Untitled

Readers POV

At two forty-three in the morning, The Pitt was not quiet. It was never quiet. It just changed volume depending on the hour. By midnight, the department had been loud in the obvious ways: stretchers rattling through ambulance doors, family members asking for updates every seven minutes, monitors chirping over each other, somebody crying in the waiting room because the vending machine had eaten their card. By two forty-three, it had gone into a different kind of noise. The tired kind.

The kind made of phones ringing too long, printers jamming, half-finished orders, low voices behind curtains, wheels squeaking over linoleum, nurses saying, "I'll be right there," in the exact tone that meant they had already said it five times.

You stood at the nurses' station with trauma shears clipped to your scrub pocket, two labels stuck to your wrist, and a computer frozen on the medication record. You tapped the mouse. Nothing. You tapped it harder. Still nothing. Jack stood beside you, looking down at the screen.

"Threatening it won't help."

You didn't look up. "I'm not threatening it."

"You're staring at it like you know where its children go to school."

"I do. They're all in radiology, refusing to upload images."

His mouth shifted. Not a smile. Almost. That was usually all anyone got from him at this hour. You reached for the keyboard and hit enter again. The screen stayed frozen.

"Brilliant," you muttered. "Love a machine with boundaries."

Jack leaned one forearm against the counter, close enough that his sleeve brushed yours. "Try logging out."

"If I log out, I may never get back in."

"That sounds dramatic."

"This hospital once locked me out because I entered my password too emotionally."

"That explains several things."

You turned your head and gave him a look. Jack looked back, perfectly bland. The fluorescent light cut shadows under his eyes. His scrub top was wrinkled at the collar, and there was a smear of dried betadine near one cuff. He looked tired in that clean, contained way he had, like exhaustion had asked for permission before settling on him. Infuriating. You clicked the mouse again. The system gave one weak blink and unfroze.

You lifted both hands. "See? It responds to fear."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Disturbing management style."

"Says the man who makes residents apologize to CT."

"They should."

"They absolutely should," you said, and reached for the med scanner.

Across the station, Perlah was on the phone with lab, using her calmest voice, which meant someone was in danger. Princess stood at the counter with a tray of specimens, labelling each one with the focus of a woman who had entered a temporary spiritual agreement with order. A call bell went off. Then another.

From Curtain Three, a woman called, "Excuse me? My father still hasn't gotten his sandwich."

Princess closed her eyes for half a second.

You looked toward the curtain. "He's NPO."

"She says bread doesn't count if it's hospital bread," Princess said.

Jack glanced toward Curtain Three. "Creative."

"Medically useless, but creative."

Perlah hung up the phone and said, "Lab says they never got the green top from Bay Six."

Princess held up a bag without looking. "That green top?"

Perlah stared at it. Princess stared back.

You whispered, "Nobody move. It might be a trap."

Jack took the specimen bag from Princess and checked the label. "Bay Six."

Princess pointed toward the tube station. "It was waiting for the printer."

"The printer doesn't process labs."

"It had an attitude. I was letting it calm down."

Perlah came over and snatched the bag. "I'll walk it down before this place invents a new failure point."

She left with the grim purpose of someone going into battle.

Jack watched her go. "She's handling the night well."

"She threatened to divorce the tube system ten minutes ago."

"Healthy boundaries."

You scanned the medication and signed it off before the computer changed its mind. "You always this supportive of workplace conflict?"

"Only when it's justified."

"That's every night."

"Then yes."

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Jack looked at you. Only for a second. But there it was again. That almost-warmth. That almost-softening. The look that made you forget, briefly and stupidly, that you were at work. You looked away first. Safer. The problem with Jack was that most people saw the sharp edges and stopped there. The dry comments. The clinical stare. The way he could flatten a room with one sentence and no raised voice. All of that was real. But it was not all of him. You knew that now.

You knew because he remembered which patients made you clench your jaw. Because he put coffee near your charting hand on bad nights and pretended he had just "overestimated his own caffeine needs." Because he stepped in when a family member got too loud, not to take over, but to stand beside you while you handled it yourself.

Because he had a way of seeing too much and saying almost nothing. Tonight, he had seen Curtain Twelve. You had known he had. The patient had been septic, febrile, frightened, and strong enough to grab your wrist when you leaned over to adjust his line. It had lasted maybe three seconds before you got him to let go. Princess had been there. Shen had been called. The man had apologized afterward, confused and shaking. It was over. It should have been over. But Jack's eyes had dropped to your wrist three times since. You kept pulling your sleeve down without meaning to. Jack noticed that too. Of course he did.

You tried to ignore it by moving. That usually worked in the ED. There was always something else to do, somewhere else to put your hands, another task to fold yourself into until whatever awkward, tender thing had started to rise between you sank back down again.

You checked on Bay Five, who insisted his breathing was "fine now" while still requiring oxygen. Ellis adjusted his orders and gave him the kind of look that made him reconsider lying to women in scrubs. Shen finally got cardiology to answer by using Jack's name like an institutional threat. Princess found two missing saline flushes in a linen cart and declared it "evidence of collapse."

Normal. Annoying. Alive. By three ten, you were back at the station, rewriting a discharge instruction because the printer had decided to cut off everything after return immediately if— which felt medically bold. You reached for the tape dispenser and winced before you could stop yourself. It was small. Barely anything. The kind of automatic reaction you would have ignored on any other night, from any other bruise. Your wrist had twisted awkwardly when Twelve grabbed you earlier, and the movement pulled at the sore place just enough to make your fingers pause. You recovered quickly. Not quickly enough. Jack was three feet away, signing a chart. His pen stopped moving.

You looked at the papers very hard and pretended not to notice him noticing. That was usually the safest method with Jack. If you gave him an opening, he would walk through it with that quiet, terrible focus of his, the one that made patients confess symptoms they had planned to take to the grave and made residents suddenly remember protocols they had been ignoring. You reached for the tape again with your other hand. Jack said nothing. Which meant he was absolutely going to say something. You could feel him beside you, still and silent, while the department kept moving around both of you.

Princess passed behind the station with a stack of clean blankets and paused long enough to look between your wrist and Jack's face.

"Nope," she said under her breath, and kept walking.

You shot her a warning look. She ignored it with professional ease.

Perlah leaned around the corner from the desk phone. "Radiology says the portable chest from Four is 'in process.'"

You latched onto that like a life raft. "It's been in process for forty minutes."

Jack's gaze did not leave your wrist. "Did they define process?"

Princess, already halfway down the hall, called back, "They defined it as 'in process.'"

"That's circular," Jack said.

"That's radiology," you answered.

It almost worked. For about three seconds, the conversation went back to normal. You wrote another line. The printer coughed. Someone laughed down the hall. Shen's voice rose from Bay Six, calm but deeply tired. Then your sleeve slipped back as you reached for the discharge packet. The red mark showed again. Jack set his pen down. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just enough that you heard it. You looked at him. He looked at your wrist.

And then, quiet enough that it did not belong to the station, he said, "Let me see."

You glanced toward Curtain Three, toward Princess disappearing down the hall, toward Perlah still half on the phone. Nobody was watching directly. Everyone was probably listening a little, because this was The Pitt and walls were a myth, but no one was making it obvious. You could have told him no. Not because you wanted to. Because saying yes felt like letting him stand somewhere closer than either of you usually admitted he already did. But Jack did not reach for you. He just waited. A request. Not an order. That was worse, somehow. You turned your wrist over. Jack took your hand carefully. Not dramatically. Not like you were fragile.

Like he was trying very hard not to make you feel watched. His fingers settled around your palm first, warm and steady. Then his thumb shifted the edge of your sleeve back just enough to see the faint red mark circling the skin. It barely hurt. You had seen worse bruises from IV pumps and supply carts and the med room drawer that stuck every time someone needed something fast. Jack's jaw tightened anyway. You watched his face instead of your wrist. That was safer, and somehow not safer at all.

He did not look angry exactly. Not in the easy way. It was quieter than that. Controlled. Focused down into something small enough to survive at the nurses' station. If he had been another man, he might have made noise about it. Asked too many questions. Turned concern into a spectacle. Jack didn't. He just looked. That made it harder to breathe. His thumb did not press the mark. It rested just beneath it. Warm. Steady.

A point of contact small enough that anyone walking past could miss it, but you couldn't. You felt it all the way up your arm, under your ribs, in the place where your heart had gotten embarrassingly used to making bad decisions around him.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

Quiet. Still not quite doctor. Not quite anything else either.

"No," you said.

His eyes lifted to yours.

You amended, because Jack had a gift for making lies feel useless, "Not much."

His gaze held yours for a beat. Long enough that the sounds around you seemed to thin out — not disappear, exactly, because The Pitt never allowed anything that generous, but fade to the edge of awareness. The phone ringing. The printer grinding. Princess saying something down the hall. Shen's voice from Bay Six, calm and deeply tired. All of it kept going. You and Jack didn't. His thumb moved once. Not over the bruise. Just beneath it. A slow, careful sweep against your pulse. You wondered if he could feel it jump. You knew he could. That was the problem with him.

He noticed everything and let you pretend he hadn't. Jack's eyes dropped to where his thumb rested against your skin. His expression stayed almost unreadable, but something in his face had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. Not clinical. Not anymore. There was no reason for him to keep holding your wrist. He had already seen the bruise. Already assessed the mark. Already confirmed you were not hiding anything worse under your sleeve. He should have let go. You should have pulled away. Neither of you did. Your fingers shifted once against his palm. Barely. An accident, maybe. Except Jack looked at them. Then back at you.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. His thumb stilled. For one dangerous second, you thought he was going to say something. Not a joke. Not a clipped instruction. Something real enough to make the station lights feel too bright. But Jack was Jack. And the room was full of patients and nurses and unfinished charts and every reason in the world not to cross whatever line the two of you kept walking up to and pretending was just part of the floor. So he said nothing.

He only turned your wrist a fraction more, checking the mark from the other angle with a care so quiet it almost hurt worse than words.

"You should ice it," he said at last.

There it was. A safe sentence. A clinical sentence. You almost smiled because it sounded so much like him and so little like what was actually happening.

"I'll add it to my glamorous post-shift plans."

His eyes lifted again. "You have plans?"

The question was too casual. You heard what sat under it anyway.

You shrugged lightly, because you were not brave enough to do anything else. "Sleep. Maybe laundry. Maybe staring at a wall until my soul comes back."

"Ambitious."

"Don't be jealous."

"I'm devastated."

His hand was still around your wrist. His thumb was still against your pulse. You looked down at it, then back at him. Jack noticed. Of course he did. This time, his expression changed before he could stop it. Not much. A flicker of restraint. The faintest tightening around his eyes. Like letting go had become a choice instead of a reflex. Like he knew exactly how long he had been touching you. Like he knew you knew too. Your mouth went dry.

"Jack," you said.

Not warning. Not question. Just his name. His fingers flexed once around your hand. Then, slowly, he released you. Not all at once. His thumb left your pulse first. Then his fingers loosened from your palm. Then your hand was yours again, and somehow that felt colder than it should have. You tucked it against your side before you could do something stupid, like reach for him again.

"Thanks," you said, because you had to say something.

Jack nodded once.

His voice was even when he answered, but quieter than before. "Tell Shen if Twelve gets agitated again."

"I will."

His expression told you he did not fully believe that. Your expression told him you knew. Neither of you pushed it. That was the thing between you lately. Everything unspoken, and somehow all of it too loud. For a second longer, Jack stayed where he was. Close enough that his sleeve nearly brushed yours. Close enough that you could see the tiredness at the corners of his eyes and the line his mouth made when he was keeping too much behind it. Then Princess's voice carried from down the hall.

"Radiology says the portable chest from Four is still 'in process.'"

The station exhaled around you. The moment broke. Not cleanly. Not completely. Just enough for both of you to pretend it had.

You frowned toward Princess. "That's what they said ten minutes ago."

"They have committed to the bit."

Jack reached for the chart you had been about to grab and handed it to you. "Bay Five needs reassessment before he negotiates another cigarette."

You took the chart. "He offered me three dollars and half a pack of gum earlier."

"Was the gum sealed?"

"No."

"Then no deal."

You smiled. This time, Jack almost did too. The station settled back into motion.

You checked on Bay Five again, adjusted his nasal cannula when he tried to claim oxygen worked better if it was "nearby," and reminded him that lungs were not spiritual. Ellis laughed into her chart. Shen finally walked past with a face that suggested cardiology had answered the phone and made him regret wanting that.

By three twenty, you were back at the station again, rewriting the discharge paper because the printer had cut off the final line a second time. Jack came up beside you with a chart in one hand and his good pen in the other. You looked at the pen. He looked at you.

"No," he said.

"I didn't ask."

"You looked."

"I admire quality stationery."

"You steal quality stationery."

"I prefer redistribute."

Jack handed you a different pen from the cup. You clicked it. It didn't work. You clicked it again. Nothing. You held it up. Jack looked at it, then sighed and gave you his.

You accepted it with great dignity. "That was very brave."

"It was a lapse in judgment."

"Still counts."

"Give it back."

"When I'm done."

"You've said that before."

"And yet here we are."

His shoulder brushed yours as he leaned closer to read the discharge paper. It was not necessary. The font was large enough. Neither of you moved away.

"You misspelled dizziness," he said.

You looked down. You had.

"You saw nothing."

"I saw malpractice."

"It's three in the morning."

"Dizziness still has two z's at three in the morning."

"Does it?"

"Usually."

You corrected it. Jack stayed there, close and quiet, his attention ostensibly on the paperwork. Your attention was on the warmth of him beside you. On the place where his hand had held your wrist. On how he had not said what he was thinking, and how somehow that made it worse. Then the ambulance radio crackled. The whole station shifted before the words even came through. Everyone heard the tone first. The clipped urgency. The incoming.

"Medic Seven to Mercy, inbound with trauma alert."

Jack straightened. You felt the change in him instantly. The warmth, the almost-smile, the quiet station version of him vanished behind something stiller. Sharper. The radio continued.

"Adult male, early twenties. Blast injury from unknown device. Penetrating abdominal trauma, burns to torso and upper extremities. Hypotensive en route. Altered mental status. ETA four minutes."

For a breath, nobody spoke. Blast injury. Unknown device. You looked at Jack. His face had closed. Not panic. Never panic. Something older than that. Something trained into the bones. You knew pieces of his army history the way most people knew pieces of Jack — incompletely, carefully, mostly through what he did not say. But you knew enough to recognize when certain words landed badly. This one landed. Then he moved.

"Trauma One," Jack called, voice cutting clean through the station. "Now."

The department snapped with him. Princess was already reaching for the blood cooler.

Perlah grabbed the phone. "Surgery and anesthesia?"

"Yes," Jack said. "Tell them penetrating abdominal blast injury, unstable, possible retained foreign body. Shen, airway side. Ellis, monitors and access."

Shen came out of the physician workroom, expression gone alert. "Unknown device?"

"Unknown," Jack said.

Just that. But it changed the air. You stripped off your old gloves and moved to the trauma sink. Jack turned toward you.

"Left side," he said.

Not a question. Not quite an order either. He trusted you there.

You nodded. "Already there."

His eyes held yours for half a second. Whatever had passed between you at the station was still there, pushed down beneath the incoming trauma, beneath protocol, beneath the part of both of you that knew how to work when the room got loud. Then Jack looked toward the ambulance doors. The sirens were close now. Growing louder. You pulled on fresh gloves, your wrist still warm where his hand had been. And waited for the doors to open. The ambulance doors opened hard enough to rattle the frame. Noise came with them.

Wheels over linoleum. Monitor alarms. A paramedic's voice cutting through the department. Rainwater hitting the floor from jackets and boots. The metallic smell that always seemed to arrive before the stretcher did. Blood. Smoke. Burned fabric. You had half a second to see Jack's face. Still. Not blank. Jack was never blank. There was always something moving under the surface with him, even when he didn't let it reach daylight. But this was different. The words from the radio had followed him into the trauma bay. Blast injury. Unknown device. For one breath, he looked like a man hearing something from a long way away.

Then the stretcher crossed the threshold, and Jack was back.

"Trauma One," he said. "Straight in."

The paramedics moved fast. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Hard to tell beneath the soot and blood and the harsh white light of the bay. His clothes had already been cut open in places, most of his shirt peeled away, the edges of it blackened and wet. Burns marked his chest and shoulder in angry red patches. His left arm was wrapped above the elbow with a tourniquet, blood dark around the torn sleeve below it. But his abdomen was worse. No. Not abdomen. Side.

Left flank, low and ragged, half-covered by an EMS dressing that had already soaked through. Blood had spread beneath the padding and down onto the sheet in dark, fast streaks. You moved to the patient's left side without needing Jack to point. That was where he put you. That was where he trusted you. Shen took airway. Ellis moved to the monitor. Princess came in with the blood cooler and set it where you could reach. Perlah stood at the threshold with the phone pressed to one ear, already calling surgery. The lead paramedic started report before the stretcher stopped moving.

"Twenty-three-year-old male, Evan Mercer. Found in a garage after reported device failure. Fire was still securing the scene when we left. Burns to torso and upper extremities, penetrating injury to left flank and abdomen, altered en route. Pressure eighty over palp, pulse one-forty, respirations shallow. One eighteen in the right AC, fluids running. Tourniquet left upper arm placed at zero-two-fifty-eight."

Jack listened without interrupting, eyes moving over the patient, over the lines, over the tourniquet, over the soaked dressing at his side.

"What kind of device?" he asked.

The paramedic shook his head. "Unknown. Fire said homemade. We weren't given details."

"Any concern he brought anything active in with him?"

"Not that they told us. They cleared him for transport once they got him away from the workbench. They told us not to pull any debris, minimize movement, get him here."

"Did anything shift during transport?"

"Not that we saw. Dressing stayed in place. Bleeding got worse in the last three minutes."

That mattered. You saw Jack file it away. The patient moaned beneath the oxygen mask. His eyes opened and rolled toward the lights.

"Mr. Mercer," Shen said, leaning in. "You're at Mercy. Stay with us."

The patient jerked weakly against the straps.

Jack stepped closer. "Mr. Mercer, I'm Dr. Abbott. You're in the emergency department. We're going to take care of you."

The patient's mouth moved beneath the mask. Nothing came out.

"On my count," Jack said. "Ready? One, two, three."

Everyone moved. The transfer was brutal and clean. The patient slid from stretcher to trauma bed in one coordinated pull. The monitor shrieked as leads were switched over. Ellis called out numbers while Princess snapped open blood tubing.

"Pressure seventy-eight systolic," Ellis said. "Pulse one-forty-six. Sat eighty-nine on non-rebreather."

"Shen?" Jack asked.

"Airway's not great," Shen said. "He's tiring. Burns near the neck, no obvious soot in the mouth. Voice weak."

Jack said, "Prepare for intubation. I want anesthesia in here."

Perlah called from the door, "Anesthesia's coming. Surgery too."

"Good. Two large-bore IVs if we can get them. Blood now. TXA. Burn dressings after hemorrhage control."

You cut away enough of the remaining fabric to expose the dressing EMS had placed. The gauze was soaked through. Not just stained. Saturated. Blood welled at the edges with each shallow, frantic breath the patient took.

"Dressing's saturated," you said.

Jack was there immediately. "Active bleed?"

"Looks like it."

"Hold pressure. Don't pull anything. Don't remove anything embedded."

That was standard. Normal. Trauma nursing, not surgery. Control the bleeding. Maintain pressure. Don't go hunting. Don't extract anything. Keep the patient alive long enough for the people with scalpels and better lighting. You placed both gloved hands over the dressing and leaned in with firm, even pressure. The gauze gave beneath your palms. Warmth pushed up between your fingers. Mr. Mercer bucked against the bed.

Shen caught his shoulder. "Easy. Easy."

Mr. Mercer's eyes went wide. He tried to speak around the mask.

"No—"

Jack looked at him. "Mr. Mercer, stay still."

"No," he gasped. "Don't— don't touch—"

"You're bleeding," Jack said. "She's holding pressure."

Mr. Mercer shook his head weakly, panic cutting through shock. "Don't move it."

Your hands stayed where they were. Pressure over dressing. Nothing more. But the blood kept coming. Too much. It slid hot under your palms, slicking the gauze until the pressure dressing no longer felt like pressure at all. It shifted beneath you, unstable and soaked, and the patient's pressure dropped on the monitor with a sharper alarm.

"Sixty-eight systolic," Ellis said.

Garcia entered then, gown half tied, hair pulled back, already gloving as she crossed the room. "What do we have?"

"Blast injury," Jack said. "Unstable. Penetrating left flank and abdomen. Active hemorrhage. Possible retained foreign body. Dressing's saturated."

Garcia stepped to the opposite side of the bed and looked down. Her face sharpened.

"That dressing isn't doing anything," she said. "We need direct pressure at the source."

Jack looked at the wound. Then at you. A single beat. A decision neither of you had time to make gently.

"Can you maintain pressure if we open the dressing?" he asked.

"Yes," you said.

Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Garcia's eyes flicked to Jack. "We don't pull anything."

"We don't pull anything," Jack said. "We expose only what we need to control hemorrhage."

Anesthesia came in behind Garcia, mask hanging around his neck, respiratory at his shoulder.

"I hear airway and hypotension," anesthesia said.

"You heard correctly," Shen said. "He's tiring."

Jack didn't look away from the wound. "Prepare for intubation. Hold until I say."

Anesthesia's hand paused, but he nodded. "Understood."

Jack looked at you. "Ready?"

You nodded.

"Slow," he said. "Only the dressing. Hands steady."

Garcia cut the outer wrap. You kept pressure until the last second. Then the dressing opened beneath your hands. Blood surged. Dark. Fast. Immediate.

"Pressure," Jack said.

You moved before the word finished. Not exploring. Not searching. Just following the bleed. Your right hand pressed deep into the torn opening at his side, fingers sinking past slick tissue and ruined fabric, down to the place where the bleeding seemed to pulse hardest. Your left hand braced over your own wrist to hold the pressure steady. The heat of it swallowed your glove. Mr. Mercer screamed.

Shen leaned close. "Mr. Mercer, stay with me."

"Pressure?" Jack asked.

You swallowed hard.

"Better," you said. "Not controlled."

Garcia leaned just close enough to see without touching. "You're tamponading something."

"I can feel resistance," you said.

"Debris?"

"I don't know."

You did not move your hand. You did not lift. You did not go deeper. You just held. That was the job. Hold pressure. Keep him alive. Let surgery get there. Mr. Mercer's hand jerked toward his side.

Ellis caught it gently but firmly. "No, Mr. Mercer. Don't grab."

His eyes fixed on you. On your arm. On where your hand disappeared into the wound in his side.

"No," he gasped.

Jack leaned over him. "Mr. Mercer."

"No. No, no, no."

"Listen to me," Jack said. "You're bleeding. She's stopping the bleed."

Mr. Mercer shook his head. Tears mixed with soot at the corners of his eyes.

"Don't move it."

The room tightened. You felt your own breathing change. Jack saw.

"What?" he asked.

You kept your eyes on him because looking at your hand suddenly felt impossible.

"There's something against my palm."

Garcia went still.

Jack's voice stayed controlled. "Describe it."

Your mouth had gone dry.

"Hard," you said. "Smooth edge. Not loose."

Anesthesia's hand stopped above the medication tray. Shen looked from the patient to Jack. The monitors kept beeping. Nobody else moved. Jack's face did not change. That scared you more than if it had.

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, voice low and controlled, "the foreign body in your flank — what is it?"

Mr. Mercer stared at him. His breathing hitched hard.

"I don't know."

"Mr. Mercer."

"My brother said not to pull it."

The words dropped into the trauma bay one at a time. You felt each one. Jack's eyes moved back to yours. Still calm. Too calm.

"What exactly did your brother say?" he asked.

Mr. Mercer's eyes filled.

"He said if part of it got stuck, don't pull. Don't let it shift."

Garcia's face changed. Anesthesia looked at Jack. Shen did not move. Princess stood by the blood cooler, suddenly pale above her mask. Mr. Mercer sobbed once, weak and terrified.

"He said it could still go."

The room lost all its air. Could still go. Your hand stayed inside his side. Pressed against blood and torn tissue and the hard, wrong shape beneath your palm. For one strange, awful second, your mind did not give you fear. It gave you details. The heat of the wound. The pressure of your left hand bracing your right. The ache already starting in your shoulders. The slick pull of blood around your wrist. The blood warmer humming. Jack's face. God, Jack's face. He looked down at where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then at the wound. Then back at you. The old stillness was there again. Not panic. Training. Memory. Calculation.

Something awful and familiar moving behind his eyes.

Garcia spoke first, very quietly. "Jack."

"I know," he said.

Anesthesia's voice was low and tight. "Is he saying there's an active explosive component inside the wound?"

"No one says that yet," Jack replied.

His voice was calm. Too calm. He lifted one hand slightly, palm down. A signal to the room. Hold. Stay. Do not react. Then he looked at you. Only you.

"Do not move your hand," Jack said.

Your throat locked. Your whole body wanted to nod. His voice sharpened immediately, not loud, but absolute.

"Don't nod. Don't shift. Don't do anything with your body except breathe."

You froze. Everything in you went still. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's side. Exactly where it was. Jack's eyes stayed on yours.

"Just keep looking at me."

So you did. The rest of the room blurred around the edges. Your right hand was buried in the wound. Your left hand braced over your own wrist. Your palms were warm with blood. Something beneath your hand might have been a piece of metal. Might have been nothing. Might have been everything. But Jack was in front of you, eyes steady, voice low and certain.

"Good," he said. "Exactly like that."

Your breath came too fast. You tried to slow it. Failed. Jack saw that too.

"Breathe with me," he said.

You didn't want to. Not because you didn't trust him. Because breathing felt like movement. Because your ribs moving felt dangerous. Because every tiny part of your body suddenly seemed capable of betrayal. Jack understood before you said it.

"You can breathe," he said. "Slow. Small. Nothing else moves."

You followed him. In. Out. Small. Careful. Your eyes stayed on his. Behind him, the room remained frozen in pieces. Garcia's hands were lifted away from the field. Anesthesia stood still near the airway cart. Shen held his position at the patient's head. Ellis had one hand hovering above the monitor controls but did not touch them. Princess stood near the blood cooler, face pale above her mask. Perlah was at the threshold with the phone still in her hand, eyes wide and fixed on you. Jack did not look away from you.

"Perlah," he said, voice still quiet.

Perlah startled, then caught herself. "Yeah."

"Call security. Quietly. Possible explosive hazard in Trauma One. No overhead page yet. Then get hospital command. Tell them we need police bomb squad."

Perlah swallowed. "Okay."

"Slowly," Jack said.

She moved. One step back. Then another. The room watched her leave like even the air had become tripwire.

Garcia's eyes stayed on your arm. "If she's tamponading the bleed and stabilizing the object, we cannot move her hand."

"She's not moving," Jack said.

"I know."

"She's not moving," Jack repeated.

The words landed harder the second time. Not harsh. Final. You were grateful for it. Terrified by it too. Because he was right. You could not move. Not your hand. Not your wrist. Not the fingers pressed against the hard edge inside Mr. Mercer's side. Not the wrist Jack had touched ten minutes ago when the world had been annoying and alive and ordinary.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then prepare. Don't proceed until security and command are in the loop."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer was crying now, silent tears cutting through soot on his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. We didn't think it would—"

"Mr. Mercer," Jack said, still watching you. "You're going to stay very still. You're going to let Dr. Shen help you breathe. You're not going to reach for the wound. Do you understand?"

The patient gave the smallest nod.

Jack's eyes flicked to him. "No nodding. Say yes."

"Yes," Mr. Mercer whispered.

"Good."

A sound left you before you could swallow it. Barely a sound. Almost nothing. Jack's attention snapped back.

"You're okay," he said.

You couldn't answer. He corrected immediately.

"You are doing okay," he said. "That's different."

That nearly broke you. Because it was different. Because you were not okay. But you were doing it. You were standing there with your hand inside a patient's side, not moving because Jack told you not to move, because a terrified patient said the thing beneath your palm might still go off, because the ED had suddenly become the centre of a blast radius and you were holding the middle of it against a stranger's body. You kept looking at Jack. He kept looking back. Security arrived at the trauma bay doors. Two officers. Both trying to look calmer than they felt.

Perlah stood behind them, phone still pressed to her ear. Jack did not turn fully away from you.

"Possible explosive hazard in patient wound," he said. "Restrict access to Trauma One. Quietly clear adjacent bays and the immediate hallway. Get hospital command here now. We need police bomb squad. No overhead announcement until command decides. Nobody runs."

One guard swallowed. "You want the ED evacuated?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "We don't know enough, and moving everyone at once creates more risk. Immediate area first. Then command makes the call."

The guard nodded and moved. The second stayed at the door.

"No one enters without my permission unless they are security, hospital command, or bomb squad," Jack said.

"Understood."

The door area cleared. The room felt smaller. Your hand did not move. Your arm was already beginning to burn. Not badly. Not yet. But enough to remind you that muscles were stupid, disloyal things. Jack saw your eyes flicker.

"Stay with me," he said.

"I'm here," you managed.

"I know."

His voice softened by half a degree. Not enough for anyone else. Enough for you.

"Keep looking at me."

So you did. The monitor alarmed louder.

Ellis read the number, voice strained but steady. "Pressure sixty-eight systolic."

Garcia cursed under her breath.

Anesthesia said, "Jack, we're running out of airway."

Jack's eyes stayed on you for one heartbeat longer. Then he looked at the room.

"Okay," he said, voice low and absolute. "Nobody moves unless I tell you."

He looked back at your arm. At the wound. At the thing beneath your hand. Then at you.

"Nobody moves."

Nobody moved. For three seconds, maybe four, the trauma bay held itself in an impossible stillness. The monitors did not care. They kept screaming. Mr. Mercer's pulse raced across the screen in sharp green spikes. His oxygen saturation hovered too low. His pressure sat in the kind of range that made everyone in the room want to do something with their hands. But nobody did. Not without Jack. Not with your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank, braced against a foreign body that might be harmless debris, might be unstable metal, might be the thing everyone in the room was suddenly trying very hard not to imagine.

You kept your eyes on Jack. That was the only instruction you could follow without thinking. Just keep looking at me. So you did. His face was steady. Pale under the trauma lights, yes. Sharper than before, yes. But steady. You hated him a little for that. You needed him for it more.

"Okay," Jack said, voice low. "We're going to slow this down."

Garcia's eyes flicked to the monitor. "He doesn't have much slow left."

"I know."

"Pressure's still dropping," Ellis said from the monitor. Her voice was tight, but controlled. "Sixty-four systolic."

Jack nodded once, like he had already built that number into the room.

"Blood keeps running," he said. "No one crosses her side of the bed."

Princess stood near the blood cooler, frozen with one hand hovering uselessly in the air.

Jack looked at her. "Princess."

She blinked. "Yeah."

"Blood tubing. Can you reach the pump without crossing behind her?"

Princess looked. Calculated.

Nodded once. "Yes."

"Slowly."

Princess moved like the floor might object. One step. Pause. Another. She reached the pump, adjusted what she needed, and backed away with the kind of care usually reserved for live wires and sleeping infants.

"Blood's running," she said.

"Good."

The word had weight in Jack's mouth. Not praise exactly. More like a rope thrown across the room. Everyone took it.

Shen stayed at the head of the bed, jaw tight, one hand supporting the oxygen mask. "He's tiring."

Mr. Mercer's breaths had turned shallow. Fast. Wet at the edges. Anesthesia stood beside Shen, meds ready but untouched, body held in the miserable restraint of someone trained to act and forced to wait.

"Jack," anesthesia said, "if he arrests, we lose every option."

"If you intubate and he bucks or we shift his torso, we may lose the room."

The words were quiet. No drama. That made them worse. Your fingers wanted to tighten. You did not let them. Jack's eyes moved back to yours instantly.

"Don't change pressure," he said.

"I'm not."

Your voice sounded thin.

His softened by a fraction. "Good."

Garcia watched your arm disappear into the wound. "How's your hold?"

You took a careful breath. Small. Jack's eyes stayed on you.

"Stable," you said. "I think."

"Bleeding?"

You did not look down. You couldn't. Jack looked for you.

"No major change," he said. "She's tamponading enough to buy us time."

"Not much," Garcia said.

"No," Jack said. "Not much."

That was the thing about him. He did not dress bad news up. He did not hand you false comfort and ask you to swallow it because it was easier for him. If Jack said something, he meant it. If he didn't know, he didn't pretend. Right now, that should have scared you. Instead, it made the floor feel a little more solid. You kept your hand still. Kept your palm exactly where it was. The foreign body stayed pressed against the heel of your hand, hard and wrong beneath slick heat and torn tissue. Security had begun moving outside the bay.

You could hear it in fragments through the glass and open doorway. Low voices. Footsteps. A stretcher wheel squeaking away from the adjacent trauma room.

Someone asking, "Why are we moving him?"

A security officer answering too calmly, "Maintenance issue in the trauma corridor. We're moving you somewhere quieter."

Maintenance issue. You almost laughed. The sound got nowhere near your mouth.

Perlah appeared at the threshold, phone still in hand, face pale above her mask. "Security is clearing the immediate hall. Hospital command's been notified."

"How long for police?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says units are close. Bomb squad is being requested through city."

"Estimate?"

"Not yet."

"Get one."

Perlah nodded and stepped back carefully, like even the doorway had become dangerous. A minute later, Lena Handzo appeared behind security. Night-shift charge. She did not enter the room. She stopped exactly where the security officer told her to stop, one hand braced on the doorframe, eyes taking in everything with brutal, efficient speed. The patient. Garcia. Anesthesia. Shen. Jack. Your arm. Her face did not change. That was how you knew she understood.

"Abbott," Lena said.

"Lena."

"Perlah says possible explosive hazard."

"Possible," Jack said. "Foreign body in the left flank. Patient reports it may be part of the device. Her hand is controlling hemorrhage and stabilizing it. She cannot move."

Lena's eyes came to yours. No panic. No pity. Only command. Only: I see you. Stay steady.

Then she looked back at Jack. "Adjacent bays are clearing. Security has both ends of the corridor. I'm moving ambulatory patients first, quiet and slow."

"Good."

"Waiting room?"

"Not yet," Jack said. "If the waiting room hears bomb, we get stampede risk."

"Agreed."

The administrator beside her — hospital command, suit jacket over a dress shirt, hair mussed like he'd been dragged from a sleep room or office couch — looked like he wanted to say something. Lena beat him to it.

"We stage evacuation," she said. "Immediate corridor first. Then the department in zones once police gives us routes. Nobody runs. Nobody says explosive in front of patients."

The administrator swallowed. "Hospital policy requires—"

"Hospital policy doesn't move sixty patients safely in thirty seconds," Lena said, not looking at him. "Give us three minutes and a plan."

Jack gave the smallest nod. You saw it. So did Lena. For a second, the two of them spoke the language of people who kept departments alive when the building tried to eat itself. Then Jack looked back at you.

"Stay in this room," he said.

You blinked once. Not too hard.

"What?"

"Not the hallway. Not the department. This room."

You realized your thoughts had started to follow the noise outside. The stretchers. The patients. The people being moved because of what was under your hand. You brought your focus back to him.

"Okay."

His gaze held yours. "Better."

The room narrowed again. Jack's face. Jack's voice. Your hand. The foreign body beneath your palm. Mr. Mercer made a small, broken sound beneath the oxygen mask.

"Am I going to die?"

The question hit the room differently than the alarms. You felt it under your hand. Not movement. Not pressure. Just the human awfulness of him being awake enough to ask. Jack's face changed as he looked down at the patient. Focused differently.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "right now you are alive. We are going to keep working from there."

Mr. Mercer's eyes rolled toward him. "I'm sorry."

"Save your energy."

"I didn't—" His breath hitched. "We didn't mean—"

"Mr. Mercer."

Jack's voice cut cleanly through the panic. The patient went quiet.

"You are going to breathe slowly," Jack said. "You are going to listen to Shen. You are not going to reach for your flank. You are not going to help. You are not going to apologize. Do you understand?"

Tears tracked through the soot on Mr. Mercer's face.

"Yes."

"Good."

Jack looked at Shen.

Shen nodded once and leaned closer to the patient. "Follow me. Small breaths. In. Out. That's it."

Your own breath tried to follow. Jack caught it. Of course he did.

"One breath at a time," he said to you.

You gave the smallest nod before you remembered. Your stomach dropped. Jack's eyes sharpened. Nothing happened. Your hand had not moved.

His voice stayed level. "You caught it."

Your mouth trembled once. You locked it down. Outside the bay, Lena had already started moving the department around you. You could hear her in pieces.

"Not that way. Use the east hall."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"No, do not say Code Black in front of the waiting room."

