do to you?” He growls. Like the removal of the mask gave him permission to speak more than a single word.

“Nothing. I don’t know. I was asleep.”

“Are you hurt?”

The soldier’s voice is different than Bucky’s. There’s a harshness there, a gruffness, that makes you want to flinch away.

“No,” you say, even though you aren’t necessarily sure it's true. You lick your lips and lean into him, carefully pressing your cheek to his shoulder, breathing him in despite how unfamiliar he is to you. “What happened? You’ve been gone for weeks. I missed you.”

He doesn’t answer you, only grunts and lets his hand fall down to the side of your neck. You stifle a gasp but don’t move. His thumb digs into the soft flesh under your jaw, making you dizzy when you forget to breathe.

But his touch is merely curious again, like he’s holding something precious, a gift that he can’t remember receiving. Like he’s trying to figure out how you’re familiar to him.

You don’t move, confident he won’t harm you.

You know he would do anything to keep you safe.

He brushes his fingers over your collarbone, down your arm. He pauses on the bruises on your arms. Bucky presses his thumb into one of the blooming marks and you make sure not to make a sound though the pressure hurts.

“I’ll kill them for that,” he murmurs, the surety in his voice as sharp as a blade.

You don’t ask who, your whole body is on fire, lit up with his touch, straining, begging for more.

He tangles your fingers together briefly, pressing the pads of his fingers gently to each of yours. But then he presses his forehead to yours and puts his hand against your sternum, between your breasts, and it's hard not to feel aroused, like you’re drowning and dying and being reborn.

His thumb is against the swell of your breast. The light pressure of it is all you can focus on before his hand shifts down, across your stomach to squeeze your hip.

The soldier abruptly falls to his knees, his face pressed into the soft of your belly, arms circling the circumference of your hips. He exhales and its shaky, like there’s something bubbling inside him he can’t quite suppress.

Soulmate.

You so hope his heart is echoing yours, despite the situation you’re in.

You press a hand to his hair, to the top of his head. “It’s okay. I’ll get us home.”

He doesn’t answer, just inhales, arching closer to you, gripping you so hard you feel breakable.

“What happened?” You decide to ask again, wrapping your arms around his head, holding him to you, breathing in the icy storm of him. “Who did this? I missed you, Bucky.” You bend over him, whispering your words into the crown of his head. “I missed you so bad. Don’t you know what you are to me?”

You aren’t expecting an answer, so the one he gives you shatters something inside you that you didn’t know could be broken.

“I don’t know you,” he whispers, turning his eyes up to meet yours. You recoil but he holds you fast, “Tell them you don’t know me. You have to.” His voice is hoarse with desperation, with a sudden clarity.

In that moment, you know Bucky has broken to the surface, that this is the man you know, despite how fleetingly he’s present.

He stands and backs away, standing stiffly next to the open door where another man appears after a few seconds. Your hands are still outstretched, reaching for him.

The man doesn’t introduce himself.

“I can see you’re asking why,” he starts without preamble. “I think you already know why. This is our soldier, our property. It's time for him to come home. Unfortunately your people have done quite a number on him. He kept asking for you. He doesn’t listen. We had a feeling he’d listen to you.”

The man smiles, “Imagine our surprise. Our soldier, with a soulmate. How interesting. He’ll listen to you.”

Your stomach twists at the word and you glance at Bucky but he remains stoic, not looking at you.

Like it doesn’t matter.

Means nothing.

You swallow, “And if I don’t?”

“Then you die. Or we find a way for you to comply.”

Bucky twitches, a choked off snarl passing his lips at the threat leveled against you, antithesis to his very being.

The man frowns at the noise, the insolence, but doesn’t glance at the soldier, just whips a hand out and smacks him across the face, so hard it echoes.

A breath catches in your lungs, so heavy and hot you can’t breathe out for a moment.

You react on instinct, your vision dripping red as you dart forward and lash out. But you’re weak and injured and so you surprise yourself by actually managing to land a punch against his jaw before he kicks you back.

The hit lands on your stomach and sends you sprawling to the ground.

Bucky may kill them for the bruise on your arm, but you’ll end the world to make that man pay for the hand he dared lay against your winter sun.

You glance up, trying to hide the tears pocketing at the corners of your eyes.

Bucky is staring at you, there’s a handprint on his cheek but his eyes are begging you. Tell them you don’t know me.

Your arms ache for him, you want to hold him so bad.

But you don’t really have an option. “Okay.”

You’d do anything for Bucky.

~

Reward.

You become a twisted sort of reward for him.

You should not be a reward. You are not a reward, not to him.

To him, you are the center of the universe, the hinge of the world.

And he has to see you.

It’s not a want, it's a need. Like air, like sun in winter, like the cool stillness of water after days without.

And if the soldier follows instructions and listens to the agents, then he is allowed to see you. He is allowed to curl onto a cot with you, bury his head in your belly and just breathe. If he listens then you are allowed to be the one to clean him up, you are the one that is allowed to stitch his wounds. He’s allowed to feel the blessed sweep of your hand through his hair, he’s allowed to caress your skin and hold you like you were his to hold.

He doesn’t know your name, not anymore. He only knows that he belongs to you and that when he’s with you he’s safe.

You will not hurt him.

He can remember the way you trembled when the agent smacked him, the rage that poured off you, like you would sacrifice yourself to find retribution for that small pain against him.

The soldier doesn’t feel danger in your rage because it is never directed at him.

They move your room often, inject him with something that makes his memories twist and change, whisper lies in his ears - and so time becomes hard to track.

You become hard to track.

No matter how many times he’s taken back to you, he’s never sure if it will be the last.

It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know your name, his heart knows the shape of you, the smell of your skin - and so it's enough. You are enough. You are his whole world, perhaps even more than that.

To him, you feel like the creation of the universe itself.

They mistreat you, that much he knows.

When he isn’t around.

The soldier doesn’t know if it's because you fight them - likely, considering that first day - or just because they feel like it - also possible, the place you reside is horrible.

You do not belong in this place. You who should have empires built in your name.

You treat him so softly, you cradle instead of hold, caress instead of touch. You are a wonder. You are something that does not belong.

But he’s glad you’re here.

This strange person which is kinda, who caresses and cradles, who lets him seek out refuge within you.

You don’t deny him anything, though he’s hesitant to take.

You offer up your body and soul without being asked for them.

He’s been inside you so many times over the last few weeks, something in his heart locking firmly into place each time, solidifying the truth of the feeling bursting around his soul like fireworks.

The soldier has seen you, touched you, pressed himself inside you and listened to you pant, listened to the tattoo of your heartbeat. But it's never enough. He always wants more. He never wants you to leave his side, like you should be stored inside him.

Soulmate, they called you sometimes.

Go ready the soldier’s soulmate.

Myth.

Soulmates are a myth.

And yet -

He’s not sure how much time passes. Counting the days and weeks that pass becomes hard, becomes impossible.

All he knows is the needle in his arm each morning, the blur of all he knows that accompanies it, the command training, and then -

You.

Then he is allowed to be with you.

He’s allowed to touch you and clean your wounds and wonder what they do to you.

You are allowed to do the same for him.

Sometimes, you are allowed a shower together.

He’s allowed to decide what he wants and you are allowed to decide if you would like to give it to him.

He always asks, in his own way.

The soldier would never do anything you didn’t want.

They call the other agents his handlers but he knows that you truly are.

He thinks that you think he’s forgotten, forgotten the time they surprised him by bringing you to the command training.

It was possibly your own punishment, your own training. Because you had been crying, bleeding from your nose, apologizing to him between giving him orders.

The worst had been when the handler had shoved a gun in your trembling hand and forced you to aim it at him. You had cried the whole time, begging him to listen to you while they laughed. And when had dropped your arm and snarled at them I will not hurt him, fuck you, they had grabbed you and thrown you to the floor, kicking until a rib cracked.

You had lain there, alone on the cold floor, shaking, until you threw up.

All he had wanted that day was to go to you, to wipe the blood from your nose and rip the agents limbs from their bodies for hurting you. He wanted to tell you to stop being defiant. To keep yourself safe.

But he hadn’t, because it had been your orders staying his hand.

Bucky don’t move, don’t come to me sweetheart, stay there.

Someone had smacked you. The asset doesn’t have a name. Try again.

But you refused to call him anything other than Bucky - what must be his name.

Bucky. That’s his name -

Smack. Try again.

He’d started toward you only for you to raise a hand, no stay, stay there honey.

Laughter. Someone had kicked you, thrown you to the floor. He can take a beating better than you. Let him disobey.

No.

Your voice had been a snarl.

He listens to me no matter what I call him, you had screamed, why does it matter?

We’re breaking you too. The agent’s boot had been against the back of your neck.

The soldier had charged forward before you could stop him, had splattered the agent’s brains against the wall.

His memory goes black after that, but he knows he had not been allowed to see you that night, that he was not allowed to see you for several days.

~

You aren’t eating, the soldier - Bucky you sometimes call him - he can tell.

He touches you and he can tell.

So, he stops eating too.

They threaten to stuff a tube down his throat for his insolence, spark more electricity inside him, inject him with the memory clearing miracle, but he doesn’t care.

If you fall, so does he.

You who remind him of the rocky shore of a coast. Strong and fortified yet inviting. You are like sunshine on his skin, like he’s allowed to come in from the cold of the winter wind inside him.

It is decided you’re allowed to have a meal together when, day after day, he refuses to cooperate in any way.

One meal a day, to sate the monster that had killed in your name.

He’d killed the man who said that you were not his priority, only his reward, and that rewards could not be negotiated. He’d killed the man who said you were expendable.

You are not expendable. There’s a string tied around his lungs that tightens when you aren’t around. It’s leash only loosens so he can breathe when he’s with you.

You’re more than a reward. You are his. You are his life.

The soldier hopes you won’t hate him for it too much, for the blood he wouldn’t spill on his own behalf but would certainly do on yours. He imagines you cupping his face, kissing the blood from his fingers, murmuring that he should not have, that good men didn’t kill, no matter what.

But it's worth it when he sees your eyes, when he gets to sit close to you and hold you and know that you are okay. You don’t know yet, that he killed in your name, and so you don’t push him away.

The soldier would do it again.

He would do anything for you.

He can tell by the way your eyes widen that the plate he brings is a feast to you. Your cheekbones are too prominent in your face, your jaw too sharp.

Time is a menace to him.

How much time passed before he noticed? How long have you been here together?

You’ve promised him, time and again, that you both have friends that are looking for you, that they will find you.

He takes your hands gently before you can dig your fingers into the gruel he’s brought you. Something about it makes him angry.

It's because you deserve better, better than this and better than him.

There’s something about you, something that makes him sick with longing. When he isn’t with you and the man you call Bucky scratches to the surface of the ocean inside him, he wants to howl, rip the world apart just to get to you, just to feel your hand against his hair.

Soulmate, something inside him screams. Maybe the agents are right.

The thought darts away from him like a fish through water.

You pause, a momentary flash of fear in your eyes as your gaze locks on his fingers around your wrist.

You should not be afraid of him, he thinks. He would never hurt you.

He sets the plate in front of your place on the cot and takes the chair next to your bedside. This room is better, if only because there is no exam table. He’s glad you haven’t been back in the room with the metal table.

“I will only eat from your plate,” he tells you, hoping you understand, that you hear the apology in his voice. “And you will always have the first bite.”

You blink at him, emotion swirling in your gaze. Tears web your lashes and so he hastens to explain. Maybe you did not understand. “I won’t let you be hungry again.”

You lean close and press your hands to his cheeks. He would do anything to remember your name. It comes in flashes, like the word soulmate, when the other side of him sinks to the surface.

The soldier knows that you’re there because of him. That it's his fault that you -

You say his name. It's easy in your mouth, like your tongue was made to fit the shape of his name.

At least this time, he knows his name.

“Bucky,” you whisper. “I love you. Somewhere inside you, you know that. Somewhere inside you, you know me. I would gladly starve for you. Thank you.”

The soldier nuzzles your hand, not sure that he should reply, and grateful for the hand that had removed the mask besides. A mask that he’s not been forced back into.

Not yet.

When you only hold him and stroke his skin, he pulls away, takes the spoon and lifts the food (some kind of potato, he thinks) to your mouth. “Eat.”

Your voice cracks when you say, “And what if I think you should always have the first bite?”

He grunts.

Stupid.

He would never. And he doesn’t deserve it besides.

“Eat.”

You part your lips and let him spoon it into your mouth before you take the utensil from his hand and eat your fill.

The soldier watches, sure he would never feel hunger again if he could just keep looking at you. A spot of color at the end of a dark tunnel.

While you eat, he takes his allowance of your skin, brushing reverent fingers along your thighs and calves, along your belly when you let him push his hand inside your shirt. He traces the knot of your spine, the curve of your hip.

Your muscles tense beneath his fingers, your nerves alight with a tension he recognizes.

He starts to remove his touch from you. He needs you to focus on eating now, not his hands on your body. He cannot take anymore from you.

But you lean forward and press one hand over his, keeping his flesh against yours, keeping his hand against your belly.

“Bucky,” your voice is soft against him, lips moving against the shell of his ear. “Please eat, honey.”

He takes the spoon from your fingers and assesses the plate, deciding if you’ve had enough. He doesn’t think that you have but knows somehow that he won’t convince you to have more.

Your hands move to his hair, smoothing back the strands that have again grown a little long. The soldier, Bucky - Bucky, he’s Bucky - leans against your hip, lets you loop an arm around his shoulders. “Have they sent you on a mission?” He shakes his head, removing his hand from your stomach to trace a finger down the back of your knee.

That part of you is so soft, and he has a memory of kissing you there. He has a memory of being in a bed, a real bed with pillows and blankets and sheets, with sunshine dripping through the windows and a warm breeze sliding along his skin. He remembers tasting the salty shore of you, of kissing the back of your knee and thigh, the curve of your ass and the base of your spine before he spread you open and -

“Bucky,” you hesitate. You make a point to say his name to him often. He loves that about you. “Were you the one that took me?”

He starts and looks away from your knee.

He had slipped his tongue inside you, tasted the essence of you.

“I was there,” Bucky says, his palm flat against the crease of your knee, his brow furrowed, trying not to think about his tongue on your pussy and instead on the day you were brought to the facility.

He had forgotten he had been there. He remembers you falling from your chair, desk littered with discarded tissues and he had known that you had been crying. “They made me go - I didn’t want them to hurt you.”

You nod. “I know you didn’t,” you press your fingers over his shoulder and up his neck, against the soft place behind his ear.

“I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have let them.”

“They don’t really give you choices here, sweetheart.”

He nods, because it's true and you seem to understand.