"Perlah, you're with security. Princess stays until Abbott releases her."

"Clear Trauma Two first. Then Curtain One through Four. Quiet."

Her voice stayed low. Firm. Unhurried. Exactly what the hallway needed. Exactly what you needed not to hear too much of. Because if you thought about the whole department, you would come apart. Jack seemed to know that before you did.

"Small room," he said.

You stared at him.

"What?"

He kept his voice quiet, pitched for you and no one else. "Make it small."

You swallowed. "The room?"

"Smaller."

Your fingers stayed locked in place. "How?"

"My face. Your hand. Mr. Mercer breathing. That's all."

That was almost funny. Almost.

"You make crisis sound like a mindfulness exercise," you whispered.

"I make crisis sound survivable."

You breathed once. Careful. Small.

"Okay," you said.

Jack nodded. "Good."

The administrator's voice carried from the doorway, lower now but still strained. "Do we need to evacuate the entire ED?"

Jack did not turn fully away from you. "Prepare for it. Don't initiate full movement until police arrive unless threat changes. Immediate zone first. Critical patients only if they can be moved safely. Everyone else stays calm."

"Can the patient be moved?" the administrator asked.

Garcia answered before Jack could.

"No."

No hesitation.

The administrator blinked. "No?"

Garcia's eyes were cold. "He's hypotensive, bleeding, airway unstable, and there is a possible explosive foreign body in his flank being manually stabilized by a nurse who cannot move. So no."

The administrator went quiet. Good.

Anesthesia spoke carefully. "Airway is still a problem."

Jack's jaw flexed once. You saw the calculation move across his face. The patient. The airway. The bleed. The possible device. You. The people in the bay. The rest of the department outside the doors. All of it. All at once.

"What can you do without shifting him?" Jack asked.

Anesthesia answered just as carefully. "Support ventilation. Prepare meds. But intubation means movement. Even minimal movement."

"Then support ventilation. Prepare for intubation. Do not proceed until police and bomb squad are in the loop unless he crashes."

Anesthesia nodded. "Understood."

The room moved in millimetres. Not inches. Millimetres. Shen shifted the seal on the mask with exquisite care. Respiratory adjusted tubing. Anesthesia watched Mr. Mercer's chest rise just enough. You did not look away from Jack. You could hear everything. You could feel too much. The patient's blood warm around your glove. The pressure of the foreign body beneath your palm. The careful brace of your other hand around your own wrist. Your arm had begun to notice the position. Not pain yet. Not really.

Just a growing awareness in your shoulder, a low pull through muscle and tendon that said this was not something a body was meant to hold forever. Not forever, you told yourself. Eight minutes. Or twelve. Or however long it took for someone who knew what they were doing to walk through the doors and tell you how to survive this. Jack's eyes flicked once to your shoulder. Then back to your face. He didn't ask if you were fine. Maybe he had learned. Maybe he knew better than to give you the opportunity to lie.

"Still with me?" he asked.

You breathed in carefully.

"Yeah."

"Good."

That was all. No speech. No softening that would make the room look too closely at either of you. Just the word. Good. You held onto it.

Lena reappeared at the doorway. "Police are coming through the ambulance bay. Bomb squad is being routed now."

"How long?" Jack asked.

"Dispatch says at least twelve minutes."

Twelve. You tried not to count it. Twelve minutes sounded short until you were not allowed to move.

Garcia glanced at your arm. "How long has she been holding that position?"

Ellis looked at the clock. "Since zero-three twenty-three."

Only minutes. It felt longer.

Garcia's face tightened. "We need a plan before fatigue becomes part of the problem."

"It's already part of the problem," anesthesia said.

"Not yet," Jack said.

He looked at you when he said it. Not pretending. Not comforting. Assessing. You understood the difference. He wasn't telling them you could do this forever. He was telling them you were steady now. For some reason, that helped more than if he had told them you were okay.

Lena's gaze moved from Jack to you, then back again. "I'm opening the evacuation plan for the full ED. Quietly. We'll move by zones if police confirms route."

"Do it," Jack said.

"And Abbott?"

He looked at her.

"When the bomb squad gets here, this becomes their scene."

Jack's face did not change.

"I know."

Lena studied him for one second. Maybe two. Like she heard what he did not say. Then she nodded once and disappeared from the doorway. Mr. Mercer's eyes fluttered again.

Shen's voice stayed calm near his ear. "Stay awake if you can, Mr. Mercer."

"I'm tired," the patient whispered.

"I know."

"I'm cold."

Princess looked at Jack. Jack nodded once.

"Blanket from the warmer," he said. "No crossing her side. No touching the wound. Lay it from the legs up."

Princess moved with awful care. A warm blanket unfolded over Mr. Mercer's lower legs, then his hips, stopping well away from your arm and the injury. Normal nursing care in the least normal room in the world. Mr. Mercer cried harder.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

You wanted to tell him to stop apologizing. You couldn't trust your voice. Jack did it for you.

"Mr. Mercer," he said, "save your strength."

"Tell my mom—"

"No," Jack said.

The word was sharp enough that the room looked at him. Even you. Jack's eyes stayed on Mr. Mercer now.

"You are not giving messages right now," he said. "You are breathing. That is your job."

Mr. Mercer's mouth trembled.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Keep doing your job."

Then Jack looked back at you. Like there had not been a knife hidden in that sentence. Like he had not just stopped a dying man from doing the exact thing you would later need to do. Your throat tightened again. You did not know why that hurt. Only that it did.

Lena's voice came from the door. "Bomb squad ETA eight minutes."

Eight. Jack's gaze stayed on yours.

"Don't count backwards," he said.

You gave the smallest breath of a laugh, barely enough to move air.

"Bossy."

"Efficient."

Then he looked back to the room. "We use the time. We do not stare at the clock."

Garcia watched the bleeding. Shen watched the airway. Lena moved the hospital around the blast radius. Jack stayed in front of you. You watched him. And under your palm, the foreign body stayed exactly where it was. Eight minutes did not pass cleanly. Time in the trauma bay stopped behaving like time. It became numbers instead. Pulse one-fifty-two. Pressure sixty-two. Sat eighty-eight with assisted breaths. Blood running. Second unit ready. Police on site. Bomb squad inbound. Your hand inside Mr. Mercer's flank. The foreign body under your palm. Jack in front of you. That was the shape of the room. Everything else moved around it.

Outside the trauma bay, The Pitt was being quietly dismantled piece by piece. Not evacuated all at once. Not at first. That would have been chaos. A stampede in a department full of chest pain, intoxication, fever, fractures, elderly patients with walkers, children with frightened parents, nurses pushing stretchers, doctors trying to decide who could move and who absolutely could not. So Lena moved it like she moved everything else. In zones. With a low voice and no patience for panic. You could hear her beyond the glass, firm and clipped and too calm.

"Curtain One through Four, east corridor."

"No, not that way. East corridor."

"Tell transport I need two more stretchers."

"Do not say bomb in front of patients."

"Safety relocation. That's the phrase."

"Who is with Bay Six?"

"Then find out."

Security stood at both ends of the trauma corridor. Police had come in through the ambulance bay and were keeping everyone back. Hospital command hovered near the doors with the anxious uselessness of someone discovering that a laminated emergency policy was not the same thing as an emergency. Inside Trauma One, no one wasted motion.

Princess had backed away from the blood cooler after setting up the second unit. Ellis stayed at the monitor, face pale, voice steady. Shen held airway support with the tight focus of a man trying to keep a dying patient alive without letting the patient move. Anesthesia stood beside him, ready for the moment the risk of not intubating outweighed the risk of movement. Garcia watched the wound. Jack watched everything. Not just you. That would have been easier and worse.

He watched the patient's pressure. The blood pump. Shen's hands. Anesthesia's medications. Garcia's body language. The doorway. The hall. Lena. Security. The place where your arm disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. And you. Always back to you. A check. A question. A promise he had no right to make. You had stopped trying to name what sat between you. There was no room for it now. No room for the memory of his thumb under your bruised wrist. No room for the almosts and maybes and silences that had been building for weeks. Except, somehow, that was all there was room for.

"Sat's holding at eighty-eight," Ellis said.

"Holding is generous," anesthesia muttered.

"It's the word I have," Ellis said.

Jack did not look away from the monitor. "Keep assisting. No intubation unless he loses respiratory drive completely."

Anesthesia's mouth tightened. "Understood."

Mr. Mercer made a thin sound beneath the mask.

Shen leaned closer. "Stay with me, Mr. Mercer. Small breaths."

The patient's eyes fluttered. "My brother?"

Jack's face changed by less than a breath.

"Police are speaking with him," he said.

That was new. Your eyes moved to Jack before you could stop them. His gaze caught yours. Yes, his face said. They had found the brother. They knew more than they were saying. A cold line opened down your back. Before you could ask, Lena appeared at the threshold again, one hand over the phone tucked against her ear.

"Police have the brother," she said. "Bomb squad is two minutes out. They're getting information from him now."

Jack's jaw flexed.

"Is he stable enough to talk?"

"Panicked, but talking," Lena said.

Garcia's eyes stayed on the wound. "If there's information we can use, we need it."

Lena nodded once. "They're relaying to bomb squad, not us."

Anesthesia looked up. "Why not us?"

"Because if it's what we think it is," Jack said, voice low, "they'll want the room cleared before they say it out loud."

The silence after that was worse than the alarms. You stared at him. He did not look away. The hallway behind Lena had changed again. There were fewer voices now, but more movement farther away. Bigger movement. Stretchers. Wheelchairs. Orders passed between staff. The wide machinery of a hospital trying to shift its own weight without collapsing. A security officer approached Lena from the side.

"Immediate trauma corridor is clear," he said. "Police are expanding perimeter. They want the whole ED evacuated."

Lena's face did not change. But the air did. The whole ED. Not adjacent rooms. Not the trauma corridor. Everything.

Waiting room. Curtains. Bays. Hall beds. Psych holds. Boarders who had been waiting upstairs for beds that did not exist. The old woman in Curtain Two who needed oxygen. The kid with the broken wrist. The man in Bay Five who thought oxygen worked if it was "nearby." The septic patient in Twelve. People who had come to The Pitt because something was wrong and now had to be moved because something worse had followed someone else inside.

Your stomach turned. Your hand did not move. Jack saw the change in your face.

"Don't take it," he said.

You could barely hear yourself. "They're evacuating the whole ED."

"Yes."

"Because of—"

"No," he said.

The word cut through the thought before it could finish forming. Your eyes burned.

"Jack—"

"No. Because of the device. Because of the risk. Because that's protocol. Not because of you."

Your throat worked. You wanted to believe him. You mostly did. It didn't help as much as you needed it to.

Lena looked toward hospital command. "We evacuate by acuity and mobility. Ambulatory to the east hall and outpatient corridor. Stretcher patients to radiology holding if police clears it. Criticals go to pre-op and PACU overflow. Psych stays with security escort. Anyone on oxygen gets portable tanks before movement."

The administrator blinked. "Can we move patients into PACU without—"

"Yes," Lena said.

He opened his mouth. She looked at him. He closed it. Good man.

"Call upstairs," Lena continued. "Tell them ED is unloading into every available monitored space. I do not care whose census sheet gets ugly."

Security spoke into his radio, then nodded. "Police cleared east hall and outpatient corridor. Ambulance bay is locked down. Incoming ambulances diverted."

"Not critical trauma," Jack said, still watching the monitor.

Lena's eyes flicked to him.

"If a critical trauma is ten minutes out, they can't circle the city," Jack said. "Robby or McKay can make that call outside. But no one comes through this corridor."

Lena nodded. "I'll route command through Robby."

"Robby's here?"

"Just arrived."

Something moved across Jack's face. Not relief. Not exactly. Robby meant backup. Robby also meant someone who could look Jack in the eye and say no. You saw Jack understand both things. He said nothing. The ambulance bay doors beyond the hall opened again, and a new kind of quiet entered with the people who came through. Bomb squad. You knew it before anyone said it.

Maybe it was the way the police officer near the door straightened. Maybe it was the way Lena shifted aside without being told. Maybe it was the shape of the two responders who stopped behind the marked line, one with a hard case, the other speaking low into a radio. The lead tech was a man in dark gear, hair cropped close, face composed in a way that did not belong to hospitals. Calm like roads blocked at midnight. Calm like wires and blast radius and choices made very slowly.

"I'm Sergeant Vale," he said. "Bomb squad. Nobody changes position."

Jack answered immediately. "No one has."

Vale's eyes moved across the trauma bay. Patient. Wound. Your arm. Garcia. Shen. Anesthesia. Ellis. Princess. Jack. Then back to you. He did not ask if you were okay. You were grateful.

"We spoke to the brother on the way in," Vale said.

The words changed the room again.

Jack's voice stayed level. "What did he say?"

Vale did not answer. Not yet. His eyes moved to the number of people in the bay.

"I'll brief essential personnel only."

Jack's expression hardened. "My trauma team is essential."

"Not all of them," Vale said.

Garcia stepped forward half an inch, then stopped herself. "This patient is unstable."

"I understand."

"With respect, Sergeant, if he bleeds out or loses his airway while you're clearing the room, the device won't matter."

Vale's gaze stayed level. "With respect, if that device functions the way the brother described, nobody in this room gets to use the airway."

Silence. No one breathed right for a second. Your hand stayed inside Mr. Mercer's flank. You felt heat. Blood. The hard, smooth edge pressed beneath your palm. For the first time since this began, the foreign body stopped being unknown. Not to them. Not to the bomb squad. They knew. And they were not saying it in front of everyone. That scared you more than the guessing had.

Jack looked at Vale. "Who stays?"

Vale answered without hesitation. "The nurse with her hand in the wound. Me. One medical lead outside the immediate radius to advise. Everyone else leaves until assessment is complete."

"No," Jack said.

Flat. Instant. Lena closed her eyes for half a second in the doorway. Like she had been waiting for that and hated being right.

Vale looked at Jack. "This is not negotiable."

"I'm the attending."

"You can advise from outside."

"The patient is unstable."

"And the device is unstable."

"You don't know that until you assess it."

"We know enough," Vale said. "That is why I'm clearing the room before I give details."

Garcia's mouth tightened. "I need to be able to control hemorrhage."

"You cannot operate around a live device."

"I'm aware."

"Then you are outside until I tell you otherwise."

Garcia looked furious. She also looked like she knew Vale was right.

Anesthesia spoke next, low and tense. "If he crashes while we're outside—"

"I'll call you back if I need you," Vale said.

"If you need us, it may be too late."

Vale's eyes flicked briefly to Mr. Mercer. "I know."

That was the first human thing in his voice. Not softness. Not comfort. Just the truth. Jack did not move. His shoulders had gone still in a way that made your stomach tighten. You had seen him calm all night. You had seen him controlled. This was different. This was refusal settling into his bones.

"I was in the army for years," Jack said, voice low. "I've seen devices in bodies. I've seen what happens when people move wrong."

The room seemed to hear everything under that. Blast trauma. Blood in places blood should not be. Rooms that did not stay rooms. Vale's expression changed by the smallest degree. Not softened. Understood, maybe.

"Then you know why you can't stay," Vale said.

Jack's eyes stayed on him. "Then you know why I won't leave."

Not her. He did not say that. He did not need to. Everyone heard it anyway. Then Mr. Mercer's monitor alarmed again, high and shrill. Ellis flinched but did not touch anything.

"Pressure fifty-eight," she said.

Garcia looked at Jack. "He needs more blood."

Princess shifted automatically toward the cooler.

Vale's voice snapped across the room. "Stop."

Princess froze. The blood pump clicked steadily.

Jack's eyes cut to Vale. "You cannot freeze all care."

"I can freeze movement until I know what's safe."

"He dies if we do nothing."

"He may detonate if you do anything."

The sentence landed like a physical thing. You heard someone inhale. Maybe you. Jack's face turned hard enough to frighten you.

"Then tell me what it is."

Vale looked at the room again. At all the people. Too many.

"No."

Jack took one step toward him. Small. Controlled. A movement with no wasted motion. Vale did not flinch. Lena stepped into the doorway. Not into the room. Just enough.

"Jack."

He did not look at her.

"Not now," he said.

"Yes," Lena said. "Now."

His jaw tightened.

"Abbott," Vale said, "you have ten seconds to step out before I have security remove you."

Jack almost laughed. There was no humour in it.

"Good luck."

Lena moved then. She crossed the threshold carefully, hands visible, her eyes locked on Jack rather than the bed. She did not come near you. Did not come near Mr. Mercer. She stayed on Jack's side of the room, outside the path Vale had claimed.

"Lena," Jack warned.

"No," she said.

One word. Charge nurse voice. Not loud. Immovable. Jack finally looked at her.

"You need to leave," Lena said.

"I'm not leaving."

"You are."

"I am the attending physician responsible for that patient."

"You are a body in a blast radius."

His eyes flashed. "Don't."

"I will not let you dress this up as medical necessity if it isn't."

The room went still around that. You felt the words hit him. Because they were true. Because everyone knew they were true. Because you knew they were true too. Jack looked at you then. For one breath, everything else dropped away. Not the patient. Not the bomb. Not the blood. Just the noise around it. Jack looked at you like if he held you there with his eyes hard enough, he could make the next five minutes survivable. You wanted to let him. You wanted to be selfish. You wanted to say, Stay.

Instead, you heard yourself say, "Jack."

His face changed. That soft version of your voice had always done something to him. You had seen it before in smaller rooms, over smaller wounds. Not like this. Never like this.

"Don't," he said.

You swallowed. Your hand did not move.

"I need you to go."

His eyes sharpened with something almost like betrayal.

"No."

"Yes."

"You don't get to ask me that."

"I'm not asking."

Lena went very still. Jack stared at you. You forced yourself to keep looking at him because if you looked anywhere else, you would break apart. Your voice shook once and then steadied.

"You told me to keep the room small."

His throat moved. You kept going.

"I can't do that if you're arguing with the bomb squad."

His mouth pressed into a hard line.

"That's unfair," he said quietly.

"I know."

"You're using my own instructions against me."

"Yes."

A tear slipped down your cheek. Still, your hand did not move.

"I need you outside," you said. "Where I know you're not standing next to me if this goes wrong."

Jack's eyes flashed. "Do not say that."

"Jack."

"No."

"If you stay, I'll be thinking about you."

The words came out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too late to take back. His face went still. You breathed in carefully. Small. Shallow.

"I can't think about you," you said. "I have to think about my hand."

For a second, no one moved. Then Jack closed his eyes. Just once. A blink too long. When he opened them, something had changed. Not acceptance. Never that. Understanding. The terrible kind. Outside the room, the ED evacuation widened again. You heard Lena's radio crackle from her shoulder.

"All units, full ED evacuation is active. Repeat, full ED evacuation active. Move by zone. Maintain east corridor. No patient traffic through trauma."

Full ED evacuation active. The words made your stomach turn cold. Jack heard them too. So did everyone.

Vale glanced once toward Lena. "Now, Dr. Abbott."

Jack looked at your arm. At the wound. At the place where your hand disappeared into Mr. Mercer's side. Then back at your face.

"You listen to Sergeant Vale," he said.

You almost nodded. Caught yourself.

"Okay."

"You do exactly what he says."

"Okay."

"You do not improvise."

Your mouth trembled. "That's rich, coming from you."

For the first time since Vale arrived, Jack's mouth almost moved. Almost. Then it vanished.

"I'll be right outside."

You wanted to say that wasn't enough. You wanted to say it was too far.

Instead, you whispered, "I know."

Lena stepped closer to him.

"Jack," she said softly.

He did not move. She put one hand on his arm. Not yanking. Not forcing. Just contact. A reminder that he had a body and it needed to leave the room. Jack looked at her hand like he might argue with that too. Then he let her pull. Only Lena could have made it look like she wasn't dragging him. Only Jack could have made being dragged look like a tactical retreat. He stepped back once. Then again. Every inch looked carved out of him. At the doorway, he stopped. Vale's patience had clearly reached its edge, but he held. Jack turned his head. Not fully.

Just enough to look at you one more time. You held his gaze. There was so much in his face now that it hurt to see it. Fear. Fury. Helplessness. Something else too. Something neither of you had said, but which had been living between you so long it almost had a pulse. You did not say it. Not yet. Not with him there. Not when it might make him step back into the room. So you gave him the only thing you could. You kept your hand still. Jack saw. His face broke for half a second. Then Lena pulled him across the threshold.

The security officer closed the trauma bay door behind him. The sound was soft. Final. For a moment, Jack stood on the other side of the glass like he had forgotten how to exist there. Lena stayed beside him, her hand still wrapped around his forearm. Not because she could hold him if he truly decided to go back in. Because she would try. Behind him, the hallway was no longer The Pitt as you knew it. It was evacuation. Security. Police. Stretchers disappearing around corners.

Staff moving patients away from the room where you stood with your hand inside a man's body and the centre of the disaster under your palm. Jack did not look at any of it. He looked only at you. Vale stepped closer. Not blocking him completely. But enough that your world had to change shape.

"Okay," he said, voice calm in a different way than Jack's. "Now I can tell you what we're dealing with."

Your stomach turned cold. Outside the glass, Jack went utterly still. Vale set the hard case down with careful precision.

"Look at me," he said.

Can't wait to read the rest, read the entire story here now.

warnings: angst, smut, profanity, pet names (only sweetheart & baby), mutual pining of sorts, enemies to lovers (kinda), jealous!Bucky, possessive!Bucky, one bed trope, teasing, masturbation (male & female), brief thigh riding, dry humping, nausea/vomiting (not graphically described and not a major part of the story, apologies to my emetophobic girlies), oral sex (female receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, MINORS DNI, 18+.

word count: 43.2k

a/n: Thanks again to @littlemiss-yeehaw for reading all of my shit and listening to my unhinged ramblings when I write, and for her amazing artwork. Thanks to @flowersforbucky for also reading my shit and for taking the time to tell me that it isn't as shitty as I think. Without them, this fic would be unreachable in the depths of my laptop's trash bin. Pics included in the title image for this fic are not representative of reader, location, etc.

            Insufferable. Is that really the right word? Can someone be insufferable when all they do is mope around in silence, giving you looks of disdain? Maybe insufferable is a word better suited to describe someone who says more than five words at a time. And yet, you still feel that Bucky Barnes is insufferable.

            Raindrops patter rhythmically against the roof of the car, making the all-too-quiet stakeout a little more bearable. You shift in the passenger seat, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment as you press your head against the leather headrest behind you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours. That’s two hours of listening to nothing more than the sound of your own breathing, Bucky’s occasional annoyed sighs, and the shitty audio feed of the abandoned storefront just up the street. You’re contemplating giving in and taking a nap when you hear the sound of gravel crunching beneath tires somewhere outside of your parked car, and your eyes shoot open. You catch a glimpse of the flashing yellow lights of a security vehicle in the rearview mirror and Bucky groans, quickly powering down the surveillance equipment and dropping it down to the floor at his feet.

            “Just what we needed.” Bucky says sarcastically, with frustration edging his tone as the security guard pulls in closer and closer. He’s about twenty meters behind the car now, moving slowly. You’re sure he’s taking down the make and model of the car, the license plate, and noting the fact that it’s currently turned off. It looks suspicious as hell, you have no doubt. Your mind is moving a million miles a minute as you start shrugging your jacket off of your shoulders and mussing up your hair. “What are you doing?” Bucky asks, raising a brow in your direction.

            “Getting us out of this.” You mumble, glancing back in the rearview mirror one last time. You see the security vehicle coming to a stop a few meters behind, so you move a little quicker. You’re climbing over the center console in a flash, placing your knees on either side of Bucky’s hips as you come to straddle his lap. You hover over him, with your ass pressing against the steering wheel so hard that it’s a wonder you aren’t honking the horn. “Move your seat back.” You whisper harshly, gripping his shoulders with both hands as you stare down at him. Bucky swallows hard and narrows his eyes at you as if he wants to throw you right back into your own seat, but he reaches down with his vibranium hand and starts sliding the driver’s seat backward.

            Bucky can’t stand you. As you lower yourself down to sit on his lap, he keeps his hands stiff, with one resting along the driver’s side door and the other resting over the center console. His hands curl into fists when you lean in and press your lips against his neck. It’s soft and hesitant at first, as if you’re not really sure that it’s an acceptable thing to do. Bucky’s chin tilts upward and to the side instinctively, giving you more access and a clear go-ahead that has your second kiss coming in a little more desperate and firm against the column of his throat. Bucky tenses beneath you but the barely audible groan that slips past his lips has you wondering if he hates this as much as he’s trying to portray. You glance over his shoulder and see the security guard approaching the car now, his eyes scanning the rear windshield as he speaks lowly into a handheld radio.

            “Barnes, I swear to god if you don’t put your hands on me and make this believable…” Your threatening tone has a roguish smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s mouth, but he refuses to let it take full form. His hands move quickly now, grabbing onto your hips and tugging them downward. He realizes as he basically grinds your clothed center over the semi-hard front of his jeans that he probably shouldn’t have done that. When you feel his partial erection pressing against you, you falter for a moment, your lips stilling against his neck and your breath hitching in your throat. “And here I thought you couldn’t stand me.” You whisper against his skin.

            “I can’t.” He responds dryly, sliding his hands up the sides of your waist and letting his fingers splay out over your ribs.

            “Are you sure about that?” You ask teasingly, swirling your hips in a circle as you press down on his lap. He grunts and lets his right hand glide up your back, moving higher and higher until it’s tangled in the hair at the crown of your head.

            “Pretty damn sure.” Bucky rasps as he uses his hold on your hair to tug your head back. He takes the opportunity he’s given himself to attach his lips to your neck, sucking a nice little red mark right below your ear before smoothing over it with his tongue. The whimper that leaves your lips at the feel of his tongue against your skin is enough to turn his semi-hard cock into a raging hard-on. The bright ray of a flashlight shining through the driver’s window catches your attention, and you feign surprise as the security guard taps on the window with his knuckles one, two, three times. Bucky’s letting go of your waist and hair and pushing the door open as a sly chuckle climbs up his throat.

            “I told her we shouldn’t do this here.” Bucky says smugly, shaking his head as you place your hands on his chest and lean back, glaring down at him. “I can’t keep her off of me.”

            “Could you uh, dismount? Ma’am?” The officer requests. You turn your head and take in the short, balding man. Blush colors his cheeks a deep shade of red and you wonder if this is the most action he’s seen all year. Moving off of Bucky’s lap, you come to stand just outside of the car, crossing your arms over your chest as the cool night air hits you. You regret taking your jacket off earlier.

            “I’m so sorry.” You say ashamedly, hoping you look as faux-embarrassed as you’ve made your voice sound. The man offers you a shy smile, his eyes wrinkling around the corners as Bucky climbs out of the car next. You smirk at the way Bucky tugs his jeans down and adjusts himself, trying his best to disguise the tent beneath the fabric. He glances in your direction, his eyes briefly flitting down to where your arms are crossed over your chest, before shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it to you. You’re still for a moment, until you realize that it would probably look questionable if you refused the kind gesture in front of the security guard, so you drape the jacket over shoulders and wrap it around your upper body. Your little act was so believable that Bucky only has to spend about one minute chatting back and forth with the security guard before he lets you both off with a warning. He didn’t even ask to see your IDs. Bucky’s pretty good at bullshitting, you’ll give him that.

            Infuriating. As Bucky stands beneath the steady stream of hot water, letting it soak his hair and drip over the curves of his shoulders, it’s the only word on his mind. You’re fucking infuriating. How he continues to end up on missions with you is beyond him. He never thought he would miss the days of having Sam as his partner, but god, he misses them. He might even take Walker on as a partner if it means getting the hell away from you. Actually, he’d rather put up with you than with Walker. But anyone else? He’d happily work with anyone else out in the field.

             Bucky’s just beginning to rinse the shampoo out of his hair when the sound of his bedroom door flying open registers in his mind. He freezes, both hands hovering at the sides of his head as you angrily rush through his room. The bathroom door is thrown open next, and he feels a whoosh of cold air floating over the top of his glass shower door.

            “A hickey?” Your voice is laced with malice. The fiery rage inside of you is stoked by the sound of Bucky laughing behind the fogged-up glass. “Are you sixteen?”

            “You made a pretty little sound when I gave it to you.” He points out, continuing to work the shampoo into his brown locks.

            “I was playing the part.” You argue. You take a moment to glance around his bathroom, noting the way it looks exactly like yours except it’s devoid of any personality. He has dark gray rugs on the floor, a matching dark gray towel hanging over the shower door, and even a dark gray toothbrush sitting in a little white cup beside the sink. Is he allergic to every other color?

            “The security guard couldn’t hear anything inside the car, you don’t have to lie to me. You liked it.” Bucky says coolly. He rinses the suds out of his hair and even with his eyes closed, he’s sure you’re standing there with your arms crossed. It’s your signature pose in his presence.

            “I have shit to do tomorrow, Barnes. Now I have to worry about covering this up.” You complain. You snatch his towel off of the shower door and use it to wipe at the fogged-up mirror over the sink. You’re studying the sizable red mark below your ear in the reflection when Bucky turns off the running water.

            “You have three seconds to put my towel back before I walk out of here without it.” His voice is low and threatening now. You roll your eyes before tossing the towel back up and over the shower door, he grabs it immediately. When he steps out a moment later, he has the towel wrapped firmly around his waist. As he steps into the view of the mirror, your eyes roam over his wet, toned body in the reflection. Your gaze follows a few drops of water as they drip from his hair and trail down the side of his neck. You stand still in front of the mirror, unmoving as Bucky meets your gaze and narrows his eyes, taking a few steps forward to close the space between you. He comes to a stop with his bare chest nearly brushing against your clothed back, and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the countertop on either side of your hips. Leaning forward the tiniest bit, his lips graze the shell of your ear and every single muscle in your body tenses up. “Why cover it? You don’t want people to know that you like being marked up?”

            “I can’t stand you.” You spit coldly, crossing your arms over your chest and glaring at him in the reflection. Bucky chuckles lowly before letting go of the edge of the countertop and turning away from you, leaving you alone in his steamy bathroom.

            “I can’t stand you either.” He calls back to you.

            When you stomp through his bedroom a moment later, he watches out of the corner of his eye as you disappear out into the hall and let his door fall shut behind you. He knows that on some level, you’re both liars. There are so many things that you can’t stand about each other, and yet, there’s an undeniable force that seems to keep you both coming back. You could simply stay away from each other when you’re in the tower. You live across the hall from each other but the place is so damn big that you could easily avoid each other anytime you’re not working together in the field. He’s sure that somewhere beneath the haze of false hatred and tension, you can feel that incessant pull just as much as he can. That’s why he can’t stand you. That’s precisely the reason why he finds you so infuriating. Because you act like you can’t feel it.

            The Howling Commandos files have taken up nearly every waking second of your time for the past three days. You’ve read every word, combed through every grainy black and white picture, and taken enough notes to fill nearly twenty pages of the little notebook that currently sits open in front of you. And yet, you haven’t been able to formulate a solid plan. That’s why the conference room is packed full of people with varying skillsets and thought processes. Fury sits at the head of the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair as he twirls a black pen in his right. Sam sits to his left, staring down at the same files you’ve studied for hours. Beside him is Sharon, who looks equal parts bored and entirely over the situation at hand. Knowing the things that she’s been up to lately, she probably has more important places to be right now. A few people are littered around the room, leaning against walls and quietly conversing with each other as they try to come up with the best course of action to solve the present issue. You’re seated at the far end of the table, opposite of Fury, tracing the lines of your left palm with your right thumb.

            Bucky stands near the door, with his back pressed against the smooth wall and his arms crossed over his broad chest. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t labeled a mandatory meeting. Hell, even with it being labeled mandatory, he considered skipping it. He doesn’t particularly enjoy watching everyone read up on his past life, even if it was the era that he considers his glory days. Being a part of the Howling Commandos was one of the few good things he ever did, but letting himself think about that time only leads him down a darker path. He thinks about how each Howling Commandos mission that he was a part of brought him closer and closer to getting captured, to losing his arm, to losing himself. Shaking his head, Bucky pushes away from the wall and stands straight, he wonders if anyone will notice him slipping out the door.

            “I don’t like time travel.” Fury says evenly, keeping his eyes on the pen in his hand as he twirls it around just above the surface of the conference room table. Bucky freezes, his eyes narrowing as he looks to Fury. Everyone in the room halts, all eyes moving in the same direction to follow the commanding voice. “I don’t like time travel at all. It’s risky and it tends to fuck things up in the long run.” Fury takes a moment to cast his eyes around the room, taking in each and every person present. After making the first round, he turns his head to the right and focuses on Bucky. “Unfortunately, I think this situation calls for something risky.”

            Goosebumps spread over the surface of your skin and you tense in your seat. You follow Fury’s gaze and your eyes land on Bucky, who stands tall beside the door. His arms hang still at his sides, and for once, his vibranium arm isn’t hidden behind a long shirt sleeve or leather jacket. The black and gold glints in the fluorescent lighting of the room, drawing attention like a bright red flower draws bees.

            “The intel that we need from a currently non-existent HYDRA base doesn’t exist. The Howling Commandos weren’t tasked with collecting evidence or documenting what they found at each base.” Fury continues. Bucky swallows hard but maintains eye contact. He already doesn’t like where this is going. “So, we send someone back in time to get what we need.”

            As tension rises in the room and the air begins to feel like its crackling with anticipation, Fury lays out the only two potential plans he can think of. The first plan is automatically a no, because of how risky it is to send a full team back in time. The first plan would’ve been to send someone back in time to infiltrate a specific HYDRA base moments before the Howling Commandos take it out, so the intel can be gathered and brought back to the present. But the second plan is the one that has discussion raging around the conference room.

            “Steve wouldn’t trust someone he’s just met, we’d need to get through to Peggy first, then she can sway him and the rest of the Howling Commandos.” Sharon argues, leaning forward and clasping her hands together over the table. Your eyes flit over to her as her blonde hair falls over one shoulder and obscures the side of her face. She’s right, 1940s Steve Rogers wouldn’t even come close to trusting a new person in the midst of a war, let alone one who’s so obviously from the wrong time period. You see Sam laughing to himself further down the table and you’re sure he’s remembering the story Steve used to tell of his past self attempting to kick his present self’s ass during his time travel stint.

            “Peggy wouldn’t be wholly trusting either.” Fury points out, barely looking up from the surface of the table before him. “We need to get Peggy and at least one of the Howling Commandos on our side for this to work. The rest will follow.”

            “What if we go at this from a slightly different angle?” Torres asks. He stands a few feet behind your seat, leaning against the wall as his thumbs rapid-fire away at the phone in clutched in his hands. Everyone turns their attention to him and he finally looks up, blinking once before clicking the phone off and sliding it into the back pocket of his jeans.

            “We’re listening.” Fury says, his interest clearly piqued.

            “We pick someone that Peggy could relate to, someone she would like, maybe become fast friends with.” He starts slowly, letting his gaze roam over each person in the room as he speaks. His eyes stop when he reaches Bucky, and you don’t have to look over your shoulder to know that Bucky’s staring right back at him. “And that same person needs to be someone Bucky would like, someone he’d be drawn to. Steve would trust Bucky’s judgement, and at least by choosing to make Bucky the center of this, we have the advantage of having him right here.”

            It’s silent for a beat as the idea is mulled over. You turn around and look back to Fury, watching as his face shifts from a blank, almost bored expression to a thoughtful one. He nods slowly before tucking the pen he’s been twirling around into the pocket of his jacket.

            “Sergeant Barnes…” Fury’s eyes shift to his right, landing on the stiff super soldier who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now. “Does that sound like a feasible plan?” It feels as though everyone is collectively holding in a breath as Bucky remains silent. You can tell he’s thinking, you can almost see the gears turning behind his blue eyes as he zeroes in on Fury. A small nod from him is all it takes to get the conversation churning around the room again. He's in.

            “I can be in and out and have this whole thing finished within just a few seconds of passing time here, I need maybe two days in the past.” Sharon says calmly, leaning back in her seat as she tucks a stray lock of blonde hair behind one ear. You really don’t even know why the discussion is still ongoing at this point. Out of everyone left in the conference room, the majority is most definitely in favor of sending Sharon back in time for the mission. It’s not like there were many other options. You didn’t exactly volunteer yourself and as of right now, you and Sharon are the only women on the team. Sure, Fury could’ve shopped around the agency a bit and found a few other suitable agents to screen for the task at hand, but Sharon seems pretty set on handling it herself.

            “Okay, say you gain Peggy’s trust easily. What about Bucky? What’s your plan for getting him on your side?” Sam asks with a raised brow. The room grows quiet and all eyes land on Sharon as she filters through the possible methods she could use. Your eyes flit over to where Bucky is still leaning against the wall by the door, looking slightly less disinterested in the conversation than he was earlier. He’s studying Sharon with an unreadable expression painted on his face. Instinctively, your hand lifts up to the healing hickey that’s hidden beneath a layer of concealer and foundation right below your ear. For the briefest moment, he turns his head and tracks your movement, his eyes roaming down to the tips of your fingers as they brush over the skin of your neck. You drop your hand in an instant and his blue eyes meet yours. You can feel the arrogance radiating off of him and you roll your eyes before looking back to Sharon. You swear you hear Bucky chuckle under his breath, but when you glance around the room, no one else seems to have heard a thing.

            “I just put on a pretty outfit and dance with him. It can’t be that hard to woo a soldier in his bachelor phase.” Sharon laughs out. A few softer laughs ring out around the table, but Torres’s next question quiets everyone.

            “Bucky, what kind of girl would you have asked to dance back in the forties?”

            You think it must be Bucky’s lack of an immediate response that sucks the air out of the room. It’s so quiet you can hear the sound of your own heart beating in your ears, even though it’s beating at a normal rate and rhythm. You steal a look at Bucky once again, who’s face is cast downward at the floor. He seems to find his shoes overly interesting all of a sudden. Everyone’s staring at him.

            Bucky’s mind is churning, running through all of the girls he ever shared a moment with back in his golden days. He has a type in more ways than one. It’s not just a physical type. He’s always been drawn to women with certain personality traits, women with certain ways of carrying themselves, certain ways they flirt. One wouldn’t think he was picky with the number of girls he found himself in the company of back in the day, but he damn sure was. And he still is. That’s why his heart beats a little harder, vibrating against his ribcage as he lets out a deep breath and finally looks up. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, but he focuses in on the one person that he’s sure his younger self will trust. Bucky’s staring right at you.

            “It needs to be you.” He says firmly, fixing his gaze on your face as the color drains from it. If the air hadn’t been sucked out of the room when Torres first asked a question, it sure as hell would’ve been now. Your breath is hitched in your throat and the skin over your hidden hickey suddenly feels like it’s on fire. No, scratch that. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire. Color returns to your cheeks as quickly as it first disappeared, and suddenly, you’re flushed pink.

            “Me?” The word leaves your lips as an unintended whisper, but you can’t be bothered to clear your throat and try again. You know he heard you. He nods slightly, looking quite sure of himself, but his expression is still unreadable and it’s driving you mad.

            “Her?” Sharon questions, narrowing her eyes at you and pursing her lips. She’s looking at you in disbelief, but not because it’s questionable that you’d be someone’s type. She’s looking at you like that because she knows, like everyone knows, that you and Bucky are at each other’s throats more often than not. Why would that be any different with a younger version of himself? The last thing the team needs is you getting sent back in time to argue with yet another version of Bucky Barnes.

            “Her.” Bucky shrugs, shooting Sharon a look that easily shuts her up. She leans back in her seat once more and crosses her arms over her chest, indicating that she doesn’t like where this is going.

            “Are you sure?” Sam asks with a raised brow, his eyes flitting between you and Bucky. Bucky pushes himself away from the wall and turns to face the door that leads out into the hall. As his flesh hand wraps around the door handle, he finds himself biting down on the inside of his cheek. He’s sure that his younger self will be drawn to you, that he’ll trust you, yeah. Is he sure that this is a good idea? Hell no.

            “It’s her.” Bucky confirms. Then, he walks out of the conference room as if he didn’t just drop a fucking bomb in the middle of the goddamn gunmetal table. What the hell does he mean it’s you?

            Your silence is unsettling. Bucky thought you might come storming into the gym during his evening workout, ready to give him a violently worded piece of your mind after he left the conference room earlier, but you never did. Then, while a mix of sweat and suds spilled down the drain of his shower, he listened intently for the sound of his bedroom door flying open, but it never came. He sits on the side of his bed in the dim light of a lamp, thumbing through the little red notebook that once belonged to Steve. He isn’t digesting its contents. Really, he isn’t even skimming over the words that are written in pencil before him. He’s zoned out as he strains his ears to listen for you across the hall. He knows you’re in your room. It’s late, just a bit past midnight now, and you’re always tucked away in there by ten. But you’re not asleep, that’s for damn certain. He can hear the occasional sound of your footsteps against the soft rug you have spread over your bedroom floor. Every few minutes, he hears an uncharacteristic scuffling sound, following by a thud. What the hell are you doing over there?

            He waits a moment longer before his curiosity and impatience get the best of him, and then he’s tossing the notebook onto his bed and taking long strides toward the hall. If you won’t come to him to argue about today’s conference room situation, about what’s now lingering on the horizon, then he’ll go to you. Arguing about it will be far better than sitting around while you do whatever the hell sort of noisy thing it is you’re doing over there right now, Bucky thinks.

            In retrospect, he should’ve knocked. By the time he’s throwing your unlocked door open and taking the first step into your room, he’s already sporting a half-hard cock beneath the all-too-thin fabric of his sweats and boxers. The dog tags hanging against his bare chest give away the increased rate of his breaths as his eyes skate over you. You’re on your hands and knees in the center of the room, with your cheeks flushed pink and your oversized t-shirt making it look like you’re not wearing anything else. As you stare up at Bucky, both of you frozen in place, you’re acutely aware of the compromising position he’s found you in. You sit back on your knees quickly, dropping the last few stray rings into the small jewelry tray in your left hand.

            “What the hell, Bucky?” You look up at him with a mix of confusion and annoyance in your eyes as the rings clink against the ceramic tray. Bucky swallows hard as he stares down at you, trying to figure out what the fuck you’re doing in the middle of the floor. His gaze lands on one single golden ring glinting in the low light of your room and your eyes follow his.

            “You missed one.” He says lowly. You reach out and pick it up with your thumb and index finger before setting it on the small tray along with the rest. “What are you doing?”

            “Rearranging.” You respond dryly. You stand carefully, making sure not to dump all of your rings out a second time, before crossing the room and setting the tray on your recently moved vanity. Bucky’s only been in your room once or twice before, but he notices the changes immediately. You’ve moved your vanity from the right side of the room to the left. The chair you used to have sitting near the window now sits in a corner near the bed. A few other small pieces of furniture are strewn about haphazardly, as if you haven’t quite decided where you want them yet.

            “At midnight?” Bucky raises a brow, catching your eyes as you turn to face him once more.

            “What are you doing in my room, Bucky?” In his peripheral vision, he sees the slight reflection of light in one last piece of jewelry on the floor. It’s just a foot in front of him, so he steps further into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him as he bends down and scoops the rose gold ring up in his palm.

            “You haven’t said anything since the team meeting earlier today.” He points out. He studies the small ring in his hand, realizing for the first time just how much smaller your hands are than his. You don’t make a move to take it from him, so he continues fiddling with it as he stands in the middle of your room.

            “You walked out.” You remind him. You turn your back to him and begin straightening up a few things on your vanity. It’s weird to have him in your room like this. Your skin feels warm while the air in the room feels cold. Your oversized t-shirt feels too small while his presence feels much too large.

            “I didn’t have anything else to say.” Bucky takes a few more steps forward and turns, bending at the knees to sit on the foot of your nicely made bed. You watch him in the reflection of your vanity mirror, wondering why the hell he seems so comfortable in your room.

            “And I should? What do you want me to say?”

            “Anything.” His single-word response makes the air in the room feel even icier, and suddenly, you’re wishing you’d put on sweats tonight. A deep breath rattles in your chest before you turn around to face him.

            “It’s not me.” You say evenly. You cross your arms over your chest and focus on his face as he stares back at you. He’s still fiddling with the ring, running the pad of his thumb back and forth over it mindlessly.

            “It’s you.” He sighs. He almost seems tired with the conversation, which is frustrating considering he’s the one who came in here and started it.

            “It’s not, and having me deal with two of you is a recipe for disaster. I can barely handle one Bucky Barnes in this century. Sharon’s the better choice.”

            “It’s not Sharon.”

            “Bucky—”

            “It’s you. I don’t know what you need me to say or do to convince you, but it’s you. The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can start making a plan and preparing for the mission.”

            His words swirl around in your head, bouncing off of the walls of your mind like it’s a fucking pinball machine. It’s not you. You’re pretty damn sure that what 1940s Bucky Barnes needs is anything but you. Maybe Bucky’s so far removed from his younger self that he just doesn’t realize how wrong you are for this mission. He’s gotten too used to working with you in the field lately and he doesn’t want to figure things out in the field with a new partner. Whatever his reasoning is, you need him to figure his shit out before you’re sent back in time to fuck up the op.

            “You can’t convince me.” You reply stubbornly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Sharon is right for this mission and everyone sees that but you.” When he glances up at you this time, his eyes settle on the light pink mark beneath your ear. His mark.

            “You’re my type.” The words slip past his lips before he can stop them, and he’s gripping the ring tightly in his flesh fist.

            “What?”

            “I’m not saying it again.” He decides, pushing himself up to stand. You’re frozen in stunned silence, your eyes wide. You’re sure you’re about to watch him walk out the door after dropping his second bomb of the day, but he turns to face you. He’s moving forward before you have a chance to do or say a damn thing. Bucky doesn’t stop until your arms are dropping down to your sides and his hands are resting on your hips. He walks you backward one, two steps, until your ass hits the edge of the vanity and a gasp parts your lips.

“There was this bar in London, the Whip and Fiddle. I went there with Steve and the guys a few times.” Bucky starts. His tone is low and gravelly and his lips are so close to yours that they nearly touch with every word he speaks. He’s looking down into your eyes with an intense look, a look that keeps you firmly in place, along with his hold on your hips and his muscular frame pressed partially against your front. A shiver runs down your spine, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue. Bucky’s right hand glides upward, following the curve of your body until his fingertips are ghosting over the side of your neck. He presses his thumb against your healing hickey lightly, feeling you tense against him at the touch. “If younger me saw you walk into that bar, even with all of the noise and the low lights, he’d fucking swoon. It would all be over. The chasing girls around, only ever learning first names and hometowns, the bachelor shit. It would be over. He’d follow you anywhere.”

“Bucky—”

            “It’s you. Not Sharon, not anyone else damn it, it’s you.” His vibranium hand tightens over your hip and his right hand slides further back behind your head. His fingers tangle in your hair but it’s a gentle, careful act. You tilt your head up and take in his serious expression. His brows are furrowed and his gaze heats your face as he stares down at you. He isn’t fucking with you. He isn’t trying to get in your head or manipulate you into being a part of this mission. He means every word of what he’s saying right now and it scares the shit out of you. You move quick, drawing your arms up between the two of you and pressing your palms flat against his bare chest. You shove him back hard, forcing him to take one big step away from you. He doesn’t look surprised at all, and his expression never shifts, the seriousness never leaves his face.

            “You can’t stand me.” You remind him, though the words feel empty as you say them. You’re questioning the notion, as if he hasn’t said those words himself a hundred times before.

            “I can’t.” He agrees, nodding slowly. You take a deep, shaky breath in and let it out through your teeth. “But for some reason, it’s still you.”

            You stand still, with the edge of the vanity still digging into your ass and your chest heaving as Bucky turns his back to you and heads for the foot of your bed. You watch through narrowed eyes as he leans over and scoops up the ring he left sitting there. He straightens up and looks down at the small shiny object held precariously between his thumb and forefinger.

            “Do you know how to dance?” The question rolls off of his tongue so casually that for a moment, you wonder if anything that just happened really happened. Did he not have you pushed up against the vanity only seconds ago? Was he not touching you and leaning in close like you meant something to him after months of acting like you’re nothing more than his shit-giving coworker?

            “What?” You nearly choke on the word. Your throat is so dry after seemingly forgetting to swallow at all in his presence.

            “Do you know how to dance?” He repeats, craning his neck to the side to look at you.

            “What the hell does—”

            “He’s going to ask you to dance, and you’ll have to say yes.” Bucky says matter-of-factly. You find it a little odd that he refers to his younger self as if he’s someone else, but you don’t comment on it. “I can teach you.”

            “Fine.” Bucky freezes at your quick and unexpected caving. He raises an eyebrow at you, still fiddling with the ring between his fingers. “Help me move my dresser.” Your eyes dart over to the large piece of furniture across the room and Bucky’s gaze follows. He looks at it for a second as the realization dawns that you’re really asking for manual labor in exchange for agreeing to go back in time for this mission. The fact that you’re going to do it, that you’re going to be the one who does this with him, leaves an unfamiliar calmness settling inside of him and he lets out a deep breath.

            The sounds of furniture scuffling around the room and soft thuds carry on for the next half hour as Bucky uses the serum in his veins to set your room up just how you want it. When everything is finished and you seem satisfied, he walks over to your vanity and drops the last ring into the ceramic tray. Your eyes rake over his bare back, taking in the way there isn’t even the slightest sheen of sweat present on his smooth skin. You should’ve asked him to move your furniture two hours ago when you first started doing it yourself. If you’d known it was so damn easy for him, you might’ve even said please.

            “You should probably lock your door at night.” Bucky says as he heads toward it. He wraps his hand around the door handle and you watch as the muscles of his flesh arm ripple slightly.

            “Why? Are you going to keep barging in?”

            “You’ve done that a lot more than I have.” He points out, tugging the door open to reveal the darkened hallway beyond.

            “So, start locking yours then.” You retort. He can hear you rolling your eyes. A small smile plays on his lips as he steps out into the hall and runs a hand through his messy hair, keeping his back to you.

            “My door’s always open for you, sweetheart.”

            “Fuck you, Barnes.” You say coldly, just as the door clicks shut between the two of you.

            You can’t stand him.

            Sam doesn’t let things go easily. Sure, if he was really pushing Bucky’s buttons, he might back off a bit, but he hasn’t gone too far yet. Yet.

            “I just want to know how you can go from barely getting along with the woman to demanding that she’s the one for your little forties self.” Sam says through a smirk. He falls into step next to Bucky as the two of them jog through the heavily wooded trails behind the tower.

            “If you’re going to keep talking about this, you can finish the run alone.” Bucky threatens, shooting Sam a deathly sideways glare.

            “I’ve been telling you for months that there was something between the two of you, and you shot it down every time. I don’t get to gloat now?”

            “There’s nothing to gloat about. There isn’t anything between us besides this mission. You’re reading too far into shit, Sam.”

            “That super soldier serum didn’t teach you how to be a convincing liar, huh?”

            “I’ll see you back at the tower.” Bucky says flatly, immediately picking up his pace to an ungodly speed and leaving Sam behind in literal dust.

            Bucky’s ears are filled with the sounds of his feet pounding against the dry dirt path below and his own steady, even breaths as he speeds along the trail. The mission is the only thing between you, he tells himself. There isn’t anything else. As much as he wants there to be, as much as he feels something there, you fight against the tension like it suffocates you. You fight against it tooth and nail, pushing Bucky away every time you think he might be getting a little closer to you. Is it just him? If it was someone else running dangerous ops with you, saving your ass regularly, and sitting through stake-outs with you late at night, would you push them away just as hard? Or is it just because that guy is Bucky?

            Thunder rumbles in the distance, tearing Bucky away from his troubling train of thought momentarily. He glances up through the crowded tree branches and catches sight of the gray sky above. He can smell rain in the air, so he picks up the pace a little more, intent on beating it.

            He can still feel the curve of your hip against his vibranium hand and the way every muscle in your body tensed up when he pressed his thumb against the mark on your neck last night. Fuck. Bucky feels beads of sweat forming around his hairline, and it’s not from the hellish pace he’s bent on keeping. His mind falls even further back to that last stakeout. The memory of you moving over the center console of the car and seating yourself on his lap so effortlessly plays out in front of him like a movie. He doesn’t even realize how fast he’s running until the tower comes into view a whole lot sooner than he expected it to. With sweat dripping down the back of his neck, he tugs his shirt off and scans his palm at the back entrance to the gym.

            He can feel the weight of your body settling over him, feel your thighs pressing against either of his hips as you straddle his lap. Bucky bites down on his bottom lip as he tugs the door open and glances over his shoulder for any sign of Sam. He lets the door fall closed behind him when he realizes that he’s probably still a couple of miles back in the woods. Lifting the t-shirt that’s hanging from his right hand, Bucky uses it to wipe the sweat from his brow and neck. Fuck you. Fuck you for acting like you’re oblivious to whatever the hell has been brewing between the two of you for months now. It’s right in front of your face and yet you act like you can’t see a damn thing, like you don’t feel a damn thing. Fuck you for giving Bucky just enough of you to fantasize about but not enough to feel satisfied. He heads straight for the locker room, shoving the door open hard as he uses one hand to untie the drawstring of his shorts.

            He won’t let himself do what he needs to do. He comes to stand in front of the mirror, placing his hands on the edge of the sink as he drops his head and sucks in a deep breath. He won’t do it. Bucky lifts his head a bit, looking his reflection in the eye for a moment before flicking the faucet on and splashing a handful of cold water against his flushed face.

            Fuck. He’s going to do it. He’s rushing for one of the showers within the next second, turning the hot water on just before he shoves his shorts and boxers down. He steps out of them, already mentally chastising himself for what he’s about to do.

            He’s only been in the shower for a minute when heat begins to spread down his spine, sending a warmth over the surface of his skin and pushing him to lean forward. He rests his forehead against the cold tile wall of the shower, telling himself that this is pathetic. His flesh hand works quickly, moving back and forth while staying wrapped tightly around the shaft of his cock. A shaky breath snakes past his lips as his eyes flutter closed and his hips piston forward once, twice, three times. He fucks his hand roughly, letting out a low groan when the pad of his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot on the underside of the head of his cock. He hates that this is what he’s resorted to. Never once has he left himself do this with you on his mind. It feels shameful, even offensive. You’d kick his ass if you ever found out, he’s fucking sure of that. Still, he continues on, working himself up until he’s teetering on the edge of bliss. It’s the memory of you on his lap in that damn care, letting him tug on your hair and tilt your head back so he could suck on your neck, that almost finishes him. His movements grow sloppy and his breaths come out a little more ragged. He replays the sweet little sound you made when he left that hickey on your skin, when he left his mark on you.

            “Shit.” Bucky groans, scrunching his eyes shut even tighter and stroking his cock a little harder. A shudder races through him and he bangs his vibranium fist against the shower wall just as his climax hits. He opens his eyes and watches as ropes of cum paint the tiles. The steamy shower water washes it all away and carries it down the drain within seconds. What a waste.

            You’ve been lying on your stomach in bed ever since you woke up, watching every video you can find that depicts anything remotely close to dancing in the forties. It’s stressing you the hell out. How long do you have to learn this shit? Does Bucky even remember how to do this? You can’t picture him doing something so…lighthearted.

            You roll over onto your back, tossing your phone to the opposite side of the bed before pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes and letting out a frustrated groan. Why the hell did you agree to this? Oh, right. The memory of last night starts playing in your mind on a loop. Bucky barged into your room like he had every right to. He sat on your bed. He pushed you up against the vanity and…and did absolutely nothing. So, why does your heart race merely at the memory? If it was nothing, why did it feel like something? You let out a louder groan and run your hands through your messy hair, tugging at it a little and feeling the slight stretch of your scalp. You’re thinking about pulling the covers over your face and going back to sleep for the rest of the rainy morning, but your train of thought shifts over to the contents of the communal fridge in the kitchen down the hall.

            Bucky’s chosen to avoid you today. If what he did in the shower half an hour ago is any indication of the dangerous territory that he’s put himself in, he knows he needs to pump the brakes now. So, he stands in the kitchen, leaning against the edge of the countertop as he sips on a glass of orange juice in near-silence. The sounds of rolling thunder and heavy rain are all he can hear as he tries to ignore the guilt eating away at him. He really fucked his hand simply at the memory of being close to you last night. He’s in way too fucking deep and he needs to get a grip before this mission really starts. Maybe he should’ve just let it be Sharon. She probably could’ve pulled it off. Younger Bucky wasn’t really all that picky if he’d had a few drinks, and Sharon could’ve easily been coached to put on a personality that Bucky would’ve been drawn to. But no, he had to make sure it was you. God, he’s kicking himself for it all now.

            He stiffens when he hears your door open down the hall, fighting against the urge to make a dash for the elevator just to avoid you. He glances at the time displayed over the stovetop. It’s still too early to get ready and rush off for his therapy session, but maybe if he drives really slowly Dr. Raynor won’t have to question why he’s there an hour and a half ahead of time. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh as your footsteps patter down the hall in the distance. He’s being dramatic. He knows that. He had a moment of weakness in the shower this morning and it was his own fault. He shouldn’t have let his thoughts carry him that far and he sure as hell shouldn’t have been in your room doing and saying the things he did and said last night.

            When you appear in the main living area, you’re still wearing that damn oversized t-shirt and distinct lack of pants that you were last night, and Bucky stifles a frustrated groan. His eyes roam over your body so quickly that you don’t even notice the look as you enter the kitchen and give him a small nod. You tug the fridge open and rummage around for a few seconds as your mind races. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest, you can feel warmth creeping into your cheeks, coloring them pink. You hate this. Why the hell did he decide to flip a switch this week? You were fine barely getting along, just giving each other shit in the field and then coming home after missions and going your separate ways for the most part. Why did he have to say all of that shit about it being you that his younger self would want?

            Your appetite dissipates more and more with each passing second, until suddenly you’re shutting the fridge and taking a step back. You see Bucky out of the corner of your eye, sipping on an almost empty glass of orange juice as he studies you.

            “You’re manipulative.” You say lowly, crossing your arms over your chest as you turn to face him. He raises a brow at you and takes another sip from his glass, but says nothing in response. “What you did last night wasn’t fair.”

            “Moving your furniture around?” He questions, keeping that one brow raised. You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s being facetious and it pisses you off. Your tongue presses against the inside of your cheek as you look him over. He’s clearly fresh out of the shower with messy, damp hair. He’s dressed in dark gray sweats and a navy blue t-shirt that hugs the muscles of his upper body a little too snugly for your liking.

            You could just respond to his question with a verbal answer, you know that. You could just open your mouth and remind him about what it was that he did last night that you’re referring to as being unfair and manipulative. But your feet carry you forward. You move slowly, giving him a multitude of opportunities to step around you and leave the kitchen unscathed. Bucky remains planted there, leaning against the kitchen counter with the glass in his hand. When you’re only a foot away from him, you reach out with your right hand and take hold of the glass. He watches you carefully, with his head slightly cocked to the side as your grip tightens and his loosens. When he lets you fully take the glass from his hand, you lift it to your lips and swallow the last sip of orange juice. Bucky’s cock twitches beneath the fabric of his sweats as he watches your lips retreat from the exact spot that his once pressed against the glass. He bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to dissuade the hardening of his already tired cock.

            “Do you really think I’m talking about you moving my furniture around?” You ask in a whisper, taking one more step forward until your chest is nearly brushing against his. You reach past him with your right arm and set the glass on the countertop behind him, holding your breath as your bottom lip comes within a centimeter of his chin. You keep your head tilted up, watching his eyes as the distance between you diminishes. “I couldn’t possibly be talking about you pushing me up against the vanity and putting your hands on me, right?” His eyes flutter closed and you smirk, feeling satisfied with the effect that you’re clearly having on him. You let both of your hands rest against the edge of the countertop on either side of him and suddenly you’re close enough that when you stop tilting your head upward, the tip of your nose is threatening to brush against the column of his throat.

            “Did that do something for you?” His words come out slightly raspy and it sends an unfamiliar warmth surging low in your stomach. You pull your head back a couple of inches and look up at him through your lashes, tilting your head to the side.

            “Not a damn thing.” You lie. He chuckles darkly and lets out a breath that fans across your face. A smug smile takes over his features and you feel your confidence wavering.

            “Right.” He says absently, as his flesh hand begins to move. You can feel your heart rate doubling as you anticipate his touch, and it infuriates you. Since when does he get this kind of physiological reaction from your body? As his fingertips make light contact with the side of your neck, you inhale sharply and let your eyes fall closed. You want so badly to remain stoic, to look as unbothered as ever as his fingers ghost over the now mostly invisible hickey that he left days ago, but you fail.

            Bucky knows that when he presses his thumb against that spot, just like he did last night, your body will tense up. Even with the alarm bells going off inside his head, with that little voice inside of him screaming for him to run, to do anything but the stupid thing he’s about to do, he can’t help himself. His wraps his vibranium around your waist and presses his cool metal palm against the small of your back before tugging you forward. The moment your chest collides with his, he pushes the pad of his thumb against that spot beneath your ear and revels in the feeling of your body tensing against his. Fuck. He’s in deep, but he wishes he was in so much deeper.

            “Not a damn thing, hm?” He teases, looking down at you as your eyes flutter open.

            “I really can’t stand you.” You retort, but you make no move to get out of his hold. You’re sure that he can feel the dangerously high rate that your heart’s beating at, but still, you stay there against him.

            “I know.” He smirks. He lets his thumb trail down the side of your neck until it reaches your collarbone, and then he moves it right back up to the spot where he first marked you. “But you agreed to be a part of the mission anyway, so you’re stuck with me for now.”

            “I still think it’s a bad idea.” You point out. You’re coming to your senses now, realizing just how compromising of a position you’re both in right now and how beyond stupid and careless this is. What are you thinking? You pull your hands up between your two bodies and place your palms against the soft blue fabric of his shirt, getting ready to push yourself away from him. He knows what you’re about to do so he tightens his vibranium arm around your waist and slides his flesh hand back to tangle in your hair.

            “I didn’t convince you last night?” He asks roughly, narrowing his eyes at you as if he’s slightly annoyed. You shake your head and push lightly against his chest, not putting any real effort behind your movement. He holds you impossibly tighter against his chest before dipping his head down toward your neck.

            “Bucky.” You breathe his name out softly, with no other words coming to your mind.

He’s feral. He’s fucking feral. He’s fighting with every ounce of restraint that he possesses to keep from leaving five more marks on the skin of your neck, just to replace the one that’s now faded from there. It’s as if he didn’t fuck his hand to completion less than an hour ago, because his cock sure seems to have forgotten. He bites down on his bottom lip before nudging the tip of his nose against the column of your throat. God, he wants to fucking taste you.

“You know where to find me if you need more convincing.” He says lowly, nipping at your neck one single time before releasing you from his grip and pushing past you. He needs to get the fuck out of here.

            You spend the rest of Saturday morning in bed, just like you’d planned, though you didn’t get much sleep. You laid there under the covers, lazily scrolling through your phone, until you heard Bucky’s door opening, closing, and then locking right before he headed for the elevator down the hall. With him out of the tower, you finally felt like you could breathe. So, that’s what you did. You laid in bed and breathed. You took a nice, deep breath in as you rolled over onto your back and let your hand snake down beneath the waistband of your panties. You let a long breath out as you ran your fingertips through the wetness that had gathered along your folds. Then, you drew a shaky breath in as you circled your middle and ring fingers over your clit, using your own arousal as lube. You don’t feel good about what you did to yourself the moment Bucky was out of earshot. You don’t feel good about pretending that your hand was really his. You really don’t feel good about his name being on the tip of your tongue as an orgasm shook you to your core. But you feel good about the fact that you didn’t actually say his name out loud. That’s something, right?

            As you put the final finishing touches on your makeup look for the night, you force yourself to push Bucky Barnes far out of reach of your mind. You know that you’ll have to deal with him enough come Monday, when there’s another team meeting about the mission, but for now, you tell yourself that he’s off limits. He’s off limits and you get to spend the night thinking about anyone and anything else. Maybe that’s exactly what you should do. Think about anyone else.

            The bar that Sharon chose for tonight is dimly lit and overly full of patrons. You feel like you touch a minimum of three people every time you try to take a step in any direction, so you settle into a cramped booth with your drink and good company, hoping you can get away with sitting there for at least the next hour while the crowd thins out.

            “You could’ve picked a busier place.” Maria remarks sarcastically, shooting Sharon an annoyed look as they both slide into their seats across from you. You take a long sip of your drink before setting it down on the wooden surface of the table and double-checking that nothing was swiped from your clutch on your way through the bustling bar.

            “You need to get used to being around normal people, Maria.” Sharon wiggles her eyebrows. “No gods or mutants or super soldiers, just good old fashioned normal men.”

            “I came here under the impression that this was going to be a girls night.” Maria says as she lifts her drink up to her lips. A mischievous look takes over Sharon’s face and her eyes glimmer as she looks between you both.

            “A girls night where all the girls go home with a plus one.”

            “Oh, fuck off, Sharon.” Maria scoffs, shoving her shoulder playfully. Sharon snorts and casts her gaze around the crowded bar, seemingly browsing the vast menu of eligible men. As you follow her line of sight, you notice that there are significantly more men than women here. Including the three of you, you count maybe a total of ten women versus at least fifty men.

            “Sharon…” You start, narrowing your eyes as you face her.

            “Maybe I chose a bar that’s currently having their weekly guys night.” Knowing that both you and Maria are ready to start in on her, Sharon raises a hand and closes her eyes. “But I did it with a good heart. You both need to get laid.”

            As much as you want to kick her from underneath the table, you know she’s right. You shake your head as you take another long sip from your drink, and wonder just how many of these you might need before you agree to go home with one of the strangers in this bar.

            “I don’t think I’m the one that needs to get laid tonight.” Maria says quietly, casting a pointed look in your direction. Your eyes widen at her insinuation.

            “Why are you looking at me when you say that?”

            “You’re about to spend a whole lot of time with not one, but two Bucky Barnes.” She responds. Sharon nods eagerly, suddenly leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table as she joins Sharon in staring you down.

            “You need to fuck someone and clear your system before this mission takes off. Make sure you’re going into it with an empty tank, you know?” You’re sure that Sharon’s mostly joking, but there’s still an air of seriousness to her words.

            “You both think that I’d be tempted by him?” You raise an eyebrow at both of the women before you. They share an indecipherable look between themselves before all eyes are back on you.

            “Aren’t we all?”

            Bucky doesn’t usually pick whiskey. Nowadays he’s more of a beer kind of guy. Especially when he wants to drink a lot and reminisce about the times when he could get drunk. The feel of a cold glass bottle in his hand and the lip of it pressing against his mouth with each sip reminds him of a time when just a few of those would do him in. But tonight, he’s drinking Four Roses.

            As he swirls the amber liquid around in his glass, he scans the packed bar. The crowd is thick, with men heavily outnumbering and swarming the few women that are milling about.

            “I didn’t take you three for the guy’s night type.” Maria’s familiar voice sounds from behind Bucky’s left shoulder. He turns in unison with Sam and Torres. When their backs are to the bar, they all come face to face with Maria Hill. Bucky gives her a subtle up-and-down look, feeling a bit odd seeing her in an outfit that doesn’t resemble anything tactical for once.

            “I wouldn’t have taken you for the guy’s night type either.” Sam laughs out before taking a sip of his beer.

            “Trust me, I’m not.” Maria responds with a slight grimace, casting a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of where she came from. Bucky follows her gaze and spots a few booths off to a side wall, but it’s too dim for him to tell which one she might be looking to. He focuses back on her as she pushes between him and Sam to get to the bar. She orders three different drinks in quick succession, but only the last one catches Bucky’s attention. It’s your drink. “Is that you guys that I feel staring or is it the rest of the sleazy men in this place?” Maria asks jokingly, looking over her shoulder again. Sam and Torres both laugh, but Bucky’s barely paying any attention. He’s scanning the room again, studying each face with a watchful eye as he searches for you. “They’re in the third booth against the far left wall.” Maria says reluctantly, when she catches the look in Bucky’s eye. She may find him attractive as hell, like everyone else does, but she knows he’s essentially off the market. He may hide it well with the constant bickering and brooding façade, but he’s so fucking into you. Maria knows it as well as anybody else. Well, anybody but you. Sometimes she wonders if Bucky himself even knows it.

            Bucky shoots Maria a sideways look and she shakes her head.

            “They won’t be happy that you guys are crashing girls’ night.” She clicks her tongue disapprovingly, just as the bartender starts working on her drinks.

            “Oh, come on. They’ll be thrilled.” Sam jokes, immediately heading off in the direction of the booth Maria described. Torres stays with her, but Bucky follows Sam closely. He should be running in the opposite direction. He knows it’d be in his best interest to down the rest of his whiskey and run right out the door. And yet, his feet carry him forward like his entire goal since this morning hasn’t been to avoid you.

            You were having a half-decent night before you laid eyes on Bucky Barnes. When he comes into view, wearing one of his signature leather jackets and dark gloves, your heart skips a beat. You’re sure it’s skipping a beat out of protest rather than anything more meaningful, but still, it skips a damn beat. You don’t even hear Sam’s initial greeting, or the immediate banter that he and Sharon get into the moment he’s within earshot of the table. In fact, every single sound in the bar seems muffled all of a sudden. He’s staring at you. Bucky’s looking right into your eyes as he hovers near the end of the table, with his expression as bored and unreadable as ever.

            The intense eye contact is only broken when Maria and Torres appear, and she uses her shoulder to nudge Bucky out of the way so she can set the three drinks down. As soon as she slides the small glass in front of you, the din of the bar is loud again and you’re itching for a higher blood-alcohol level. You down the fresh drink in one long gulp, ignoring the burning in your throat as all eyes fall on you.

            “I think I need something a little stronger.” You say flatly, after clearing your throat and setting your empty glass down on the table. Sharon raises an eyebrow at you but within a second, she re-engages with Sam. Maria and Torres are quick to take your side of the booth the moment you rise to your feet, and Sam slides in next to Sharon. As you saunter off toward the bar, you can hear the sound of Bucky dragging a chair over to the edge of the table to give himself somewhere to sit.

            Bucky can’t seem to tear his eyes away from you as you make your way to the bar. You’re wearing a little black dress that hugs your curves and accentuates every part of you that he’s been trying not to think about all goddamn day. The heels you chose are surely killing your feet with every step you take, but god, they keep drawing his gaze down your legs and then the dress drags him right back up again. The front of Bucky’s jeans have started to feel a bit too tight and his mind is reeling. He wants to pour his glass of whiskey into his eyes. It may be the only way he can stop fucking staring at you.

            Though you feel Bucky’s eyes burning a hole in the back of your head, you refuse to look back. He can stare all he wants, but you’ve decided not to give a shit. He messed with your head last night and manipulated you into being a part of next week’s mission. Then, he messed with your head again this morning, telling you to come find him if you need anymore convincing. What the hell did he mean by that? You swallow hard as you reach the bar, reaching out and grabbing onto the edge of it to steady yourself. You’re two drinks in now and starting to feel a little buzzed, but you sure as hell won’t be stopping if the guys are sticking around. You order something significantly stronger than your last two drinks and then start fiddling with a stray lock of hair that’s hanging over your shoulder as you try to look unapproachable. This place feels like a testosterone festival and although Bucky’s stare was the only one you felt at first, you’re acutely aware of quite a few more pairs of eyes on you now.

            Bucky’s aware as well, so fucking aware. He watches with veiled frustration as you become the center of attention over at the bar. He can tell you don’t even want the attention simply by your body language, but that doesn’t stop men from ogling shamelessly. He knows you can handle yourself, so he bites down on his bottom lip and tries to return his attention to the table, choosing to pick his battles wisely. He tunes into a semi-heated conversation about who’s worse at holding their liquor amongst everyone at the table, but every now and then, his gaze flits back over to you.

            Two minutes go by before Sam notices the tension seemingly rolling off of Bucky’s broad shoulders. The brooding super soldier sits stiffly in the wooden chair at the end of the table, gripping his whiskey glass so tightly in one gloved hand that Sam’s surprised it hasn’t shattered under the pressure. When he follows Bucky’s gaze across the room, he finds the source of all of that angsty tension. There you are, looking undeniably gorgeous in that little black dress of yours with a fresh drink in hand as some tall, charismatic guy tries his best to win you over. Sam chuckles under his breath and watches for a moment, noting the way the guy continues getting closer to you every time you lean away from him. He sees the fake smile painted on your face and the way you keep nodding your head in the direction of the table as you speak in short sentences, probably letting the guy know that you have a group waiting for you.

            “Go get your girl, Bucky.” Sam finally says, lifting his half-empty beer bottle in your direction. “Haven’t you two been a fake couple at least a hundred times by now? Pretend to be her man and get her out of that.” Bucky winces at the idea. Conversation at the table dies down as everyone starts shifting to get a look at you.

            “What do you want me to do?” Bucky asks dryly, taking a long sip of his whiskey as he analyzes Sam’s expression over the rim of the glass. “She can get out of that herself if she wants to.”