You help him out of the gear he wears when he finishes eating and then bundle him up close to you, pulling him down against you on the cot.

He tilts his head under your chin and lets you cradle your arms around his head, a nice dark cocoon. Bucky draws your leg over his hip, slides his hand up your spine to rest his palm at the base of your neck.

You’re so close and yet not close enough. He wishes he could live inside you, burrow under your skin.

He wonders if you’d let him fuck you now. He’d do it soft and slow, so you could know without him saying how much he feels.

There’s a memory at the edge of his consciousness, of you naked against him, around him. He knows your lips are sweet like honey wine but he has to wonder what you taste like between your thighs.

He knew before, before he’d been taken from another, ever impermanent, home.

It’s what he dreams about, his head between your thighs.

He knows when you want him too, he can smell the musky want of you, beneath your usual smell of sea salt and windblown shores.

You’ve stopped smelling of blood, and that he’s grateful for. The wounds that had littered you recently had been allowed to heal completely and so you only smell of the sea, like salt and sun on the sand, like lavender and aloe.

Whatever you taste of, he doesn’t deserve to know again.

You’re pressed tight against him and he wants you so bad he can feel the ache of need for you in his bones.

Soulmate, comes the whisper again.

He lets his hand drift down your back, listens for the little hitch in your breathing. The soldier squeezes your ass and you press back into his touch.

He cups the back of your thigh, fingers pushing between your legs, nipping gently at your throat, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of you swallowing against his touch, the path of the breath in your lungs. Bucky stills then and waits, waits for you to tell him to stop, that you do not want this.

“I won’t,” you say. “I want it. I want you. I always want you.”

He presses his teeth against your skin, until it breaks and blooms and you groan, before he moves his fingers upwards to the bottom curve of your ass and pushes aside the thin linen shorts you wear.

Your skin is chilled but your pussy is wet, warm.

He wishes he could see the glistening folds but settles for sinking his teeth into your shoulder as he slips a finger inside your heat.

You groan quietly and buck your hips against his leg.

“Go ahead,” he says quietly. “Take what you want.”

~

All you can feel is his breath against your skin, his fingers between your legs, slipping against you. Your neck smarts from the bite of his teeth but you relish the gentle pain.

You want him to do it again, to mark you out as his.

You try to steady yourself, releasing your arms around his head so you cup his face between your palms, look into cerulean eyes that, in this moment, know you.

Bucky knows all of you in this moment.

He brought you food.

You’ve been so fucking hungry but as long as Bucky had been satisfied the agents that came and went hadn’t cared much about you, only bringing enough to keep you alive.

It feels wrong to want him so badly in this place.

But you think maybe he wants you just as desperately, needs the solace of your body just as much.

And it's the only time that despair doesn’t rule your mind, that you can think of nothing else but him and you.

You move your hips slowly, drawing out the sensation of his hand against your heat. You feel a second finger dip inside you and stretch you open.

“I’m so sorry,” you hear him grumble, the soldier’s voice crackling in your ear.

But you can only bury your nose in his shoulder and grip him tight, fighting the urge to cry out. You know they must be watching you but you won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing you too.

There will be a punishment for you for this.

Bucky doesn’t know that they do.

That every time he finds peace in you, you are punished for it.

You make him feel too much, the agents say.

You wonder what they do to him, what new conditioning they’re experimenting with that split his mind in two. He’s not the warm winter sun of your Bucky, but neither is he the desolate forested silence of the Winter Soldier.

It's like they put both in a blender and this is the concoction that it spit out.

Maybe he remembers the soul of you. Maybe it was not possible to forget your soulmate entirely. Maybe that’s why he knows you day after day.

He’s not yours, this man you lie with, who presses his fingers deep inside you and urges you to grind against him. He touches the spot inside you that makes you go blind with pleasure, stroking gently, never stopping as you buck your hips against the canvas pants of his thigh, the texture heavenly against your cunt through your thin shorts.

Does he remember you or is your body muscle memory for him?

Both options make you want to cry.

The asset, you’re thankful, loves you too, though in a different way.

The soldier tells you strangely romantic things, like how he would only eat after you and from the same plate.

The winter soldier takes from you too and you don’t mind. You don’t mind that he has come to you and taken you. That this is not the first time he’s touched you here, fucked you here.

You haven’t said no, but you feel that you can.

The soldier listens to you in a way that is obedience - like you were master of his soul - and reverence - like you were owner of his heart. Bucky listens to you in a way that speaks of wonderment, that you were here and his.

Bucky holds you softly and presses his fingers between your thighs, taking nothing for himself. Bucky said things like I’m sorry though you don’t know what he’s sorry for.

Bucky notices when there are cruelties done to you that he isn’t around to witness.

But Bucky is so often not present.

So often, you only have half of him.

You grind your hips against his thigh more urgently when he removes his hand from you before you can come, shaking at the pleasure he almost gave you. He holds you hard, whispering in your ear things you can’t make yourself understand, something about sea salt and sunshine.

“You’re so strong,” you hear. “You will make it out of here.”

He guides you against his leg and when your orgasm washes over you, you bite into his shoulder to keep from crying out. You taste blood and he groans.

You hope you’ve marked him as he’s marked you. He is yours and no one will take him from you.

“‘S okay, honey,” you hear him murmur against your temple, and you know it's mostly Bucky there with you. You sigh, empty and still aching. You want more of him, you want him to press you back into the flimsy cot and fill you, to make you forget about your reality.

You want him to press his fingers over your throat and kiss you until you go blind with pleasure.

His hand trails up your hip and over your side, and his lips land on yours. He must taste his own blood because he pulls back with a ragged breath and says, “What are they doing to you?”

“Nothing,” you kiss a path from his chin, along his jaw, to the shell of his ear. You can’t tell him now, can’t remember the pain of the beatings, of your own form of training - to learn how to handle the soldier, to point a gun at him.

You won’t do it, you can’t, the very essence of you rebels against hurting him, against forcing him to do something against his will.

He didn’t need to know, not now.

“Bucky,” you breathe into his ear. “It doesn’t matter what they do to me. We need to find a way out. I know you can hold on, sweetheart. I know you can. Hold on to yourself. That’s the way we can leave. Hold on to me, hold on to us -,”

He kisses you again, his mouth heavy against yours. “I’ll find a way.”

~

Some days, Bucky is a rage unto himself.

Some days, he is all barren tundra and harsh winds.

He storms into your cell like a blizzard, like an arctic gale.

Blood is spattered on his face, his teeth are stained red with violence. You don’t have time to even whisper his name, to ask about the purple bruise across the bridge of his nose.

The soldier hauls you up to kiss you hard, arms like iron around you, holding you to the cold leather of him.

His hand cups over your breast, kneading the supple flesh until it’s painful, until it hurts, but you don’t mind because it means he’s there with you. He pinches your nipple between his fingers, so harshly you yelp but he just turns you, bends you over the end of the cot.

You hear the snap and clink of his belt buckle coming undone.

And then nothing.

You can’t even hear him breathing.

He leans over you, his body heavy against yours, and pushes your face into the mattress, his hand firm against the back of your neck. You turn your head so you can see him, eyes tracking the bruise on his jaw, the blood pooling against his top lip from his nose. His other arm curves around your waist, holding you fast.

There’s a panic in his eyes that you don’t recognize in him, either parts of him. He presses his nose to your temple and inhales, his breath shaky.

“Buck?” you wriggle one arm from under your body and reach back to touch his wrist. “What-?”

But he doesn’t let you say more, ask what happened.

He captures your lips in a brutal kiss.

It's more bite than kiss, bruising in its intensity. Bucky’s hand tightens against the back of your neck, tongue slipping past your lips, licking along your teeth.

He smells like spiced sunshine, like hardwon blood.

So many wants swirl inside you. You want to live inside the smell of him against you, you want to sit up and gently hold a tissue to his nose, you want to stitch the cut on his forehead, you want him to fuck you until you can’t breathe, until you forget your name.

You are dizzy with his presence, with the intensity of him, the hot blooded desperation cutting through you.

How did anyone think soulmates weren’t real? How could anyone believe anything this intense could ever just be a connection?

Underneath the sunshine smell of him, is the cool calmness of a forest before a storm, quiet with an unseen rage, with the heart to weather what may come.

When he finally pulls back, you taste blood, a string of saliva connecting your lips for a moment before it falls away. His eyes are hooded, mouth bruised, and you think no one has ever looked more beautiful.

He looks into the core of you, his eyes intense and bright, the iris swallowed by darkness.

“Mine,” he says and you know something horrible must have happened, that he must have thought you’d be taken from him. His possessiveness is like a tide, it pushed and pulled and destroyed when threatened. “You are mine alone.”

You push yourself back against him, until you feel the hard length of his cock against your thigh. “Yours,” you agree, something inside you fluttering and falling away, your last shed of control given up. You close your eyes and float away from yourself, warm and safe, because your soulmate is with you, because Bucky is there and the hand against your neck is not harsh, only demanding and possessive. “I want you,” you say. “It’s okay. I’m yours.”

The arm around your waist, cold metal warmed by your skin moves, a hand trailing upwards to touch your tits again, to squeeze and pinch. You groan and wish you could touch him, that he would let you have more than your fingers curled around his wrist. He runs one finger beneath the band of your shorts and tugs them down your thighs.

He goes silent again, and you know he’s looking at you, at the wetness of your cunt. You shiver and shift your thighs, opening yourself up to him. His hand rubs across your lower back and over your ass, squeezing and kneading before he slips a finger through your folds.

You hear more than see him lift his hand to his mouth, suck the slick of you from his finger.

Knowing he wanted to taste you, only makes you shiver, your eyes flutter back, your mind disconnect.

Mine, your brain echoes his words. Mine, mine, mine.

Bucky keeps his flesh hand against the back of your neck as he pushes into you. Your muscles burn but you stay quiet.

His hips snap forward against yours and you are lost.

Lost in the ocean warmth of him, of the hard lines of his bruised body.

He tugs you up, your back against his chest, damp skin pressed to yours. You tug your shirt off quickly when he impatiently tugs at it. Bucky loops one arm through your elbows when he pulls your arms back, his other hand slipping forward to cup your throat.

You’re confronted with the image of him fucking you in the mirror set into the wall across the room.

He’s been rougher with you, harder, in the months you’ve been stuck here.

But this is the first time you’ve seen it. The first time you’ve had to watch.

It’s heavenly, the breath in your lungs breaks. Staticked pleasure shivers up your spine, pussy spasming around him.

“Mine,” he says, meeting your eyes in the mirror, voice a growl. You reach up and cover his hand, flesh against flesh, and nod.

“I’m yours. Only yours.”

He slows then, the frantic pace of his hips slowing until he stops, still inside you. Bucky stares at the mirror, at the two of you framed there together, and then pulls away from you, lowers you to the cot.

When you roll onto your back to look up at him, he sinks to his knees, presses his mouth to the side of your knee, the inner flesh of your thigh, the scar on your hip. It's surprisingly gentle, and it reminds you of the times Bucky comes back to you, fully aware of himself.

You reach between your bodies, your fingertips brush his cock. You want to stroke him slowly, feel him in your hand, the weight and warmth.

But he pushes your hand away.

Instead, he kisses your forehead, the tips of your curled fingers, before he pulls back to tilt your hips up and fold your legs over his. When he pushes back into you the slide is easier. He buries himself inside you, the ache of emptiness he left subsiding. Bucky makes you feel so full, so full you could cry, so full you can feel him everywhere, your belly and lungs and throat. Like you were puzzle pieces being fitted back together.

Bucky goes slow then, let’s you feel the length of him. You cradle his face for a moment, stroking his cheeks before he takes your hands and holds them against the mattress above your head with one of his.

Something in you sinks just a little bit - because your touch has never been rebuffed and now it had been twice within the space of a few minutes.

Bucky lowers his head to your chest, nipping at the skin of your breasts until your nipples pebble and harden. His breath is hot against you, his lips soft when they close over the pert bud.

You come around him when he pulls back and readjusts the angle of his hips, hitting something deep inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back. He presses a delicate fluttering kiss to the hollow of your throat as he swirls his hips against yours, prolonging the pleasure lighting up your veins.

You turn your head and bite his forearm, determined to leave a mark on him, touch him in some way since he won’t allow your hands on him.

He comes inside you moments later, pumps you full before he lets your hands go, his mouth moving swiftly from your neck to your mouth.

A litter of kisses are pressed there, delicate fluttering kisses, like gently wrapped apologies.

You close your eyes and carefully circle your arms around his neck, hoping that he won’t pull away again and break your heart. When he doesn’t you massage the hinge of his jaw carefully with your thumb, his forehead against yours.

You wish you could stay like this.

But the door never shut behind Bucky and you know something is wrong.

Bucky doesn’t forget about the door for long.

He looks confused, wounded almost, as you look up at him. “Bucky? Honey, what happened?”

His eyes are dark blue, the pupil nearly swallowing the shade.

“You’re my soulmate,” he says, and you have the sudden urge to cover yourself, like someone has unexpectedly exposed you. His voice is wooden, a carefully carved shell.

You want to shrink away from him with embarrassment, like he’s accused you of something horrible.

Part of you wants to cry, at finally hearing him say it, knowing that he believes in soulmates too. But you can’t find it in yourself to be happy, because he looks like despair incarnate, like it was disappointing to find out.

“I-,”

“I killed them.”

That gives you pause, lets you change tracks from the devastation ripping through you. “Who?”

“All of them. They said…they said you weren’t needed anymore. They were going to-,” he can’t seem to bring himself to continue, a nerve jumping in his cheek when he clenches his jaw, so hard you ready yourself for the bone to split. You track your thumb over his mouth, flakes of dried blood fluttering away, until he relaxes the tension. “They can’t have you. You’re mine. Mine and his and ours. Mine. They can’t have you.”

“I’m here,” you say softly. “I’m yours.”

“No,” he says harshly, abruptly pulling out of you and away. You feel empty, abandoned, like you did something wrong. “We need to leave.”

You nod and he doesn’t look at you as you stand and dress and then wait.

There’s nothing to clean yourself up with and the feeling between your legs makes you feel dirty, used.

“Shoes,” he says, staring at your bare toes, anywhere but at your face.

“I don’t have shoes,” you say quietly.

He grits his teeth, the muscle jumping in his jaw again, before he toes off his own boots. “No-,” you start but the look he levels at you tells you there isn’t time to argue.

So, you slip your feet into his shoes and follow him out the door.

No alarms sound.

The corridors are strangely silent.

He couldn’t have killed everyone.

Could he have?

You hope he did, and you don’t flinch at the bodies you pass.