            “Yeah, or you could make it easy for her.” Sam points out. Bucky turns his head to look at you again and he doesn’t like what he sees. The man takes one step closer to you, nearly closing the gap between your bodies entirely. He makes it seem as though he was pushed into you, which you seem to buy given how crowded the bar area still is. You let out a stiff but polite laugh, and then the man rests his right hand on your hip as he leans down and whispers something in your ear. That’s enough, Bucky decides. He downs the last of his whiskey before standing up and setting the empty glass on the edge of the table. He’s moving toward the bar before he has a moment to tell himself to stop. In an instant, his gloves are being tugged off one at a time and shoved into the pocket of his leather jacket.

            Bucky could just shove the guy away from you. He could throw a punch and start a good old-fashioned bar fight, maybe get himself kicked out into the street along the way. He could even waltz up and call you some sweet little pet name, because maybe, just maybe, the guy would be respectful enough to ditch the moment he thinks you’re spoken for.

            But as Bucky’s flesh hand tangles in the hair at the crown of your head and he tugs you back harshly, every other possible way to handle the situation is trampled under his feet. His movements are rough but calculated as he separates you from the guy and places his own body between you. Your lips part and you nearly spill your drink as Bucky uses his hold on your hair to tilt your head up so you’re looking right into his blue eyes.

            “Bucky, what—” The. Fuck.

            With his right hand still fisting your hair and his left moving to wrap around your waist, he pulls you flush against his chest and leans in. You don’t realize it, but even in your shocked state, you lean in to meet him. He tilts his head to the side and sucks your bottom lip in between his teeth instantly, barely even kissing you before he’s biting down on it hard enough to draw a gasp from you. He takes the opportunity to slide his tongue between your parted lips and taste you. Fuck. He didn’t mean to do it. He didn’t mean to put his tongue in your mouth, but now that it’s there? Fuck, he’s ruined. Bucky kisses you so intensely, so fucking passionately that for a moment, you’re convinced it’s real. It isn’t until his grip on your hip falters and he has to pull back to take a breath that you realize why he did it, that you realize it most definitely wasn’t real. You’re fighting to catch your breath as he lets you go and glances over his shoulder, making sure the guy is gone. When he looks back at you, you’re pressing your fingertips to your lips lightly, while clutching your drink in your other hand. Your eyes are wide and your hair messy from his touch. His eyes skate over your face, taking in the way your cheeks and nose are rosy and your pupils are dilated as you stare at him. Bucky runs a hand through his own hair and bites down on his bottom lip. Wait, is he…flustered?

            “Stop looking at me like that.” He says lowly. As much as you want to give him hell for that stupid stunt, your brain only seems to be able to focus on one thing.

            “You taste like honey.” Your voice comes out soft but raspy, and your fingertips still ghost over your lips as you speak. Bucky looks taken aback by your response, and he stills for a moment as he looks down at you, his eyes narrowing.

            “You taste like strawberries.” His gaze darts down to your lips, but then quickly back up to your eyes. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’ve found yourself in, you brush past Bucky, making a break for the table.

            Bucky needs a fucking minute. With your scent swirling around him and the ghost of your mouth on his, he needs a minute to adjust the raging hard-on he’s sporting and gather himself. What the fuck did he do that for? He’s gritting his teeth as he turns on his heel and heads for the bathrooms off to the side of the bar. When he steps foot in the men’s room, he scans the floor of each stall quickly, making sure he’s completely alone before locking the door to the entire bathroom and moving to stand in front of the large mirror displayed across the wall of sinks. Strawberries. Bucky stares down at the ceramic sink in front of him as his hands move to grip onto the edge of it. He fights the urge to break it into a million little pieces as he licks his lips, picking up a hint of your taste. Lifting his head and catching his own gaze in his reflection, he bites down on his bottom lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. The twinge of pain is enough to snap him out of whatever the hell kind of haze he’s in, and he flicks the sink on with his flesh hand. After washing his hands, he splashes a bit of cold water on his face before drying up with a few paper towels. He doesn’t leave the bathroom without adjusting his cock, tucking the head of it beneath the waistband of his boxers and pants to ensure his unchecked arousal won’t be noticed by anyone.

            With lively conversation passing back and forth across the table, no one seems to notice the thick tension brewing between you and Bucky. You haven’t glanced at him once since he came back from the men’s room looking utterly unbothered by the display of public deception that he’d put on just moments earlier.

            Bucky steals looks at you throughout the evening as you go through three of your usual drinks and two shots of vodka with Maria and Sharon. He notices that you smile a lot more when you have some alcohol in your system. You also look at him a hell of a lot less, and he hates that. He can’t seem to go more than a minute or two without searching you out, while you don’t even seem to notice that he’s still in the bar. He watches with a knotted stomach as two other guys attempt to move in on you when you’re up at the bar with the girls, but the knot unties itself when he sees you quickly turn them both down. Why hadn’t you done that with the first guy earlier tonight? A weird sensation bubbles up in his chest as he wonders if maybe you’d actually been attracted to the man you were talking to before Bucky stormed over and stuck his tongue in your mouth. Did you only turn the last two men down because you were worried that Bucky would try to kiss you again?

            As much as you would’ve liked to avoid looking at Bucky all night, your plan is thwarted when Sharon ends up a little past tipsy and Maria decides to Uber back to her apartment early. Not wanting to wrangle a semi-drunk Sharon in an Uber by yourself, you accept Sam’s offer for a ride. With Sam driving and Torres immediately sliding into the passenger seat, you push Sharon into the backseat on the passenger’s side and shut her door. You watch with a small smile playing on your lips as she promptly leans against the door and closes her eyes. You’re sure she’ll be asleep before Sam ever pulls up to her apartment complex.

            You cross around the backside of the car to find Bucky standing, holding the other back door open for you. You glance inside, noting the small middle seat and shake your head.

            “I’m not sitting in the middle.” You say stubbornly, crossing your arms over your chest. A small shiver wracks through your body as the chilly night air blows over your exposed skin. Bucky’s shrugging his jacket off before he even realizes it. When he holds it out to you, you look at it warily, but another cold breeze wafts by and you reach out and grab it. Draping it over your shoulders, you narrow your eyes at him. “I’m still not sitting in the middle.”

            “Yes, you are.” He responds roughly, resting his left forearm on top of the open door as his right hand moves to rest on his hip.

            “No, I’m not.” You’re aware of the fact that you sound like two children arguing over something so trivial, but still, you maintain your stance. Bucky bites the inside of his cheek before stepping back and pushing the door shut. You hear Sam shout something out of confusion, probably wondering what the hell you two are doing out there in the cold delaying the ride home, but you both ignore him.

            “You kissed me back.” He says in a low, raspy voice, making sure no one in the car could possibly make out his words. Your eyes widen and you pull his leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, trying to ignore the way his scent is rolling off of it and surrounding you.

            “You put your tongue in my mouth.” You respond stiffly, glancing over your shoulder at the car.

            “I’d do it again if it would shut you up and make you get in the car.”

            “Sounds like you’re looking for an excuse.” You say, letting out a fake laugh. Bucky rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed with your accusation.

            “You really think I’d look for an excuse to do that again?” Bucky asks, taking a step toward you and reaching past your body for the door handle. When he’s close enough to you that his lips are nearly grazing against the shell of your ear, your eyes flutter closed. “I think we both know I wouldn’t need one.”

            Bucky tugs the door open just as you open your eyes and look into his.

            “Get in the damn car.” He says authoritatively, holding the door open as you glare at him. You want to dig in your heels and stand on the curb until the sun rises in the morning, but with how cold you are and how late it is, you know you’re fighting a losing battle. You give Bucky a look that could kill as you slide into the middle seat and let out a frustrated sigh. You use his jacket to cover your legs and maintain what little body heat you have left. When Bucky slides in after you and pulls the door shut, Sam’s driving off before either of you have buckled your seatbelts. Bucky fastens his own before noticing that you’re not making a move to buckle yours, so he takes matters into his own hands. He leans over you and grasps the seatbelt in his flesh hand as he brings his lips close to your ear again, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Always so fucking stubborn.”

            With every little curve and bump in the road, Bucky’s leg brushes against yours and you tense up each time. You’re always quick to pull your leg away and back toward the middle of the floorboard, until you start to notice that he never pulls his away. You stare out of the windshield ahead as Sam weaves through the city, heading toward Sharon’s downtown apartment. When you turn your head and glance over at her, she’s sound asleep with her mouth wide open as her head rests against the door beside her. Another bump jostles the car and Bucky’s leg collides with yours, but instead of pulling away this time, you stay still. As the heat of his leg permeates the thick fabric of his jeans and warms your bare knee, you find yourself relaxing a little. It really is way too cold to be wearing such a tiny dress.

            Bucky’s gaze is fixed outside of his window, but he can feel you letting your head fall back to rest against the headrest behind. He tries not to move too much, sensing that you’re somewhat thankful for his body heat warming your leg and side. It’s cold as shit tonight and you picked what has to be the thinnest dress in your wardrobe. If he didn’t love it on you so much, he’d have told you that you were fucking stupid for risking hypothermia by wearing it.

            You let your eyes fall closed as goosebumps prickle across the skin of your arms and you lean back against the headrest. Sharon’s apartment is just another ten minutes away, and then the tower will be an extra thirty on top of that. If you clear your head and pretend like the man beside you is merely a stranger in a shared Uber, and not someone whose tongue was in your mouth only an hour ago, you might be able to get a little sleep before you’re home. But Bucky’s leather jacket sits heavy over your thighs, and his intoxicating scent swirls around the backseat, begging to be inhaled. He’s not a stranger. He’s a fucking coworker who left a hickey on your neck and what feels like a black hole in your gut after offering up some kind of half-baked confession of attraction a couple of days ago. Younger me would fucking swoon. Who the hell says something like that to a girl who thought she was the last person he’d ever be into? Does he get off on looks of confusion and bewilderment?

            The car tires screech against asphalt as Sam slams on the brakes and the car struggles to meet his demand. You’re lurching forward in an instant, the seatbelt pulling coarsely across your chest as it locks and holds you in your seat. But it isn’t the sudden unexpected stop that has everything moving in slow motion. It’s Bucky’s hand gripping your mid-thigh tightly over the fabric of his leather jacket. As your back thumps against the seat and your eyes dart out toward the windshield ahead, you see that Sam narrowly avoided running a red light with a traffic camera posted on the street corner. He mumbles something about refusing to get another citation, but your ears are ringing as you cast your gaze downward. Bucky’s hand is still right there, his knuckles nearly turning white with how hard his fingers are digging into your leg. For a moment, a fleeting moment, you let yourself think about how nice his touch feels. You can feel the warmth of his palm even through the leather jacket covering your legs and the chill in your body begins to dissipate. In reality, he’s only been holding onto your thigh for two seconds, but it feels like it’s been two minutes. You let out a shaky breath as the stoplight turns green and Sam starts driving past it. Bucky’s grip loosens and he starts to withdraw his hand, but something within you stops him. You’re reaching out and grabbing his hand in yours, tugging it back to your thigh and resting it atop the leather jacket again. Neither one of you turns to look at the other. You both stare straight ahead, silently letting the moment play out.

            It feels as though a fire’s been ignited deep in Bucky’s chest. As you move your hand away from his, he has to turn his head and look out the window to keep from looking down at where he’s touching you. If he gets a glimpse of where his hand is at right now, he won’t be able to scrub the image from his mind no matter how hard he tries. And his hand is only on your damn thigh. He takes even breaths through his nose as he watches the city lights dance around outside. He estimates that Sharon’s apartment complex is less than ten minutes away. What happens after those ten minutes? Will you push his hand away and pretend like the moment never happened?

            Each passing minute feels longer and longer as Bucky’s hand remains heavy on your thigh. Two minutes go by before he starts alternating between squeezing your leg and letting his hand rest loosely atop the jacket across your lap. When you reach the third minute, your cheeks are flushed pink and sparks are igniting throughout your body at the slightest touch. There aren’t many thoughts floating around in your head now, which is probably why it’s so easy for you to slide your hand over his and quietly guide it beneath the fabric of the jacket. He doesn’t resist. He doesn’t pull his hand away or fight your movement, and when you feel the warmth of his palm pressing against the bare skin of your thigh, you withdraw your own hand and cover his with the jacket carefully. Bucky’s clenching his teeth as he grips your leg and scrapes his trimmed, blunt nails along the inside of your thigh. He feels you shudder against his touch, but then you seem to press into him a little closer and he can’t fucking breathe. The backseat of this car is suddenly feeling too damn small for either of you, and he wants nothing more than to drag you out at the next red light and find the nearest alley with a brick wall he can back you into.

            She’s just cold. Bucky keeps reminding himself that that’s why you’re letting him do this, that that’s why you’re encouraging him to touch you this way. But are you really that cold? Your skin feels almost overheated beneath his hand. He grips your leg again and then starts drawing lazy circles with his fingertips along your inner thigh. He never once tries to move his hand any higher or lower than the exact spot that you placed it in. You’re having a hard time figuring out if that excites you or disappoints you, especially when all you can do is focus on keeping your breathing unnoticeable and eyeing the three other people in the car to make sure no one is the wiser.

            The tension in the backseat of the car is so thick that you could cut it with a knife by the time Sam’s pulling into a parking spot in front of Sharon’s building. Bucky’s fingertips dig into the skin of your thigh one last time before he drags his hand out from underneath the jacket and back to his own lap. You start to unbuckle so you can help Sharon out of the car and up to her apartment, but Sam shakes his head at you in the rearview mirror and pushes his own door open quickly.

            “We’re not going to make you walk her all the way up there when you’re in heels.” Sam tsks, signaling for Torres to hop out as well. “We’ll take her up and get her settled, just stay in the car.”

            “Are you sure? I could do it, she can probably walk fine, she’s just sleepy.” You say softly, glancing over at Sharon as she begins to stir. She shoots you a sideways smile and starts unbuckling her seatbelt with sloppy movements.

            “Don’t say that, let them carry me.” Sharon jokes, slurring nearly every single word she speaks. You laugh lightly before pushing a bit of her blonde hair away from her face and leaning over her to open the door on her side.

            “Fine, but don’t give them too much trouble.” You concede, watching as Torres takes both of her hands and helps her out of the car. You find your heart racing as she straightens herself up and takes just enough steps forward for Torres to shut the door again, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark car. You let out a shaky breath as you watch Sam, Torres, and Sharon all move further and further away from the car. You don’t move a muscle. You stay seated right there in the middle of the backseat, painfully aware of how your left side is still brushing against Bucky’s right side.

            Bucky’s sitting stiffly in his seat, wondering if you can hear how hard his heart is thumping against his ribcage right now. His eyes flit downward to where his leather jacket has shifted off of your lap a bit and the skin of the thigh that he was just toying with is now exposed. Gritting his teeth, he reaches over slowly and pinches the edge of the jacket with his fingertips before dragging it back up to cover your lap entirely. Your head moves quickly, tilting downward to watch what he’s doing. You swallow thickly as thoughts start swirling around in your head. It’s a mixture of sane, rational thoughts about thanking him for the jacket and dirty, irrational thoughts about putting his hand back where it was before the car stopped here. Even as your mind is formulating a coherent sentence to spit out, you know you should sit here quietly and act like nothing happened. You know so much better than to speak when tensions are running this high, and yet…

            “I did kiss you back.” The words roll off of your tongue so quietly that you fear Bucky might not even have heard them. But when he stops staring out his window and drops his gaze down to where his hands rest in his lap, you know he heard you.

            “You did.” He says just as quietly, shifting in his seat a bit. You let out a soft sigh and glance over at the empty seat beside you. You know it’ll look a bit odd to Sam and Torres when they get back to the car and see you still sitting in the middle of the backseat. You’re thinking about sliding over and buckling yourself in when movement catches your eye. Bucky’s flesh hand reaches over slowly, and his fingertips take hold of the edge of his jacket just like they did a moment ago, but instead of making sure the fabric covers your thighs, his moves it further down your legs this time. Your breath hitches in your throat as he pushes it down just an inch, revealing the hem of your short dress and the tiniest bit of skin across the tops of your thighs. Goosebumps prickle across your skin, but it has little to do with the fact that you’re still a bit cold. “I put my tongue in your mouth.” He rasps. You’re frozen in place as he starts tracing the hem of your dress with the tip of his index finger. His words hang in the air, swirling around with the thick tension like a heavy fog early in the morning. Bucky leans in as you stare down at his hand. He leans in until his forehead is nearly touching the side of your face and his lips are ghosting around the shell of your ear. “Would I need an excuse to do it again?”

            As your eyes flutter closed and you suck in a deep breath, Bucky can only think of one thing. He can only think about how fucking perfect it felt to have you kissing him back, to push his tongue past your lips and really taste you for the first time. Of all the times he’s kissed you for undercover missions, it was never like that. He never dared to let his tongue get involved, not until tonight. Now he fears he might be ruined.

            You’re thinking about the same damn thing. You’re thinking about how he tasted like honey and citrus and vanilla all jumbled together. You’re replaying the feeling of him fisting his hand in your hair and pulling you toward him in a way that should’ve done nothing other than piss you off.

            Neither of you realizes that you’re both glancing toward the apartment building entrance at the same time, both checking to see if Sam and Torres are anywhere nearby. Are you really about to do this? You finally turn your head to face Bucky, and find him already staring at you intensely. His blue eyes reflect the tiniest bit of light from a street lamp in the distance, and you swear you can see something akin to flames dancing around in his gaze. He stares back at you for one, two, three seconds before the tension hanging in the air between you both shatters. In a flash, you’re shoving the leather jacket onto the floor and moving toward Bucky just as he’s grabbing you by the waist and tugging you toward him. Your lips meet before your bodies do and you’re kissing him so desperately that you almost feel a bit of shame. You’re acting like a horny teenager having her first bit of alone time with a guy on prom night, but as your dress hikes even higher up your hips and Bucky settles you not over his lap, but over his right thigh, every trace of shame disappears. You’re straddling the toned muscles of his thigh as he curls his fingertips against your scalp and takes a handful of your hair in his fist.

            “You like when I do this, don’t you?” He asks lowly, nipping at your jawline as he pulls on your hair just enough to tilt your head back. A soft whimper escapes you and you grind down on his thigh, feeling just the right amount of friction as the fabric of your panties meets his jeans. He falters for a second and looks down, his grip on your hair loosening as you grind against his leg again. “Fuck, don’t do that.” He growls, squeezing your hip with his vibranium hand to make sure you’ll be still.

            “But it feels so fucking good.” You whisper, fighting against his vibranium hand and dragging your clothed cunt against his thigh again. A guttural sound crawls up his throat and he pulls you in for a kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips instantly. There’s that honey taste again. He doesn’t try to stop you this time when you grind down, so you keep doing it over and over again for a few seconds, giving your clit exactly enough friction to elicit a sense of pleasure. If his side of the backseat was bigger, you’d settle yourself over his lap and grind on the bulge that you know is hiding behind the zipper of his jeans, but you’ll take what you can get.

            “Is that enough for you?” Bucky asks roughly, the second he pulls away from your lips and glances down at where you’re grinding on his thigh once again.

            “They’ll be back any minute.” You whisper. You place your hands on his shoulders as you crane your neck to glance back at the apartment building again, ensuring Sam and Torres are still out of sight.

            “Say it isn’t enough.”

            “Bucky—” Both of his hands move down your back and he cups your bare ass beneath the fabric of your dress, squeezing hard enough to leave red fingerprints in your skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your neck before dragging the tip of his tongue up toward your ear and biting down on your earlobe softly. “It isn’t enough.” You moan out as your back arches and your chest presses against his. Bucky lets out a groan before reaching down with one hand and unbuckling his seatbelt. The thin strap moves between your two bodies quickly before clicking against the door, and then Bucky’s wrapping one arm around your lower back and moving to lay you down in the backseat. He hovers over you as your legs spread a bit to accommodate him, and then he sinks down on top of you. There’s something about feeling the full weight of a man over you that makes it hard to think rationally. That’s why when you feel the outline of his hard cock press against your damp panties, your back arches and his name leaves your lips in such a desperate, sultry moan. That’s why you let him grind and rut against you relentlessly for at least thirty seconds, listening to the sounds of his grunts and heavy breaths as he buries his face in your neck and moves his hips rhythmically. That’s why you let yourself get so dangerously close to an orgasm that you’re circling your own hips against his. It’s because you’re not thinking rationally, not one tiny bit.

            You don’t hear it, but Bucky does. He hears the distant click as the door to Sharon’s apartment building swings open. He knows he only has a few seconds left before Sam and Torres will be close enough to see the car, so he presses his hips into you one last time, making sure you feel the entirety of his hard length against your clothed cunt before he looks down into your eyes and memorizes the look of pleasure on your face. He kisses you one last time, savoring the taste of your lips and letting his tongue dance with yours for one fleeting moment. Then, he’s pulling himself away from you and grabbing your hands to pull you back into a sitting position beside him. You’re in a daze as he leans down and scoops his leather jacket up off of the floor. The sound of Sam and Torres’ voices ring out in the distance and you move yourself to the seat Sharon had previously occupied, quickly smoothing out your dress and hair before buckling yourself in. Bucky holds the jacket out to you just as Sam and Torres are nearing the car, and you take it, draping it over your lap carefully.

            Sam and Torres’ incessant small talk is the only sound to be heard as the car carries you all back to the compound. You’re keeping your legs tightly crossed and your hands folded neatly in your lap as you stare out your window and try to avoid thinking about what just happened. Adrenaline is still surging through your veins, almost cancelling out the alcohol in your system. On top of that, the sexual frustration that you feel from having not finished what you and Bucky so recklessly started in the backseat is giving you a bit of an attitude. You chew on the inside of your cheek as the damp panties trapped between your thighs begin to feel uncomfortable and the gravity of what you just did, what you would’ve done if Sam and Torres hadn’t showed up when they did, begins to set in.  You’re compromising not just the upcoming mission, but your entire working relationship with a damn good partner. And for what? Not even an orgasm. He didn’t even give you that. You have no doubt that he would have if you’d had the time for it. Hell, you were pretty damn close to one with him grinding against you like that and those sounds he was making. Your mind starts to float back into dangerous territory and you bite the inside of your cheek a little harder, nearly drawing blood. You shudder at the sensation of pain, but continue staring out the window, wishing Sam would drive just a little bit faster.

            He could cum right now. Bucky could actually cum in his jeans right now, and it’s been a solid ten minutes since he even looked in your direction. His cock is still painfully hard and fighting against the front of his jeans, threatening to pop the zipper if he doesn’t free it soon. He glances around Sam’s headrest to see that he’s already doing five over the speed limit. Still, it’s not fast enough. Not when you just did what you did, and you’re sitting only a foot away with Bucky’s scent all over you. Actually, that’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it all is the fact that you left wet spots on his thigh and over the crotch of his jeans, both of which hold the scent of your arousal. Bucky lets out a heavy sigh and shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting the seatbelt over his lap so it won’t restrict his cock any more than it needs to. He catches you turning your head in his direction out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look back at you. Screwing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose with his flesh index finger and thumb as he presses his head back against the headrest. He can survive the last twenty minutes left in this car ride, but as soon as the car pulls up to the tower, he’s getting the fuck out of here.

            Sam, ever the courteous and thoughtful designated driver, let you, Bucky, and Torres all out of the car right at the front entrance to the tower before heading off to park the car in the underground garage. Bucky almost decided to stay in the car and take the ride down to the garage with Sam, just to keep from being stuck in the elevator with you. However, it turns out that Torres is pretty damn good at icing over the fiery tension in a small space. Bucky is leaned against the back wall of the elevator, staring at the leather jacket hanging off of your shoulders as you stand a few feet in front of him. You’re so close to the metal doors that if you stuck your tongue out, you’d probably be licking them. Torres stands oblivious off to one side, scrolling through his phone absentmindedly as the elevator carries the three of you closer and closer to the main living quarters.

            “Have you two gotten started on the dancing lessons yet?” He asks casually, without looking up from his phone. You say nothing. You stay still, staring at the metal in front of your face as the elevator continues on. Bucky clears his throat lightly and you hear him shift somewhere behind you.

            “Tomorrow.” Bucky replies stiffly, offering no more than that single word. You turn your head the tiniest bit to see Torres nod, still looking down at the device in his hands.

            “Saving it for the last minute?” He jokes. Your eyes dart upward and you see that you’re only a few floors away from the living quarters. “Fury wants you guys back in the past within the next two days.” You swallow hard at the reminder as an uneasy feeling settles in your gut.

            “There isn’t going to be much to teach.” Bucky’s tone is flat, but still somewhat polite. You see Torres nod in your peripheral vision, and then the elevator is dinging and it’s slowing to a stop. You’re hurrying out the second the doors begin sliding open. You hear Torres’ phone ring and he mumbles something about taking the call down in the conference room, but you’re already halfway through the main living area. Your heels click against the hard floor as you make your way toward the dark hall, refusing to look back at the super soldier who can only be a few yards behind you.

            “You don’t have to walk so damn fast.” Bucky mutters, watching you storm ahead. You’re still about ten feet from your door when you slow down and turn on your heel. Now you’re standing there looking at him as he continues walking toward his own door at a normal pace. You stand there and stare at the man you didn’t want to look at for another second tonight. He’s nothing but danger and bad decisions and you’re learning not to trust yourself around him anywhere but in the field.

            “My feet hurt.” You say matter-of-factly, narrowing your eyes at him. You watch as he comes within a couple of feet of you and turns left to face his door that’s right across from yours. “I want to take off these heels and this dress and shower and just…” Your voice trails off and you catch Bucky looking over his shoulder at you with a raised brow. “And just sleep this off.” You finish, making it clear that you’re talking about whatever it is that’s between you right now. He turns to face you right as you’re turning your back to him and reaching for your own door handle.

            “Sleep it off, huh?” He scoffs, noting that you’re still keeping his leather jacket draped over your shoulders. “Whatever this is, it’ll just be gone in the morning?” You keep your hand on the downturned door handle but you pause, not yet pushing the door open fully. You shrug your shoulders and Bucky watches as his jacket moves up and down once around your frame. “Kinda hard to forget what happened tonight if you wake up and see my leather jacket beside your bed in the morning.”  You snort out an amused laugh before casting a glare at Bucky over your shoulder.

            “Maybe you should take your jacket back then.” You respond calmly. As you’re facing your door, letting your head turn forward once again, you hear Bucky shuffling behind you slowly. A chill spreads beneath the surface of your skin as he grows closer and closer, until his body heat is enveloping you and his proximity has your hand faltering on the door handle. When he comes to a stop right behind you, so close that one deep breath from you would have your back pressing against his chest, he braces himself against your doorframe. Both of his arms are outstretched, his hands grasping the doorframe on either side of you as he leans in close to your ear, just as he’s done so many times tonight.

            “But it looks so damn good on you.”  He coos, taking a chance to inhale your sweet scent after he speaks. His breath tickles the side of your face as the wetness in your panties suddenly feels a little less uncomfortable and a little more exciting. You’d like to say your body is beyond your control when you draw in a deep breath and let go of the door handle. When you let your palms glide over the surface of your door and arch your back just enough to push your ass against the front of Bucky’s jeans. You’re met with the same hard-on he was rubbing all over your clothed cunt in the car just a little while ago and warmth pools low in your stomach. Bucky’s hips lean in, pressing himself against your ass a little harder as his flesh knuckles turn white and his vibranium hand whirs with exertion against the doorframe. He gives you a chance to open the door and disappear for the rest of the night, but when you circle your hips back against him a second time, his hands quickly move down to your hips and he pushes your front into the door firmly. He crowds in behind you, dragging his lips over the skin of your neck as you tilt your head to the side. He makes sure your bodies never part as he kisses down the column of your throat and bites down lightly on your collarbone. You grind your ass into him one more time and his control starts slipping.

            “Keep that up and I’ll fuck you against this goddamn door.” Bucky rasps against your neck, tightening his hold on your hips to keep you from grinding anymore. You wriggle in his grasp, but he only curls his fingers against your dress even more, before dragging his lips back up toward your ear. “You’ll wake up tomorrow wondering why the fuck you can’t walk.”

            “I’d blame the heels.” You whisper, surprising yourself at the fact that you’re going along with this. But everything he’s saying, everything he’s doing makes it hard for you to think straight. Bucky lets out a surprisingly gentle, genuine laugh before letting go of your hips and tugging his jacket off of your shoulders. He steps back suddenly, leaving you a bit cold and wanting for his touch. You turn around to watch as he walks over to his own door and pushes it open. “That’s it? You just walk away after that?”

            “You can’t stand me, remember?” He replies. You can hear his smirk showing through his tone. “Should be easy for you to sleep it off.”

            With that last line, Bucky’s shutting his door and you’re left in the dark hallway alone. You have half a mind to kick his door in and ruin your pretty heels, but the other half of you knows he’s doing the right thing. What did you really want him to do? If you’d invited him in and spent the night with him, you have no doubt that your professional life would’ve gone to shit before the end of the week. If he’d invited you in, or even worse, fucked you against right there in the hall like he’d said, the outcome would’ve been the same. You can’t mix work and play. You know that all too well. But why is it turning out to be so damn fun to blur the lines with him?           

            You take your time peeling off your dress and heels, soaking in a long, hot shower, and then getting ready for bed. By the time you’re flicking off the bathroom lights and pulling back the plush covers on your bed, it’s already a bit past one in the morning and the aching between your legs hasn’t ceased. You refuse to indulge your fantasies after having already made yourself orgasm once within the last twenty-four hours at the mere thought of the man across the hall. Twice would be too much, way too much when you’re actively trying to tell yourself that you need to start keeping things strictly professional with him. You choose to lie in bed and scroll through your phone for a bit, but still, Bucky remains at the forefront of your mind.

            Bucky vows not to touch his cock in the shower ever again. Tonight was the last time. As he towels himself dry and avoids looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he’s surprised at the fact that he doesn’t feel so much shame this time. He has a feeling you might’ve even been flattered by just how much cum ended up being washed down the drain after he thought of nothing but you as he stroked himself. Okay, maybe that’s wishful thinking. But seriously, with the things you did to him…with him tonight, he knows that you wouldn’t have kicked his ass for what he had to do in the shower. He has a feeling you might’ve even been tempted to do something like that for yourself after you parted ways.

            One text. That’s all you need to send to give yourself a little peace of mind and maybe set things back on the right track with Bucky. It’s why you’re staring at the typed out message on your phone screen and your thumb is hovering over the send button. It’s late. Maybe too late to be sending him a text. But you feel like you have to do it. You’ll clear things up now and tomorrow everything will go back to normal, or as normal as things can be before a mission like this. When you hit send, let out a deep breath and let your head fall back on your pillow a bit dramatically.

            When Bucky’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, he’s rolling over and grasping it in one hand almost instantly. Holding it over his face and quickly dimming the brightness of his lock screen, he sees your name at the top of the notification and he narrows his eyes. How many times have you texted him since you’ve started working together? Once? Maybe twice? His heart thumps a little harder than it previously had been as he unlocks his phone and reads your message. You don’t need any more convincing? His tongue darts out and wets his lips as he sends his overly simple response through.

            Two question marks. That’s all you see as you stare at his text. Heaving a sigh, you type out a slightly longer message, making sure you’re abundantly clear. You need to make sure that he knows he doesn’t have to keep going with whatever act this is that he’s been putting on the last couple of days. If he’s only been fucking around with you to convince you that you’re the one his 40s self would approach in a bar, he doesn’t have to keep doing it. You’re thoroughly convinced. It’s only a few seconds after you’ve sent your message that you see the little gray typing bubbles pop up on his end of the message window.

            You watch those three little dots with bated breath as your thumbs hover over your phone screen. When his final text comes through, your heart rate nearly doubles and warmth rushes up to color your cheeks a soft shade of pink.

            Shit. You exhale noisily, before clicking your phone off and setting it on your nightstand. Your mind starts rushing back to all of the missions you’ve worked together, all of the times you bantered back and forth or argued and yet, every mission was carried out seamlessly. Was the tension between you two something that you’ve been misreading up until now? Had you been mistaking it for the type of tension felt between two people who don’t really get along, when all of this time it was that kind of thick, suffocating tension that you only find between two people who are oblivious as to how right for each other they really are?

            You wrap yourself up in your bedsheets and let the darkness of your room envelope you. No fucking way. You do not have feelings for James Bucky Barnes. And even more than that, he most definitely does not have feelings for you. There’s simply no way.

            When you finally drift off to sleep, what happened in the car on the way back from the bar replays in your dreams on a loop, growing slightly filthier with each rerun. You wake up three hours in with a pillow wedged between your legs and your hips instinctively grinding down into it in search of friction. You wake up a second time just before sunrise and you almost can’t take the ache between your legs.

            If you really couldn’t stand him, if this was really nothing, you would’ve been able to sleep it off. And that scares the shit out of you.

            Glimmers of early morning sunlight peek through your curtains, casting your room in a hazy yellow glow. Stretching out your legs beneath the covers, you rub the sleep from your eyes and blink a few times. Your gaze settles on the white ceiling above and you notice a slight twinge of pain behind your eyes as a headache begins to set in.

            The night before replays in your mind, almost like a highlight reel, as you push the covers back and move to sit up on the side of your bed. You see yourself being pulled away from that stranger in the bar, being pulled to Bucky’s chest as he kissed you like you belonged to him and no one else. You squeeze your eyes shut and massage your temples with the middle and index fingers of your right hand. You see Bucky’s hand on your thigh in the car, and then him lying you down in the back seat before crawling on top of you and…fuck.

            Tonight had nothing to do with convincing you. His last text to you from just a few hours ago is displayed across a billboard in the forefront of your mind. You rush through pulling on an outfit for the gym, settling on a lazy hairstyle and light makeup to hide the dark circles under your eyes from the poor sleep you got last night. It might be Sunday and you might not have much to do today, but you know good and well that sitting here in your room is only going to send you straight into a spiral of thoughts you don’t need to be dwelling on right now.

            You listen carefully through your door, straining to detect any sounds that might let you know someone else is up and about this early. When you’re sure the coast is clear, you make a dash for the elevator and ride it all the way down to the gym.

            Sam’s sitting in the conference room with Fury and a very hungover Sharon just a little past eight. He’d probably be laughing if she didn’t look so miserable. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and the dark circles under her eyes are aging her by about five years. He can tell her head must be throbbing by the way she keeps squinting at the bright lights overhead and glancing over at the light switch across the room. Maybe he should’ve made an effort to end the fun a little earlier last night, but in his defense, none of you really made an effort to do that. Besides, he had no idea Fury would want to see them first thing on a Sunday morning.

            “We’ll be sending you in tomorrow to bring Peggy Carter up to speed and establish a safehouse for the mission.” Fury explains slowly, eyeing Sharon as he speaks. She nods along, keeping her hands folded in her lap beneath the table. “You’ll have one day to get it done.”

            “It won’t be a problem.” Sharon affirms confidently, letting her eyes shift between Fury and Sam. “One day is plenty of time. What stipulations do you have for the safehouse?”

            “As long as they have a place to sleep and a door to lock at night, I don’t care. Whatever Peggy can help you find is going to have to do. They’ll only be there for two nights.” Fury responds. His phone chimes and he quickly stands up from the table, pushing his chair in gently. He casts Sam and sideways glance as he heads for the door.

            “Maybe don’t take her out drinking tonight.” Fury advises, letting out a half-hearted laugh as he reaches for the door handle. “And let me know how those dance lessons go later. If those two can’t get along long enough to make it through one song, I have half a mind to scrap the whole damn mission.”

            “They got along pretty well last night.” Sam snorts, remembering the way Bucky kissed you in the bar. Sure, he was the one that encouraged him to do it, but Sam knows for damn certain that it was anything but fake. He wonders for a moment just how complicated this mission might end up being with the two of you being thrust into the past without backup readily available. You’ve always worked well on missions before, but this is so different. This is the kind of mission that’ll make or break a partnership, and he’s very much aware that your partnership is somewhere on a tightrope between being rock solid and completely falling apart at the seams. If he had to place a bet, he’d say neither of you come back from this one the same as when you went in. Something’s going to change.

            It doesn’t feel real. As you stand on a platform that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie, wearing a quantum suit in the darkest shade of black you’ve ever seen, you feel a bit like an imposter. It should be Sharon in your position right now. You know she was just in this same spot yesterday, heading back in time to establish a safehouse and make the first contact with Peggy Carter, but still. Who the hell decided that you’re qualified not only to run ops in this century, but to send you back to the last one to run an op as well?

            “Hey.” Bucky says quietly, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You turn your head to the right and take in the sight of him as he takes the few steps up onto the platform. He moves to stand directly in front of you, taking in the apprehension written all over your face. You tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and let out a shaky breath as you meet his gaze. “Just another mission.” He assures you, keeping his voice low so only you can hear it. You nod, but you’re sorely unconvinced. This is not just another mission. You know it and he knows it.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You mumble, averting your gaze and choosing to watch Bruce, Scott, and Torres as they work seamlessly behind a table of screens and electronic devices. Bucky shakes his head and narrows his eyes at you, but you refuse to look at him again.