His back is straight and stiff, there is blood under your nails from touching him.

After turning several corridors, he pulls open a door and retrieves a duffle bag, another pair of boots, and two coats. They’re clearly things he’d hidden there, though when he had done that you can’t imagine.

You feel stupid, useless, like you’ve done nothing to help yourself out of the situation.

But you were so fucking tired.

You were beaten in training all day, terrorized in interogations, and then Bucky came to you.

And you needed those moments, that time to clean him and yourself up, to feel the bond between you strengthen, to patch his wounds, and to let him inside you.

After that, you were exhausted. You couldn’t do anything other than sleep.

You should have been more proactive.

Were you just waiting to be rescued?

Maybe he resents you for that. Maybe he’s realizing what a poor lot he’s been stuck with in having you.

He still doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch you zip yourself into the coat, though he tugs the hood over your head and frowns at your bare legs. You exchange shoes though for some reason it makes you want to cry, you wish you could keep his boots.

You stumble after him, down so many corridors you lose track.

“Where are we going?”

“Safe house.”

You’re afraid to ask whose safe house.

Surely not Hydra’s you think as you step over a body, the bruises on your ribs aching.

It feels like you walk forever, and though Bucky pauses a few times for you to catch up to him, he does not touch you, he doesn’t speak to you.

Finally, you turn a corner, he opens a door, and you see sunshine for the first time in months, bright light glinting off snow.

~

Your fingers are still trembling, hours after having made it to the safe house.

Bucky is in the small kitchen, fiddling with a comm. You’d already sent out a signal but an incoming storm meant you’d be in the cabin at least overnight. And although you know the transmission has been received, Bucky still went on messing with the radio, trying to communicate directly with someone.

He seems to have mostly come back to himself, though his memories are still a bit scrambled. You think they probably didn’t get a chance today to inject him with whatever erased part of him.

You still aren’t sure where you are.

You suppose it doesn’t matter.

Halfway to the cabin, you’d collapsed from the cold, from the biting winds against your legs.

Bucky had carried you, but set you down as soon as you arrived.

There’s a fire in the grate next to you and though you’ve warmed, you can’t stop shaking.

Which makes cleaning your cuts and bruises harder than it needed to be. You don’t even feel dizzy at the sight of your own blood anymore, having gotten used to the idea of it being outside you more than inside.

But you can’t understand what’s wrong with you. You hadn’t shaken like this in the jaws of that place, hadn’t shaken like this when a gun was held to your head, when you’d had to watch Bucky follow orders he wouldn’t remember receiving.

But Bucky won’t touch you.

You still feel sticky, with sweat, and come between your legs.

A vine of worry circles your heart, squeezes until you feel tears on your cheeks.

You miss living in the shadow of a winter sun.

He was determined not to even look at you, after fucking you senseless, after surviving hell together.

You give up on the poor bandaging job you’re doing and stand, sore muscles protesting. The feeling of the dirt on your skin is piercing, like you should claw your own skin off to make the sensation go away.

As you stand, the floorboard beneath you creaks.

Bucky appears in the doorway instantly, frowning. “Sit,” he commands. “You’re still shivering.”

But you can’t feel the flames.

You can’t really feel anything.

There’s nothing left inside you but the mistakes you’ve made, the heart you’ve lost.

He hates you, he must.

But you’d do it all again. You regret nothing.

The emptiness in his voice when he said you’re my soulmate haunts you, stalks you, won’t stop echoing in your mind.

You shake your head. “I’m not cold.” His head tilts to the side, waiting for you to continue. “I need to shower.”

A stillness passes between you before he nods and leads you down a short hallway to a bathroom. He turns on the shower and holds his flesh hand in the spray, waiting for warmth. “I’m sorry,” Bucky says to the water, “I should have realized.”

You don’t ask what, just stand with your arms around yourself, holding the pieces of yourself together. Carefully, you move closer, craving his nearness, the scent of spring water.

He turns and catches you moving closer.

His lips part, like he means to say something, but he only swallows and turns away, walks toward the door.

You almost hold it in, the question at the back of your throat. “Is it over?”

Bucky pauses in the doorway, “What?”

“Us. Did I ruin it all? I tried so hard not to say what we are. I knew somewhere inside me that you wouldn’t like it. I would do anything to keep you safe. I’m glad they’re all dead. If you hadn’t done it, I would have. I would be worse.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide when he turns back to you.

“But I was so useless while we were there. I didn’t do anything but wait. Wait for someone else to-,” you stop, press your fist to your mouth. “And now you know and now you hate me. You’re my heart and you hate me. I tried. To keep it from you and to protect you. You have to believe me.”

There’s another long pause before he crosses the room and sinks to his knees before you, takes your hands in his, kisses the cuts littering your fingers.

“No. Never.” He breathes into you and you can’t take not being beside him any longer so you drop down too, press your nose to his neck, scenting the rain and blood and life of him, storm clouds and city grates and snow, lavender and aloe. “God, no, sweetheart.”

Bucky sits back, curls you into him, cradles you close. “It’s my fault you ended up there. You did everything you could. You did protect me. I don’t remember everything but I remember you refusing them when you could. I remember you fighting.”

You feel him swallow against you, “I think I always knew we were soulmates. But hearing them say it, and then say that they would take you away from me. I couldn’t…you deserve better. But you’re mine. I should have done a better job of protecting you.”

“You did,” you murmur, caressing any part of him you can reach, now that he’s letting you touch him. “You protected me. You’re mine too.”

He nods, stands and tugs you up with him. He adjusts the temperature of the water and you both step in together. You wash together, scrub until all traces of that place are gone.

“Are you disappointed it’s me?”

“No. Never. I always knew too. I was afraid to say it, it's not something you really say.”

You despair to see his chest littered with blotches of bruises. You clean the cuts on his face, clear him of dried blood.

Your anger returns, the one that would like to burn down the world that hurt him.

“Next time,” he tells you, “stand down. You don’t need to fight everyone.”

“Yes,” you snarl, “I do. If they lay a hand on you I do.”

Maybe he smiles at that, that you’d throw yourself at anyone that tried to hurt him.

He kisses down your body, over your breasts and belly and hips, until he reaches your pussy. He murmurs apologies into your skin, grips your ass in his hand when he presses his tongue though you folds, encouraging you to press one leg over his shoulder, to open yourself to him. You curl your fingers through his hair, tugging gently.

Bucky groans when he tastes you, like you are nectar, honey, the fountain of life.

You shake with the gentleness with which he destroys you. You come when he murmurs soulmate into you.

They’re real and you’re mine. Me and you are proof.

You believe him. You’ve always believed it yourself.

~

The electricity goes out that night.

You make a nest of blankets on the bed, you sleep naked beneath them, skin to skin for warmth.

You are engulfed by him, smothered in the smell of him - lightning and rain and forests and soil and all.

Bucky licks the sweat from your neck because it’s a bit too warm under the blankets but neither of you move. He kisses you like he’s never gotten the chance to do it properly before, slow and cautious, his hand groping your chest and ass.

He lets you stroke his cock, and only comes when you bite him hard enough to leave a mark on his neck.

You sleep deeply, safe for the first time in months, without the threat of him being dragged away.

You only wake the next day when the front door opens and an avenger calls out to you, relief in the cacophony of voices in the living room.

“You’ll have to explain. My brain is a bit-,”

“I know.”

“I never forgot you.” He looks at you intensely, it’s important you know.

You nod. “I don’t think it’s possible to forget your soulmate.”

But friend, lab assistant, overly watchful co-worker will do too. If he can remain in your life, it's good enough for him. Bucky hopes for a more that he doesn’t deserve, and slowly, over years, more grows until it blooms love.

It’s how he discovers the give of your skin against his teeth is like the bruise of a peach, soft and tart.

It’s how he discovers your love, all of your love, is like golden light. Like a shining beacon to follow home.

It’s how he discovers he doesn’t quite mind being cared about, not if it's you, not if he’s allowed to tip it back to you, like a torch passed back and forth by children in the dark.

Your love goes down easy, like ice cream melting at the back of his throat on a hot day. It's uncomplicated, not like every other relationship he has to form and reform, shadowed by past deeds, Natasha and Steve, Sam and Tony.

He offers up his soul to you, and you pluck it out of the palm of his hand and examine it, before slipping it onto your finger like a ring.

Bucky is entirely yours.

He loves you more than he should, more than he should be allowed to.

He’s desperate and co-dependent and utterly in love.

And you don’t seem to mind at all.

Bucky starts wondering about your future, about your future together, about a house and some pets. About finding a real ring to give you and not just the imagined, misshapen rock of his soul.

Of course, when things go too well, the harder the descent is into hell, the harder the fall from grace.

Normally, usually, when the team goes on a mission, you stay back at base, at the Compound where you are safe and secure and protected. You are not an Avenger, you are Avenger adjacent. An intel analyst.

Still. You are close enough to bleed and hurt, still close enough to fall into Bucky’s toxic orbit, close enough for his being to swallow yours entirely.

But Natasha was unavailable, out on another assignment, and the threat level for this mission was supposed to be relatively low.

So, you had offered yourself up. Shiny and new, like the brass of a new minted penny. Like you weren’t all the fortunes in the world shuffled into the deck of one person.

Like you weren’t Bucky’s whole world. Like the planet of his being, the core of him, wouldn’t fall out of the sky if the universe of you suddenly dropped out of existence.

“I’m trained,” had been your only refrain, a gentle reminder to him that you were not as breakable and fragile as Bucky sometimes liked to believe. He knows that you’re not, that you are anything but breakable and fragile.

But the world so liked to rip and tear and take.

It liked most of all to rip and tear and take from him.

Bucky has never been a keeper of good things. They’re always taken from him, right when his damnably loyal heart finished stitching itself inside a new home, right when he thought this time it will be different. The world smiled and rubbed its hands together. Jackpot. There was no greater prize, no greater tragedy, than one soaked in love and loyalty and crushable hearts.

You had touched his cheek with fingers so soft he’d wanted to take a bite of you. “I’m trained,” you had repeated. “And most integrated with the team already. It will be fine.”

Steve had nodded, making the change on the tablet in front of him. “Y/N is right. You shouldn’t encounter any hostiles. Intel gathering only.”

Bucky had shot Steve a look, but said nothing.

It was like no one realized. That if something, anything, happened to you, he would shatter into a million pieces, that he would follow you into the ether, that his heart couldn’t be torn apart again. He simply wouldn’t survive it. It had been stitched together too many times.

This was his last heart and unfortunately for him, he had already given it to you.

But the mission goes fine. It’s so, so fine.

Until it isn’t.

He’s shuffling through a stack of papers in an abandoned lab when you open a drawer on the other side of the room. Just a drawer, nothing to indicate what might be inside. You’re clearing the lab together, because his stipulation to not having a meltdown about your inclusion in the mission was that you should not be separated.

Before boarding the jet he’d been staring at you silently, brooding and moody and a little mad. You had had a fond look in your eyes when you smoothed your thumb against the worried crease between his brows. “It’s going to be fine, Bucky.” He had nodded through the bad feeling clawing at the back of his throat and you had smiled.

A nasty blue vapor blows into your face. You splutter and wipe a hand across your nose and eyes, shaking your head to clear it away.

Bucky says your name, leaps across the room.

But how can he fight smoke? This is not the kind of danger he expected.

His hand on your arm, ready to catch you if you suddenly fall.

But you only sneeze, an adorable little squeak. “What was that?” You ask, rubbing your nose.

He grips your chin in his hand and turns your head to peer into your eyes but they’re clear and open as they always are.

“Dunno,” he allows for a little relief to seep between his bones, shoulders loosening as he releases your chin. You seem completely fine. You seem to shake it off. “We need to find out though. We have enough intel. Let’s go.” He presses the hard drive you had secured earlier into your hands.

His voice is gruffer than usual, demanding. Bucky presses a hand to your hip and gives you a gentle but firm shove toward the door. “Now.”

But you just smile, turn and touch the inside of his wrist where a sliver of skin peaks out between glove and sleeve. “I’m fine. It was probably nothing. Maybe just a lot of dust.”

Dust, Bucky thinks, is not a poisonous, neon blue. But he lies to himself because it’s easier, he lies to you because he can see just a hint of worry shining in your eyes. “Probably, doll.” He snags a box of files from the desk as you trundle out the door and into the hall. He swabs the inside of the drawer, where a mist of blue rings the edge, and drops it into one of the discarded sample collection tubes.

He finds you in the hall and guides you out of the dank underground lab, and when you get back to the compound and report what happened, you’re whisked away from him, swept to the medical wing and quarantined, blood drawn and tested.

The files and hard drive and collection sample are handed over to the rest of the intel team, to Stark and Banner.

Your blood tests come back normal. You joke with the medical staff and laugh like you always do, like a honey bee buzzing in his ear on a hot summer day, as he paces around the room. You seem totally and completely fine.

The only thing they can do, it seems, is wait. Wait and see if something happens.

Testing the blue vapor will take a little more time, he’s told.

So, you’re prescribed a night in bed, with Bucky as a jailer to monitor you. No one, it's reasoned, would look after you better, would notice something sooner, should something happen.

Bucky tucks you close in your shared bed, after, of course, a shower and dinner. He makes tea and hands you a bucket sized bowl of popcorn. He turns on your favorite movie and tries not to think about the thread of fear that had settled in your eyes in the med wing.

He doesn’t like seeing you frightened, even a little bit. He doesn’t like not knowing how to comfort you, how to protect you. Bucky does not like feeling like his world is fragile, like everything might fall apart at the seams.

Maybe he’s being a tad dramatic.

But strange things follow him, follow all of the Avengers team, and his world has fallen apart enough times that he’s come to expect it.

You are by far Bucky’s best reality, the best iteration of his life.

You had smiled at Steve and Helen and Stark, but it had not reached your eyes. You were worried and trying not to show it. For his sake or theirs or your own, he’s not sure.

But when you looked at him the fear melted away, eased out of the tension in your face. Like looking at Bucky, knowing he was close was enough to bring you comfort, security.

So, he holds you tight as the credits roll, you’re breathing even and slow, already lost to the world of sleep. Bucky presses his nose to your neck and inhales slowly, lets the unfiltered, raw scent of your skin anchor him to the world, feels your heartbeat through his lips, counts the beats of your pulse.

Even in sleep you clutch him close, your fingers pressed against the knot of his spine, your leg tossed over his hip, nose dipped to the hollow of his collarbone.

He isn’t supposed to fall asleep, and he doesn’t mean to, honest, but he does. Bucky is warm and safe and so cocooned with love that he falls asleep in the glow of the TV screen and you.

You’re okay. The mission went fine, neither of you even had to draw a weapon. And now, you’re home and safe, and he’s home and safe.

It feels like any other night.

The blue vapor was nothing.

Something like vapor…

was harmless.

~

The next morning, it happens.

Fears he didn’t know he should harbor, realized.

The first time it happens, you’re both confused.

The first time the loop resets, Y/N stumbles out of bed, your movements jerky and uncoordinated.

Bucky’s first thought is nightmare. You’ve had a nightmare. About the mission, about whatever you had inhaled, about him.

His next thought is stupid. Bucky should not have allowed himself to fall asleep. He should have stayed vigilant for this very reason.

Nightmare.

The barely suppressed fear as you smiled after the blood tests came back normal, flash through his mind. You had been afraid, whether you admitted it or not.

Your hip smacks against the bedside table in a loud thump as you stumble, only stopping when you come face to face with the bedroom door.

The sheets are warm from the heat of you, soft with your detergent, fragrant with the smell of the vanilla and peach of your body wash, your lotion, like a well-loved little cake on a warm spring day, ingrained into the fabric. The scent of butter from the popcorn bowl left on the table overnight.

He sits up, mind groggy with a hard sleep, dreamless and deep. “Hey, y’okay? ‘S just a dream-,”

You whirl when you hear the shuffle and shush of the sheets, back pressed against the door.

The room is a faint blue from the TV, but slowly lightening as the sun peaks over the horizon outside, flooding the room with the first threads of pale golden light. You’re never up so early and Bucky’s usually up earlier.

But you’re already talking, nervously chattering, not listening to him. “-s’ sorry, dunno how I ended up in here.” A nervous chuckle, weak with confusion. “I don’t remember…don’t remember coming in here. I’ll head back to my room-,”

You start to turn but freeze, your hands fisted in the hem of your shirt, his shirt, that you’d stolen years ago. It’s your favorite of his.

“What the fuck?” you whisper under your breath, eyes flicking between him and the shirt, brows furrowed like you don’t recognize the material between your fingers.

“Your room?” Bucky asks, sliding his legs from the warmth of the duvet, bare feet hitting the floor. “Why would you go to your room?” You haven’t slept in your room in…years. It couldn’t properly be considered your room anymore. None of your things were there. Your room, this is your room. His and yours together.

You don’t answer, your hands traveling surreptitiously up your body, tugging something from the collar of your shirt.

His dog tags, which you hadn’t taken off since he looped them around your neck after a disastrous date that you still kissed him at the end of. Your smile had been blinding. So happy he couldn’t look at you. You had pressed a hand beneath his chin and tipped his head up, to kiss him, to bring your forehead to his and promise Bucky, I’ll never take them off.

A picnic. He had taken you on a picnic.

It had been summer and warm and your skin had been soft against his and he had believed you.

He trusts you like no one else.

You stare at them now as though you can’t make sense of the gleaming metal. You yank them over your head suddenly, the chain dangling between your fingers. You look as startled as he feels.

Something akin to panic is starting to rake over your features.

The hardwood is cold against his toes, a chill that slowly bleeds up, seeps between his ribs to fist over his heart.

Your fingers drift down again and touch the top of one of your bare thighs.

“Did we sleep together?”

You sound shocked, maybe angry. But it doesn’t seem to be directed at him. Like you’re mad at yourself.

Bucky starts to say your name but you continue, closing your fist over his name. “I can’t remember anything. Did I go out? I don’t normally drink that much I-,”

Can’t remember anything.

The words refuse to register in his mind.

Something is wrong.

“Y/N,” he interrupts. “No. Sweetheart, I think you had a-a dream or somethin’. Come back ta bed.”

But his words don’t seem to soothe you. Your back hits the door again and you look sick, confused.

“Bucky, I think,” you start slowly, setting his dog tags down on the dresser to your left, your hand shaking just a little bit. “I think you’re confused.”

“What?”

“Look, it's okay. I’m not mad. You-,”

“Catch me up here, Y/N. What are you saying? Just come back to bed, we can sort it out after we’ve gotten some more sleep.” He’s desperate suddenly, to have you back in bed. If he can just get you back in bed, curl around you, burrow himself into the fleshy realness of you, things will make sense again.

Because something is not making sense.

But his words just cause you to reach a hand behind you for the doorknob. “Look ‘m just gonna go grab Steve and we can sort this out now.” Before he can respond, you’ve wrenched the door open and darted through the apartment and out into the halls of the compound.

It takes him a minute to gather his bearings, to slip on a shirt and sweatpants, before following you.

He hears you before he sees you.

“-think he’s relapsed or something. He seems to think we’re together. I know he has memory issues but-,” You stop abruptly, he can hear you shifting from foot to foot nervously.

There’s a long pause before Steve says, incredulous, “Seems to think you’re together? What are you talking about?”

“I mean I’m wearing his shirt, Steve. He put his dog tags on me for god’s sake.” Bucky can’t breathe as he rounds the corner into the hallway of Steve’s room. He thinks he might throw up when he hears you continue, “Like he’s claimed me. I don’t blame him, I know he’s been through a lot but-,”

“If you’re fucking around this is a really cruel joke, Y/N,” Steve says, stern, almost pissed off.

“Joke?” You ask, your voice shrill and tipped with panic. “Why would I joke about this?”

Steve glances back at Bucky when he emerges into the hall and you whirl.

“Y/N,” Steve touches your shoulder gently and you relax just slightly, like you have an ally at your back. Bucky clenches his jaw, head still spinning.

Because you don’t seem to recognize him. At least not this him.

The him that’s wholly yours. The Bucky that shared a bed with you, that used your peach body wash, that loves you and is loved by you in spades, in return, beyond all reasonable comprehension.

Steve’s frowning at the two of you, at the way you hold yourself hard and straight, uncomfortable and tugging down Bucky’s shirt to hide yourself, to preserve some kind of modesty, like Bucky hasn’t already seen all of you. Steve is starting to realize something is wrong. His spine softens just slightly, tender suddenly, careful instead of indignant.

You weren't being cruel. You’re confused and upset.

And Bucky is realizing with a slow creeping dread that being forgotten is far worse than being remembered.

His guts knot in his belly, sick threatening to crawl up his throat with a sudden surety of realization.

You don’t fucking remember him.

“Y/N,” Steve continues, cupping your elbow with one hand. “You and Bucky have been together for years.”

Betrayal flashes through your eyes. “Are you guys fucking with me? This isn’t fucking funny you know.” But the pitch of your voice tells Bucky that you don’t think it’s a joke.

You jerk away from Steve, fear that he’s never seen in you twisting your features.

He realizes he's never seen you truly afraid.

“We aren’t-,”

“Where’s Natasha?” You ask, pressing your back to the wall opposite Steve’s door, like you can’t trust either of them and desperately need an ally.

Your chest is falling and sinking rapidly.

You saw horrors everyday combing through terabytes of intel, but this frightened you.

Because to you, one of your most trusted friends has suddenly turned on you, is lying to you, gaslighting you, has seemingly given you up to his psychotic best friend.

But Steve seems to realize somehow, waving Bucky back as he takes a few steps back himself. “She’s still out on assignment.”

Your eyes are dilated with a fear that makes Bucky’s stomach curdle. To have a fear like that from you turned on him, is too much.

You’ve never looked at him like that, like he’s a feral dog about to bite.

“That’s not true,” you reply, voice a shake, like the last leaf from a tree. “We had drinks in the kitchen. I was telling her about-,” you stop yourself, eyes cutting to Bucky for a moment. “I saw her today before I went to bed,” you swallow. “In my room,” you add, with an accusatory look between the two of them. Like they planned this. Like Bucky’s the enemy.

Bucky shakes his head and replies, stepping closer to you, “No. She’s been on a mission for weeks. It's why you were on the mission with me yesterday.”

You look back at Steve, disbelieving. “He’s not lying. Nat hasn’t been here for weeks.”

You look like you want to scream. Or fall to the floor. “Bucky isn’t cleared for missions, Steve. He just got here from Wakanda. You expect me to believe we went on a mission together yesterday?”

Wakanda? He hasn’t been to Wakanda in years.

Steve is watching you, you watch back. Waiting.

“What’s today’s date?”

Bucky glances at Steve as your brow furrows. “The vapor,” he realizes with sudden clarity. The vapor had done something to you. “Fuck.”

“What are you-,”

“Just humor us, Y/N.” When you only look at him with skepticism Steve rolls his eyes. “C’mon. Everything we’ve been through together over the years? You’ve been asked stranger questions.”

You swallow and glance between them, seeming to realize you aren’t in danger, that you never were.

Slowly you nod and then whisper a date years in the past.

Bucky’s mind whirls, trying to remember what-

It was before, of course. Because here is the universe taking its just reward, ripping the stitches out of his heart. He closes his eyes as the room seems to tilt and roll, and tries not to let the sudden yawning hopelessness pull him under.

It was before you started dating, before you were even friends.

The date you name, is maybe a few weeks after he first arrived in upstate New York.

Your reaction in the bedroom suddenly made sense. To you, you had just woken up with a complete and utter stranger. A mentally unstable, sometimes inadvertently violent, one at that.

Did we sleep together? The anger in your voice for yourself, the possibility you’d taken advantage of him when he was mentally unstable. Like you’d ruined something.

You don’t remember him. But it’s worse. You don’t even know him.

“C’mon,” Steve beckons you with a jerk of his head. “Let’s get you to medical. Stark and Banner should have a look at you.” And you follow easily, stepping into Steve’s orbit.

Because of course you would. You were friends with Steve long before Bucky had showed up, long before Steve had even known he was still alive.

You don’t glance back at him once, though he follows closely.

Forgotten.

Was this what it felt like to be the one who remembered?

He tries smiling at you in the lab, once your blood has been siphoned away again.

Steve explains the year to you, the mission and that you were compromised, that you seem to have lost your memory. Or that you've been set back in the past. You accept it, when Stark and Banner confirm, Helen Cho too when she steps into the lab, iced coffee in hand. Bucky listens on, quiet and watchful of you. Steve explains the vapor in more detail, what had happened to you in the lab.

“And you were in Bucky’s room because you and Buck have been together for a couple years now.”

The look on your face is worse than shock, it's like ice water in his veins.

Not revulsion, no, you had never been cruel, had never turned your nose up at anyone. It’s disbelief, like you can’t imagine it. Not even a little.

And while he had known, he really had, that you hadn’t felt an immediate attraction to him all those years ago. You look as though you can’t even perceive the possibility.

You send him a crooked smile, apology on your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

And how many times has he said that over the years?

The universe certainly did have a way with creating personal hells just for him.

“‘S okay, honey. We’ll get this sorted out.”

He doesn’t really believe it.

But you smile at him.

Like you always do.

~

You follow Bucky down the hallway back to your room.

It’s late now, nearing midnight.

A whole day spent in medical, in the lab. Now, he’s escorting you back to the apartment, so you can grab some of your things.

Clearly, you would be going back to your old room. You would sleep there.

Because Bucky is suddenly a strange man to you.

He doesn’t say anything to you, not wanting to frighten you further, even if it had been inadvertent. Not wanting to force you to interact with someone you barely know.

You surprise him though, like you always manage to do, by jogging to catch up with him. He slows his pace, so that you can walk together.

The scent of you washes over him, antiseptic from being in the lab all day, from being jabbed and having your blood drawn so many times. But underneath that, you still smell like you. Like peach body wash, the coppery tang of your blood, the fresh scent of unperfumed skin.

They’d drawn your blood so many times, you had started to become woozy. You hadn’t eaten anything since the popcorn the night before and they had taken so many vials from you.

You had been surprised at his outburst, when he snarled at lab assistant that you needed to eat couldn’t these fucking people see that?

You’d nodded at him, a tiny smile tugging at your lips, almost proud in your thanks.

“So me and you, huh?” You say now. He nods and tries not to mourn, tries not to let the pressure at the back of his eyes seize him.

He can’t look at you.

Already you feel lost to him.

They aren’t sure if your memories are gone or only hidden, if they could be retrieved or if the effects of the vapor could be reversed.

Hopefully analyzing the sample would yield something, reveal something helpful.

Something itches at the inside of his skin. The urge to bruise his knuckles against someone’s teeth, to bleed. So he can feel something else. A different kind of pain..

What would happen if your memory never returned? Would you fall in love with him again? Should you? Should he let you?

Steve slated the intel you collected yesterday as highest priority, maybe the information gathered would tell them something about what the defunct lab had been experimenting on, what it was that you had inhaled. If there’s hope, if there’s a way to reverse it, if it would go away on its own.

“Bucky?” You ask.

You.

You’re still here.

And hadn’t he been willing all those years ago to settle for any place in your life?

You were still here.

“Yeah. Sorry, sweetheart, I’m distracted.”

“Can’t imagine how hard this is for you if I…if we’re…”

You don’t seem to know what to call it. “Together?”

“Yeah. Together. I mean, last I know you just got here. You just got here from Wakanda and-,” you pause and seem embarrassed. “I’m sorry for how I reacted earlier.”

He shrugs.

Like it hadn’t hurt to see you rip off his dog tags like they burned you. Like the fear in your eyes hadn’t sliced through his ribs right into the meat of his heart.

But what else should you have been expected to think?

“It’s not your fault,” he says, gentle as he always is with you.

Bucky tells himself it doesn’t matter if you remember, he does.

He remembers all of you. He’ll show you himself again. You would know him again.

“Still,” you say.

He jumps when you press two fingers to the inside of his wrist.

It’s a comforting gesture between you and apparently one that had not been taken with your memory.

“Still,” your fingers curl against his skin, warm. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it was jarring.” You swallow. Bucky doesn’t dare look at you.

You fill every corner of his being. He’s constantly only aware of you, the slide of your skin against his, the scent of your hair when the smell of your shampoo fades, the scar along the curve of your elbow from a childhood injury.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, “you seem so much better than I remember you.” You duck your head embarrassed again. “Healthier. Not so weighed down. Like you sleep.”

He hadn’t realized you’d been watching him all day too.

“All thanks to you.”

“Seriously?” You lift a disbelieving eyebrow.

“And rigorous state mandated therapy and mental de-programming.” He says drolly.

You laugh and Bucky lets a smile curl the corner of his mouth. He glances at you and finds you already watching him.

“Oh you’re funny huh?”

“Not usually.”

You hum, “don’t think I would fall for someone without a sense of humor.”

“Yeah I’m sure it’s my sunshine personality that won you over,” he deadpans.

You laugh again, loud.

Bucky opens the front door, lets you pass before him. He watches your eyes rove over a space that should be familiar to you.

“Can I-?” You point to a kitchen cabinet, indicating you want to snoop around.