            “Okay, let me hit a few main points before we do this.” Bruce says suddenly, clapping his oversized, green hands together as he approaches the edge of the platform. “You have one roundtrip each, please make every effort to come back from this together. You can come back earlier if you have to but for the love of all things scientific, don’t come back later than planned. What feels like five minutes to you might be fifteen years here.”

            “Bucky, you’ll keep your watch on at all times in the past. Take that thing off and lose it and you’re stuck in the forties, which I get might not be all that unappealing to a man who’s over a hundred years old, but still…keep it on.” Scott says pointedly. You glance down at your own time-space GPS device. While Bucky’s does resemble a normal wrist watch, yours was made to look more like an inconspicuous necklace so you could continue wearing it in the forties and still be dressed for the time period. “Don’t let anyone take that off of you.” Scott directs his warning at you. You nod curtly, reaching up and running your fingers along the dainty device lightly.

            “Try not to go changing the past.” Bruce takes over again, but he’s backing away from the platform now and moving back toward the table of screens and devices. “Stick to the mission. Get in with the Howling Commandos, get what you need from the HYDRA base, and then get the hell out of there on time. Are we all on the same page?” Both you and Bucky nod in unison, and you finally face forward to meet his piercing stare.

            “It could only be you.” Bucky whispers across the short distance between the two of you. Warmth floods your chest and you barely hear the sound of Bruce beginning to count backwards from twenty.

            “I told you I didn’t need any more convincing.” You remind him, matching his low volume. “I’m here, I’m doing this. I just think Sharon would’ve been the smarter choice.” Bucky shakes his head at you almost disappointingly as Bruce reaches the ten second mark. You see something flash in Bucky’s eyes, something passionate and intense as you ready yourself to activate the helmet and face mask on your suit. When Bruce calls out eight seconds left, Bucky rushes forward, taking two steps before grasping the sides of your face firmly in his hands.

            His lips are soft and gentle when they meet yours, but in less than a second he’s kissing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get the chance to. It sucks the air right out of your lungs and sets a fluttering sensation off deep in your stomach, but then he’s pulling away and stepping back. You activate your helmets and face masks at the same time, right as Bruce is nearing the end of his count.

            “Three, two, one…”

            With a flash of light and an unusual feeling that the gravity beneath your feet has just increased by a hundred-fold, you’re being dragged through time and space, hurtling toward a period of time that you’re sure you don’t belong in.

             Rain pours down heavily on the roof of the car as Peggy drums her fingertips along the top of the steering wheel. She glances down at the coordinates scrawled on a small scrap of paper for the fifth time, even though she knows she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be. She can’t help but feel a little on edge. The street light perched above her car gives off just enough light for her to lean over in front of the rearview mirror and reapply her red lipstick one last time. It’s a bit of a nervous habit really, because it’s not like she has much reason for her makeup to look perfect with the role she’s about to play. A glorified cab driver. That’s what she is tonight. A flash of light in the distance catches her attention, and it isn’t lightning. She turns the key in the ignition and watches as her headlights suddenly illuminate the alley ahead.

            She isn’t quite sure what she expected the two of you to look like. She should’ve assumed that Sergeant Barnes would age well, but the fact that he’s barely aged has her raising a brow as she studies him from a distance. She notes the fact that he seems taller and much more muscular than the Sergeant Barnes she’s come to know through Steve and the Howling Commandos.

            “Welcome to London.” Bucky mutters under his breath, as he raises a hand to shield his eyes from the bright headlights ahead. He squints slightly and catches sight of Peggy’s characteristic red lip and brown curls through the windshield of a dark Morris eight. You cut your eyes to the side and take in the sight of him, with his hair already soaked through and rainwater dripping down the side of his face. Before you have a chance to say anything back, he’s moving to stand behind you and placing a hand against the middle of your back, lightly guiding you toward the car.

            The rain sends a chill racing from your head to your toes as Bucky reaches past you, tugs the front passenger door open and ushers you into the seat. He leans down before closing the door, letting his scent invade your space as he looks past you to Peggy.

            “Peggy Carter.” He says with a soft smile, looking at her as if he’s seeing an old friend after so long apart. You’re stuck staring at him. You’ve never seen this look on his face before and it lets you see him in a slightly different light.

            “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy’s British accent is almost musical in a way. You finally turn your head and get a good look at her. She looks perfectly put together and polished with her bright red lipstick, styled hair, and navy blue pantsuit. “If you’d like to hop in and allow your partner here to close her door, we just might make it to your safehouse before you’re both thoroughly soaked.” A laugh slips past Bucky’s lips, but he listens to her and steps away from the door, closing it for you gently. Once he’s settled in the backseat, Peggy shoots a sideways smile in your direction before putting the car into reverse. “Does he always listen that well?”

            “Not at all.” You respond honestly.

            Peggy guides the car backwards out of the alley and onto the very sleepy, rainy streets of London. It’s an odd feeling to be in such a major city but see so little traffic or nightlife. You’re taking everything in with widened eyes, noting all of the little differences between the forties and the time period that you come from. Bucky’s soaking it in as well, but instead of exciting him, it relaxes him. He sinks into the backseat and lets out a deep breath, watching as the old buildings and signs roll past his window. He almost feels at home here.

            The drive to the safehouse on the outskirts of the city doesn’t take anywhere near as long as it would’ve taken in the modern world. When Peggy turns into the long driveway of one of Howard Stark’s many homes, you’re starting to feel the effects of time travel. Your head feels a little fuzzy and you have a sensation almost similar to that of motion sickness. Peggy says something about the house being a bit small for two people, mentioning it being one of Stark’s occasional residences for when he travels alone.

            “Everything you need will be inside. Clothes, food, a few choice weapons for the mission at hand. Please let me know if I missed anything, but I think I was rather thorough.” Peggy says cordially as she leads the way up the paved driveway toward the front door. You take a few steps away from the car but stop short, scrunching your eyes shut as a heavy wave of nausea hits. Bucky’s behind you in an instant, letting his palm press against your lower back as he stands at your side and leans over to look at your face.

            “What’s going on?” He asks in a hushed tone with concern lacing his words.

            “I’m good, it’s just the time travel thing.” Bruce made you both read an obscene amount of research on the potential physiological effects of time travel, but assured you that you probably wouldn’t experience any of them. Yet, here you are, experiencing a bout of time sickness before you’ve even made it into the safehouse. Bucky scrutinizes your expression, searching your eyes for any sign that you’re downplaying whatever’s going on with you. You wave a dismissive hand at him as rain begins to come down a little heavier.

            “Are you two coming?” Peggy asks from the door up ahead, looking at you both with a raised brow. Bucky turns his head for a second to glance at her, but quickly looks back at you as his hand falls away from your back. He watches you carefully as you put on an unbothered expression and take a couple of steps forward. Shit. The nausea increases ten-fold and suddenly you’re rushing over to the edge of the driveway and leaning over with your hands on the knees of your quantum suit, losing the contents of your stomach all in one go. Bucky’s beside you within a second, gathering your hair up in both of his hands and holding it back behind your shoulders.

            “Don’t say it.” Bucky warns as you turn your head to look up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

            “It should’ve been Sharon.” You groan, straightening up and tugging your hair away from his grasp. He shakes his head at you and you can already see an argument gearing up in his head, so you brush past him, feeling significantly better now that you’re completely empty.

            Peggy can’t seem to stop herself from reading into the way you and Bucky interact. When she met Sharon just yesterday, it was made abundantly clear that you and Sergeant Barnes are partners but don’t always play nice with each other. From what she’s seeing now, Bucky wants nothing more than to play nice with you. She has to wonder if the bickering and constant tension that Sharon talked about is a façade, a thick wool blanket over what’s really at the core of your partnership.

            You feel fine just long enough to run your fingertips over the green and cream floral wallpaper that covers the kitchen walls and admire the pristine white oven that anyone’s great grandmother would love. But the moment you turn your attention to the living area just a few steps outside of the kitchen, a fresh wave of nausea begins taking up residence in the pit of your stomach and you breathe in deeply through your nose. Bucky watches you apprehensively from the foyer, waiting to see what you’ll do. He can tell you feel miserable. He can tell you want to get a good look at the safehouse and settle yourself in, but you’re looking a little green and fatigued as you move toward a large dark green couch in the living room.

            You sink into the couch and let your head fall back against the cushion behind you. As you reach up and wrap your fingers around your necklace, your quantum suit deactivates and you’re left in leggings and a black pull-over. Bucky glances around the house, noting the short hallway that leads to the master bedroom and what looks to be French doors leading to a study off to one side. He takes a few steps forward until he’s moving around the couch, and then seats himself in a dainty looking floral-patterned lounge chair that’s angled toward you across from a coffee table.

            “Is this really just a time travel thing?” Bucky finally speaks. Your eyes flutter open and you take in the sight of him in that lounge chair. If you didn’t feel so shitty you might laugh at how out of place he looks in such a pretty little chair.

            “What else would it be?” You ask. Bucky watches closely as you run your fingers through your damp hair and stare right back at him. He narrows his eyes at you and cocks his head to the side and you immediately know what he’s thinking. What is it with men always thinking that a woman is pregnant if she pukes? You just fucking time traveled and he still feels the need to rule it out?

            “I’m not pregnant.” You sigh, letting your eyes fall closed again as you kick your shoes off and draw your knees up toward your chest. “I can’t be.”

            “Can’t be?”

            “I haven’t done the thing that you need to do in order to be pregnant in a long time.” Bucky finds relief in your words. He didn’t really think you were pregnant, but he sure as hell likes knowing that you haven’t slept with anyone recently. He leans back in his chair and lets his gaze float around the comfortable space. The homey kitchen makes him think of his mom. The wooden floor boards make him think of how carefully he’d have to tiptoe around his childhood home to keep from letting his parents know that he was awake past his bedtime. The slight chill in the air guides his eyes over to the fireplace that spreads across one wall of the living room. If it gets any colder he’ll have to start a fire.

            “I kissed you.” He says evenly, turning his head back to you. You open your eyes and give him a hard stare, trying to read his indecipherable expression as his blue eyes zero in on your face.

            “Yeah, you keep doing that.” Your nausea worsens and you draw your knees up even tighter against your chest before dropping your head down to rest on them. Bucky pushes himself out of his chair and heads for the kitchen. You listen as he opens and closes a few drawers, rummaging around for something. A few seconds later you hear the kitchen sink running and then it cuts off. Bucky stands there, wringing out a wet cloth as he purses his lips.

            “You haven’t stopped me.” He points out. He turns on his heel and carries the wet cloth in your direction. When you feel his weight sink into the couch cushion beside you, you lift your head from your knees and find yourself face to face with him. He lifts the wet cloth to the side of your neck and dabs at it gently, watching as your eyes close and you take a deep breath in.

            “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.” Sarcasm drips from every word. Bucky slides the cloth to the back of your neck and holds it there for a moment.

            “He’s going to try to kiss you tomorrow.” Bucky seems almost annoyed with his own statement and you steal a sideways glance at him as he moves the wet cloth to your forehead. He seems to almost resent the way his younger self behaved.

            “He moves that fast?” Bucky nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how much to tell you.

            “You’ll meet and he’ll ask you to dance. You’ll dance and he’ll ask if you want to leave the bar. He’ll take you out into the city, try to show you a good time.” Bucky slides the wet cloth down the side of your face until it’s right below your chin. You look into his eyes, watching as his gaze darts down to your lips for the most fleeting moment. “He moves fast.”

            “I can handle it.” You assure him, but your words come out a lot quieter than you intended. Bucky pulls his hand and the cloth away from your chin and dabs your neck with it again.

            “I know.”

            “Then why does it seem like you’re worried?” Bucky shrugs his shoulders as he focuses in on the skin of your neck. He’s staring at the spot he once marked with his own lips, dragging the cool cloth over it slowly.

            “I don’t like the thought of him touching you.”

            “Bucky…” Your stomach churns violently and you’re rushing off of the couch at lightning speed. Your feet carry you down the hall, into the master bedroom, and into the bathroom quickly. You’re lucky you make it in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet before the last remnants inside of you start to come out. You hear Bucky step into the bathroom only a second later and he’s tugging your hair back just like he did in the driveway earlier. “Don’t say shit like that.” You groan, grasping the wet cloth that Bucky’s holding out beside your head. You wipe at your lips and reach up to flush the toilet as you stay in place, not trusting that your gut is finished betraying you.

            “Like what?”

            “You shouldn’t care if someone else touches me. We’re partners. We can’t keep blurring the lines like this.” You explain. Bucky’s hands stay firmly in your hair as he waits to see if you’ll get sick a third time.

            “The lines have been blurred for a long time.”

            “Doesn’t mean we should keep blurring them.” You assert. Though you don’t peer over your shoulder to look at Bucky, you can sense the look of frustration that’s written all over his face. He lets out a weighted sigh before moving away from you and reaching over to turn on the shower. As the sound of running water fills the room, you gauge the heaviness in your stomach and decide that you definitely feel better. You remember Bruce’s little pamphlets saying that the first hour after moving through timelines is when you experience the most side effects, and you’re nearing the forty-five-minute mark now. You lean away from the toilet and drop the lid down before pushing yourself up to stand. Though you feel a tiny bit wobbly on your feet, the nausea is mostly gone and the steam from the shower is making you feel a little less chilly.

            “I’ll go grab you some clothes.” Bucky says quietly as he brushes past you and heads back into the bedroom. You take the free moment to search the contents of the bathroom drawers until you find a new toothbrush and some toothpaste. Bucky comes back in when you’re brushing your teeth in front of the fogged-up mirror. “I get the feeling you aren’t going to wear these.” He says with a smirk, dropping a deep red set of folded pajamas beside the sink. You give him a wary side-eye, tucking the toothbrush into the side of your cheek before reaching for the pile of fabric. As soon as you unfold the top, you realize it’s a long sleeve button down shirt with matching pants. It looks like the kind of pajamas you see families wear on Christmas day in lifestyle magazines. Shaking your head, you fold the top and set it back on the countertop. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe as you bend over the sink and spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste.

            “That’s all there is?” You rinse off the toothbrush and set it along the side of the sink before reaching down and gripping the bottom of your shirt. You already have it pulled over your head by the time you realize what you’re doing. Bucky stands frozen in the doorway, staring at you with narrowed eyes as you drop the shirt to the floor at your feet. He tilts his head to the side, never letting his eyes stray from your face even as you stand before him in a bra.

            “How is this not blurring the lines?” He questions, jutting his chin out at you. You narrow your eyes back at him and cross your arms over your chest, matching his stance. There’s a palpable heat in the air, and it’s not just from the steamy shower. As you and Bucky stand there staring each other down, each of you refusing to break first, tensions soar and you find yourself itching to push him out of the bathroom and shut the door. He can see the idea forming in your head so he speaks up before you actually have a chance to go through with it. “There was a floor-length nightgown if you’d rather wear that.” He says with another signature smirk. You shake your head firmly.

            “Were t-shirts not a thing in the forties?”

            “You’re going to wear a t-shirt when there’s only one bed?” Bucky asks, raising a brow. A genuine laugh erupts from your chest as you uncross your arms and run your fingers through your damp hair.

            “The bed’s all yours, Bucky.” You say, raising your hands up in a gesture that makes it clear you don’t want the bed for yourself. “I’m taking the couch.” Bucky scoffs as he reaches over for the folded pajamas beside the sink. As he steps out of the bathroom, he gives you a look you can’t quite read. It’s something between longing and frustration and it makes your cheeks feel warm. He pulls the door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the steamy bathroom. As you strip your clothes off and step under the stream of water, so many things are stuck in your head. The way Bucky rushed over and held your hair back not only the first time you puked, but the second time as well. He cares. You know he cares. He cares and it scares the shit out of you. The way he pressed a wet cloth to your neck and sat with you on the couch, even if he was using the moment to warn you about his younger self and reveal a little hint of how he feels about you. I don’t like the thought of him touching you. Bucky’s confession may not have surprised you, but it wasn’t what you were expecting him to say. What did he think was going to happen when he insisted you be a part of this mission? He could’ve let Sharon handle it and he never would’ve had to deal with the jealousy or possessiveness or whatever it is that’s coursing through him right now. But no, it had to be you. It could only be you. As you scrub a sweet-smelling soap into your skin, your mind wanders back to that moment on the platform earlier today. He kissed you. He kissed you in front of some of your coworkers without a care in the world. The lines are so fucking blurred that you wonder if he even knows where they are anymore, or if he cares. You look down as soapy suds circle around the drain near your feet. Do you know where they are? Do you care?

            Bucky rummages around in the bedroom until he finds a plain white t-shirt that he’s sure Peggy meant to be for him. It looks like it’ll probably be a bit oversized on you, so he tosses it onto the bed and stands still for a moment, listening to the sound of the shower running through the wall. He knows you feel the same thing he feels. Every time he’s kissed you, he’s reminded that you feel it. Do you try to deny it because you don’t want to feel it? Sometimes he just wants to grab you and ask what it is that keeps you from being real with him.

            Bucky shakes his head, trying his best to clear all thoughts of you from his mind, before tugging his shirt over his head and dropping it on the bed. He leaves his tactical pants on as he moves through the house, searching for an extra pillow and blanket. He sure as hell isn’t going to let you take the couch, especially not a couch made eighty years before the couches you’re used to sitting on. You’ll wake up in the morning with a stiff neck and aching back. He’ll take the couch and leave you the bed.

            It’s just a few minutes later that you’re stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped tightly in a towel as you pad across the bedroom floor quietly. You glance around but see no sign of Bucky. Eyeing the crisp white t-shirt on the bed, you can tell he left it for you. You run your fingers over it while clutching the towel around your chest with one hand.

            “Is that what you wanted?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly as he speaks from the bedroom doorway behind you. Clutching the towel a little tighter, you turn to face him with the white shirt fisted in one hand. Your eyes roam over the expanse of his bare chest, coasting down to the ripples of his abs and the v-line that so prominently drags your gaze even further down to the front of his tactical pants. He smirks at the way you’re ogling him, but he doesn’t mention it. When you finally tear your eyes away from him, the dresser beside the doorway catches your eye. You move closer to it and rummage around in one of the top drawers until you find a pair of simple black panties. Bucky’s eyes follow your movements carefully. He leans against the doorframe just like he did in the bathroom earlier, keeping his gaze trained on your face as you lean over and guide the panties up your legs beneath the towel. You’re just careful enough to make sure not to flash Bucky, but you wonder if his eyes would even stray from your face if you flashed him.

            “It’s fine.” You say, referring to the t-shirt. “Are you gonna shower?” You ask, trying to keep your gaze from drifting down his torso again. You turn away from the dresser and head back for the foot of the bed, dropping the shirt onto the mattress before peeling the towel away from your body.

            Bucky stiffens in the doorway as you let your towel fall to your feet. He’s never seen you this way. As you stand there with your back exposed, wearing nothing but a pair of black panties, he has to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from saying something stupid. Who’s blurring the lines now? He wants to point out your hypocrisy, to make it blatantly obvious, but he stays quiet as you tug the t-shirt over your head and slide your arms through the short sleeves.

            “Did you want to keep staring or were you going to shower?” Your voice rings out playfully as you cut your eyes at Bucky over your shoulder. He tamps down a groan at the way you look at him through your lashes, but then he’s moving toward the bathroom door.

            “If I find you on the couch when I get out, I’m moving you myself.” He threatens, not daring to steal another look at you as he nears the bathroom.

            “I already called it.” You shrug, bending over to scoop your damp towel off the floor.       

            “Take the bed, unless you want me joining you on that damn couch and blurring the lines even more.”

            As you settle into the bed, letting go of your signature stubborn nature for the time being, Bucky’s all you can think about. It’s not the fact that he looked undeniably attractive standing there in the doorway without a shirt on. It’s not the fact that he insisted you take the bed and leave him with the surely uncomfortable couch. It’s every little thing he’s said and done in between that has your heart racing and your mind reeling. What if, just this once, you let yourself explore the tension? What if instead of waiting for the tension to snap like a twig, instead of waiting for him to lay you down in the backseat of someone else’s car in the heat of the moment, you took the initiative and tried to figure out what the hell this is between the two of you? He was right when he said that the lines have been blurred for a long time. Maybe instead of trying to tiptoe around and avoid blurring them, you should just shift them. Shift the lines and see if things end up crashing down in flames. If everything goes horribly, it’s not like you had anything to lose. But if things go well? A shiver runs down your spine and you tuck yourself in underneath the covers of the oversized bed. You sink into the pillow behind your head and let your eyes fall closed as you imagine a moment where your field partner becomes something more. You imagine a moment where all the stolen kisses and touches lately stop being so stolen, and instead are given and taken freely. You imagine what it might feel like to stop running and fighting against this thing that you feel so strongly. Warmth spreads through your body and you relax against the mattress.

            When Bucky steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later and catches sight of you curled up in bed with your eyes closed and the covers pulled up to your shoulders, he lets out a quiet sigh of relief. He really thought you’d try to tough it out and sleep on the couch. He stands in the doorway between the bathroom and bedroom, fiddling with the dog tags around his neck and wondering if he should look for some pajamas of his own instead of crashing on the couch in just a pair of black boxers. When he glances over at you again and sees the peaceful look on your face, he can’t bring himself to go digging through the dresser or closet and risk waking you. Though it’s chilly in the house, he could make it through the night just fine by starting a fire in the living room fireplace and using the spare blanket he set out on the couch while you showered. As he starts moving forward, his dog tags clink against his bare chest and the wooden floor creaks under his feet on the second step. He stills and holds his breath, not even moving to look over his shoulder and see if he’s woken you with those little sounds. After waiting a second, takes another cautious step forward and the floor creaks a little louder. Fuck it. He makes it to the door quickly, with only a few more creaks of wood beneath his feet, but as he exits the doorway into the hall, he hears you stir behind him.

            “Bucky?” Your soft sleepy voice stops him in his tracks. He exhales deeply, feeling a bit guilty about waking you but loving the way you sound when you’ve just woken up. He turns around in the doorway and faces you. You’re propped up on one elbow, squinting at him through the dark room.

            “If I knew the floors were so loud I would’ve just slept in the shower.” He says halfheartedly, speaking quietly to match the sleepy mood of the house.

            “I wasn’t really asleep.” You whisper back. Your eyes follow the curve of his vibranium arm down until you’re studying the black and gold fingertips that hang at his side. Bucky raises a brow at you.

            “You were asleep.” He murmurs, cocking his head to the right. He glances over at the empty side of the bed, noting how little space you take up even when you have your legs stretched out.

            “I was just thinking.”

            “About what?” Bucky wonders aloud. He takes a step forward and leans against the doorframe like he’s done multiple times tonight. He crosses his arms over his chest as you let your head fall away from your hand and lay back on your pillow again. You stare up at the ceiling as nervousness begins to swell up in your chest. You bite down on your bottom lip and screw your eyes shut, holding your breath for a second before deciding to speak again.

            “Blurring the lines.” As you lay there in the dark, refusing to prop yourself back up to look at Bucky, your heart starts beating wildly against your ribcage. He’s silent for a second too long and it has you regretting opening your mouth. When you hear the wood floor creak, you force yourself to open your eyes. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, you see Bucky moving toward the bed slowly. His dog tags swing with each step, clanging against his chest a couple of times before he reaches your side of the bed. You watch with bated breath as he nudges your legs through the covers. Getting the hint, you sit up and pull your legs in closer, drawing your knees to your chest. Bucky sits down on the side of the bed but keeps his face cast downward at the floor.

            “That night you tried to sleep it off…” His voice trails off as he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees. He looks down at his hands as he presses his palms together. “Did it work?” You swallow hard but don’t hesitate to shake your head. You know he catches the act in his peripheral vision, so you don’t say a word. Bucky nods slowly, studying his hands as if he’s memorizing every detail of them. Your eyes drift to his shoulders as he takes steady, even breaths. They rise and fall rhythmically as moonlight from the window across the room filters in through the curtains and highlights them.

            Bucky wants to say more, to ask you more. He can tell that you’re open to talking right now, probably more open than you’ve ever been before, but he has this sinking feeling that you’ll say something that’ll break him. He doesn’t know if he can handle hearing you say out loud just how one-sided you think this thing between you really is. Even though he’s sure it’s not actually one-sided, hearing you say that it is might really break him. He won’t give you the chance to do that yet. He wants to hold out hope a little longer. So, Bucky rises from the side of the bed and exhales deeply. When he turns to head for the door again, intent on settling into that stiff green couch in the living room for the night, every sensory receptor in his body fires at once at the feeling of your hand reaching out and grasping his flesh one. He drops his gaze quickly and sees exactly what he feels: your palm sliding against his and your fingers intertwining with his softly. His throat feels dry and every thought leaves his mind as you tighten your grasp and tug on his hand slightly.

            “Lay with me.” You whisper. Your tone is so meek that he can tell exactly what’s going through your mind right now. You’re afraid he’ll say no. You’re afraid that he’ll reject you and continue on to sleep on the couch, leaving you here alone, feeling vulnerable and stunted. The tone of your whisper puts the tiniest crack in his hard exterior.

            Bucky’s silent as you drop his hand and scoot closer to the middle of the bed, pulling back the covers for him. He moves slow as he settles into the warm spot you’d been occupying, inhaling your sweet scent as he pulls the covers over his body and rolls onto his side to face you. You’re just a few inches away, lying on your folded arm since he moved the second pillow to the couch earlier. He could get up and go grab the pillow. He’d only be gone for a few seconds. But he fears the moment he leaves your sight, you’ll change your mind about having him here and he’ll have ruined everything. That’s why he tugs the pillow out from under his head and moves it toward you, watching with a softened gaze as you accept it and slide it beneath your own head.

            You’re falling asleep right in front of his eyes a few minutes later, when suddenly your eyes flutter open and you reach out for him beneath the covers. Your warm palm lands on his side, skating around to his back before you pull him toward you. He moves in carefully, apprehensively, until his chest is nearly pressed against yours. He watches as you drag the pillow until it’s in the shared space between you and both of your heads fall to rest on it evenly. With Bucky’s body heat keeping you warm and the light patter of rain on the bedroom window lulling you to sleep, your eyes are closed only a few minutes later and Bucky finds himself missing the heat of your stare until he too drifts off into an unusually peaceful slumber.

            You awake in a tangle of limbs with lightning flashing through the curtains and illuminating the room with a ghostly glow.  Everything looks a little scarier in an antique house at three in the morning. Thunder rumbles loudly just above the house, shaking the roof and rattling the glass window. As you fully come to your senses, you figure out just where your limbs are in relation to Bucky’s and your heart rate picks up quickly. He’s asleep directly in front of you, with his face looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen it. But his legs and arms…

            A shaky breath flows out through your nose as you close your eyes and try not to move. Bucky has one thigh wedged snugly between yours and an arm thrown lazily over your waist. You can tell that your t-shirt has ridden up above your hips and ass, with his forearm resting against the hem of it on your waist. Blurred lines. So fucking blurred.

            You close your eyes tightly as a loud crack of thunder reverberates through the house. Bucky’s instantly awoken as the thunder rolls and you tense up against him. He focuses on your face, on your tightly closed eyes and the way you’re holding your breath. He moves the arm that’s draped over your waist slowly until his hand is ghosting over your hip. His fingertips just barely graze the hem of your t-shirt as thunder sounds again. You look into his eyes right as you move your left hand to clamp down over his, forcing his palm to press flat against your hip and his fingers to curl against your skin. As you stare into each other’s eyes and the storm rages on just outside, the tension rising between you feels just like it did in the car outside of Sharon’s apartment that night.

            “I don’t want to keep blurring the lines.” Bucky rasps as he squeezes your hip once. Your eyes trail down to his lips as he speaks only inches from your face. He leans in slowly until he’s so close that one little shift of your head would have you kissing him. He lets the tip of his nose brush against yours gently before moving down and pressing his lips to your jawline. He leaves kisses in a row all the way back to your ear, moving at a torturously slow pace until he’s nipping at your neck in that way that always drives you crazy.

            “Then what do you want?” You ask breathlessly. Bucky pushes the knee that’s trapped between your legs upward until he’s applying the tiniest bit of pressure against your clothed cunt. A soft moan escapes your lips as you squeeze your thighs around his and focus on the feel of skin against skin.

            “I want to cross them.” He whispers against your neck. You tilt your head back to give him more access as his tongue swirls against the column of your throat. “I want to lay you down on the line and just…” Bucky tugs the neck of your shirt to the side and bites down on your collarbone lightly. “Fuck you on it.”

            “Bucky…” His name is a whimper that floats from your lips and fills the space around you both. Moving his hand back down to your hip, Bucky curls his fingertips into it and pulls you down, making your grind against the firm muscle of his thigh. This time a sultry moan slips out and your back arches slightly, causing your chest to press against his.

            “How am I supposed to keep my hands off of you when you say my name like that?” Wetness pools between your thighs and begins to dampen the fabric of your panties as he pushes his thigh upward again, at the same time that he pulls your hip down and applies pressure to your clit just right. You know you should have better sense than to lay here and let him do unspeakable things to you. You should remind him that you’re partners, that you’d be risking things professionally if you let things go on this way. You should remind him that you’re technically on a mission right now, but his name just falls from your lips again. You’re actively emptying your mind of any thought that would have you push him away when he attaches his lips to your neck again and pulls you in against his chest. You try to push his shoulders and force him onto his back so you can move on top of him, but he fights against you, rolling on top of you instead. He pins your arms down on either side of your head and lets his nose brush against yours a second time. He lowers his hips down slowly as your legs spread on their own accord, giving him the space to press his clothed erection against your wet panties.

            “How do we keep ending up like this?” You whisper against his lips, staring up into his blue eyes as your question hangs in the air. Bucky presses his lips to yours in a short, shallow kiss. “I keep telling myself this can’t happen and we keep ending up here.”

            “Let me have you.” He begs, dropping his forehead to yours. You look at him through your lashes as your breath hitches in your throat. “Let me have you just this once.”

            “Just this once? That’s all you’re asking for?” The words come out airy and light as you struggle to take in a full breath. Bucky grinds against you, circling his hips slowly while he keeps your arms pinned to the mattress.

            “I’d ask you for a lifetime if I didn’t think it would scare the shit out of you.” Goosebumps prickle across your skin and you bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood.

            “We can’t fuck.” You say decidedly. The surety of your voice surprises you, with how malleable you feel having Bucky grind against you like this. You fear that if he really asked you for something specific, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. He circles his hips into yours impossibly harder and shakes his head above you.

            “I wasn’t asking if I could fuck you.” Bucky takes in the confused look on your face and he can’t help but to lean in and kiss you. He envisions what he really wants to do to you. He pictures the way he wants to push your legs apart and eat you out like your pussy is his last meal. Then he kisses you like that’s exactly what he’s doing. His tongue delves into your mouth relentlessly, leaving you gasping for air when he finally pulls back. He lets go of your forearms and pushes the covers away from his back as he shimmies down. He kisses your neck, then your chest through the t-shirt. He leaves soft, gentle kisses all the way down until he’s settling himself between your legs and pressing his lips against the waistband of your panties. You look down at him through your lashes, wanting nothing more than to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull his face closer to where you need it. “I was asking if I could taste you.”

            “You say you want to lay me down on the metaphorical line and fuck me, and then you get between my legs and ask if you can just taste me?”

            “I’m not fucking you until I know I can do it without you running off and pretending like it meant nothing to you.” He plants an open-mouthed kiss right over your clothed clit. The warmth of his tongue seeps through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure dancing up your spine and a knot tightening low in your stomach. “When I fuck you, you’re not going to get all in your head about how you shouldn’t have let it happen. You’re not going to have regrets and feel like we ruined everything we had.” Bucky hooks a finger in your panties and gently pulls them to the side, but he never looks down. He maintains eye contact as he starts pressing the pad of his thumb against your now exposed clit. Him finding your clit instantly without even looking, without having your anatomy perfectly memorized, almost ruins you. “When I fuck you, you’re going to realize that you were just delaying the inevitable.”

            “You keep saying when.” You point out between heavy pants. You can’t resist the urge to tangle your fingers in his hair any longer, not when he’s toying with your clit this way and looking at you so intensely. You reach down with both hands, carding your fingers through his hair and tugging on it lightly.

            “Inevitable, sweetheart. Tell me what that word means.” He finally lets his eyes angle downward and settle on your wet cunt. You watch as his pupils dilate and his tongue darts out to dampen his lips as he admires you from just a couple of inches away. He starts circling your clit with his thumb, applying just enough pressure to have your back arching off of the bed and your fingers curling in his brown hair. Bucky inches closer to your pussy and you feel his tongue press against your entrance firmly, before he’s dragging it upwards and using it to replace his thumb. He pulls back abruptly, leaving you whining out in frustration. “If something’s inevitable, it’s certain. It’s unavoidable, it was bound to happen.” His warm breath fans over your pussy as he speaks in a low voice. Bucky sucks on your clit roughly before pulling back again. “When I fuck you, when the inevitable happens, you won’t be able to pretend like there’s nothing between us anymore.”

            You’re torn between wanting to argue with him and wanting to clamp your thighs around his head and grind against his tongue. Bucky smirks up at you and you tug on his hair a little harder out of spite.

            “It’s already happening, isn’t it?” He asks just before flattening his tongue against your clit and letting your circle your hips against him. Your eyes flutter closed as that knot in your stomach tightens more and more. “It’s getting harder to pretend.”

            “Fuck you.” You moan out the insult, but it’s useless as he slides down and pushes his tongue inside of you. His thumb takes over stimulating your clit once again as he starts eating you out like he’s dreamt of doing it since he’s known you. His tongue works you up higher and higher, closer and closer to the edge of the cliff as a sweat breaks out across your forehead and you struggle to keep your ass on the bed.

            “You’re getting close.” He groans against you. You whimper as he drags his thumb away from your clit and switches to rubbing it with his middle and ring fingers. He moves slow now, sliding those fingertips away from your clit and toward your entrance.

            “Bucky…” You say his name in warning. You know what he’s about to do. He plunges both fingers into you, stopping when they’re halfway in and your back is arched inches off of the bed. Your fingertips scrape against his scalp as you hold in a moan that would’ve been damn near pornographic if you’d let it out. Bucky lets out a frustrated sigh before dragging his fingers out and then pushing them back in all the way. As he holds them inside of you knuckle-deep, you cry out loudly. It’s been so long since you’ve let anyone do something like this to you and he isn’t giving you much time to adjust, but god, it feels so fucking good.

            “Breathe, baby.” He says as he presses a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh. He starts fucking you with his fingers slowly, almost gently. In and out they go, first just halfway each time, but then he starts thrusting them deeper and going a little faster with it. “I would’ve gone a little easier on you if you hadn’t held in that pretty little sound.”

            “Just…fuck, Bucky.” You moan, hooking your legs over his shoulders as a loud crack of thunder sends the window rattling again. “I’m close.”

            “Trust me, I know.” He groans, pressing a sloppier kiss to the inside of your thigh as he curls his fingers inside of you. You cry out again, but this time your hands leave his hair and go to grip the sheets on either side of your head. “Are you going to imagine you’re cumming on my cock when this orgasm hits?”

            “No.” You say defiantly, shaking your head as he curls his fingers again. He laughs darkly, clearly calling your bluff.

            “You know you squeeze the hell out of my fingers when you lie?”

            “I do not.”

            “That’s it, baby.” Bucky coos. He positions himself to attach his lips to your clit as he continues his ministrations with his hand. “Keep tightening around my fingers until you fucking cum.”

            Some part of you wants to keep defying him. You want to be stubborn and refuse to give him this piece of you, refuse to give him one of your orgasms. It feels like if you let go and give it to him, you’re going to tumble right over the edge of a cliff and into the unknown. But why does it feel so damn good as you stand on the edge of that cliff? When you stop resisting and let your orgasm wash over you, when Bucky watches as your face contorts with bliss and your knuckles turn white against the bed sheets, he’s just as far gone as you are. You’re cumming around his fingers while he laps at your clit, and he’s cumming in his boxers without even having realized just how close he was to doing it.

            There’s an odd feeling brewing in his chest as he puts your panties back in place and collapses beside you in bed. He can’t quite figure out what it is. When you catch your breath and look over at him, taking in the sight of Bucky Barnes with your arousal painted over his lips and chin, you feel your heart skip a beat. Bucky looks back at you, but he only gets a second to see your dilated pupils and flushed cheeks before you’re leaning in and swiping your tongue across his bottom lip.

            As your lips move against his in a gentle, familiar way, his lungs burn and his heart is pounding in his ears. Because he knows what this is. He knows what that unusual feeling in his chest really is. Love. He’s in love with the girl who lives to ignore her feelings.