He almost laughs again.

“‘S all yours anyways, honey. You need somethin’ specific let me know and I’ll find it for you.”

“You’re very chill about all this.” You say shuffling through the mugs in the cabinet. Examining a hand painted one he had brought you back from Budapest back when you were still just friends.

Your eyes are wide as you turn it in your hands. He thinks he hears you murmur pretty under your breath before reshelving it.

He’s glad you still think so.

“I’d do just about anything for you. Including whatever this is. We’ll figure it out.” He’s not so sure, but he can’t say that. For him and for you.

“Oh,” you say, turning and pressing another mug to your chest. “This not casual then?” You joke, but something is fractured in your eyes and he remembers the disbelief on your face in the lab. Like you can’t imagine loving him. “This thing between us is pretty serious, huh?”

The mug has a peach on it. You bought it in a tourist trap shop in Georgia when a layover had stranded you in Savannah overnight.

His throat is tight. “I’d say so. You’re, uh, takin’ this in stride yourself.”

You shrug and look a bit sheepish, setting the cup back down on its shelf carefully before pulling open the fridge and glancing inside. “Well, to me…it's like nothing has changed. I don’t remember anything so there’s nothing to lose.”

Your head is still stuck in the fridge so you don’t see the way his breath hitches with pain, with loss. You don’t see the devastation rip across his face. Don’t mourn, he tells himself harshly. Y/N is still here.

But he means nothing to you. Like a total restart, a do over.

Was this the universe giving you a chance to make a different decision?

How many times had Bucky begged for a redo in his own life? Another chance to do things differently?

Only for you to be given one, in the worst way possible.

You turn, shutting the fridge and Bucky schools his face into a neutral expression. “I can look around? Maybe something here will jog my memories?” You point to the door that leads to the bedroom.

He thinks it’s a little more complicated than needing to jog memories but doesn’t say so.

“Like I said, it’s all yours.”

You start toward the bedroom but stop when he doesn’t follow.

“C’mon? Might need your help or something.”

Bucky follows, stepping into the bedroom, where the sheets are still rumpled and the TV still glows an iridescent blue.

You deftly click it off before flicking on the lamp. “Which side of the bed is mine?”

“Closest to the wall.”

“Ah, makes sense. Farthest from the door.” You smile at him and when you turn to your bedside table, Bucky slides his dog tags off the dresser beside the door and stuffs them into the pocket of his sweatpants. He doesn’t want to look at them, doesn’t want to think about the horror that had passed over your face when you realized what they were.

You didn’t know, he tells himself. The you that knows who he is, would never have had that reaction.

It still hurts, burns and sears. His chest is full of holes.

You rummage through the nightstand.

A bottle of painkillers, your glasses, a book, the long coil of your phone charger, a couple of foil wrapped condoms. Your fingers pause over the condoms before you slide them back into the drawer and pluck out the book instead.

You sit at the edge of the bed and flick through the pages quickly. The book is creased, sticky tabs lining the pages, notes in the margins. “I started reading again.” Your fingers pause, surprise coating your voice, “And annotating. I haven’t done that since high school.” Twisting to look over your shoulder at him, you hold up the book. “You must be a good influence on me, Barnes.”

Bucky shakes his head, “Dunno about that.” He sits at the edge of his side of the bed, watching you flip the book in your hands. “You - that was-,” he pauses, not sure why it's so hard to say. Maybe explaining your relationship to a person who can’t remember you is just painful. He licks his lips, finds his throat dry, and for the first time in years, he finds himself on the verge of a panic attack.

But he pushes on, pushes the hot, tight feeling in his chest down. After you left he would have to go to the gym, break his knuckles against a sandbag. He feels itchy, misplaced and unmoored, adrift. “- it was something that brought us together. When we were friends, becoming friends. We started reading together.”

He can’t decipher the look that crosses your face. Surprise, joy, despair in a quick succession. He blinks and it’s gone. Something like disbelief again. He doesn’t know what it means.

“Do we still read together?”

Instead of answering, he turns to his own nightstand and pulls out another book. This one too is beaten up, tabbed and written in, his script and yours tangling together.

His fingers brush against yours when he hands the book over. He fidgets, swallowing against the panic in his throat.

While you stare at the book, flicking gently through it with a reverence he doesn’t dare read into, he stands and shuffles through the closet to find your overnight bag.

“Bucky?” You call, his name on your lips like a balm. His shoulders droop, tension that had been puncturing wicked holes in his chest melting away.

“Yeah, doll?” He sits the bag on the bed.

“D’we read together a lot?”

“Almost every night.”

You nod and set the book aside before making your way to the bathroom.

Bucky has no way of deciphering what just happened, what it means to you, as the you from five years ago.

He hears the shower door open, hears you shuffling bottles around. He plucks some of your favorite pajamas (that aren’t just his shirts) and stuffs them into your bag, before trekking after you.

You’re holding two of the body washes, eyes flicking back and forth between them. He leans against the doorway and watches you, the tilt of your head, the curve of your mouth.

“I feel like I shouldn’t leave you,” you say suddenly, looking up from the bottles, holding them to your chest like it’s his heart. “I-I, y’know, don’t know you, but I think - my body does? I feel like I shouldn’t leave you.” You purse your lips, jaw tight, “I feel anxious.” You shake the bottles at him, “I also feel bad for taking your things.”

“‘S your stuff, Y/N,” he says automatically, deciding that’s the easiest part of your statement to focus on.

You don’t want to leave him.

Bucky shouldn’t find happiness in that, not now.

You peer at him from beneath your lashes before shuffling closer, seeming to sense he won’t tell you to stay, not after that morning and the fear in your eyes. “I changed my preferences I guess. Never used to buy fruit scented stuff.”

Bucky blinks and looks down at the plastic bottles in your hands. Peach and plum. He only ever remembers you having used - but that’s not true. When he first met you - when you started waiting for him in the mornings, making him take walks with you, when you started reading together on the couch, his thigh pressed to yours, you had smelled like tea, like cinnamon and vanilla.

“Musta changed -,”

You’ve drifted closer to him, you’re so close, he could dip his head forward and touch his forehead to yours.

It's painful.

That feeling comes back, and he recognizes it this time, the feeling he used to get all the time, like he needed to bleed, like he was losing something that he wouldn’t ever be able to replace.

You touch his wrist.

“Bucky?”

“You changed for me. I never wanted to change you.”

And god, he’s always associated you with fruit. You were peach trees and sunshine and eternal summer.

“‘s just body wash.”

But it's not. It never is.

You’re too close. Far too close.

You’re familiar to him but he’s not familiar to you. Bucky wants to kiss you but instead he looks away. “Maybe it's just body wash but, you liked something else before-,”

Maybe I’ve taken something from you, he wants to say. Maybe I’ve taken more than just this.

“Y’know, maybe I don’t have my memories of the last couple of years. But I do know myself. I’ve never done a thing I didn’t want to. Besides, if someone doesn’t change over a five year period, something is probably wrong.”

He ducks his head, “Guess that’s true, doll, I just -,” Bucky meets your eyes, wide and clear, waiting, “this is just really hard for me.”

“Think you’re doing okay.”

“Yeah?” He laughs without humor, “Not how it feels. It’s hard not to be -,”

“Familiar?” You supply.

“Yeah,” his shoulders drop.

“Then be familiar,” you smile. “I’m familiar to you. It’s okay.”

You're so close, he can see flecks of light in your eyes. “I have this weight in my chest telling me not to leave, telling me to be honest with you.” You say, “It's telling me to be familiar too.”

He closes his eyes. You’re doing it again. It’s like falling in love all over again. It’s like the first time he admitted himself, his feelings, to you all over again. The truths, honesties you whispered like a siren. Your call is as potent to him as any drug.

You’re heat in his cheeks, wind in his hair, honey bees in spring.

“I should trust my gut, right? Natasha would have castrated anyone that mistreated me, right?”

“Right,” he says tightly.

“Do you want me to go?” You start to take a step back, “Am I making it worse?”

Bucky reacts on instinct, hand flashing out to grab yours and keep you from pulling away.

He hasn’t touched you all day, your skin is warm and soft as it ever is under his. Like the give of satin beneath his touch. “No. No, you aren’t making it worse.”

Worse, worse is when you aren’t around.

And because you seem to be encouraging it, he tugs you closer and lets his forehead fall against yours.

You touch his cheek, sliding your thumb along the arch of the bone, the pink that rises to the surface of his skin. You exhale softly, shakily, your breath cool against his skin. He wonders what it's like for you, to have feelings in your gut that your brain can’t make sense of, doesn’t have memories to connect to.

Probably a lot like when Steve talks about their childhood to him.

“I want to tell you,” You say suddenly, pulling back a little to meet his eyes, “that you’re so different from the you I know. You’re…seems kinda silly to say maybe but, I’m proud of you. For me, y’know, a huge step was that yesterday you let me drag you out on a walk around the compound with me for fifteen minutes.”

He doesn’t say anything, can’t find his voice.

“How did we get together?”

That’s easy.

“We became friends,” Bucky says, tucking one of your hands inside his. “We were friends for a long time.”

“Did I ask you or did you ask me?”

“I asked you. Took you to Coney Island, bought you ice cream and won you a stuffed bear.”

“That’s so cute,” you giggle.

He’s glad you think so. “It was until I kissed you.”

You stop laughing. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask, indignant and offended for another version of yourself. “Am I a bad kisser?”

Bucky snorts, “No, nothing like that. Just, I guess I didn’t make it quite as clear as I thought that we were on a date.”

“Oh.”

“Mm.”

“So I was surprised? Good or bad surprised?”

“Good I would wager since you let me keep kissing you after you punched me.”

You gasp, “I didn’t.”

“You did,” He tries to hold in a laugh, “On my left arm so you nearly broke your knuckles. And we had to find someone to give you ice while I explained myself.”

What he doesn’t tell you is that there were fireworks that night. That you lied together on the beach that night in the still cooling sand and kissed him until the world went gray and foggy and peaceful.

You’re smiling at him, “Bucky can I stay here with you tonight? I have questions.”

His chest seems to cave in with the pain that ripples outward, like a stone into a pond. “‘Course. Like I said, it's all yours anyways.”

“What is?”

“Everything.”

~

The second time the loop resets, it's better for you.

It's worse for Bucky, because he finds out its a fucking loop.

He stays up all night with you, talking, sharing his best memories from the last five years with you.

You’re enamored with him. Bucky thinks you tell him things that he would have never known otherwise.

“I always had this fantasy as a nerdy little girl. Of, like, reading with someone, someone I really loved. Sounds so stupid, right? But, it’s true. I had this image of listening to someone read, or reading to someone.” You look over to the pile of books you had pulled off the shelves in the living room, all tabbed and worn and scribbled with your writing and his. “Guess I got it.”

Maybe he had made you change your body wash scents but he’d also made a wish he didn’t know you had come true.

Bucky hadn’t known, you’d never told him.

You only fall asleep on the couch once the sun starts to peak over the horizon.

Bucky tucks a favorite blanket of yours around your shoulders, kisses your temple, and even though things with you are going well, he still feels out of control, like his life is flashes he can’t control.

So, even though he’s exhausted and hasn’t slept, he changes into gym clothes, stops by the lab for a progress update (nothing on the sample yet), and heads to the gym.

The first solid punch he lands against a punching bag is so satisfying he almost groans. His mind empties, the only thing he needs to focus on is the swaying bag in front of him.

Bucky doesn’t have to think about you. About you fascinated by him, trying to relearn him, even though you know everything about him already. He doesn’t have to think about you inching closer to him on the couch.

He doesn’t have to think about how he misses you so bad, the you that knows him, and it’s only been a day.

It all becomes worse, though, when Steve rushes into the gym. “Y/N reset.”

“What? What the fuck does that mean?”

“I mean…Y/N came into the lab and had no idea what was going on.” He explains that he had asked you the date again, and that you had answered with the same date you gave yesterday. When questioned, you did not remember the previous day at all. “No memory of anything that happened yesterday.”

And that’s how they discover that you weren’t just reset five years into the past, you’re on some kind of self setting loop.

“So, Y/N is stuck? Will it reset every day-? I-,”

“We don’t know. I guess we have to wait until tomorrow and see if it happens again. I explained everything again. Probably best if you come to the lab, explain yourself.”

Bucky nods, looks down at his bloody knuckles, his hand is swollen from the abuse and shakes.

Again.

He would have to explain to you again.

And what if you looked at him the way you did yesterday?

Not revulsion, but disbelief.

He imagines the disbelief as disappointment.

It can’t possibly be anything else.

“Want me to wrap your hand before we go up?” Steve asks, nodding to the blood running rivulets down his arm, concern crossing his face before he peers into Bucky’s eyes. “Did you sleep?”

“Y/N had questions, I-,” He swallows. “I can wrap it. I’ll be there in a couple minutes.”

~

They don’t make you stay in medical all day.

Stark and Banner have samples of your blood and samples of the vapor. Steve considers going back to the abandoned lab, to poke around again.

But no one wants anyone else set five years back into a seemingly unending time loop.

You don’t seem to despair about your situation.

“Stranger things have happened,” you say, smiling like you always do. You wrinkle your nose at Steve, “Could make friends with an ice man from the ‘40s after all.”

Bucky is exhausted but he still hoards you like a dragon with treasured gold, insists on explaining to you again.

You look surprised this time, when you're told of the relationship you have with him. He thinks maybe this time, you have a curious tilt to your head.

But it's there again, that disbelief.

He almost wants you to say it. Whisper, “How did that fucking happen? Where did I go wrong?”

In the apartment, you look through the same cabinets you did yesterday. You touch the hand painted mug from Budapest, the Georgia peach mug. You smile at the all pink cookware.

This time, maybe because it's so early in the day, you run your fingers along the bookshelf checking the titles, examine the stack you don’t remember leaving on the coffee table the night before, you unfold the blankets from their basket at the end of the couch and examine them, you flick through Bucky’s record collection next to the player.

Today, you find your phone tangled in the sheets of the bed.

You flick through the pictures, smiling at some of them.

“Wow,” you say. “We’re really in love, huh?”

You pause over a picture, your breath hitching in your lungs. Bucky can’t see the screen, so he doesn’t know what makes you click the phone dark and set it aside.

You discover again that you read together almost every night.

Bucky makes sure to tell you more this time, now that he knows it's so important to you. How did he not know before? “Usually you read out loud,” he says. “You curl up real tight next to me, with your head on my shoulder, sometimes you sit between my legs, and you read.”

“And the tabs?”

“If I have a comment you make me take a note,” he says, watching your eyes as he pulls out the stack of post-it notes, sticky tabs, and colored pens. “You always make me do it in my own handwriting so we know who thought what.”