            You’re in too deep. You can’t even try to reason with yourself. As you lie in a tangle of sheets, listening to the mixed water sounds of Bucky showering and rain falling lightly just outside the bedroom window, you feel utterly fucked. And not just because Bucky fucked you with his mouth last night. You let out a frustrated groan before rolling onto your back and fisting your hands in your messy hair. You can’t tell yourself to be professional because you’re so far past professional now that it’d be insulting to you both if you tried to revert. You can’t tell yourself to stop crossing lines with him because you know just how good it feels every time you do it. Bucky was onto something last night when he asked you if it was getting harder for you to pretend that there’s nothing between the two of you.

            Your eyes float over to the partially closed bathroom door and you watch for a moment as steam floats through the space between it and the doorframe. Is it steam from the hot shower or is it just radiating off of the man that said your pussy gets tighter when you lie? Blush creeps into your cheeks at the memory of him saying such a filthy thing while his fingers were inside of you.

            Bucky tenses up in the shower when he hears the bathroom door creak open the tiniest bit. When your bare feet lightly tap along the cold floor and he hears them stop in front of the sink, a small smile plays on his lips.

            “You’re not coming in?” Bucky’s smirk is evident in his tone and you’re biting on the inside of your cheek as you reach for your toothbrush.

            “You remember me saying we can’t fuck, right?” You ask, though even as you say it, it feels like a weak statement.

            “Do you remember me saying it’s inevitable?” He retorts playfully. You should tell him to fuck off, but you only find yourself tempted to actually join him in the shower. As you spread a bit of toothpaste along the bristles of your toothbrush, you shake your head to yourself.

            “I’m brushing my teeth in the kitchen.”

            “That’s fine.” Bucky replies nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed by your slight rejection. He spends the next ten minutes lathering and rinsing for the second time in less than twelve hours. He isn’t normally someone who takes a shower both in the morning and at night, but after he came in his boxers last night, he fell asleep next to you and didn’t take the time to clean himself up. He woke up feeling like he’d had a wet dream.

            Peggy sits on the foot of the bed, waiting patiently as you try on a third dress.

            “Are you alright in there?” Peggy calls out politely, uncrossing her legs and readying to rise from the bed if need be. You laugh softly from inside the walk-in closet before pulling the door open and revealing the deep blue dress she picked for you to try a few minutes ago. It has cap sleeves, a high neckline, and an A-line style skirt.  “I think that one looks wonderful on you, don’t you like it?” She asks, pushing herself up and coming to stand in front of you. She catches the pinched look on your face before you’ve even formulated a response. You didn’t quite like the first two dresses either, and at this point there are only a handful left to try. She has to wonder if maybe it’s the dissonance between forties-style dresses and modern dresses that’s throwing you off. “Sergeant Barnes.” Peggy calls for him loudly.

            Bucky’s rising from the couch and heading down the hall as soon as he’s been invited into the bedroom. He was kicked out pretty much the moment he finished up his morning shower, with Peggy showing up and saying she just had to get started on your look for tonight. He was a bit skeptical about how much time it’d really take, but after hearing you try on three dresses and dislike every single one, he sees why she came so early.

            “What do we need him for?” Confusion is written all over your face as you smooth down the blue dress and raise a brow at Peggy.

            “He’s the one that needs to like the dress, isn’t he?” She questions, motioning for Bucky to come in. He takes a few steps into the room and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly as his eyes coast over the dress. It’s pretty, it’s definitely very forties-esque, but it’s not you. It’s not you and it’s definitely not for him. “Help her pick a dress for tonight.” Bucky stares at her for a long moment before she starts moving toward the door. She pats his shoulder as she passes him, leaning in to whisper in his ear just as you’re disappearing back into the closet. “She needs you for this.”

            You feel Bucky’s presence in the closet without having to turn around and look at him. He stops just a few inches behind you, looking over your shoulder at the row of dresses that you have to choose from.

            “It’s a little different than your closet back home.” He says softly, watching as your fingertips dance across the fabric of each hanging dress.

            “You haven’t seen my closet back home.” You point out, tugging on the side of a dark navy dress. As soon as you see the front of it, you let it go. Your fingers continue on, looking for another dark fabric.

            “If you’re looking for something like that little black dress you wore last weekend, you won’t find it in here.” Bucky replies. Thinking about that little black dress sends your mind back to the night in the bar, when Bucky kissed you in front of everyone. Then your mind wanders to what happened in the car after, and you have to shake the thought of it from your head. Your fingers brush along a bright red dress and you don’t even consider checking it out. Bucky steps up close behind you, so close that you feel his body heat permeating your skin through the blue dress you’re wearing. He reaches around you with his right arm and grasps the edge of the only black fabric amongst all of the dresses hanging there.

            “Peggy said something colorful would be best.” You murmur as he removes the dress from the hanging rack and holds it out in front of you both.

            “He won’t be paying much attention to the dress.” Bucky assures you. He leans in close to your ear before whispering his next words. “And you look good in black.”  A chill runs through you but you reach out and grasp the hanger quickly before turning around and pressing a hand against Bucky’s chest.

            “Let me change.” You push against his chest gently and he takes a few steps backward until he’s out of the closet. As he moves across the room to sit on the foot of the bed where Peggy previously was, he hears the sound of your blue dress unzipping but not the sound of the closet door closing. He takes a cautious look as he sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. There you are, slipping out of that deep blue fabric while giving Bucky an almost clear view of you in forties-style black lingerie. His cock is awake instantly and is hardening within the already sort of tight-fitting sweats he took from Stark’s dresser earlier this morning. Bucky leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees as he drops his line of sight to the floor.

            You walk out only a moment later in the dress he chose. It’s all black, with off the shoulder sleeves and a fairly low-cut neckline. It hugs your body tightly. It’s quite similar to the shape of the red dress that Peggy wore when he first saw her in the Whip and Fiddle.

            “Don’t look at me like that.” You say lightly, watching as Bucky’s eyes glide up and down your figure multiple times. He clears his throat and sits up straight before motioning with his flesh hand for you to come closer. You move forward until you’re a couple of feet in front of him, but then your eyes drop to his lap and you see his erection pressed against his sweats. Confidence rolls off of you in waves as you stop thinking and take a few more steps toward him. You don’t stop until you’re standing between his legs and he’s looking up at you. You let your hands rest on his shoulders as his move to ghost along the outsides of your thighs.

            “Don’t go too far with him tonight.” Bucky’s tone is almost pleading as he searches your eyes, but his expression is unreadable.

            “How far is too far?” You swallow thickly after asking your question. Bucky curls his fingers into your hips and draws in a deep breath.

            “I don’t know.” He admits, but he does know. He knows that he doesn’t even want you to let this younger version of himself dance with you. He doesn’t want to let him lean in and whisper in your ear, he doesn’t want him to even get the chance to consider kissing you.

            “You told me he moves fast, and we need him and Steve to be on board for this mission tomorrow. I can’t reject him.” You explain quietly, glancing over your shoulder to make sure Peggy’s still in the living room. When you turn your head forward again and look down at Bucky, he’s leaning in closer to you. You watch with your breath hitched in your throat as he lets the tip of his nose brush against your dress, just below your breasts. He moves slow, dragging his nose upward and letting his lips follow in their wake until he’s halfway up your chest. Your hands slide up the sides of his neck and tangle in his hair, tugging him back to look at you again.

            “Why did you ask me to lay with you last night?” Bucky finally asks the question that’s been on his mind since he woke up this morning. You exhale slowly, absentmindedly massaging your fingers into his scalp while his thumbs rub circles against the front of your hips. He watches as you chew on the inside of your cheek, trying your best to come up with a safe answer.

            “I wanted to know what it would feel like…to stop pretending.” You whisper.

            “How did it feel?” His eyes stray from your face, taking in the swell of your breasts over the low neckline of the dress. Filthy memories of last night flood your brain and you clench your thighs together slightly. It wasn’t slightly enough, because Bucky catches on instantly and he tugs his bottom lip between his teeth. While you’re remembering the feel of his kisses against your inner thigh and his tongue on your clit, he’s remembering the sweet taste of your cunt and the pretty sounds you made just for him.

            “Good.” Your whisper is even quieter now, and your nerves are rising knowing Peggy’s just down the hall in the living room.

            “Just good?” Bucky fishes for more. He tests the waters, letting his hands slide down your thighs, closer to the hem of the dress. You don’t move away, you don’t swat at his hands or tell him to stop.

            “Just good, Bucky.” You answer. But as his fingers hook beneath the hem of your dress and he starts guiding it higher and higher up your legs, you know your resolve and will to pretend is crumbling.

            “I think you’re lying.” He says calmly, staring up at you with those blue eyes as the hem of the dress nears the middle of your thighs. You squeeze his shoulders as he lets his flesh thumb graze the lace edge of your panties, close to where your thigh meets your center.

            “Peggy’s here.” You whisper the reminder, but make no effort to break away from him. In fact, you find yourself leaning into his touch. Bucky’s quick as he slips one finger into your panties and drags it along the length of your folds, gathering the slick arousal that’s started collecting between them.

            “Shh, I just want to see if you’re lying to me.” Bucky hushes you just as his gaze is dropping to your lower body and he’s nudging your feet apart with his right foot. You don’t stop him. You don’t do anything but close your eyes and dig your fingertips into his shoulders as he dips a finger inside of you. Your mouth falls open and you inhale sharply as he curls it against your walls. “How did it feel last night? To stop pretending for a little while?” He gazes up at you with what you think is a look of lust, but he knows is all fucking love. “Just good?”

            “Bucky…fuck.” He pulls his finger out before plunging it in deeper than before, and then he curls it again.

            “That’s not an answer.”

            “It felt good…it felt, shit, Bucky.” He starts thrusting his finger in and out of you at a medium pace as you try to piece together your answer. “It felt right.” He slows to a stop as you say that last word. Though you’re tight as fuck, just like you were last night, he doesn’t feel that characteristic clenching when you give your answer. You’re telling the truth. Maybe that’s a stupid way to interrogate you, but his theory is proving true so far. He pulls his finger out of you and brings it to his lips, sucking it into his mouth and savoring your taste. You look down just as he's pulling it away from his lips and tugging your dress back into place.

            “Black heels.” He says lightly, patting the side of your thigh as you step away from him. He rises in front of you and moves a stray lock of hair behind your ear with the same finger that was just inside you. “The third ones from the closet door.”

            Bucky’s waltzing out of the room, tucking his hard-on into the waistband of his sweats as you’re left standing there dazed. Dazed and beyond aroused. Part of you wants to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him back into the room, telling him to finish what he started. The other part of you knows better than to give him the satisfaction. So, you grab that pair of black heels from the closet and keep your mouth shut.

            You feel uncharacteristically nervous for what should just be another mission on your long list of undercover ops. Maybe it’s because you have one version of Bucky Barnes listening through the in-ear monitor you’re sporting, while you’re moments away from meeting another version of the same man. Or maybe it’s because you’re trying to walk the very fine line between hating Bucky Barnes and loving him. Whatever it is, you’re nervous and it’s showing.

            Peggy walks close to your side, leading the way down the busy street in her red dress and matching heels. You can hear the watch on her left wrist ticking away as you approach the Whip and Fiddle.

            “You seem worried.” Peggy voices her observation softly as she slows her pace a bit and casts you a sideways glance. You let out a stiff laugh before pushing a curl over your shoulder. She did your hair and makeup in a way that has you feeling like something fresh out of a forties fashion catalog. “Is it the mission itself or the man involved?” You swallow thickly, knowing Bucky can hear the entire conversation through your in-ear monitor. You could reach up and turn it off, have a quick girls chat with Peggy while leaving Bucky in the dark. But you’re sure Peggy would instantly realize that you’re on comms and you don’t know how she’d feel about not being let in on it sooner.

            “I’m fine, just not used to life in the forties I guess.” You respond curtly.

            “Well, that wasn’t very convincing.” She huffs. When she slows to a stop beside you, you know it’s futile to keep walking toward the bar, so you stop and turn to face her. “He looks at you like he would’ve given you the world and his last name in any timeline.”

            “Peggy—”

            “Now you have to spend an evening flirting with a younger version of him when you don’t even know how you feel about your version of him. You don’t have to lie to me just because he’s listening in, he knows that you’re conflicted.” Your eyes widen as she lets you in on exactly how perceptive she is. You hear Bucky clear his throat through your ear piece and pink begins to color your cheeks, you’re sure it’s even showing through the blush Peggy applied for you earlier.

            “I’ll be fine.” You assure her, though the words don’t come out sounding quite as convincing as you’d hoped.

            “I’m sure you will be. Sergeant Barnes will show you an exceptionally great time tonight, but it won’t make your problem any easier to figure out.”

            “My problem?”

            “You’re in love with your partner and you don’t know how to handle it.”

            “You just met us last night and you’ve already decided that?” You ask incredulously, crossing your arms over your chest as Peggy glances over at the door to the Whip and Fiddle. You see a few soldiers spilling out of the place with varying degrees of unstable gaits and boisterous laughs. You don’t recognize any of them as Steve or Bucky, so you turn your attention back to her.

            “It doesn’t matter when I met you, I look at you and I see me.” That’s how Peggy sees your situation so clearly. She’s in the same one. She’s in love with Steve Rogers and she doesn’t know what to do about it. She doesn’t know how to handle it yet. You let out a deep sigh and let your arms fall to your sides. Bucky’s staying quiet on the other end of comms, so quiet that you can’t even hear him breathe. “I want to ask you how things end for me in the future…how things end for us, but I won’t.” You know that she’s referring to herself and Steve and your heart breaks a little for her. “Don’t let fear get in the way of the rest of your life. You could live a wonderful life with a man that feels what he feels for you, but you can lose it all by being too afraid to give him a chance.”

            Your black heels are frozen to the sidewalk as Peggy’s words echo in your mind. When she turns and starts heading for the entrance to the bar, you stay still and quiet.

            “They end up together.” Bucky’s voice plays in your ear so quietly that you think you’ve made it up for a moment.

            “How do you know?” You finally ask, speaking under your breath as you start moving in Peggy’s direction slowly. Bucky lets out a long sigh, like he’s dwelling on a memory.

            “It’s the only reason Steve would’ve stayed behind like he did.” Bucky listens to the slow, steady clicking of your heels against the pavement as he grows closer and closer to losing you to his younger self. He wants to say so much more. He wants to point out that you didn’t deny it when Peggy said you were in love with him. He wants to ask if you’re really afraid, if she was right about that. But it’s not the time. It’ll probably never be the time.

            He leans back into the couch as he listens to the distant din of the Whip and Fiddle. The in-ear monitor won’t pick up much background noise, but he hears the sound of a bell chiming as the door opens for you and the sound of way too many soldiers clamoring around the space that you’re in. His eyes scrunch closed and his vibranium arm whirs as he curls his hand into a fist.

            “Captain.” Peggy’s accent carries the title with an air of class as she approaches a man seated at the bar. You recognize the back of his head instantly. Steve Rogers. He turns around quickly, coming to stand only two feet in front of Peggy as his eyes quickly, and quite respectably, roam over her figure.  The room slows and everything starts sounding muffled when the man seated next to Steve turns around and his eyes meet yours. Bucky. You stare at each other for a few long seconds, neither of you saying anything.

            “Agent Carter.” Steve addresses her, breaking you out of your trance. You look over at the tall super soldier with his perfectly styled blonde hair and dress uniform, noting the way his eyes never leave Peggy.

            “Howard has some equipment for you to try.” Peggy’s mouth is speaking business, but her eyes are saying something else entirely as they lock onto Steve’s and refuse to stray. You can feel Bucky’s eyes studying you intensely over Peggy’s shoulder as you avoid his gaze and watch the exchange that’s happening in front of you instead. “Maybe after tomorrow’s mission?”

            “Sounds good.” Steve keeps his replies short, but every word is thick with tension. Peggy leans back a bit and glances across the bar, noting a particularly lively table of men. They lean into each other as they sing along to a tune someone’s banging out on a beat up piano in the corner of the bar.               

            “I see your top squad is prepping for duty.” She says facetiously.

            “You don’t like music?” Bucky asks, tilting his head to the side and cocking a brow at her. Her gaze remains fixed on Steve as Bucky steps to the side to get a better look at you.

            “I do, actually. I might even, when this is all over, go dancing.”

            “And you?” Bucky directs his question at you now, nodding his head in your direction as Peggy steps to the side and gives you space to join the conversation. “Do you dance?”

            “With the right partner.” You reply softly, trying hard not to get lost in his blue eyes. Though he’s younger and so much more naïve, you see the Bucky you know all over the man in front of you. You see him in every artistic feature of his face, you see him in the way he cocks his head to the side and flashes a smirk at you.

            “Then what are we waiting for?” He asks playfully, nodding his head toward the more open part of the bar. You don’t rush to take his outstretched hand, but once your palm is against his, you get the same feeling that you’ve felt every time your version of Bucky has ever touched you. It feels electric. It feels like every nerve ending beneath your skin is on fire. It feels like you’re on the edge of a cliff and a strong wind is about to blow through and send you spiraling down.

            Back at the safehouse, Bucky’s stomach is twisting into knots as he pictures you wrapped up in the arms of anyone but him. He knows it’s stupid. He knows that this guy, in some way, really is him. But it still feels wrong. He listens reluctantly as this younger, more charismatic version of himself flirts and banters with you through multiple dances. He listens as the young soldier leans in close to your ear and tells you how you took the breath out of his lungs the moment you walked into the bar. He starts to feel a little nauseas and wonders if he’s finally heading into his own bout with time sickness when he hears the sound of a genuine laugh slipping past your lips at whatever it was that the young soldier said to you.

            It isn’t long before Bucky’s ripping the in-ear monitor out and tossing it on the kitchen table. He paces back and forth, focusing on the sound of his feet thudding against the wooden floorboards. Don’t go too far with him tonight. Bucky can still hear the way he pleaded with you earlier today. It was pathetic, but it was heartfelt. This younger version of himself would be completely on board with your mission even if you’d just flashed him a smile. Fuck. He runs his hands through his hair and curls his fingers into the soft brown locks, tugging them away from his scalp as he stops pacing. What the hell is he doing? You invited him into bed last night. You slept next to him. You let him slip between your legs and eat you out so thoroughly that he swears he can still taste you now. You let him finger your pussy just so he could find out if you were lying or not. You’re not going to let this younger version of him take things too far after all of that, right?

            Bucky exhales through his nose as he sinks back into one of the kitchen chairs and stares down at the earpiece on the table. He takes it in his flesh hand and rolls it between his middle and index finger for a moment, knowing he has to put it back in. When did he turn into such a jealous guy?

            The young Sergeant Barnes is captivated by you. He watches from the bar as you breeze through casual conversation with Peggy. You have a way of seeming so genuinely interested in anything that anyone says to you. You wholeheartedly hang on every word spoken and you get this look in your eye like nothing is more important to you than whatever’s being said. You seemed every bit as invested in Bucky’s spiel about Ferris wheels as you were when he leaned into your ear and told you about his family back home.

            “She’s a lady, Buck.” Steve says lightly, lifting his drink to his lips and taking a short sip. Bucky swirls amber colored whiskey around in the bottom of his glass as his blue eyes glimmer in the low lights of the bar. “Don’t get any ideas, she works with Peggy.”

            “You work with Peggy.” Bucky points out, casting him a disapproving glance before zeroing in on you again. “And you have ideas.”

            “I have ideas.” Steve mumbles, nodding curtly in surrender. He can’t lie to Bucky.

            “You don’t want to take your ideas over there and ask her to dance?” Bucky shifts his gaze to Peggy. He can almost imagine her proper accent as he watches her lips move in conversation with you. He has no doubt, just from the little interaction between Steve and Peggy when you girls first arrived at the bar, that Steve’s head over heels. Not only Steve, but Peggy’s envisioning a life with him too.

            “It’s not the right time.” Steve replies, setting his mug down on the bar and turning to face the same direction as Bucky.  

            “If you keep waiting, you’ll miss the time entirely.”

            “Can you miss fate?” Steve asks thoughtfully. Peggy lifts her gaze and turns her head slightly to the side, meeting his gaze across the bar for a fleeting second.

            “I’m not going to wait around here with you and find out.” Bucky’s downing the last of his whiskey and heading for you just as Peggy’s heading for Steve. His eyes are all over you as he approaches, sending your confidence soaring and your nerves stirring in the pit of your stomach. When he steps in close and wraps an arm around your waist, letting his right hand rest on the small of your back, you melt into his touch.

            “How much of London have you seen?” He whispers the question in your ear, letting his lips ghost so close to your ear that a shiver rolls through you.

            “Not enough.” You admit, biting down on your bottom lip as he curls his fingertips against the back of your dress.

            “Let me show you?” It’s a request. But when he pulls back and looks into your eyes, there’s no way you could deny him.

            No. Bucky’s clenching his fists atop the safehouse kitchen table as he listens to the sound of his younger self pushing open some creaky door. The din of the bar fades into the background as your heels click against pavement. You’re outside of the bar now. You’re not going to see London, that’s for fucking sure. Bucky grits his teeth as his own voice plays through the earpiece. He’s never wanted to wring his own neck so damn bad.

            “There are a lot of parts of the city that aren’t safe with the war going on, but if you work with Peggy, I’m guessing you’re used to that.” You stand still at the side exit of the bar, watching as Bucky carefully places his army uniform hat over his head. Somehow, the dark brick walls of the alley make his eyes seem more blue.  

            “Are we going somewhere dangerous, Sergeant Barnes?” You ask softly, looking up at him through your lashes as he straightens up his uniform jacket. You let your eyes coast down, taking in the sight of him in full uniform. Why don’t they still dress men this way?

            “Sergeant Barnes, hm?” He repeats the name slowly, taking two steps toward you as you take one step back toward the brick side wall of the Whip and Fiddle.

            “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

            “You don’t like calling me Bucky?” Another step forward and the fabric of his jacket is brushing against the fabric of your dress as your back meets the brick wall. He leans in and raises his arms, letting his palms rest against the brick on either side of your head as he cages you in. Truthfully, you don’t like calling him Bucky. You’ve avoided saying his name all night. It feels weird, it feels wrong. Just last night you were moaning that name with a slightly different man between your legs. By calling this one something different, you can at least separate the two a tiny bit.

            “You don’t like when I call you Sergeant Barnes?” You skirt around his question with one of your own. He chuckles as a smug look spreads over his features. He drops his head lower and lower until his lips are a mere inch away from yours and his blue eyes are staring so far into you that you’re sure he can see every thought in your spiraling mind.

            “You can call me anything you want and I’m damn sure I’ll love it.” He whispers. Your eyes track the movement of his tongue as it darts out and wets his lips.

            Your world shifts when you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in. His lips are soft as they part against yours and move in the way that only men named Bucky Barnes seem to move their lips. He kisses you like he’s done it countless times in every timeline that exists. Even as rain begins pattering down, soaking his uniform and your dress, you only tug on his jacket a little harder and angle your head to the side. As his tongue dances along your bottom lip, you hesitate for the shortest second. You can hear a voice echoing in your head, asking you not to go too far tonight, but his tongue is in your mouth and your guilt only multiplies when the taste of honey-tinged whiskey soaks into your taste buds.

            You taste like honey.

            You remember the first time your version of Bucky slipped his tongue into your mouth as the rain begins to pour down. You don’t mean to be so rash, but you’re loosening your grip on the uniform jacket and pressing your palms flat against his chest in an instant.

            “What were you drinking tonight?” You ask in a raspy whisper. You let Bucky stay close enough that your foreheads are nearly touching as he sucks in a deep breath and bites his bottom lip. Shaking his head like you’ve just asked him the most out of pocket question he’s ever heard, he releases his bottom lip slowly.

            “Four Roses.” He answers just as quietly. You nod to yourself as you commit the name to memory. He lets his left hand trail down the wet brick wall, moving it closer and closer to your face until you feel his warm palm press against your cheek. The fact that his palm isn’t a cool vibranium metal one contrasting with your heated skin makes you draw in a sharp breath and close your eyes. Why the fuck are you having so much trouble with this? You should be able to make out with the guy and put on a convincing act for five minutes. But no, he tastes like honey and you’re done for. You’re suddenly acutely aware of just how long it’s been since you heard even the tiniest noise through your earpiece, and your guilt increases tenfold. As if the man before you can read your mind, he lets his hand fall away from your face. “You’re not mine to kiss like this, are you?”

            “That’s the problem.” You whisper shakily, curling your fingers into the coarse fabric of his jacket lapels one more time. Your eyes float upward and meet his as you fight the urge to swallow the words you’re about to speak. “I think I am, and that scares the hell out of me.”

            Something changed for you at the Whip and Fiddle tonight. Peggy isn’t quite sure what it is, but she senses it. She senses it in the air in the same way she senses the coming rain. Even if she couldn’t see the dark clouds gathering along the edge of the city, if she couldn’t smell the rain in the air, she could feel the atmosphere changing as the storm approaches. Everything is set for tomorrow. The Howling Commandos are going to take down yet another HYDRA base, and now that you have an in with the forty’s version of Bucky, it shouldn’t be all too hard to use the connection to your advantage and slip inside of the base yourself. As far as he knows, you work with Peggy and you can hold your own pretty damn well. So, as you sit in the passenger seat of Peggy’s car staring straight ahead, why do you seem so off? If everything is going according to plan so far, what’s wrong with you?

            “Sergeant Barnes seemed quite taken with you.” Peggy comments as she guides the car away from the city. You’re not really paying much attention to her words, not when you’re still mulling over the realization you came to when you kissed the young sergeant in the alley earlier tonight. You couldn’t stand the fact that his left hand was his own, or that he was missing that characteristic darkness around him. It was Bucky, of course, but it wasn’t really Bucky. It wasn’t the Bucky you know. Sure, when you kissed him he tasted the same, he even smelled the same. But you were kissing a version of Bucky that hasn’t yet experienced any of the things that made the man you slept next to last night. You feel like you’ve been carrying around a perfectly crafted piece of pottery, neatly sculpted and fired in a kiln. It’s been hardened and glazed with dark earthy tones, completely finished. Then, someone shoved that piece of pottery into the back of a kitchen cabinet and handed you a wet mound of clay. You don’t want the soft, unmolded version of Bucky. You want the hardened, finished version.

            “He still drinks the same whiskey.” You don’t know why you’re dwelling on that little detail. You reach up with one hand and press your fingers against your lips, feeling a frustrating warmth awaken low in your stomach. Peggy looks over at you briefly, not letting her gaze linger for long before her eyes are back on the road ahead.      

            “Steve and I…we wait until it’s too late, don’t we?” Peggy’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and your hand drops to your lap quickly. You turn your head and stare at her, but she remains focused on the dark street that the car is rolling down.

            “What makes you ask that?”

            “I have a feeling.” She sighs heavily, pursing her red lips at the end of her sentence. “I have a feeling that we don’t allow ourselves that happiness in this lifetime, and you’re not allowing it for yourself either.”

            “It’s different for me.”

            “How so?” She asks softly, taking a right turn. The car begins coasting down a street you recognize and you know the safehouse is just a couple of minutes away now.

            “It’s just different. I can’t just give in and see if things turn out okay. We work together, we live across the hall from each other.” You’re grasping for excuses.

            “You trust the man with your life but you don’t want to trust him with your heart?”

            Peggy has a way with words. You don’t have a response for her as she slows down and turns into the driveway of Howard Stark’s house a couple of minutes later. As the car idles in front of the house, you feel a heavy weight settling on your shoulders.

            When you reach the front door, you find that Bucky’s left it unlocked for you. You slip in quietly, leaning against the wall of the foyer for a second to gather your thoughts. The house is mostly dark except for a small light glowing in the kitchen. Your stomach is churning as you tiptoe through the foyer and peer into the kitchen, careful not to let your heels tap on the floor. You see no sign of Bucky there. When you turn your eyes to the dark living room, you see him sitting in the middle of couch with his back to you.

            “The mission is set for tomorrow.” Your words come out sounding meek and uneasy as you stare at the back of Bucky’s head. He’s leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees like he’s lost in thought. He doesn’t even move at the sound of your voice and nervousness starts to bubble up inside of you. “Bucky?” He visibly tenses at the sound of his name rolling off of your tongue.

            “I stopped listening when you kissed him.” Bucky rubs his palms together slowly as he stares down at the living room carpet. He doesn’t move from the couch, and he can tell by the silence behind him that you’re not moving either. “Honestly, I didn’t think it would bother me that much.” Bucky lies, tracing the lines of his vibranium hand with his flesh index finger. It’s dark, but he has the golden crevices memorized.

            “Bullshit.” You say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest. “You knew it would bother you, but you swore I was the right person for this op anyway.” You’re not going to let him act like you did something wrong, when you’re doing exactly what you were brought here to do. You watch the back of Bucky’s head as he nods slowly.

            “Okay, that was bullshit.” Bucky agrees. Rain begins to patter against the roof, starting out slow and soft but quickly picking up until the sound of it is filling the house. “I knew it would bother me. I guess I just didn’t expect you to let him take things so far.”

            “How far do you think he took things?” You ask incredulously, with offense evident in your tone. If Bucky stopped listening when the kiss first started in the alley of the bar, then he didn’t hear a damn thing. He didn’t hear the brevity of the kiss or the way you pushed back and stopped it. He didn’t hear you coming to the realization that you already belong to him. He didn’t hear shit.

            “Pretty damn far, if he’s me.” You scoff at his answer and run a hand through your hair, leaving it looking a little tousled and messy.

            “It’s 1943. If pretty damn far means we kissed and went back inside then sure, he went pretty damn far.”

            “That’s it?” Bucky asks, pushing himself up to stand and turning around to face you. The couch and a few feet of distance stand between the two of you as Bucky raises a brow. He doesn’t believe you.

            “He’s not like this modern version of you.” You say defensively, gesturing at him as you speak. “He didn’t want anything more than a kiss from me.” You know your words aren’t necessarily true, but you say them anyway. Bucky shoots you a pointed look before shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

            “Yeah, he did."

            “No, he didn’t.” You argue childishly, narrowing your eyes at him. “He was sweet and kind and we had innocent fun.”

            “Innocent?” Bucky repeats the word and narrows his eyes at you in return. You bend one knee and lift your ankle up toward your ass as you start undoing your heels.

            “That’s what I said.” You huff as your heels clatter to the floor and you push them over to the nearest wall with your foot.

            “I was anything but innocent in the forties.” Bucky says lowly. When your eyes land on him, he’s approaching you slowly, moving around the couch but keeping his gaze trained on you. Something about the way he’s looking at you is dark, making your skin feel warm and your muscles tense up. Bucky runs a hand through his messy hair as he continues taking slow steps in your direction. “You’re really telling me he didn’t have you pushed up against a brick wall in some dark alley tonight?”

            You swallow hard, feeling like a kid caught in a lie. Of course he knows exactly what happened. He doesn’t need comms or a surveillance team to know what he himself would’ve done with a pretty girl on a night out. You say nothing as Bucky moves around the couch and comes to stand right in front of you. You take a small step back as he invades your space, but he doesn’t stop. He presses forward until he’s backing you against the living room wall.

            Bucky’s fighting to keep up the charade. He wants nothing more than to just be honest and tell you that he’s jealous. He wants to tell you that even though it was only another version of himself that you went out with tonight, he couldn’t fucking stand it. He needs you to know that he sat here for hours, thinking about nothing but you. He watches you with an intense gaze as your back collides with the wall and you look up at him through your lashes. He’s so close that he can see the wispy black mascara tinting them. It isn’t smudged in the slightest bit and that, at the very least, calms him a little. Bucky’s hands find your hips and he holds you still against the wall as he leans in and nudges the curve of your jaw with the tip of his nose.

            “He didn’t touch you like this?” Bucky whispers against your neck, as his flesh hand glides around to your ass. He grabs a handful and curls his fingertips against the soft fabric of your dress. You offer no response, because although you didn’t let him touch you like that, you know Bucky won’t believe you now. Bucky groans as he nips at the column of your throat, taking your silence as confirmation. He kisses his way up to your lips and then drags his tongue up your chin until he’s letting it delve into your mouth. You tilt your head as he kisses you, feeling a burn in your chest from the lack of air. He pulls back suddenly, and cradles the back of your head with the same hand that was just grabbing your ass. “He didn’t kiss you like that?” He questions, already assuming the answer. You whimper as Bucky tugs on your hair lightly and moves his lips down to your neck again. Instead of simply kissing your skin this time, he sucks on it and scrapes his teeth down toward your collarbone. When he lets go of your hair and slides his hand down your thigh, your back arches off the wall and you swear you feel him smile before he pulls back and smirks down at you coldly. Curling his fingers behind your thigh, he hitches your leg up around his hip and uses his body to push you further into the wall. “He didn’t pull your leg up like this?”

            It’s as if Bucky’s following a script. He knows himself so well that he’s able to carry out every single move his younger self would have made on you if you’d let things continue in the alley earlier. Bucky leans in and presses one last chaste kiss to your lips before he steps away from you entirely, leaving you struggling to catch your breath as he turns on his heel. You watch, thoroughly flustered, as he heads right back to the living room and takes a seat on the center cushion of that ugly vintage couch.

            “That’s what I thought.” He says lowly, causing a pang of guilt to bubble up inside of you. You let out an exaggerated sigh before reaching behind yourself and undoing the back of your dress. Bucky listens as you let the dress slip off of your frame and fall to the floor. He’s still for a moment, refusing to look back as you stand there in nothing more than a lacy black bra and matching panties. You glare at the back of his head for a second too long before stalking off to find a t-shirt and some sweats to put on before you continue the conversation at hand.

            “You don’t get to judge me for what he did tonight, for what you think he did.” You say coldly as you emerge from the bedroom a few seconds later. Bucky’s still sitting on the couch, now with both of his arms outstretched along the back cushions and an almost bored expression on his face. “You told me that your younger self would swoon and that’s exactly what happened. You knew what you were sending me into, you knew he’d want to do all of those things. So, if you want to be pissed, be pissed at yourself. Your current self or your former self, I don’t care. But stop being pissed at me.” Your feet thud against the hard floor, overtaking the sound of rain pouring down on the roof as you come to stand in front of the couch, facing Bucky.

            “I’m not pissed at you.” He says plainly, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. You’re wearing an oversized white t-shirt that he assumes you pulled from his side of the closet, rather than picking any of the forties-style pajamas from your own side.

            “Then why make me feel like I did something wrong? I did exactly what I was supposed to do on this mission.”

            “I’m jealous.” His confession sucks the air out of your lungs and leaves you stunned.

            “What?”

            “I’m jealous.” He repeats calmly, looking you right in the eyes. “It took everything I had not to stop you from leaving earlier. I knew what he’d do. I knew that he’d kiss you, that he’d take every inch you gave him and ask for a mile more.” The fact that Bucky’s so calm and stoic as he confesses all of this has you shaken to your core.

            “No, you don’t get to do this.” You say angrily, running both hands through your hair as you turn away from him. He’s sitting there with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and his expression as unreadable as ever and it’s only making you more mad. “You don’t get to say shit like that to me. You don’t get to be jealous. You sent me into that situation even after I made it abundantly clear that I didn’t think I was the right person for this mission.” You turn back around and look at Bucky with a fiery rage burning in your eyes, but then your gaze settles on his calm, almost serene expression. He cocks his head to the side as you study him, with whatever angry words you were about to spit at him temporarily on hold. Your eyes float down his chest, passing over the dark t-shirt he’s sporting. With the way his arms are outstretched along the back of the couch, you can see the outline of his abs clearly through his thin shirt. When your eyes land on the front of his sweats, you notice two things. The first is that he's sitting with his legs spread in a way that tells you he’s comfortable as hell on that ugly couch. The second is that his cock is semi-hard and pressing against the fabric of those sweats shamelessly.

            You want to leave. You want to head for the front door and run out into the rain, losing yourself somewhere in this city that you don’t know and this timeline that you don’t belong in. You don’t want to be in this house with Bucky for another minute. You can’t think straight when you’re around him. Here you are, angry as hell over something you can’t even recall in this exact moment, because when you look at him and he looks at you this way…you’re torn between wanting to run and wanting to straddle him right there on the couch. Bucky can tell exactly what’s on your mind when your eyes zero in on his lap. Even though the anger hasn’t dissipated from your features, he can tell it’s sitting on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall in and disappear if he says the right thing.

            “Go ahead.” Bucky says firmly, narrowing his eyes at you.

            “What?” You cross your arms over your chest like he’s seen you do a thousand times before as you stand in front of him. You watch as Bucky looks down at his lap for a moment, letting his gaze linger on his thighs before he lifts his head up and stares into your soul. Your heart begins to race as he tilts his head to the side slowly, the expression on his face never changing.