And this time, the look that crosses your face is like he hung the moon and stars. You look away from him, nodding to yourself, just a little bit shy.

“You’re a dreamboat, huh?” You tease.

“Oh, yeah, sweetheart, a real ray of sunshine.”

“You seem like it,” you rag on him. “‘S a little weird to wake up with-,” You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

“What?” He flops back on the bed horizontally, closing his eyes.

You’re on the other side of the bed looking through your nightstand again.

God he’s tired. It’s been a long time since he’s been awake for such a long period. There’s you to thank for that he supposes. He always sleeps when he has you next to him.

You touch a curl of his hair and he jumps. Bucky curses himself when your hand darts away.

“Dunno. Guess with a person,” You say. “You seem to care about me a lot. I’ve never had a relationship like this one before. That seems so serious and real.”

He doesn’t flinch when you touch his hair this time, fingers threading through the short strands. “When did you cut your hair?”

“Years ago,” he says, opening his eyes to look at you. “You never told me that. That you never had-,”

“Feels silly to be scared to tell you things. Maybe before I was scared, didn’t know what would happen, or if something would scare you away. Maybe I was afraid of saying too much. Besides, I won’t remember it anyways right? I get a redo tomorrow.”

“We don’t know that. Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember.”

“I’m sure. A one time loop reset.” You pause in threading your hands through his hair, “Feels so weird. To feel connected and have nothing inside to connect it to.” You had said something like that yesterday, but he doesn’t tell you so. “Was it like this for you? In the beginning?”

You lean over him, your face upside down. “Hard to tell,” he reaches up and touches your temple. “But I think so.”

Maybe if you can tell him things, he can tell you something too. He knows what it is to be afraid to be too much. He hadn’t realized it was possible for you to feel the same.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, “you think this is weird. To me it's…like-,” Bucky hasn’t been good with words in a long time. For you, he’ll try. “-like-like-its devastating.” Your hands flatten along either side of his head, thumbs against his stubbled cheeks. He doesn’t look away. “You’re my whole world.”

You smile, “Do you normally tell me that?”

“No. Like you said. Afraid to be too much.”

“Do I know how much you love me?”

You seem to have a clarity of the feelings between you, that the other you doesn’t.

“God, I hope so.”

“Start telling me. It won’t chase me away.”

You flop down beside him, legs hanging off the opposite side of the bed, and Bucky turns his head to keep you in his field of vision, still upside down to him. You stare up and Bucky stares at the curve of your jaw. He inches closer to you. “I can tell you with all honesty, you are not too much. You’re…strangely perfect.”

He chuckles, “Expecting more of-,”

“A murderous maniac? Nah. Yesterday,” you lift one arm and draw shapes in the air against the canvas of the ceiling, “we went on a walk together. It was the first conversation I ever had with you. You were so quiet and withdrawn. Lonely, like the world swallowed you up. It was nice.” You drop your hand and turn to look back at him, “I thought you were very pretty. I have - had I suppose - a tiny little crush on you. I’m glad it all worked out.”

“Crush huh?”

“Don’t go getting a big head, Barnes,” you smile. “Told Nat about it and everything. She made fun of me so bad.”

The drinks you mentioned having in the kitchen with Nat. You’d been telling her, maybe gushing to her, about a walk with him.

He remembers thinking you’d never look his way again, that he was too broken to remember how to have a conversation. Still, he’d managed to catch you in the common area again the next day and ask you what you were reading. You’d smiled and patted the space next to you, I’ll show you.

It was the first time he’d been late to therapy. You made him late.

Bucky had only wanted to be your friend then, hadn’t had much capacity for anything else.

The love he felt for you had come on slowly as he recovered, like ocean stilt between his bones.

It feels odd but good, something like pride swelling in his chest, that you had talked about him, had a crush on him.

“S’okay. I’ve never stopped having a crush on you,” he answers.

You try to hide your smile and fail miserably and lean forward instead to press your forehead to his.

Bucky closes his eyes and swallows.

He can do this.

~

“The effects of the vapor should wear off on its own eventually,” Bruce says to the team, gathered around a conference table weighted with stacks of documents and cups of coffee.

“Should?” Bucky asks, incredulous.

It’s already been two weeks, and guesses are no longer good enough for him.

“Yeah. To the best we can tell. Obviously we’ll keep looking for an antidote in the meantime. It looks like it was developed for-,” Bruce stops, his eyes cutting to Bucky. “To be blunt it looks like it was meant to be a redo on the Winter Soldier program.”

“That lab wasn't connected to Hydra,” Steve says.

“Apparently they were. Or at least contracted by someone Hydra adjacent.”

“How long will it take to wear off?” Nat asks. She’d arrived back in the compound that morning, and as a result Y/N had spent most of the day with her, much to Bucky’s displeasure. “Without an antidote?”

“They were obviously going for durability, so maybe a couple months. If they were planning on icing Barnes again then one dose would be enough for years depending on how long they left him out for hits.”

Bucky digs metal digits into the flesh of his right hand until he breaks through skin, to the meat of his palm. Blood drips onto his jeans.

You shouldn’t encounter any hostiles. Intel gathering only.

He supposes there were no hostiles that day because he was supposed to have become one.

Before he can stop himself he’s out of his chair and putting space between him and that room, between him and what could have happened that day had he breathed in the vapor and not you.

Putting space between him and the notion that you might not remember for months.

Months.

For months you could be stuck in a loop of endless time, losing a real span of your life to waiting.

Would he have to explain to you every morning?

What if Banner’s wrong? What if it doesn’t wear off? What if you never come back? What if they stop the loop and you still don’t remember anything?

Y/N is still here, he corrects himself viciously.

You are here.

He’s so busy scowling and stomping that he doesn't notice the red trail he leaves behind him.

Bucky wants to rip the world to pieces, but he can only settle for his own mangled body.

He stalks to the gym, changes at the facilities there, before beating the shit out of a sandbag with a raw hand. The old wound splits open immediately, blood flecks the canvas fabric. Bucky doesn’t really give it a chance to heal these days.

When the punching bag swings off the hook, he growls and turns toward the treadmill instead.

Hours pass, the sun fades from the sky.

Despite the tales about him, he is human, and eventually he collapses.

He lies panting on the floor of the gym, his hand stained red, when he hears your voice. “You normally go psycho like that?”

God.

He hadn’t really gotten to talk to you today because of Natasha and this will be your only impression of him. Bucky swallows dryly. “No.”

“Good because it looks like it hurts.”

“Worried about me, sweetheart?” Bucky snaps. He means to be playful but his voice comes out like a punch, like a wounded animal snarling at the wind. He hears his words thump down around your ankles.

For a long moment, you don’t answer.

Then he hears your feet shuffle away.

“God-fucking-damnit,” he mutters.

He won’t even be able to apologize to you, if he doesn’t see you again today. And how could he apologize to you tomorrow when you won’t remember today?

Bucky groans and sits up, ready to track you down, just to apologize for his outburst. He won’t have anything bad between you, whether you remember it or not.

But before he can stand, you burst back into the room, dropping down beside him on the mat. You hold out a hand.

He stares, “What?”

“Hand,” you point. “Now.”

Gently, he sets his right hand in both of yours. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

For a moment you don’t speak, carefully lowering his hand to your lap so you can rip open a couple of alcohol pads. He grits his teeth while you clean the wound in the center of his hand, his bruised, bloody knuckles.

“You left a trail of blood in the hallway.”

“Oh.”

You snort, “Oh? Is that all you have to say? I may be confused and not remember you, but I don’t like seeing you bleed out all over Tony’s expensive floors.”

He sighs, “I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“You should be,” You say hotly. “According to Nat we’re like some kind of freaky soulmates so please try not to bleed to death while my memories take a vacation.”

Now he laughs, glancing at you and finding your eyes already on him. “Seriously, Bucky, promise me you’ll let this heal. Even if I can’t remember.”

The words stick in his throat, a fist around his neck. “Why do you care? You always care. Every day you…you don’t know me but you care anyway. I-,”

You shrug, and look down at his hand in your lap. Slowly, you start to wrap gauze around his palm and knuckles. “My body knows you, I think, even if I don’t. It's like reaching for something you’re so sure is real but it turns out to be a mirage.” It's the third time you’ve said some iteration of that. “We took a walk yesterday,” and you repeat the story he’s heard several times now. But he doesn’t interrupt you.

Your fingers circle his wrist when you finish bandaging his hand. “I don’t remember feeling this…affinity for you yesterday. But I do now. Suppose that’s the five years of memories stored up in my DNA but, I dunno I-I just don’t want you to hurt.”

He turns his hand to squeeze your fingers. “I promise, honey. I’ll let it heal.”

“Even if I don’t remember?”

“Even if you don’t remember.”

It’s quiet for a moment and Bucky isn’t expecting you to hug him. He’s damp with sweat and you’re supposed to be upset with him. “I just want to say I’m sorry.”

He buries his nose in your neck, circles his arms around your waist and tugs you close because god it seems like it's been forever since he’s gotten to properly hold you. It's only been two weeks but it feels like decades.

You go jellylike, molding yourself against him.

“God for what?”

“You’d think the universe has made you suffer enough, Barnes, but you seem to be her favorite victim. I’m sorry I don’t remember and that you have to. Can’t imagine what it's like to explain everything everyday.” You exhale against him, breath hot against his skin, “Have you tried not talking to me?”

He jerks back so you’re forced to look into his eyes. “Now why would I do something like that?”

You shrug, “You could get a day off. You’re stressed, I mean, you just had a fistfight with a punching bag and lost.”

Bucky scoffs but pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “That punching bag is the one lying on the floor.”

“Yeah,” you snark back, sarcastic, “but you’re the one bleeding.”

“You fixed me up pretty nice though, huh?” He says, curling metal fingers around your wrist so you don’t move away, holding out his flesh hand to examine your bandaging job.

For a moment you don’t respond, absently patting the back of his metal hand. “Seriously, Bucky, one day where I don’t know, so you can get some rest, won’t kill me.”

But he’d rather die than be away from you, than have you forget him entirely, even for one day. And Bucky’s sort of afraid, afraid that if he lets you forget for even one day, you’ll never get your memories back.

That if he lets you forget for one day, you’ll remember everything else and forget him entirely, muscle memory and all.

“Darlin’,” he says gently, cupping your face against his palm because you let him, may even lean into it a little, “no matter how much it hurts, being away from you, not seeing you, is worse. I would stay in this loop forever, if it meant I got to stay with you.”

“You really mean that too, don’t you? Like, it's not just empty words. You really would.”

“I promise.”

Bucky has never been one to break promises.

~

Bucky keeps his promise and lets his hand heal.

He tries not to be destructive, and finds it just a bit challenging.

Since you aren’t sleeping with him at the moment, he goes out and practices vigilantism when he probably shouldn’t.

Steve and Sam frown at him, but don’t stop him, don’t comment when he comes back to the compound bruised. He feels better and he can keep his promise to you even if you don’t remember it.

He sleeps for short bursts in the wee hours of the morning, before he goes to find you and explain everything again.

Most days, you’re shocked but take it in stride.

Some days, you take some convincing.

But that’s okay. It gives him more time to spend with you, to reveal moments of your relationship to you, like peeling back the skin of an orange to show you something ripe with potential. He tells you things about those moments, the feelings he had had, that he never would have mentioned otherwise, that he would have been too afraid to admit to.

He dreams about you, in the few hours he gets.

Bucky dreams of the first time you made love, of the way summer sunshine had played against your skin and the sheets, dabbled and fleeting, swaying with the trees outside.

You had smelled of honey, your skin so soft he wanted to bite into the warmth of it.

God, you had smelled like sunshine.

Sunshine shouldn’t have a smell, but against your skin, it had. Warm, like shea butter and coconut.

He really hadn’t thought he could love you more, thought that his capacity for love had already overflowed, but that morning proved him wrong. It proved that the sun was a burning force, that you were the sun, and that he wouldn’t mind being consumed whole, burned alive.

Bucky always breaks from the dream in a sweat, heart pounding, because it feels like it's an omen, like he should relive it because he’ll never get back to that moment.

This morning, he slips out of the dream and into reality like he always does. The sun is just peaking over the horizon, you’ll be up soon.

The timing is perfect, after weeks of practice. You open your front door, spot him waiting, new as the morning dawn, looking so different to you with short hair, a bruise across his cheek, and no peaceful sleep. “Mornin’, Y’N, I need to talk to you about something,” he says, like he does every day, like he would for the rest of his life if he had to.

~

You’re looking through the pictures on your phone again and this time Bucky can see the screen, though you don’t know that.

He can see the picture that gave you pause in a couple of your other resets.

To him, it's an ordinary picture. The two of you tangled together in bed, a selfie you’d snapped when he wasn’t paying attention to what you were doing.

Bucky is staring at you in the photo, a serious look on his face.

He can’t remember what he had been thinking about in that moment.

And he has to wonder what you’re thinking about it now, why it's captured your attention consistently throughout your resets.

He has to wonder if you’re disappointed. You admit to your crush on him, almost every reset, and it means everything and so little simultaneously.

The look on your face from that first time haunts him.

Disbelief.

He still doesn’t know what it means.

Probably, that you were disappointed. That a little crush could shape your whole life, bend it like a wire hanger to the shape of him.

Bucky clears his throat and you immediately lower the phone, a panicked look on your face.

He only smiles and treks around the couch with a cup of your favorite tea.

You take it from him and ask, “How long has it been? How many resets?”

“It's been six weeks. So forty-two resets in total.”

The look that crosses your face is one of grief. Bucky clenches his jaw and looks away, surely you would blame him for the lost time, the forty-two days you don’t remember. For not protecting you better, for letting you go on the mission in the first place.

But you set your mug on the table (he made sure to give you the Budapest one) and turn to him, one leg lifting to tuck in the space between you so you can lean close. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“Sorry?”

“I think I would have lost it already, if I had to do what you’re doing.”

Bucky stares at you, his jaw aching from how hard he’s clenching it, like his mouth is suddenly razor wired shut.

You reach out and touch the inside of his wrist. “Are you doing okay? That’s a lot of days to do this.” With your other hand you gesture to the blooming bruise on his cheek. “Steve told me you’ve been sleeping little and fighting in the evenings after I go to sleep and forget again.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” he finds his voice. “You’re the one that-,”

“Barnes, listen to me,” you say sternly, and it reminds him of when you first started hanging around him, not balancing on your toes and treating him like already shattered glass, like he might cut you if you weren’t careful. He’s still sharp and pointed to you, you don’t know that his edges have been rounded out over the years, though you can probably guess. “I don’t remember anything. This is all new to me. Every day I guess it is. You could be lying to me and this could really be day one million.”