            “Sit.”

            The three seconds that you stare back at Bucky with your arms crossed over your chest feel like three hours to him. When you finally do take a step forward and let your arms reach out to him, he’s fighting to hold in a sigh of relief. You move slowly, lifting your right knee up to the edge of the couch first and letting it touch the outside of his left thigh. When your left knee lands on the couch beside his right leg, you carefully position yourself over his lap as your hands come to rest on his shoulders. Bucky’s fingertips curl into the fabric of the couch as he wills himself to keep his arms along the back of it, refusing to grab your hips and guide you to sit on his lap himself. You’re apprehensive as you stare down into his blue eyes and sink onto his lap at a painstakingly snail-like pace. Your breath hitches in your throat when you feel the outline of his erection pressing against the black lace panties you have on underneath the white t-shirt, but you don’t stop. You seat yourself firmly on his lap, with your knees bent on either side of his hips and your palms pressed against his opposing warm and cool shoulders. It bothers you that he doesn’t move his arms, that he doesn’t try to touch you. It really bothers you that his expression is still unreadable, as if having you on his lap doesn’t do a damn thing to him. If his cock wasn’t hardening more and more with each passing second, you’d truly believe that you weren’t having any sort of effect on him right now.

            “You don’t get to be jealous.” You whisper, shaking your head just barely as Bucky studies your face.     

            “Why not?”

            “Because this is just…” Your eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over Bucky’s lap, but his never leave your face. He knows what you’re about to say and he’s already wishing you wouldn’t. This is exactly what he’s been trying to avoid. “This isn’t real.” It feels every bit as shitty as he thought it would, hearing you say it out loud. The muscle along the side of his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth together. “It’s just tension. We let it build up too much and then we don’t know how to handle it, and we think it’s something more but—"

            “But it isn’t.” Bucky finishes your sentence stiffly. You nod, but your eyes are searching his. You want him to convince you, you want him to tell you that you’re wrong like he has before. You need him to tell you that this isn’t just tension. But he stays quiet, staring at you like he doesn’t really give a shit what you need right now. So, you ramble on.

            “Maybe if we take a break from being partners after this mission is over. We could let things cool off and give each other space.” The words tumble out of your mouth quickly, but they leave a bad taste. “But it’s hard to give each other space when we live across the hall from each other.” Bucky nods along, cocking his head to the side as he watches you scramble for other options. He doesn’t know why you’re still sitting on his lap if this is the direction you’re taking things, but he isn’t ready to push you off and end this just yet. Not if it might be the last time you let him get this close to you.

            “Do you want space?” He asks lowly. You struggle to find a reasonable answer when his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You watch as it slides across his bottom lip slowly before disappearing into his mouth. He shifts his legs beneath you slightly and it causes his hard cock to press against your barely clothed cunt just a little more firmly than before and you inhale sharply, curling your fingertips into his shoulders as he stills once again.

            “I want to stop thinking about you the way that I’ve been thinking about you.” Bucky’s heartbeat is rising steadily as your words sink in. You’ve been thinking about him. God, he wants to tangle his hands in your hair and pull you in closer, refusing to let go of you until you admit that you fucking want him. “I want to go back to when we had a normal, uncomplicated partnership in the field.” He wants to say fuck normal and uncomplicated and have his way with you, but he stays still. “I want to fuck.”

            Bucky’s stunned. He blinks twice before squinting his eyes at you and letting out a long, slow breath.

            “You want to fuck.” Bucky repeats under his breath, seeming like he doesn’t think he’s heard you right. You nod, coming to the realization that that’s exactly what you want.

            “Maybe if we fuck, it would all just go away.” Bucky scoffs as soon as you’ve said it. He’s never felt as frustrated as he is right now. It isn’t just emotional frustration, but sexual as well. You’re fucking tormenting him. While you sit on his lap actively denying the fact that this thing between you is real, you’re simultaneously telling him you want to have sex with him. You tried sleeping it off once before and it didn’t work out for you, so now you want to fuck the feelings away. He’s pissed honestly. As he sits there, with his arms outstretched along the back of the couch and the girl he’s in love with on his lap, he’s pissed.

            “Go ahead then.” He says roughly, jutting his chin out at you as his eyes flit down to where your legs are spread over him. “Go ahead and see if you can fuck it all away. It’ll work about as well as when you tried to sleep it off, but I’m willing to let you give it a shot.”

            Thunder rumbles in the distance and rain patters against the windows as tensions rise all around you. It feels like the thunderstorm outside has somehow shifted through the walls and lightning could strike you at any given moment. Though your heart is racing and your breaths are coming in quicker than before, you don’t back down. You maintain eye contact as you lift your ass up slightly and then grind back down, dragging the fabric of your lace panties along the front of Bucky’s sweats. You feel his cock twitch in its confines, but his face never changes. Fuck him and his perpetually cold expression. You grind down again, harder this time, and watch as his hands curl into fists at the ends of his outstretched arms. What do you have to do to get him to put those hands on you?

            Lightning strikes somewhere outside as you lean in and dip your head down, pressing your lips to the side of Bucky’s neck in an open-mouthed kiss. You feel his pulse thumping in his carotid artery as your tongue swipes over it. If you’re going to get this out of your system, you can’t take your time. You need this to be quick and dirty. Bucky senses that and isn’t surprised at all when your right hand starts tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

            “I said go ahead.” He rasps, tilting his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. “Take what you want.” You take the encouragement and run with it, slipping your hand into the waistband of his sweats and boxers, quickly finding his length and wrapping your hand around it. He lets out a shaky but controlled breath as you start stroking his cock. He has to bite down on his bottom lip when you tighten your grip around the head and he feels his precum wet your palm. This is going to haunt him forever. He wants this, you, so fucking bad that he’s willing to take whatever he can get. And this is the most he can get. Your hand is around his cock with the sole intention of fucking around with him until you forget your feelings. He should feel used. He does feel used, but if you’re only okay with using him, then he’s fine with it. He’s fine with it because he fucking loves you.

            You feel Bucky’s chest rise and fall at a quicker pace against your own as his cock twitches in your hand. Thunder shakes the house again and a tear slips down your cheek. It feels clinical when you push Bucky’s waistband down further and drag your lips along the curve of his jaw.

            “He kissed me outside of the bar.” You whisper against the column of Bucky’s throat, hating the way he tenses up underneath you. You let your hand fall away from his cock and shift it between your legs, tugging your lace panties to the side beneath the oversized t-shirt. “And I couldn’t fucking stand it.” Your voice breaks and Bucky curls his fingers into the couch cushions so hard that he might’ve heard them rip if the storm raging outside wasn’t so loud. “You weren’t listening, so you didn’t hear me stop him.” Another tear falls as you rise up on your knees and guide the head of Bucky’s length to where it belongs. “But I stopped him.” Lightning strikes and you swear it nearly hits the house as you let out a shaky breath and start lowering yourself down. The sheer size of him makes your thighs ache and the walls of your cunt burn with the stretch. “I stopped him and he knew, before I said anything, that I wasn’t his to kiss.” Bracing your hands back on Bucky’s shoulders, you sink down onto him one slow inch at a time as he stares up at you. His expression isn’t so unreadable now. It’s showcasing the torment he feels, the torture you’re putting him through…the torture he’s enduring just because he loves you.

            “Whose are you then?” He asks, his voice tense and strained as you seat yourself entirely on his cock. He can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re not going to answer his question. You know the answer, the tears rimming your pretty eyes and the pleading look taking over your face tell him that much. But you just can’t bring yourself to say it out loud. You’re his.

            You didn’t give yourself any time to adjust to his size and you’re paying for it as you start riding him. You move slow at first, lost in the way he’s looking at you, wondering why the hell he won’t touch you. But as the storm picks up outside, so does your pace. Faster and faster you lift and lower your hips until it couldn’t possibly be more obvious that you’re trying to fuck your feelings away. Bucky’s pushing past the obscene sounds of skin against skin, past the rumbling thunder and heavy rain on the rooftop, until all he can hear is your heartbeat. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re timing each bounce of your hips with the steady beat of your heart. He focuses in on that when the walls of your pussy begin fluttering violently around his shaft, because if he lets himself focus on anything else, he’ll fall over the edge with you and he refuses to let it happen this way. Your goal isn’t to get him off, it’s to get something out of your system.

            Bucky clenches his teeth when you start coming undone around him, he clenches his teeth and his vibranium arm whirs loudly along the back of the couch as you grip his shoulders and ride out your orgasm. It’s only a few seconds later when you blink your eyes open and let a few tears fall onto the fabric of his shirt.

            “Did it work?” Bucky asks breathlessly, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around you and pull you against his chest.

            “What?”

            “Did you fuck it out of your system?” He narrows his eyes at you. He’s sure the answer is no, but he isn’t so sure that you’ll admit it. As you stare back into his blue eyes, he can tell you’re giving up and something akin to hope stirs in his chest. You shake your head gently, loosening your grip on his shoulders as the weight of your silent confession settles over you both. “Okay, let’s try again.”

            Bucky doesn’t give you a chance to full catch your breath before he’s slipping his flesh arm around your back and rising from the couch, keeping his cock buried inside of you.

            “Bucky—”

            “You want it out of your system, don’t you?” He asks roughly, carrying you away from the couch and toward the kitchen table. You swallow hard as he skillfully uses his vibranium hand to shove a kitchen chair to the side before laying you down on the table. Still, his cock never leaves your pussy. “If we go at it from another angle…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he pulls his hips backward slowly until only the tip of his cock is left inside of you. You whimper at the loss of his length, hating the way your pussy fights to grip onto what he’s left you with. Bucky pushes your white t-shirt up until it’s sitting just below your bra. Though he doesn’t let himself get a glimpse of your chest, he has no problem with sliding his hands beneath the shirt and running his palms over your breasts. You arch into his touch and another whimper leaves your lips. “This might be the right angle.” He whispers, dragging his hands down until his fingers are curling into your hips roughly. You see stars when he pistons his hips forward so hard that the table shakes beneath the force and you feel him brushing against your cervix.

            “Fuck.” You moan the word out as your tears begin to dry. Your hands circle around Bucky’s wrists as he holds your hips in place and starts fucking you relentlessly. Your mascara is smudged beneath your eyes but you still look so pretty that it hurts him to look at you. You wrap your legs around him as his head falls back a little and a guttural groan escapes him. It feels so damn good, you feel so damn good, but this isn’t how he wants you. Your whimpers and occasional swears turn into uninhibited, borderline pornographic moans as he fucks you until you’re lost in the bliss of it all.

            “If you cum on my cock a second time, is it going to be enough?” He wonders aloud, slowing the pace of his thrusts and simultaneously deepening them as much as he possibly can. His balls press against your ass as a loud clap of thunder leaves the lights flickering. You’re shaking your head before your brain has a chance to reason with your heart. It won’t be enough. “You don’t think so? You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself when you said that this isn’t real. Cumming on my cock this time should be enough for you.”

            “Shit, Bucky.” You let out a frustrated moan as he pulls his hips back slowly and starts giving your cunt the most shallow thrusts yet.

            “This is so fucking real to me that I’d let you do it a thousand times if that’s what it takes to make you realize you’re wrong.” Bucky snaps his hips forward and hits your cervix again, admiring the way your body reacts to him as your back arches off of the table and your t-shirt rides up a little more. A tiny bit of the black lace of your bra peeks out beneath your shirt and Bucky lets out another groan before thrusting hard again. He wanted to slow down and make you feel even just a shred of the torment he’s been feeling tonight, he wanted to give you shallow, unrhythmic thrusts and delay your orgasm, but he’s already fucking his cock into you at an unforgiving pace and depth. His name falls from your lips in a breathless moan as your fingernails leave little crescent-shaped indents in the skin of his wrists and your pussy tightens around his shaft all over again. He has to bite down on the inside of his cheek, nearly drawing blood, just to keep from cumming with you. His own level of restraint is surprising himself. He hasn’t done something like this in decades and yet, he’s holding himself together pretty damn well.

            “Bucky.” You gasp as your orgasm washes over you and he continues to pump his cock into you. He lets his thrusts slow more and more with each passing second until he’s just lazily circling his hips, giving you the faintest sensation of pleasure mixed with overstimulation.

            “Did it work that time?” He asks between pants. He lets go of your hips as his eyes scan over the expanse of your skin where he had gripped you so tightly before, checking for marks. He can see his own handprints on each hip, but they aren’t red enough that he thinks he’s left bruises. You stare up at him as a sigh of relief slips past his lips. When his eyes finally meet yours, you know he’s waiting for an answer.

            “It didn’t.” You admit. The lights flicker again, going out for a few seconds before coming back on. “I’m sorry I—”

            “I don’t want to hear you say sorry.” God, that’s not at all what he wants to hear you say. He wants to hear you say you were wrong or that you were lying and this is as real to you as it is to him. He wants to hear you say that no matter how many times his cock slides into your pussy, the feelings aren’t going anywhere. As his hands find yours and your fingers intertwine, he tugs you up into a sitting position on the edge of the table and then slips his palms around to cup your ass as he lifts you once more. “We’re going to try this one more time and if it doesn’t work, if you can’t fuck the feelings away…” His voice trails off as the lights flicker one final time before shutting off completely. Bucky carries you down the hall and through the bedroom door in near total darkness. Every few seconds, lightning flashes and illuminates the house through the windows and sheer curtains, and you get a glimpse of Bucky’s serious face. “If this doesn’t work, you have to say it.” Keeping his flesh arm around your lower back, he lowers you onto the bed, hovering over you as his still-hard cock slips out of your sore cunt. You prop yourself up on your elbows as he stands at the foot of the bed and reaches back over his shoulders, grasping the fabric of his t-shirt and tugging it over his head in one smooth move. Lighting strikes again and you watch, with warmth pooling low in your stomach, as Bucky pushes his sweats and boxers down to the floor.

            “I have to say what?” You ask, fighting hard to keep the stutter out of your question. Bucky wraps his right hand around the base of his cock tightly, but he doesn’t dare stroke it. He gives it a quick squeeze before moving that same hand down and palming his balls in an effort to slow himself down.

            “You have to say that you’re mine.” He has no idea that you’ve already said it once tonight. He took his earpiece out, thinking you were having a heated moment with another man, when you were really telling that man exactly what Bucky wanted to hear.

            “That’s how this works? You fuck me a few times and then I’m yours?”

            Bucky can’t stop the dark, hair-raising chuckle that tumbles past his lips when you tilt your head to the side and narrow your eyes at him. He moves toward the bed slowly, placing one knee on the end of the mattress and leaning forward until both of his palms are flat on the bed. He’s hovering over you, his face only a few inches from yours when a burst of thunder rings out.

            “You’ve been mine since the day we met, sweetheart. I just let you run around and deny it for too damn long.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he angles his chin toward the headboard, silently letting you know that he wants you to move further up on the bed. You scoot backward, keeping your eyes on him as the room grows impossibly warmer and goosebumps prickle over your skin. When your back lands flat on the bed and your head is laid comfortably on the only pillow there, Bucky’s over you in an instant, nudging your legs apart with his knee as he settles between them. The head of his cock, still dripping with precum, presses against the lace of your panties and he hisses at the contact. He hasn’t let himself cum yet and he’s dangerously close to losing control over his impending orgasm.

            “Since the day we met?” You ask, scrunching up your face in confusion as you think of all of the missions you’ve been on, all of the senseless arguments and shit-giving. Did it all have a deeper meaning for him? Bucky nods as he stills above you and braces himself with his arms next to either side of your head. When he looks into your eyes you can tell that he’s straining to maintain his composure and it almost makes you feel guilty. Here you are two orgasms in and he’s hanging on by a fucking thread. You slide your hand down between your bodies, wrapping it around his length and giving it a few long, slow pumps as his eyes flutter closed and his head falls to your shoulder.

            “I can’t stand you.” You say evenly, as he starts rutting into your hand carelessly. His small thrusts are sloppy and restrained, but he continues on as you stroke his cock and smear his precum around the length of it. He groans in response and bites down on your shoulder hard enough to make you inhale sharply. “I can’t stand the way you slept so close to me last night, because the next time I sleep alone, I’ll feel like something’s missing.” Bucky freezes, but you continue your ministrations with your right hand. He doesn’t lift his head, fearing that if he so much as moves an inch you’ll stop talking. “I can’t stand the way you say my name, because when anyone else says it, it doesn’t sound as good.” He lets out a shaky breath as he builds up the courage to move. Snaking his vibranium hand down between your legs, he starts tugging your panties to the side just like he did earlier. You move in tandem with him, guiding the head of his cock to your entrance as he clears the way. “And I really can’t stand the way you kiss me, because if I ever let anyone else kiss me, I’ll only ever be disappointed.”

            Bucky pulls his head back and stares down at you with a furrowed brow, looking as though he’s thinking hard. The head of his cock notches into your pussy and he pushes his hips forward just enough to sink the first couple of inches inside of you, watching as your mouth falls open and your eyes close tightly. He’s staring at you with such an intense focus in his blue eyes that when you finally look back up at him, you feel like his gaze alone is burning a hole through your head. You spread your legs a little, bending your knees slightly to give him a better angle as he pulls his hips back slowly. When only the head of his cock is sheathed inside of you, he licks his bottom lip before snapping his hips forward and delivering one hard, deep thrust that forces the headboard to slam against the wall.

            “I love you.” Bucky says the three words with conviction, with a confidence you’ve never heard before. You wait a few seconds, trying to recover from the earth-shattering sensations of your pussy being destroyed and actual bliss. His words sink into your skin and melt into your soul with an unexpected warmth as he drags his cock out of you and then pushes back in again. He loves you.

            “You can’t stand me.” You correct, not even trying to hide the smile that’s beginning to spread across your lips as Bucky starts setting a rhythmic pace. He laughs, but then groans as you scrape your nails down his back roughly.

            “I can’t, but still…”

            “You love me.” You repeat smugly, finishing his sentence. He doesn’t need you to say it back yet. Just the fact that you didn’t shove him away and flee the house when he said it is enough for him right now. A few sultry moans play in his ears and he pushes himself up to sit on his knees, moving your legs so that one is over each of his shoulders before he starts fucking you so hard that he thinks Howard Stark might need to buy a new mattress, new headboard, and maybe even have the damn wall re-plastered.

            The next few minutes consist of nothing more than filthy, pornographic sounds. With skin slapping against skin, the headboard snapping against the wall, your moans, and Bucky’s strained groans, neither of you can really hear the storm raging outside anymore. You focus in on Bucky as much as you can, watching as his abs ripple and the muscles of his flesh arm flex repeatedly. He catches you staring at him as he fucks you and he holds eye contact, letting his mouth fall open and his eyelids drop down halfway as he watches you watch him. Filthy. It’s filthy the way he's fucking his cock into you in someone else’s bed. You moan his name out in a raspy tone and it sends him over the edge. He guides your legs down, setting them back on the bed before crawling over you and fucking you missionary while he swallows every moan you let out. His lips brush against yours over and over again, but you don’t kiss. You breathe each other in until you feel his cock twitch and his thrusts grow sloppy.

            “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” Bucky groans, thrusting a little harder and deeper as he nears his release. You grip his sides and bend your knees as your own orgasm looms. “You’re so fucking tight and….fuck, you’re just…shit, baby.”

            “Bucky, I love you.”

            He loses every last remnant of control when you finally admit it. He can’t stop the flood of cum that starts spilling out of his cock and into you. Truthfully, he wouldn’t want to stop it. He thrusts as deep as he can and grinds his hips into you, watching your eyes scrunch closed and your mouth fall open as you take every last drop of his cum. It’s everything to him. Not you taking his cum this way, not you letting him have you like this, but you telling him the one thing he never thought you would. You love him.

            His post-orgasm haze should last longer than yours. He should be collapsed next to you on the bed right now, but as you lay beneath him trying to catch your breath, he’s staring down at you with perfect clarity.

            “If you go back to pretending you don’t feel anything after this…” Bucky’s voice trails off as he feels a good bit of his cum dripping out of you and back onto his shaft. He moves in a little closer and pushes his cock the rest of the way inside you as gently as possible, earning himself a whimper from your pretty lips.

            “You’ll what? Fuck me on another table?” You tease, smiling up at him. He shakes his head and bites down on his bottom lip in an attempt to hide his own smile, but you catch it anyway.

            “Why would I do that when there are so many other surfaces we haven’t tried out yet?”

            “I hate you.” You retort playfully, sliding your hands up his chest and preparing to push him off of you. His cock hasn’t softened in the slightest bit yet and you don’t know if you can take another round tonight. His small smile turns into a hearty grin as his cock twitches again.

            “That’s a lie.” He smirks, dragging his tongue along his teeth after speaking. You narrow your eyes at him as you realize he’s still leaning on his ridiculous theory that your pussy clenches down when you lie. “You love me.” He says slowly, dropping his head down and pressing his lips against yours. He kisses you gently at first, pecking your lips twice before going in for a longer one. After a few seconds, he slips his tongue into your mouth and the longer he kisses you, the more weight you feel lifting from your shoulders. You didn’t realize how exhausting it was to deny this for so long. But now that you’re here, letting it happen, you can’t stop the tear that starts rolling down your cheek. Bucky pulls back as soon as he feels it, searching your eyes to see what’s wrong. “What did I do?” He asks quickly, preparing to separate himself from you. You stop him, sliding your hands down his sides and curling your fingers against his skin to hold him in place.

            “Nothing.” You answer honestly, smiling up at his look of concern even as that tear continues to roll down your cheek. “Peggy has a feeling that she and Steve wait too late in this lifetime, that they don’t let themselves have this kind of happiness.”

            “I told you they end up together.” Bucky says gently, using the pad of his thumb to wipe the tear from your cheek.

            “I know. I wonder if this is how they felt when they finally made it back to each other.” Bucky takes a moment, really thinking about it before he moves a stray lock of hair away from your face and lets out a deep breath.

            “How do you feel?” He asks, speaking with a soft tone as he eyes you closely.

            “Like if you asked me for a lifetime, it wouldn’t scare the shit out of me.”

            As Bucky stares down at you, you can see that all of those times you thought his expression was so unreadable were because you didn’t really want to read what was there. All you see in his eyes is love. Love and probably some kind of half-assed plan to ask you for a lifetime while his dick is inside you, just so he can see if you’re lying or not.

tag list

He didn’t mean to. Brendon Park really did not mean to bust in on the private staff changing room on you while you were all but naked, save for a lavender lace bra, a pair of purple panties with a bow on the top, and matching compression socks. 

Truly, when he had seen the rest of the team waiting for the go-ahead to scrub-in, he had assumed everyone had already changed, and he’d be free to walk into the room without knocking. 

It had been a great misjudgment, he realized when he heard your yelp as you scrambled to pull clothes up to cover your nearly bare body. He spun on his heel faster than should be humanly possible, reaching his hands up to cover his eyes. 

“I’m so sorry. I should’ve knocked,” the surgeon muttered, suddenly sounding a lot less self-assured than usual. “I’ll wait outside.”

You nod to his back, despite knowing that he can’t see you, and your cheeks burn as you hide behind the dark blue fabric of your scrubs. You silently pray that the ground will open and devour you whole as he slips out of the changing room.

“Fucking hell,” you breathe, swallowing the lump of embarrassment that forms heavy in your throat, threatening to pull tears from your eyes. You push it down, stomp it out like the last embers of a fire, and refuse to let the familiar feeling of shame consume you.

You slink from the room three minutes later, the navy operating room scrubs firmly on your body now, and don’t make eye contact with the orthopedic surgeon as you walk past him, ignoring the way your shoulders brush for the briefest of moments. You hear him sigh, but do your best to forget the way his face looked when taking in your bare body. It makes your chest ache, but there is a periacetabular osteotomy coming up for surgery in twenty minutes, and the last thing you’re going to do is stew in embarrassment instead of focusing on a patient.

Brendon groans when the door to the changing room closes, his head falling back so he can stare at the ceiling and curse himself. Just when the two of you had been managing somewhat of a friendship, he had to go and fuck it up.

The sight of your blushing cheeks lingers in his mind as he changes into his surgical scrubs, entirely stuck on the image of you flustered in your underwear.

God, this was going to be a long surgery.

“Screw three,” you murmur softly, passing the titanium screw to Brendon, his gloved fingers brushing yours for a brief moment. 

“Positioning seems stable,” he says clearly, after checking the work of the residents. “Get the next angle started.” When the doctors lean in to adjust the retractors, Brendon’s eyes drift back across the operating table, locking straight onto you. 

Your cheeks flush underneath your surgical mask, and you silently hope that he can’t see the redness that is likely spreading down your neck, too. You can’t help but squirm at his gaze, despite shaking your head once in an effort to regain focus on the procedure in front of you. 

Unprofessional. This was entirely unprofessional. Dropping your head, you make work adjusting the forceps that sit on the instrument tray, lining them up to be perfectly straight despite the slight tilt of them having no effect on the surgery.

The moment kept replaying in your mind. The door opening, your squeal, the way your cheeks had burned, embarrassment flaring heavy in your chest at the idea of your superior seeing you in such a crude form. You were finally making headway with the surgeon, having broken past the walls that seemed to be impenetrable, and had come to realize the teeth Brendon bore when anyone new came close were just a posture, but your chest tightened at the backpedaling that would, no doubt, happen as a result of this morning. 

You’d purposely waited until you saw all of your coworkers prepped for the operation to go into the changing room, which was nothing out of the ordinary. You preferred the privacy of getting to change alone, and you didn’t like to overanalyze the fact that the preference no doubt came from some deep-seated insecurity. 

Unfortunately, with the events that had transpired, you were left with no choice but to stew in those emotions. There was no doubt in your mind that Brendon was replaying the same thing in his mind. Your nearly-naked body, your wide eyes, the way you’d scrambled to press clothes to your chest in a desperate attempt to cover yourself. Chewing on your bottom lip underneath your mask, you ponder the optics of quitting your job and slipping downstairs to blend in with the ER nurses.

Across the table, Brendon shifts his grip on the instrument, but the movement does nothing to quell the sudden heaviness in his hands. Six years. He’s been a surgeon for six years. Has led thousands of operations and had no trouble focusing on any of them. Yet here he is, performing a periacetabular osteotomy, a notoriously demanding surgery, struggling to stay even half-concentrated at the open pelvis in front of him. Every time he tries to recenter his thoughts, his mind flicks back to the image of you just four hours ago. Caught off-guard, flushed, breathless, and maddeningly distracting. 

“Focus.” He orders the residents, his tone clipped, and there is no doubt in Brendon’s mind that he is projecting. 

You scrub your arms harshly, methodically getting every sud of surgical soap off of them. The tick of the clock above you is the only sound in the sanitation area, and you let out a relieved sigh when you read the time: 5:23. Only an hour and forty minutes of hiding from Brendon to go before you are free to rush home for a girls’ night with Yolanda and Trinity.

You keep your head down when you hear the door behind you swing open, eyes trained on the soap suds sliding down the sink drain. You can tell exactly who it is by the sound of his black shoes against the ground. Your pulse spikes.

Brendon’s voice breaks the silence, softer than the tone he usually speaks in, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you mutter, your attention stuck on the feeling of the cool water running over your fingers. “Good case. Positioning looked nice.”

“Yeah, it did,” he says, taking one big step towards the sink next to yours. Instead of turning on the tap to wash his hands, he reaches over and turns yours off, the water halting.

You freeze, hands dripping, as you look up at him and breathe a resigned sigh.

The surgeon leans against the counter, and you feel like his intense gaze could burn you to ash. You feel like the room is buzzing, and you’re surprised when you catch your own nervousness reflected in Brendon. He rubs the back of his neck with one huge hand.

“Can I talk to you about something?” he asks, his voice steady despite the tension.

Your stomach flips, and you can’t help but stammer, “If it’s about what happened this morning-”

“It is,” Brendon interrupts, a small smile threatening to form on his lips, though it almost seems like he’s embarrassed. “We need to talk about it.”

You squirm, hands dropping to your sides. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought everyone was done changing, and I just wanted to have some privacy. I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

“You don’t need to apologize for what I saw. There wasn’t anything wrong with the sight.” He sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just want to tell you that I am sorry for barging in without warning. I apologize for putting you in that position.”

You swallow, and you feel like you’re burning up, as he adds, “Let’s leave it behind us, okay?”

“No, it’s so bad, Yo.” You groan, letting your head fall back on the couch behind you once Trinity fills up your wine glass for the second time tonight.

“Park’s a weirdo.” She murmurs as she sinks down onto the floor beside her girlfriend, and you note the way Yolanda leans into the resident doctor, glad the two of them have finally come to their senses.

“You should have seen the look on his face. It was fucking awful. He looked like he was seeing a rotting corpse, I swear. His mouth opened, and he covered his eyes, and it was horrible,” you pout, reaching for your wine glass in a desperate but feeble attempt to nudge the embarrassment away.

“You’re the most dramatic person ever,” Yolanda tuts, hitting your shoulder lightly. “Your perception is seriously off. You’re hot. Brendon’s an idiot, but he’s not stupid. I’m sure he was just caught off guard."

“You’re just being nice,” you’re sulking, and you know it, but you can’t seem to stop the words from falling from your lips.

“Oh, you’re such a bitch,” Trinity groans lightheartedly, rolling her eyes. “We’re gay. We know when women are hot.”

“But it’s different with him,” you huff, taking a sip of your wine. “I don’t know why, it just is. It was so embarrassing. He kept looking at me during the surgery, and I got bright red. And then he cornered me when I was washing my hands, and I was stuck there.”

You pick at the corner of the carpet, “I thought we were finally friends and then this happens and I fuck it all up like a goddamned idiot.”

 “How is him walking in on you naked you fucking up?” Yolanda presses, clearly the least intoxicated of the three of you. “I’m serious. He didn’t knock. He walked in on you. He made things awkward. The only issues I’m seeing here are because of him.” 

“I don’t know,” you grumble, your throat feeling tight despite the firmness with which you try to will the tears away. “I just feel dumb. I keep thinking of his face. His dumb face and his big hands covering his eyes.”

“Oh my god, listen to yourself,” Trinity groans, her palm coming up to slap her forehead. “I don’t know how one person can be so smart and so stupid at the same time.”

“She’s right,” Yolanda agrees with a sigh, shrugging. “I’ve tried to tell you like three different times. Brendon’s a jackass, but he likes you. Genuinely. He gets all awkward around you. It makes him the tiniest bit less insufferable.”

“He does not!” You exclaim, taking a gulp of the red liquid in your glass. “You’re being stupid.” But your words get quiet, and you let yourself think over the last month of interactions you’ve had with the intimidating surgeon. 

Like that time he brought you coffee and somehow managed to get your overly complicated order right, even though he hadn't asked. Like when you’d quietly asked him for ibuprofen for a migraine during the third day of a four-day stretch, only to be lying in bed that night when you discovered someone had silently wiped the rest of your shifts off the schedule. Like the time he’d gone up to administration with you after you’d confided in him that you’d worked two days of overtime and hadn’t been paid properly for them. He’d argued on your behalf when Gloria had talked over you, and you’d been shocked to see a message from him that afternoon that read “The situation is handled. Your money should be there by the end of the week.”

You chew your bottom lip, eyes wide, when you ask Yolanda, “Are you sure?” 

“A thousand percent,” she nods. “He’s probably just mad at himself for crossing a boundary without permission, even if it was an accident.” “You really think that?” You question again, and Trinity grabs your phone from the coffee table, shoving it towards your face so it unlocks.

“He’s obsessed with you, dude.” She says, eyes glancing over your screen as she searches for Brendon’s contact.

You see her smirk when she reads some of the messages, cheeks heating as she types, “Here, send him this.”

Question: I’m going on a date on Saturday and wondered if you could give a man’s opinion on what to wear? I’d ask Yolanda, but I feel like gay women have different tastes than straight men LMAO. I just want to impress him.

“That sounds so unlike me,” your nose scrunches as you read the message, finger hovering over the send button.

“It’s fine,” Yolanda assures, looking at the message from over your shoulder. “You can take a picture of our wine if he responds weirdly. Pretend you’re drunk and not just a little tipsy.”

“Fine,” you reply, and on the same exhale, you click send. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gasping softly when you see three dots appear and then disappear, before a message from Brendon finally shows up.

You’ll impress him in anything you wear. You could wear what you had on at work, and he’d be pleased, I’m sure.

“Wait, why the fuck is he responding like that?” You shriek, popping onto your knees as you shove your phone into Santos and Garcia’s faces. “Why’d he say that?”

“I told you,” Yolanda groans, “You’re oblivious, and he likes you.”

“Well, what do I say?” You chew on your bottom lip, eyebrows furrowed. “Wait, what about this?”

The scrubs or the panties?

“Good lord,” Trinity chuckles, “Give the girl two glasses of wine, reassurance, and some encouragement and she becomes bold.”

“Shut up,” you huff, and hit send before you can overthink the message. Your hands tremble.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” Yolanda gapes, covering her eyes as she takes your phone into her hands.

Brendon’s message sits clear against the background of your chat, and your mouth falls open at the words.

I think I’d need a picture of them so I can refresh my memory. For accuracy’s sake.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you breathe, your face flaming red, stomach fluttering as you read and reread the text. “Looks like the shark found himself some prey,” Santos grins, lifting her wine glass to clink it against your own.

while he appreciated the separation between work and life, he understood why attendings like dr. robby got caught in the situations he did. it’s hard to have work and a life when work is your life.

brendon tried hinge, bumble, even tinder. women were too young, or too old, or had too many kids, or demanded more of him than he could provide. it was unfortunate, as he was a creature that craved intimacy, like most, but the beauty of being an orthopedic surgeon was that he didn’t have time to mull over his loneliness. there was always a kid who fell off a tree, or an elderly woman who fell when getting out of her bathtub.

the most brendon could sulk was when actively doing surgery. you could tell a surgeons mood based on what played in the operating room. brendon often played 90’s rock, maybe a little modern rap, drake or gunna. if he were a nicer surgeon he’d let residents add to his playlist, however, he was not that nice, or so he thought.

he and his residents were doing an easy shoulder arthroscopy. brendon liked surgeries like this, especially with his favorite nurse back from leave.

as she is setting up the materials for said surgery, brendon asked:

“how was your trip? we missed you here,” his lips forming a thin line, the closest thing he’d done to a smile in the OR in months.

he only ever gave them to her, his favorite nurse. she arrived to the PTMC fresh from university, wide eyed and bushy tailed, which allowed brendon to mold her into the perfect thing for him, nurse, that is.

“i’m sure you made do without me,” she smiled back before continuing, “it was nice, very sunburnt now,” she hummed.

“barely, need you here” brendon grumbled before flashing a smile under his mask. she nodded in understanding before stepping away from the materials and putting her own mask on.

the surgery had gone well, even better than brendon had expected; that said a lot as he expected perfection.

all the residents could tell when brendon was having a good day, he was lighter on his feet, spared a small smile, even gave a laugh, so as a resident was conducting the last stitches he asked:

“is there any chance someone else can control the music?”

brendon looked up from the cavity in the man’s shoulder to stare at the resident. before he could muster a reply, his favorite nurse jumped in, “change it up with a little taylor swift, what’d ya say sharkie” she grinned, staring at the resident knowing she saved him.

“if you can get nurse y/n to make us a playlist, i’ll play it” he hummed looking at her.