You squeeze his wrist. “But everyday, you have to do the same thing. And you have to remember the day before and I can’t think of anything more heartbreaking.”

Bucky sets down his own cup on the coffee table and takes your hand.

He wonders, if after you take the antidote or the vapor wears off on its own, you’ll remember all your past resets. Maybe you’ll forget everything and think it's that first night again. Maybe you’ll get stuck in the past and remember nothing.

Either way, he knows tomorrow you won’t remember, and so it makes it easier for him to say things he’d otherwise hide from you.

He tells you something that he’s said in none of your other resets. “I miss you. You’re here. I didn’t lose you. I keep telling myself I could have lost you, forever. It could be…worse. It could be so much worse. But I still miss you anyways.”

Your fingers are tight on his. “But you did, in a way. We’re…really close, like, so close. In love kinda close. We live together and we’re best friends. You did lose me. I’m still here but everything else is gone and maybe that’s worse.”

The spaces between your words are silent as caverns, as tombs beneath the earth.

Because you’re right, of course.

You usually are.

“So, I’m sorry. Have you thought about taking a day off-,”

“No,” he interrupts. “No. You-you’ve suggested that before. I won’t do it.”

“God, Bucky, why?” You peer into him, leaning ever closer, consuming his field of vision.

He takes a breath, “Sweetheart, it's painful, I won’t say it's not. It's been so fucking hard without you. But everyday I also get to - I get to tell you everything that made us, I get to tell you how we fell in love. I - and maybe it’s disappointing to you - but that’s been-,” Bucky doesn’t know what to call it and so he stops.

Bucky can’t very well say it's been good, because that isn’t quite right. But watching you puzzle through your life together has been fascinating, has made him love you even more, appreciate what he doesn’t deserve.

“Disappointing?” You frown. “Have I ever told you in any of my resets that I have a crush on you?”

Bucky licks his lips, carefully doesn’t move when you press your forehead to his, your eyes still open and peering into his. “Yeah, doll, you tell me every time.”

A teasing smile lifts the corner of your mouth. “Good. Then you know this is like a dream come true. To find out your super hot crush eventually likes you too and you - well you get a very perfect life.”

He snorts, “Wouldn’t say it's perfect -,”

“Ah, maybe life isn’t but this is. You.”

“Honey-,”

“Seriously, Bucky.” You pull away but it just forces him to really look into the heart of you, into the center of your conviction about this. Something tells him its the memories stored up in your DNA, the remembrance of something with no name, and he knows you really believe what you say. “I don’t know if you know this, but most people wouldn’t do what you’re doing. Forty-two days? That’s extraordinary.”

In almost every reset, you touch his wrist, the curve of his cheek, a lock of his hair.

But he hasn’t held you, hugged you close since the reset where you made him promise to let his hand heal. Almost four weeks ago.

He hasn’t kissed you since you fell asleep that first fateful night.

You wrap your arms around him, sliding easily against him like he wasn't a veritable stranger to you. It feels so good, to have your weight against him, that it's everything he can do not to break down.

“So why would I find anything disappointing?” He feels the curve of your mouth against his shoulder, the contours of your shape against his.

He presses his nose to your hair and inhales.

Peach.

Though he had made sure to find your vanilla and cinnamon stuff and put it in the bathroom in your room.

Still you had been choosing peach, though there was no way for you to know that you had changed scents.

“Dunno,” he says and then because he’s already spilling his guts he explains your reaction that first morning. The look that flashed over your face, the look that continues to flash over your face when you look at the books and the photos. “You just looked like you couldn’t believe it. About me and you.”

“Well, Bucky, I mean, c’mon, I probably thought you kidnapped me or something. Why wouldn’t I have that reaction?”

“You didn’t see your face.”

You laugh and rub your hand slowly up and down his back. “I was probably scared. But not for the reasons your mind is telling you. I promise. I know myself. And I can tell you now that I feel disbelief because apparently I get the chance to love you. That’s so strange to me. It’s not disbelief that it happened but that I got the fucking chance.”

Bucky squeezes you tighter when he feels you start to pull away. “You took my dog tags off.”

Your voice is so soft when you answer, “You gave me your dog tags?” When he doesn’t say anything you whisper, “I’m sorry I took ‘em off. But it doesn’t change anything. I get the chance to love you.” You repeat.

He doesn’t answer, throat tight.

This time you’re insistent when you pull away. “Bucky,” you touch his cheek. “I promise. No part of me, any me, is disappointed. Or upset. About this, about us. Okay?” He nods against your hand but finds it hard to believe anyways. “Do I change much each reset?”

“No,” he says. “You’re just you every time.”

“So I’ve probably wanted to kiss that sad little smile every single reset.”

You’re poorly hiding a smile, and Bucky doesn’t think as he cups your cheek and brings you in for a kiss.

The taste of you is like coming home, like the world ending.

And only slightly like the cinnamon muffin you had for breakfast.

You both sink to the side against the couch cushions, shoulders loosening, lips still connected. Bucky tries not to feel like he’s consuming you, tries not to let too much longing slip into the kiss.

But you hook your legs over his lap and cup your hand against the side of his neck and it becomes very hard to think, especially when your thumb digs into the hinge of his jaw.

Bucky presses his cheek against yours when you pull away, and listens to your panting breaths, his nose nudging against the curve of your ear.

“Wow. What a first kiss.”

He chuckles just a little, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek.

“The other you had to wait three years.” This time he doesn’t mention the punch, the ice pack.

You gape at him, “Three years? Why’d it take so long?”

“I think,” he says, pressing his flesh thumb to the center of your chin. “We would have rather stayed friends than risk-,”

You’re nodding before he finishes speaking and kissing him again quickly after that.

“Why do you use the peach scent?”

“I thought you liked it better? You lean in when I use it and-,”

He kisses you a third time, because you shouldn’t remember something like that.

Maybe things will turn out okay after all.

~

Your memories fracture back into each of your resets after that, though you don’t seem to realize that they’re things you shouldn’t remember. Confusion has started to reign in you, when you can’t sequence events in your mind.

The day that Stark and Banner finish a solution that could possibly work as an antidote, you exit your room as you do every morning but with a confused look on your face.

It's day sixty-three.

Bucky is waiting for you like always, with hair still wet from the shower and a bruise over one eye, but healed hands.

Before Bucky can launch into his well practiced speech, you press a closed fist to your chest like you’re gripping something there. “Did you take your dog tags back? I can’t find them, I-I didn’t mean to lose them.”

You don’t give him a chance to answer, instead pressing your hand to your forehead, looking terribly confused. “I…but why would you have given them to-,”

“You want to wear them?” He asks.

“Of course,” you answer, indignant. “You gave them to me. I promised to never take them off.” Your voice fades again, “When did that happen? I feel-,”

“Hey,” Bucky strides forward and takes your hand, curling his fingers around your wrist. “It's okay. I have them right here. Got some things I need to explain to you.”

He pulls them out of his pocket, not having had it in him to start wearing them himself again. They didn’t belong to him anymore, they belonged to you. Bucky was just waiting to give them back to you.

You bow your head and Bucky slips them around your neck.

You take a deep breath and smile at him, like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.

“What did you need to tell me, Buck?”

~

“We don’t know if it’ll work and there’s not really a way to test it,” Banner says later that day. “It’s up to you whether you decide to take it now, since your memories seem to be coming back. You could just wait it out.”

“But I could wake up tomorrow and know everything again? Remember everyone?”

“That’s the hope.”

Bucky grits his teeth and says nothing from his place across the table from you. “How many days has it been?” You ask.

“Sixty-three today.”

You swallow, and look like you might cry.

But before Bucky can reach out to you, Natasha has an arm around your shoulders, you blink and the tears are gone. “I’m sorry,” you say and meet his gaze before quickly glancing away. He’s not sure what you’re sorry for. “I want to take it.”

“Maybe you should think about it-,” Bucky starts but you scoff and the room goes silent.

“So I can forget again? So you can live another sixty-three days like this? And now I’m…I don’t like feeling confused. I don’t like not knowing what happened or when, or what’s real.”

He wants to scream. Instead he clenches his jaw and leans forward, staring you down across the table. “And what if it makes you forget everything? What if you’re reset one last time and start over five years in the past? And that’s it? You never get anything back? At least this way we know you’re getting your memories back.”

“You wouldn’t explain everything to me one last time?”

Bucky closes his eyes, presses the heels of his hands against the sockets until stars appear in his vision. Of course he’d explain it to you one last time, he’d explain it everyday for the rest of his life if he had to. All he settles for instead is repeating, “At least this way you can get all your memories back.”

“I’m not putting you through this anymore. Not when I don’t have to.You think I can’t see how much it hurts you?”

“Can you at least think about it for today?”

“Fine.”

With that the rest of the team departs the conference room as quickly as possible, sensing a coming storm. Bucky and Y/N stay seated until everyone is gone, staring each other down from across the table.

His dog tags glint at him from around your neck when you reach up to fist your hand around the name plates.

“Why do you want to keep being tortured?” When he doesn’t answer, just keeps staring at you, you lean back in your chair and cross your arms. “Don’t be stubborn about this Bucky.”

“I would rather go through this while you get your memories back, than risk you losing them altogether,” he says. “I want you to remember those moments. I know better than anyone that having someone tell you about something that happened doesn’t hold a candle to actually experiencing it. Especially when it's something you did.”

You take a breath, “Buck, listen, I can tell you’ve been running yourself ragged.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does!”

“Why aren’t you more concerned? Do you want to forget? Do you want to forget about me?” He stands, paces back and forth, before forcibly stopping himself and dragging his hands through his hair instead. He doesn't look at you, can’t.

So he stands there, clenching his jaw and staring at the wall like an idiot. You wait, not saying anything for a moment, until his shoulders relax.

“I don’t want to forget. I know how important memories are to you in particular, but seeing you hurting hurts me. Especially now that the reset memories are surfacing.”

Bucky still doesn’t turn to you, listening to the clank of the metal plates around your neck slide together and apart.

“I just don’t want to…I can tell you again. I always will if I have to. I just - I just don’t want to lose everything. I don’t want you to lose me.”

And that truth settles in his bones.

So, Bucky repeats it. “I don’t want you to lose me.” He turns and looks at you, meets your steady gaze. “I don’t want you to lose whatever feeling you had the first time I kissed you. Or the first time we made love. Or the exact thought you had when we - it doesn’t matter. I know only what I thought. I can’t tell you the whole story. I’m afraid we’ll never be the same. I don’t want to lose you, but god, honey, even if it makes me selfish, I don’t want you to lose me.”

You nod when he finishes, your lips trembling just a little.

When you answer, it's with a little gasp in your voice, “And maybe it makes me selfish, but I just can’t watch you do this. I can’t stand to keep forgetting you.”

Bucky knows better than most the fear of forgetting.

“I’m with you either way.”

You keep your eyes on his, entirely focused on him, “It will be fine, Bucky.”

But hadn’t you said that the last time?

And oh, the world did love to rip and tear and take.

~

You swallow the antidote all in one go, with your nose pinched and an uncomfortable look on your face.

You wince when it's all down and then smile at Bucky and tell him again how it's going to be fine.

He hands you a glass of water, which you down, and then just like before he’s tasked with watching you.

Bucky wouldn’t have let anyone else, wouldn’t have left the med wing were it necessary for you to remain there. So you walk together, this time to your rooms, just like the last time.

While you take a shower, he makes tea for you both.

It will be a long night for him, but hopefully you’ll sleep. Hopefully, you will sleep and tomorrow you will remember him.

If you come out of the loop but with memories missing and gone, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Explain to you again, he supposes, and work from there.

Listen to your many stories for the hundredth time like it's the first.

Show you everything you don’t remember.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he should start again, maybe that was the point.

But he thinks of you never knowing about the way he’d kissed you on the sand at Coney Island, about how there had been fireworks, the roaring sound of the ocean in his ears, how he would have gladly drowned in you.

He needs you to remember.

The mug in his hand, a plain white one, fractures as he grips it. “Fuck,” he murmurs, tea dripping down his arm and onto the tiled kitchen floor.

You appear then, in a cloud of peach and mango, fresh and dewy from the shower. “Will you stay with me tonight?”

“‘Course, honey,” he says, setting the cracked mug into the sink, sliding the unbroken cup toward you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He crouches with a paper towel to wipe the spilled tea off the floor and when he straightens you’re there, incredibly close, eyes peering into his.

“I mean with me. Lay with me.”

“No. I’ll stay on the couch.”

“Bucky,” you say. “I want you to.”

But you don’t know how you looked at him the last time you’d woken up in a bed with him. Confusion that had bloomed into fear. “No. It's best if-,”

“Please? I’m, y’know, kinda scared. If you don’t - I’ll just stay in the living room then, you can’t stop me.” You lift your chin, defiant, before you continue, “I have a weird little memory, of the first time you ever stayed over.”

You look confused saying it, time and events smashed together and reconfigured in your mind. You touch the dog tags around your neck and continue, “You didn’t want to stay with me then either. But I remember it's the safest I’ve ever felt.”

“Fine,” he concedes, pressing a guiding hand to your back. “It's just because you have a crush on me.”

You wrinkle your nose and mumble, “Pretty sure it’s a little more than that.”

In your room, he lowers the lights, tugs back your duvet, and lets you settle first.

It's quiet for a long time after that, as you settle down, sipping your mug of tea which you pointedly share with him, scrolling mindlessly on your phone.

Bucky thinks you believe yourself sneaky, inching closer to him until you’re pressed against his side, your head coming down against his shoulder.

He wraps his arm around you, tugs you closer.

You bring up the photo, the one of the two of you in bed together. You hold your phone so both of you can see it. “What were you thinking about?”

“Honestly? Don’t remember. Probably something self depreciating.”

“Like what?”

“How I don’t deserve you.”

You set your phone aside and close your eyes. He imagines you’re listening to the sound of his heart, counting the beats. “Maybe I was thinking about how much I love you.”

“Do you?”

“Is there any doubt?”

“No,” you murmur, voice slurred as you slip into sleep. “It's very clear when you love someone, Barnes. Even when you think it isn’t. You wear your heart on your sleeve.”

Bucky doubts that very much, but doesn’t say so.

Maybe you just know him.

Maybe in the morning, things will be fixed, or maybe they’ll be at square one again.

And then, like a new fighter in a ring, a new fear rises up.

What if you remember everything?

Every single moment of your life together and all of your resets?

The things he’d told you, the fleshy inner parts of himself he’d revealed. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be too much, too many feelings, too much rawness to encapsulate.

Bucky tightens his arm around you, pulling you infinitely closer, and begs the universe to let him have this good thing.

~

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but he does.

Just like last time.

Running on little more than a couple hours rest for months on end, and without you, hasn’t exactly lent itself to his exhaustion.

With your weight against his chest, the duvet tucked around both of you, and the sound of your soft breath in his ears, sleep had been unavoidable.

He wakes to your hand against his chest, fingers tightening in his shirt. Bucky snaps awake, but doesn’t move, carefully let’s you come back to yourself. Your eyes peak open slowly, blinks that take so long he thinks you’ll fall back asleep.

But then you peer up at him through lashes thick with still dispelling sleep.

For a long moment you just look at him and he looks back, Bucky waiting for the look of disappointment or despair, confusion or horror. Your hand slides up his chest, cups behind his neck. You tug and bring his forehead to yours.

“Bucky,” you murmur. “James fucking Barnes.”

“Do you-?”

“I remember everything. Every second.”

Fear pierces his lungs, along with elation.

He pushes you back, back into the pillows and sheets, to hover over you and anchor his hands on either side of you, before he leans down to kiss you breathless and hard. You taste sweet and sharp. “Fuck, I missed you.” Bucky says against your mouth. “God, baby, I missed you so fucking bad.”

A tear escapes and you knock it away.

You hook a foot behind his knee. “You have been holding back on me. How dare you not wax poetic to me about love, our love? How dare you keep your thoughts hidden from me. You feel so much and you never say anything.” You pinch his side, cup his cheek in your hand, run your fingers inside his shirt and up his spine, counting the vertebrae. “How dare you wonder if I could love you back when you would tourture yourself for sixty-three days?”

“Had to get you back. Would have done it forever,” he presses kisses down your neck, over the edge of your jaw. Your skin is soft and you smell like the detergent you use on your sheets, like cotton and new life.

He wants to bite into you but settles for kissing you again, sliding his tongue along yours, tasting you.

Maybe he’s trying to distract you.

From memories of him trying to describe -

“Bucky?” You fist your hands in his shirt and push him away just far enough that you can properly see his face. “I fucking love you. Okay? I’ve loved you back the whole time. I had a crush on you before you even knew what a crush was. I punched you the first time you kissed me because I was so scared to be…I was just the first person you got close to. I was so afraid to crash and burn but you…you looked at me like, y’know, like I was about to kick you for kissing me. But I was afraid you were only kissing me because I was there and I decided it didn’t matter because you said you cared about me, that it was supposed to be a first date. And I thought, it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t last, at least I will have gotten to be in your orbit.”

He tries to interrupt you, but you just keep chattering, “And I remember that picnic when you put your dog tags around my neck and I promised to never take them off.” You curl one hand around his tags, the other curving back to hook around his wrist pressed into the mattress beside your shoulder. “That day was a disaster. You were so pissed off because the wine bottle cracked and the sandwiches got wet and you forgot the blanket and the bees wouldn’t leave us alone. But all I remember from that day is thinking you looked like my future, you looked like a son of the moon. I wanted to devour you, I was so hungry for you, the love you showed even if you didn’t tell me. I would have gladly eaten those soggy sandwiches if it meant I could keep being that fucking happy.”

Bucky can only look at you.

You squeeze his wrist and Bucky turns his hand so he can squeeze his fingers through yours, hoping to never let go again.

“So how dare you, how dare you be afraid I would never find my way back to you? How dare you be afraid to escape the loop so I could come back to you, fully?”

“You really think you would have fallen in love with me again?”

There's a second between the gate opening and the riders coming through, that Joel thinks he's losing his eyesight. He's already fucking deaf in one ear, he can't afford to be blind too.

He squints into the shiny bright sun reflecting off the packed in snow on the ground.

Joel isn't looking at his brother, not yet. He’s looking for you.

He stares at Moonshine, the horse you'd ridden out of the stables on that morning, riderless. Every fear that's been knocking at the inside of his ribs, slamming into his heart all day long, plunges into his stomach.

It twists itself deep inside him, knitting itself into him. You and Ellie, you'd both be the death of him. It was easier on his nervous system, his damn heart, when he didn't have your wellbeing hanging over him like the sharp edge of a sword.

Panic claws up the back of his throat. It's an unfamiliar sensation, one that hasn't plagued him since he got Ellie back to Jackson safely. It chokes him, it strangles the breath right out of his lungs, that heart attack, I'm going to fucking die feeling.

Why aren't you on that damn horse?

And then he looks to his brother for an explanation, rage building in the back of his throat when the panic drains away, replaced by something cold, and hard, and removed.

Tommy is holding you upright against his chest, still astride the other horse. He's speaking but Joel doesn't hear him. He doesn't hear anything, shoving roughly through the crowd that's gathered.

The world is a muted, colorless whirl.

He feels himself go blank, the inside of him wiped clean.

His focus narrows down to you, stippled with blood and unconscious.

"Joel," he hears. Tommy's voice is a distant sound, wavered, like its coming from behind thick glass. "It's not what it looks like. Joel!"

Tommy has no choice but to let you down into Joel's arms. Your eyes flicker, lids briefly cracking open before you go boneless again. He grunts as he catches you against his shoulder, straining as he gently lowers you to the ground.

You're breathing evenly and some part of him eases away from the dark tunnel he's at risk of slipping down. He rips back your coat where a majority of the blood seems to be coming from. A blood soaked cloth is wrapped around your shoulder. A lot of the blood can't be yours, but a lot of it is.

He pushes a hand against your jaw, the blood smearing on your skin. The panic returns, that sense of helplessness, of something already lost.

Sweat pearls on your skin, dampens the base of your neck. You feel feverish and cold all at once.

"-not hers," Tommy is saying. "We gotta take her to the clinic."

Someone reaches for you, presumably to help him, to help you, but Joel jerks back, words leaving his mouth in a snarl. He can't hear his own voice, not sure what he said.

He's still trapped in that fishbowl, his whole focus narrowed down to you.

Tommy shakes him, "-to the clinic. Joel. Joel?"

Joel nods, threading his other arm beneath your legs. "It's not her blood."

He doesn't give a damn whose blood it is when you're not wake, not able to explain it to him yourself.

"-talk to him as soon as we get there. You can't let him leave. Tell him they're already dead."

"They are already dead. That's what the damn blood is from-,"

Their voices fade out again. He stares down at your face as he walks. He'll be damned if anything happens to you.

The clinic presents a new problem, but no one tries to make him leave, no one even dares to tell him to move out of the way. He feels better when he sees the wound. It's not as bad as it looked. Your skin is wiped partially clean, the stitches are quick.

He waits until the doctor disappears and directs Maria into the chair next to you. "No one touches her," he directs, voice edging on a growl. "No one. Understand?"

Maria doesn't exactly like him, but still she nods, settling in beside you. She doesn't look pleased about it, her eyes flicking to his brother.

He pulls Tommy into the reception, fingers itching with a violence that taints the air around him. It crackles like electricity in a storm. "What happened?"

That is your oldest memory, the only one from before the outbreak. 

You never minded the sentiment, not sure what it meant anyway. You were a quiet child, a darkness mucked your soul from the inside out, a hurt you never seemed able to find an origin to. The world was always too small, too large. And you didn’t fit into any of it. 

You’re the kind of person better left in stories. Antisocial, mature, not fun. Big, night laden eyes that watched from behind the pages of a book, headphones slotted over unhearing ears. 

“You’ll never have any friends your own age,” your mother used to say, like there were friends to make at all, like life wasn’t unbearable and too large and loud. 

Though that heavy hurt landed in the back of your throat sometimes, a loneliness without origin, you were never a cruel person. The violence of the QZ you grew up in troubled you, but the dark spots in your memory trouble you more than anything, the things you can’t remember. The blank spots of things better maybe forgotten. Memories you can’t remember consume you, and no one ever cared enough to try to help you close them. 

Your father leaving, the death of your mother, living with an aunt that hated you, that despised your mother for dying, those are memories so bright you can’t look away. 

You were a child, no matter how mature, no matter what you saw with your vigilant, watchful eyes.

Kansas City was no place for anything you were, but then it all fell apart. It fell apart so suddenly, you’re sure you must have dreamed up the nightmare landscape in the first place. 

You follow Henry and Sam, because you’ve known Henry a long time, and you’re nothing if not loyal. 

When Henry and Sam die, you follow Joel and Ellie, taking their offer to go west. You only half trust them, and they only half trust you, but you aren’t sure what else to do. There’s no one left, nothing left. 

You’d always hated Kansas City, and though things get hard, it's better than there. The only thing you miss is your rings, your father’s necklace, that you hadn’t had time to grab when you followed Henry. The last connection to your parents, broken. 

It’s prettier at least, outside the city, even if food is in short supply and Joel watches you like he expects you to shiv him at any moment. 

But time forges trust, and eventually he begins to loosen, to trust that you wouldn’t kill him in his sleep, that you were good for a rotation of watches through the night, that you could hunt and knew how to trap fish when the opportunity arose. He begins to trust that you would be good in a fight. 

Ellie sheds her wariness first. She bombards you with questions, wears you down with a strange sweetness you haven’t known in a very long time. When it's cold, she presses herself into your side and closes her eyes, strangely affectionate. 

You teach Ellie how to set snares one day, months on from the formation of your little group, and when you glance up, he’s staring at you. 

The smile you hadn’t realized had graced your face, fades, slides off your skin. Ellie’s hands are cold when they touch yours, asking about the particular way you’d tied one of the knots in the wire Joel had found for you. 

Joel doesn’t exactly soften to you, but he eases into a trust.

He ties you up in knots, braids something better left unsaid into the core of you. Even grumpy and stoic, there’s something behind the way he patiently listens to Ellie tell jokes from the little book in her backpack. 

Something in the way he finds her new boots and extra layers to pad beneath her jacket, but never wears even a hat himself and duct tapes his boots. He gives you and Ellie first rations of whatever food you find or hunt or trap. He hands you a scarf with elastic in the band that can be drawn up around your nose and mouth without comment. 

Joel provides, listens. 

You do your best not to step on his toes, still not sure of your place with them.

And Ellie does her very best to step everywhere she can. 

With him. With you. 

She forces you into conversation with each other, and you don’t exactly mind. He gradually warms to you, in slow increments that test your own walls. You always ignore him when you feel the heavy cut of his gaze on you, watching you so carefully. 

You’ve never been around someone like Joel, who exudes the brutality you’re used to, but in a way that doesn’t make you wary, at least not when you get used to him. There’s a gentleness under his skin that sometimes bubbles to the surface, in small ways. 

Once, you run into a couple of infected in a rundown warehouse you’re going through for supplies. Joel takes down one, then another, but the rest zero in on you. You’re covered in something sticky when you rip your knife out of the skull of the last one you take down. 

You swipe the blade on your jeans, proud of yourself, because they can finally see first hand you can pull your weight, that you’re capable on your own. But you don’t even have time to flick the knife closed because Joel is there, his hands gripping your forearms in tight fists, his voice in your ear, demanding to know if you’ve been bitten. 

He reprimands you, says you cut it too close. You can’t bear to look at him because no one has ever been that concerned about you, and you certainly hadn’t expected him to care in that way. 

Check you over for bites, sure, but only to know if he had to put you down if one got you.

He holds onto you, iron grip bruising your skin, for just a few moments too long.  

That’s the day you begin to really worry, that you think things are getting too close, because he had not been reassured until he checked you over himself. And then, the stark, revealing, relief in his features as he corralled you and Ellie out of the building. 

You don’t let yourself think about it too much, can’t entertain the possibility. 

But, one cold night, several weeks on from then, when the stars are bare above you and the wind has died down, he asks you about Kansas City, about your life there. 

It’s the first time he’s asked you directly something about yourself. Everything else he knows about you is by proxy of Ellie’s prying questions. 

You don’t want to talk about it. The blood soaked violence of that place, but you tell him anyway. As distrustful as Joel is, you’re the same. You hadn’t slept at all your first few nights with them, curled on your side, the handle of a blade clutched in your fist. 

You don’t tell him everything, just broad strokes. 

“Wasn’t like that in Boston,” he says. “It was bad, but not like that.” Joel’s voice holds something hard, something regretful. You aren’t sure where to place it, that he sounds irritated that he hadn’t been able to protect you from something that he wasn’t even around for. 

Ellie is sleeping near you. Her mouth is parted, hands folded beneath her face. Her breaths are slow and long, and when you brush your fingers over her forehead, she leans into your touch. “Bad is bad,” you say simply, not prepared to speak on it anymore. 

You tell him, despite every trauma honed instinct telling you to shut up, about how the only thing you really miss is your jewelry. The rings always came in handy in a fight, the way a punch could hurt just that much more, dig scars and draw blood, how it had been good indirect protection. And, though you don’t say it, they had been the only pretty things you owned. 

Instead of answering, Joel passes you a flask. 

You take a tiny sip, and hand it back. 

You won’t have more. Because Joel is looking at you, accessing you, with those dark eyes that saw everything and said nothing. Because he’s beginning to want to protect you, and you want to let him. 

Because, despite it all, there’s a space growing inside your heart for him. Ellie is already lodged there, in a different way, with a different kind of love. 

That’s easy. 

But the feelings drawing delicate shapes over the curves of your veins that Joel inspires, well, that has never been easy. The kind of want that Joel inspires terrifies you. It brings out a kind of feral territorialism in you too, of your own heart and body, the kind that makes you want to snap your teeth at him and tell him to fuck off.

It’s the kind of thing that breaks and sears.

Still, the drop of amber from the flask warms you from the inside out. It makes you sleepy and weak, and you know you’re in too deep when that feeling doesn’t make you panic. 

It makes you feel safe. 

Joel only kisses you for the first time when he tries to leave you in Jackson, when he tries to leave you and Ellie in Jackson. 

You both hear him when you weren’t meant to, talking to Tommy. 

The community hall with its movie and people and happy buzz had grated on you and Ellie. Neither of you are sure how to sit still through something like that. Your neck had prickled with unease, your body tensed for a fight that was never coming. 

You try to get Ellie to walk away from the door, to stop listening to Joel at his most vulnerable, but she won’t leave. 

Tears blur your eyes. A terrible tearing in your heart, that already feels like separation. 

And then Tommy asks about you. 

Joel scoffs, the sound self deprecating. “I’m no good for her,” he says. “I was never good at that type a’ thing anyway. I can’t give her what she needs.” His voice is so soft. It’s a reverent, grieving soft.

“Are you-,” 

“I don’t know, Tommy,” he answers, his voice pained. “She’s young. I never thought on how it looked ‘til we got here-,”