“hmmm you guys don’t want that, gonna hear ‘you want a break from the ads’ seventy times” she giggled as she prepared to leave and get the patients aftercare instructions. a couple residents gave a short, soft, laugh, understanding the pain of not being able to swing the additional $7.99 a month for ad free listening, but thankfully the conversation died there.

the idea didn’t die for brendon though, he wanted to know what she listened to. did she like rap? pop? indie? folk? what concerts would she drag him to if he were hers?

he considered texting her and asking for her spotify, saying he’d taken the residents comment to heart, but she knew him well enough to know he was lying. part of him hated the feeling of wanting her, someone he couldn’t have, but another part, a larger part, relished in the fact that she existed in his world in such a grand way, that he could smell the column of her neck as she stood behind him on her tipy toes to look at an incision site. so he had no plan to stop his crush any time soon.

when he crawled into his expansive bed, alone that night, he broke one of his rules. he used his phone 30 minutes before bed, but he broke an even bigger rule, indulging in a work crush.

he opened his phone and searched her first and last name into spotify, finding nothing. if he was normal he’d end his search here; however, he was far from normal. he opened her instagram and searched her following for her name to find what she called a “spam account” where he was featured on numerous occasions.

he often put up a fight when she took photos of him, but part of him loved it. he loved knowing people scrolled through and saw photos of him, thinking he was hers. he wondered if people saw him and thought he was her boyfriend, or her nice boss, maybe a coworker. he thought he should request to follow the account, but that was a dilemma for another time.

he copied her username and pasted it into spotify to be met with her name and a cute selfie of her.

he hummed taking a screenshot and cropping it to her profile picture. he scrolled through the profile, seeing a playlist of love songs, that she had yet to experience to their fullest, based on the playlist title. he smiled, a real smile, one he’d never show in the OR, imagining himself giving her those experiences, filling all of her “big expectations.”

she’d bring him out of his shell, he’d be happy to dance with her at a concert, carry her on his shoulders at a fair when her boots hurt her feet, cradle her when her shoes gave her blisters. he hummed and added some of her songs to his surgery playlists, come on elieen, with or without you, work song; all songs he could say he found himself, but knew you’d recognize.

he exited that playlist and found another one that made him realize how perverted he was. it was from her college days (he said as if those days weren’t eighteen months ago), a photo of her back in a university of pittsburgh jacket, rationally he knew it was a vintage jacket but part of him was seething at the idea of her having a stupid boyfriend who played football while her were in college.

he knew it’s stupid to be jealous over a man who didn’t even exist. it was even dumber to be possessive over a woman that wasn’t even his, and was 15 years his junior. but the lizard part of his brain didn’t care, and angrily clicked out of the playlist and opened the next.

the photo was an actress he couldn’t name moping like he was over that stupid football player that probably had CTE, if he was even real. the name was “we’re in hell” with the description “having a crush on a guy who doesn’t want you” with three heart eye emojis following the text. he felt defeated. of course she was into someone else, she was a young gorgeous nurse surrounded by fit young residents. after that revelation he decided to put his phone away for the night.

the following day, he was in a bad mood, snarling at residents, barking orders at nurses, avoiding consults like the plague. he was pissed, he wasn’t entitled to her, he knew that, but it pissed him off knowing that she wanted someone in the building, someone as incompetent as his residents.

when she strolled in at 9:30am she set her bag in the nurses station along with her matcha with a bright pink foam on top.

“hi doctor park,” she grinned taking a sip of her beverage, creating a small pink foam mustache.

he looked at her, his eyes softening immediately. a whole room of people and he was the first she looked for.

“what the hell is that?” he asked, he knew what it was, he scrolled her instagram often enough to know exactly what she ordered and where she frequented.

“matcha with strawberry cold foam,” she hummed licking the foam off her lip and thrusting the plastic cup into his hand, “you can have a sip if you want?”

“i’m good on all that. hip replacement at 10:10 in 215. complicated injury, need you in there.”

“heard” she smiled taking another sip before setting it down and rolling up her floral thermal undershirt, another thing park loved.

he loved seeing her femininity, he loved seeing the pink water bottle she had, the strawberry lip gloss she wore, the pink alo sets, the floral and pastel undershirts. he never wanted her to be rough, to turn into him, he loved knowing she was sunshine incarnate and he could protect her from rotten patients and rude residents who haven’t learned their place in brendon park’s clinic.

she went to set up the surgery room as residents lined the wall waiting for their attending to come in. she laughed at their formation as she grabbed all the tools, “you guys can loosen up a bit, he’s not gonna kill ya” she hummed. the senior resident spoke up, “he wouldn’t kill you, but he’d kill us!”

she laughed softly rolling her eyes, “you guys are so dramatic.”

“you don’t understand, this is your domain more than it is doctor park’s. in this building it is you, him, and everyone else. you are the sun of this department and we all revolve around you.”

“and i haven’t been given a cute name like sunshine” she pouted as the patient was wheeled in by the anesthesiologist and his senior resident. park trailed behind them and stepped in behind her, gripping her shoulder whispering, “hi sunshine” as he adjusted his mask.

“hello shark” she smiled looking in a mirror across the room to ensure she didn’t have any hair peeking out of her surgical cap.

as the resident started anesthesia, park opened his phone queuing a playlist, not realizing it was hers from when he stalked her yesterday.

as the surgery began, the music was booming. it wasn’t gunna, or the foo fighters, it was olivia dean. the residents were confused and looking at each other with their eyebrows raised, then looking to her. she shrugged softly looking at the only female resident who was humming along.

“did peg you as an olivia dean fan” she teased looking across the patients groin at park.

“i contain multitudes” he mumbled back, the flush of his face covered by the mask.

“didn’t peg you as a whitman guy,” a resident added.

“not a time for jokes,” park grumbled glaring at the resident.

when the next song was noah kahan, then the next one was olivia rodrigo, everyone in the OR was confused, including brendon. she couldn’t hide the grin on her face as she looked at him, charmed that he had taken the time to look for her spotify of all things.

“is this actually nurse y/n’s playlist” the senior resident asked brendon.

he was embarassed, he felt caught, like some creep trying to find his 20 something nurses spotify.

“yeah!” she grinned back, “he asked me for it when you were begging for a change in music” she looked to brendon, he gave her a curt nod, a silent thank you for saving him. she nodded back, wishing her mask was clear so she could tell him he owed her.

when the surgery was finished she began getting all aftercare directions ready humming along to U2. as the residents cleared she noticed brendon standing there.

“can we talk?” he asked, his voice the softest she’d heard it.

“yeah, what’s up?” she smiled as he killed the music.

“i’m so sorry. finding your personal account was an invasion of privac—“

“i already found yours” she laughed, “no sweat, doctor park” she said drawing out the vowels in his name, the title so sultry coming from her lips.

“you what?”

“yeah? i like knowing what old man stuff you listen to while you do your old man things” she giggled taking off her surgical cap. before he could reply, the door shot.

“dr.park, they need a consult in the ED” a resident said, not seeing the moment he interrupted.

“leaving me for robinavitch, not the first time that’s happened” she pouted.

“idiots,” he grumbled shoving his surgical cap in his pocket.

“if the feeling is mutual, text me, sharkie” she smiled as they left the OR. he nodded before getting called away.

after work he opened his phone to see a text from her already.

You pushed open the door to twelve and was greeted with cigarette breath and stale perfume.

“Hey, sugar tits!”

“Myrna,” you greeted. “I thought we agreed we'd stop meeting like this.”

She chuckled, showing off teeth that weren't particularly white anymore, stained by years of smoking and drinking. “What can I say? I can't get away from you hot stuff.”

Myrna was around enough you were shocked she didn't have her own room. She did have her preference of wheelchairs, the one that had the smoothest wheels she deemed that made pushing around the Pitt and chasing doctors easier.

“What are we in for today?” you asked, folding your hands over her age old chart and keeping to the end of the bed.

Her brows rose. “Aren't you gonna come any closer?” she teased, crooking a finger into her as best she could from where they were restrained softly to the bed.

“Myrna you know I'm married.”

“Happily?”

“Sadly.”

“To the fruitcake?”

“Still,” you said with an amused smirk. Sometimes when you wanted to annoy Robby you'd call him fruitcake and watch his face twist up.

Myrna scoffed. “Pathetic.”

“You had another seizure?” you asked, knowing already her usual tricks.

“Yeah.”

“Who brought you in?”

“Some guy.”

“And what was his name this time?”

“Antonio. Italian. Handsome,” she said with a drool. “Looked great in his uniform.” Myrna pulled at her restraints again as you walked around her, checking the vitals another nurse (most likely Dana) had already took. “Are these really necessary?”

“They are when police bring you in.”

“Is this because I grabbed fruitcakes ass?” she asked.

“No, Myrna,” you said, checking her IV. “It's because you grabbed my ass.”

As if she were proud of herself, Myrna grinned and chuckled.

The door behind you pushed open gently, two bodies, one tall and lean and the other slightly rounded blocking the doorway.

“And this is, Myrna. Seizure activity, or so she says,” said Robby as he gestured from his son next to him to the lady in the bed.

Carter's med student days had been spent mostly in Presby, in order to avoid such conflicts of interests like working with his mom and dad in the ED. However, Presby was closed for up to two weeks due to a viral outbreak and quarantines that Robby insisted Carter come do days in the Pitt.

Carter was pressed in his fresh and light coloured scrubs, a polished stethoscope slung over his shoulders and a pep in his step. Looking at him, you wouldn't have thought he was roaming the halls he ran through as a child, talking to Dana as if he didn't use to babble incoherently at her.

“Myrna, say hello,” said Robby, passing you a nod.

Instead, Myrna dragged her tongue over her teeth and growled.

Carter all but jumped back.

“Fruitcake, you've multiplied,” she smirked.

“Don't worry, Carter,” you said. “She's harmless.”

“She's-she's tied to the bed.”

“Exactly. So she's harmless,” you said. “Just don't get too close if you're examining her, she bites.”

At first Carter laughed but when nobody- not even Myrna- laughed with him, he fell silent, looking between his dad and you. Robby only nodded, confirming that fact.

“Who is this tall, lean, fresh blood?” Myrna asked, eyeing him up.

“Myrna, this is Carter. Our kid. He is doing a emergency medicine rotation and is here to learn,” said Robby.

Carter's chest puffed out, his hair that was soft to the touch and bounced around like Robby's used to do, fell in front of his eyes.

Myrna shifted in her bed. “You need to do a physical, huh?”

“He does not,” said Robby. “Rest easy, we'll be back soon.”

Robby held the door open, letting you and Carter out first as if to protect you from her 'abuse', but he didn't close it quick enough, the nicknames sugar tits and fruitcake floating out behind you.

“What-what was that?” asked Carter, frowning at the names he could have sworn he heard.

“Nothing, don't think about it,” said Robby, a firm had clamped on his shoulder and stirring him away.

“Fruitcake?” he laughed, probably thinking of every way he could use it against him.

“I said don't ask.”

“Don't worry about Myrna, just keep your distance,” you advised.

Carter looked between you and Robby, the both of you in doctor and nurse mode. It was the sort of thing he'd caught glimpses of throughout his life but never seen so much of. The both of you shed the scrubs like skin when you got home, pulling off the medical practices and putting on everything you'd learned about being parents. It was a fine line, Robby had decided, between happiness and work and he wasn't going to drag the dead and the sick into the home he'd created.

“You guys put up with her a lot?” he asked.

Robby huffed. “She comes in to avoid the cops.”

“She's here so often we're thinking of inviting her to thanksgiving next year,” you teased.

“But she doesn't actually bite, does she?” asked Carter, laughing at the very idea.

You and Robby shared a look, ignoring him.

“Just don't find out the hard way, son,” advised Robby, leaving him to it and letting him go.

Carter nodded. “Is she the reason you came home with a bite mark on your shoulder last week?”

He regretted asking almost immediately as he watched your cheeks grow pink and watched Robby fight a smirk down at you. He reached for you, turning you around as you walked away laughing.

“Yeah, sure, son.”

Carter was at the nurses station, leaning over the cool counter and watching the rest of the ward work. He watched nurses float around him, Dana be called off on different ventures, traumas being wheeled in and pushed through doors. Nobody was calling his name. He was waiting to be called, to be rushed into the action.

At some point he watched you and his dad be called around, the two of you taking patients like it was a tag team mission. He watched Robby's hand ghost the small of your back as he directed you around, he watched your careful words console him after tough patients.

So, that's what love was.

The squeak of wheels from behind him sounded, dragging over the floor closer and closer.

“Doctor, doctor, I got a bad case of loving you,” said the drag of a voice.

Carter turned, looking down at the wheelchair. “Oh, I'm not a doctor. I'm a med student.”

“Younger, even better,” she smirked, licking her lips.

“You're Myrna, right?” said Carter, looking around him for help before he was cornered by her.

“Call me mama,” said Myrna.

Carter gulped, eyeing the handcuffs that gleamed in polished silver. She was attached to the wheelchair. Could she still bite him? “Is there anything I can help you with, Myrna?”

“You could make my time worth while,” she said with a lur of desire.

Presby had been a different kind of chaos to PTMC. There'd been a blur of patients and an over crowded hall way of equipment, less put back and clean and darker than here. He could see Myrna in daylight, the ragged pull of a dressing gown which seemed to be strictly hers. The dark colour of exhaustion under her eyes. Hadn't he been told she came here to hide from the cops?

“I need the bath room hot-stuff,” she said, as if catching his hesitation.

“Oh. Right. Yes, course, let me just-” Carter looked around desperately, hoping to catch a face he could put a name to. He drew a blank.

“Come on, sweet-cheeks,” she said, a low droll of her voice. “Never seen a real woman before?”

If he said yes would word get back to his mom? If he said no would word get back to his dad?

Finally, a small doctor in a neatly combed-back braid and glasses walked by, focused and clear of mind.

“Hey! Um, hey! Wait, Can I-Can I get some help?”

She looked back to him, eyes alight. “Oh, Doctor Robby! I mean not-not our Doctor Robby, a Doctor Robby, our third, really,” she frowned at herself and shook her head. “I'm Mel, D-Doctor King.”

“Hey, nice to meet you, Doctor King,” he greeted with a bright smile. “Myrna needs the bathroom and I-”

Mel caught on quick and took over the charge of Myrna who was less than enthusiastic later.

“Strip down and get on my bed, sailor!” she yelled.

Carter's cheeks blazed.

It was one of those days where things seemed quiet for you and Robby. Where patients came in with small complaints that could be handed off to med students and residents, carefully supervised of course.

So carefully supervised from Robby's place in the lounge, you perched on his lap with his arms tightly around you. You were only blocking his view a little bit, he'd know if anyone was dying at least, it was basically a sixth sense.

But with you in his lap, tracing patterns in his hands, Robby didn't seem to care if outside was on fire.

“You know, if this one's another boy,” he said, resting his head on your shoulder, hands pressing into the small, nearly un-noticeable swell of your stomach. “We might have to call him Jack.”

You smirked. It was a running joke that with three sons and one daughter not one of them was named after Jack, even if he was there for the births of them. Once when Robby was not.

“He might start thinking we hate him.”

“But if we have a girl I am not calling her Jaqueline,” you said.

Robby huffed a laugh into your shoulder. “No, definitely not.”

“I think if it's a girl, we should call her Stacey,” you suggested.

“Stacey?” asked Robby, trying to go through everyone you knew to understand why Stacey was an important name. He came up blank.

“So I can be Stacey's mom.”

Robby knew there was a joke there that he didn't understand.

You backed up, peering at him. “You don't know Stacey's mom?”

The door squeaked open, flashes of the Pitt startling the two of you as Dana walked in, pushing her glasses up into her hair.

“There you two are! Hiding out here while the rest of us do your dirty work!” she said, smiling at the sight.

“Is somebody dying, Dana?” asked Robby, smug and still secure with you in lap.

She scoffed. “Yeah, your kid.”

You shuffled in Robby's lap, sitting up straighter. “Carter?” anxiety clawed at your nerves, turned over the little breakfast you'd eaten.

“Myrna's got her claws in him, poor kid,” she said with a show of no sympathy. The truth was all of them had to put up with Myrna at some point. It was always best to get it out the way in the early days. Let Myrna have her fun then she usually left you alone.

Except you. And Robby. By a common trend, Carter might not be so lucky either.

Robby's hands squeezed your thighs, a subtle signal that you were both going to have to get up. “All part of the hazing programme.”

The three of you crept to the door, huddled close and looking out the slim window at the door.

In his scrubs still yet to be strained, Carter was crowded at the counter, Myrna and her wheelchair up to his feet, practically rolling over his toes in the trainers you'd brought him. He was laughing awkwardly and trying to climb up the counter to get away from her. You'd never seen someone so afraid of an elderly woman in a wheelchair.

Robby's chest rumbled in a chuckle as he lingered over you. “He's your son.”

You swatted his chest.

“C'mon,” tutted Dana. “He's doing good. Says he wants to go inter surgery.”

“We taught him where the money is.”

Across the way the three of you noticed you weren't the only one watching the show. Hiding by an exam room, a curtain pulled close you could see Santos and Whitaker watching. Trinity was doing a bad job at hiding her grin while Denis was a decent guy, he looked bad.

“Shouldn't we be helping him out?” you pondered.

“Are you kidding?” smirked Dana. “This is the most fun I've had in years.”

“You think he gets treated better at Presby?” you asked.

Robby shook his head. “Presby doesn't have a Myrna.”

Carter had just stitched up a gruesome cut in a leg, finally staining his scrubs in a speck of blood. It was small but made him feel like a real doctor.

He was just walking past an exam room when he heard calling. He supposed it was for him, though it wasn't his name.

“Hey! Pussycat!”

He paused past the exam room, hand grasped at the doorframe to steady him. Sweet-cheeks. Hot-stuff. Pussycat. Carter dreaded to think what she could come up with next.

Carter stepped back. “It's-It's Carter, or Robinavitch.”

“Yeah, yeah, plenty of them,” she said, holding up her arm as far as she could while restrained. “I got an itch.”

“Okay?”

Her restraints jangled again as she proved a point. “I can't reach.”

He was stuck in spot, wondering if Myrna had been paid by his parents to make his day harder. With a sigh he took a step in at her bed side, making an exaggerated move in tugging on powderless, latex gloves.

She watched and rolled her eyes.

Carter was tempted to pull on a mask to prove a point. “Where's the itch?”

Myrna tugged a little at her gown, exposing the curve of her thigh. “Right here,” she said, as seductive as she could.

Carter stared down at the skin, veins a deep blue and a wide purple bruise forming over where she needed the itch. He drew a stool closer and settled, drawing a delicate circle around the mark. “When did this happen?”

“When the cops caught me, itch!”

Gently, Carter started to drag his fingers over the mark she emphasised. He eyed the bruise still, trying to find the best way about it. Had anyone else examined her? “I could get you a band for that,” he said. “To help with the inflammation. Some elevation and that-”

“Higher!” she said.

Carter looked to see if she had listened to him. It seemed she had not. He moved half an inch further, knowing where his hand would end up if he went any more, or even if she shifted.

“You know know one's been this high up to me since my third husband,” she said.

“What happened to the other two?”

“I killed them!”

When Carter looked up at her she seemed only smug and proud of herself. It was impossible to tell what was a lie.

Myrna rose her brows in challenge.

Carter itched a second more before slowly taking away his hand, yet she latched on like a snake sinking in its claws when his hand brushed hers. “Is your... itch satisfied?”

“Not yet sugar,” she smirked. “You want to see my Vagina?”

Carter felt his cheeks rise up in heat.

“Myrna,” you appeared in the doorway, leaning there with your pleasing smile, the sort reserved for patients. At home, the kids got a different one. And Robby got another one. “Are you behaving?”

“Me? Please. I'm a good girl,” she said with a wink, releasing Carter.

He fell to your side quickly, like you could protect him.

“Really? Cause we've had a complaint from a nurse saying you grabbed his ass,” you said.

Her face fell. “That grey-haired pussycat? There was nothing there for me to grab, please.”

“So you're keeping your hands to yourself?” you asked.

“Urm, mom- I-I mean Nurse Robinavitch,” said Carter with a clear of his throat. “Miss- Mrs, er-”

“It's just Myrna, Carter.”

“Oh, okay.”

“She won't tell us her last name,” you added, looking to her pointedly.

“It changes!”

“Myrna has a pretty bad coloured bruise on her thigh,” he said. “I suggested a band to help with the swelling and elevation.”

You nodded. “She knows all of this. We put a band on her when she came in with the bruising, she just choses not to.”

“You want to see my vagina?” asked Myrna.

Carter looked back to you. “And she keeps asking that.”

“I'd be worried if she didn't.”

“Can I see yours?” she asked.

Carter suddenly really didn't want to be in that room.

You patted his shoulder, gently leading him out the room. “When you become a doctor, Myrna and I have a problem you'll be the first I go to, I promise.”

You closed the door behind you and chuckled quietly, shaking your head.

“Is she- is she a real patient?” Carter asked. “Or has dad paid her to do all this?”

“Myrna is as real as they get. Just wait till you meet Earl.”

“Who's Earl?”

“Don't ask.”

It was only one hour later when Carter knew what all the warnings about Myrna had been about. Why Jesse had complained about her hand and his butt. He knew it in the cigarette breath, the scratch of a wheelchair against the floor and the pinch in his ass.

“Ah- what the-”

Myrna was still looking down at him when Carter turned, biting his tongue. “You have a much better ass than your daddy.”

“Okay, Myrna, that's-”

Before he could erupt about how wrong it was to flirt, to pet name, to touch, two doctors slid up on either side of her.

“Hey, pussycat,” said Santos, taking the bars of the wheelchair and pushing her away. Next to her Javadi accompanied and Carter followed slowly to see what happened to her. “We've got your discharge papers.”

“Fuck off,” she grumbled.

“Ah, my own term of endearment.”

“So you're like-” started Javadi next to Carter. “The prince of this place?”

Carter was surprised it had taken this long for someone to bring up his name. To bring up the fact he was a Robinavitch. “I mean, I don't know about prince.”

“Please,” said Santos with a scoff as she pushed the door open to Myrna's room with her back. “You're set to inherit this place when Robby retires. Or if.”

He didn't think Robby would ever retire. There were days his dad relaxed, always easier when with you. If the both of you had days off, which seemed to be the only days you and Robby took off, Carter could usually find the two of you at each other's side. It was all romantic but as the child to witness the stolen kisses in the kitchen, the moments you both thought you were being sneaky in making excuses as to why Casey shouldn't come in their room for ten minutes, it was also embarrassing.

In PTMC it didn't seem to change that much.

Robby still touched you all the time. Still looked for you when he left every exam room, still called for you at every trauma. He almost envied anyone else ever trying to get in Robby's good books because your name took up the whole thing.

Robby wasn't leaving this place without you.

“I'm thinking about surgery, actually,” he said.

Victoria's eyes widened. “Surgery. Woah. That's- that's really cool,” she said with a dusting of pink on her cheeks.

Santos's eyes rolled. “Surgery, yeah, great.”

“She's got a lover up in surgery,” said Myrna as she moved herself back into bed.

Carter's brows rose. “O-oh?”

“You know,” said Javadi as he looked back to her. She was staring up at him, a sparkle in her eyes. “It's-it's like they copy and pasted Doctor Robby.”

“Yeah, I- I get that a lot.”

“Goin’ into medicine like them?” Said Myrna with a cheap Ha! Punctuated at the end. “What’s the point? I won’t be around forever to watch out for you Robinavitch’s.”

“Don’t say that, Myrna,” Trinity said with an air of boredom, like she’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “You’re gonna live forever.”

Myrna chuckled dryly.

“I-I’m thinking of psychiatry,” said Victoria, still to Carter. “Emergency psychiatry.”

Carter nodded. “Cool.”

“You think so?” She blushed.

“Crash, you can’t flirt with Carter,” said Santos. “That’s like flirting with Robby.”

Victoria stuttered, ponytail swooshing as she looked between her and Carter. “I’m-I’m not flirting. What? No, I-I would never and that’s totally- totally-”

“Honey,” said Myrna. “This is painful.”

With some dull excuse, Javadi scrambled away quickly, Carter still trying to figure out just what had happened as he watched her go.

Santos looked at where she’d left. “Damn. Crash crashed.”

You were hunched over at the nurses station, chasing up labs for Robby as he always knew how to ask sweetly. In the dim reflection of the glow of the screen you saw Myrna creeping closer, regular clothes adorned.

“Myrna,” you warned.

“Can't a girl say hello?”

“So long as your hands are to yourself.”

“Then how are we supposed to shake hands?” she hummed, the gruff sort.

You shook your head and fought of a smile as you slowly turned to her. “I'm sure you'll be shaking something. Are you going home?”

Myrna smirked. “The city doesn't sleep for anyone.”

It wasn't a secret to you what Myrna did that had her being brought in so often enough you typically always had a gown and room ready, even her favourite snacks in the lounge. She'd maybe never said it in so many words but you knew the streets were her domain, the hospital her sanctuary. You'd offered to help, dropped of pamphlets on her first few visits before you realised she only used it to dump her gum.

“So, I'll be seeing you soon?”

“You know I can't stay away from you, Sugar Tits.”

“Don't I know it,” you said, walking her out to the doors. The real VIP treatment of passing through the ambulance bay.

“Your kid is good,” she grumbled.

You smiled to yourself. “You think so?”

“He's on a tight leash. You must have warned him about me?”

“That we did.”

She rolled her eyes, her mascara smudging at the edges. “He'll be an annoyingly good doctor. Just like his daddy.”

“Who knows, maybe the next time you're here he'll be around to patch you up.”

The automatic doors slid open as you walked her outside, letting her give her flirtatious smiles and winks to the paramedics on call and a special blow of the kiss to Ahmed.

“Yeah,” said Myrna in the dying light of the day. “I left him a little something to remember me by, just in case he forgets me.”

You chuckled. “I don't think he'll be forgetting you.”

When she was far away enough, Myrna popped a cigarette between her cracking lips and lit it up. Though she may have squeezed the asses of any hospital worker close enough, she respected the rules enough to stand out of the no smoking zone and light one up.

“Well, see you around sugar tits!”

You watched her slowly walk off, the click-clack of her heels fading as she went.

The doors behind you sounded and Robby's arm slowly slid over your shoulders.

“Was that Myrna?” he asked.

“Yeah, she's off to fight crime and defend our streets,” you teased.

“You worry about her?”

You worried about everything. Really, it was your job as a nurse. Your regulars who came in, Earl with his sandwich requests, Louis and his stories, Myrna with her nicknames. You worried that every time you saw them it would be your last.

Robby drew you in closer to his chest, caving you in in his warmth. “She'll be back, then you'll be sorry.”

Behind you the ambulance bay doors slid open and closed again and a distressed voice called out.

“Why is this in my bag?”

The both of you turned to Carter who was pink in the cheeks and hands trembled as he held up a thin and stringy lingerie set. It was pink with bows, saggy in all the wrong places and teared slightly at the seems.

You chuckled as Robby stared, almost as alarmed as Carter. “That's Myrna's gift. From her to you.”

You had a felling she'd be back for that.

How you were stuck pulling the day shift for Sully didn’t make sense. They could’ve assigned Reddy, the co-chief to take over leaving Dr. Revere as the only fourth year as nights. Emmick’s explanation was that it wasn’t her choice. You’ve worked days before. Park thinks you’re the only one who can adjust, she shrugged. 

You had gone on a tangent when you video called Sully.

He was off in Chicago arranging for his permanent move in three months. An official tour of the hospital he’d be working at, viewing apartments he had seen only in photos, and spending time with his long distance girlfriend since med school.

He was currently enjoying his life while you were trying to readjust your body to the day shift. 

You spent enough time being nocturnal you forgot how prickly the sun was against your skin. When you walked out of your apartment and to your car, you resembled that of a vampire seeing the sun after a hundred years of darkness. Your eyes were bloodshot red from the restless sleep and the intrusion of UV rays to your retina. 

After hand off, you were assigned to work with a new fourth year med student previously working with Sully. She was a mousy girl with two braids and a pink stethoscope. She barely spoke when you introduced yourself to her, but you brushed it off as nerves. That made the most sense when you realized she kept eyeing you like a kid with a stranger. 

It wasn’t until you bought her an ice coffee from the café downstairs that she eased up.

“How did you get pulled into the day shift?” Maura questioned, walking alongside you through the emergency department. She was lighter than before. You assumed the caffeine must have energized her spirits.

You scoffed, hands swaying beside you as you walked. “I have the misfortune of being friends with the chief resident, which I guess means I’m his assigned coverage.”

“Sully?” She questioned, fiddling with the digital chart in her hand.

You nodded your head with a small grin. “Yup. He gets the luxury of jumping ship while I’m stuck covering his shifts.”

“Is day shift that bad?” She asked. You both stopped before reaching North 3. “I mean, I know about Dr. Park, but apart from that?”

Pumping hand sanitizer on your hands, Maura followed your lead, both rubbing your hands. You shrugged, “He’s a good surgeon with not so great social skills. Apart from that, I’m just too used to the darkness.”

Maura laughed lightly, before shaking her hands to dry off the rest of the hand sanitizer. She grabbed the tablet she tucked in her arms, staring down at the chart. “Charlie Braun, 26. Fell while rollerblading at a local park.”

You hummed, paced beside her before stopping at the open curtain of North 3. Smiling at the brunette man sitting up on the bed, lightly flinching as he adjusted his position, Maura continued. “Closed fracture. Neurovascularly intact. Ready for reduction.”

“Does that mean you can fix this?” Charlie tried to joke, chuckling dryly as he attempted to put a smile.

With your hands behind your back, you approached the left side of the bed where Maura had positioned herself. Grinning at Charlie brought a sigh from him. “That’s the expectation, Mr. Braun.”

“Please call me Charlie. Mr. Braun is my father.” He threw his head back, taking in steady breaths.

“Nice to meet you, Charlie.” You concluded while straightening your back after hovering over his arm. Turning to Maura, she straightened her posture. “Walk me through your neurovascular exam.”

She hesitates for a moment. The smile on your face, encouraging and thoughtful of her confidence which didn’t demean her. Charlie noted the quietness, curiously deciphering the looks the two of you were sharing. Maura’s hands clammed against the device, and you closed in to relax her from the pressure.

You read the notation. You knew exactly what she had checked and she did a good job at translating her notes, but there was one thing. You were mostly glad you caught it before anyone else did, especially from Park. Before she could open her mouth and verbalize the thought, you shook your head. “Let’s go over it again.” 

You gently pulled the tablet from her hand, motioning your head to Charlie. With a steady breath, she pulled out a pair of gloves from the wall before approaching Charlie’s arm. Her hands moved gently around his hand and wrist, announcing every response to stimuli. This time she went over the median nerve distribution. Lifting her eyes up at you, she noted the nod you gave her, acknowledging the error efficiently. 

When she concluded with the textile and questions for Charlie, she yanked off the gloves, relieved. Offering her the tablet again, you faced Charlie. “We will proceed with the reduction, Charlie. We will move you to pre-op soon to fix that up nicely.”

The toothy smile he gave you somehow made the room brighter, like his anxiety about the whole thing was dissipating with the constant reassurance. He shook his head eagerly, glancing at you then Maura. “Thank you both.”

“No problem. We will see you soon.” You excused the both of you, walking away from the patient room to the nearest sanitized dispenser. You noted the weary glance Maura made towards you as she followed at your heels. You brought her farther away from the patient room before turning to her.

With your eyes set on her, she tightened her shoulders, the small bangs on her face bouncing. “I’m sorry for not checking the median nerve. It was a stupid mistake.”

Folding your hands behind your back, you waited for a beat before speaking. “Do you know why we check the median nerve?”

When Maura paused, you noticed the shift in her eyes. She was still embarrassed she needed correcting. Sully taught her for a couple of weeks now, and the self-disappointment was evident in her small frown. “Because swelling can compress.”

“And if we miss it?” 

“Permanent dysfunction.” She sighed out, the truth of the matter evident. 

“Exactly.” You confirmed, not tensely but appreciative she understood the consequences. One step closer to performing to the best of her abilities. The silence made her look at you funnily, expecting some other fault for you to throw at her, as if it was too good to be true. “I read the notes from the first exam, apart from that, everything looked good.”

Maura smiled shakily. The resemblance between her and you from the beginning of your intern year was uncanny. Working alongside Park provided pertinent insight on how the rest of your residency would go. The good thing was you weren’t molded exactly to Park’s image. You didn’t scowl at every mistake and you didn’t bully Maura into correcting it. Your trust in her built her trust in herself.

Mouth slightly agape, you heard the call of your name from off to the side. Simultaneously looking for the source of the voice, at the nearest nursing station you saw Park nodding his head over at you. He was at a distance that would let anyone with acute hearing pick up what you two were discussing. Knowing your luck, you shouldn’t be surprised to see Park.

“Go ahead and chart the new observations, then I’ll go over surgical planning with you.” You told her warmly, letting her escape while she could.

One anxious look at Park, the clench of his jaw as he acknowledged her feeble presence, had her practically scurrying to the elevators by the trauma rooms. You made sure she was out of ear shot before coming up beside Park. “What brings you down here, Dr. Park?”

“Trauma paged,” He responded curtly. Looking past you, he eyed the small girl you focused on opening her up professionally. If looks could kill, Park would have you all hanging in a meat locker. “How’s the med student?”

Taking the chance to look behind you, Maura was already stepping into the elevator, chatting it up with an OBGYN resident sporting pink scrubs. “Maura is picking up quickly. I don’t know if she wants to do orthopedics, but she’s doing as good as some of the R2’s.”

“She made a mistake.” Park announced the obvious. When you turned back to look at him, you tightened your lips. Exactly what you were waiting for. 

Park hadn’t changed much since you transitioned to the night shift. He was still observing, watching where you’d linger, questioning you post-operations. Apart from the small consideration he had for you after the pile up on the interstate, there wasn’t anything remotely different.

He still guarded and protected his placement and responsibilities. You didn’t expect him to be mushy, but you weren’t eager to be working the day shift either. 

With an upside smile, you agreed blandly. “She’s learned from it.”

“She has a delayed reaction and she can’t remember basic neurovascular exam requirements.” Park opposed, as if looking for you to admit the flaw.

It was easy to say she messed up, to do the work, and tell her she needed to fix it. It took more work having her recognize the lapse, redo it for her sake, and remind herself why it is important. It was efficient for her education and the lives of the patient she would work with.

“Maura is new. She is a med student here to learn.” You restated. Park knew that, but it didn’t interest him. They were excuses to him. Cover-ups that put patient lives at risk.

You knew better than to feed into his wants. This wasn’t a debate more so than a jab to get a reaction from you. He probably was aware of your dissatisfaction for having to work the day shift for the next two weeks. You didn’t exactly come in bubbling with excitement, especially if it meant it granted Park the Shark ample opportunities to grovel his teeth into you.

With a tight smile, you looked up at him. “Anything else you have to say about the med student I’m responsible for?”

He eyed you curiously. It felt like being back in his office again. He was too busy thinking in his head to warrant you a verbal response. The tick in his crossed arms had you wondering what exactly he thought of you now. The slightly presumptuous demonstration of loyalty to a med student you just met probably didn’t rub him the right way. 

“Welcome back to day shift.” He said blandly, before passing around you.

“So, have you heard anything about Sully?” Emmick’s voice rang as she came up behind you.  

Handoff with the night shift had just begun. You had made past the first shift of 10 you’d have to work with Park. So far it was looking to be manageable. You were not optimistic that you two would be close friends by the end of your small stint. If the last conversation you two had was an indication of how your next two weeks would go, you believed you two still had some air to clear up in order to work together.

You smiled as Emmick offered you a paper cup, the aroma of coffee hitting your nose. With your free hand, you cautiously grabbed the cup from her. “He’s enjoying himself. Maybe too much, considering he still has to come back and finish off three more months of his residency.”

“The boy is excited. It’s his first, adult job.” Emmick joked, briefly sipping her coffee. 

Continuing to follow the small group of residents making their way to post-op, Emmick slowed down, curving to stand against the wall of the hallway. You hesitated, flashing her furrowed brows. She eased you with a smile, motioning you closer. “I may have heard you had some thoughts about your life after residency as well.”

With a tight lip smiled, you scrunched your face. It was one time. You had offhandedly mentioned to Sully about moving to Chicago. He had caught you one morning on his day off surfing through fellowships in the Chicago area. You had considered specializing in adult reconstruction (after the plentiful trauma surgeries you had worked on). It was a lucid thought after having worked 12 hours and running off the little after taste of an energy drink. 

You weren’t serious, but you were willing to plan a backup option if your fourth year plummeted.

“Did Sully tell you something?” You questioned, tucking the tablet in-between your rib and your arm. You stepped aside as other surgical staff passed down the hall.

She shrugged, diplomatic yet curious. “Nothing worth repeating, but I believe in proactive action.”

“I think you should strongly consider where you want to go.” She advised–earnest in her investment. 

When Park talked about life after residency, it was a lecture on proving his teachings were not absent. He was looking for his resident’s work to prove he had done his job properly. With Emmick, it was a mentor trying to help them land on the final steps of their training. She wasn’t holding your hand, but merely standing by your side to choose between all the beaten and narrow paths.

“There are many good fellowships down in Chicago. Many of which you would excel at.” She teased, the crinkle in the corner of her eyes matching her smile lines. “I spent my residency and fellowship there. I also met my wife. It brings me fond memories.”

You chuckled nervously, grasping the cup tighter. “Did Sully put you up to this?”

She had an indescribable look on her face. Skeptical by your question while entertained with pushing your buttons. Not frustratingly like Park would, but to stimulate you to use your brain like in surgery. While straightening her shoulder, she eyed you carefully.  “No, but I know he’s trying to persuade you.”

“He’s just—“

“Looking out for you?”

Emmick interrupted gently, enamored with your flustered sense of speech. She had seen residents circulate as much as air. She always had an embarrassing story of a resident. You always wondered what she might say about you, especially if you left.

You sagged, defeated and aware it was just the two of you in the hallway. She offered an apologetic smile, “I’m sure he means well, but you have a lot of potential to use wherever you go. Whether that’s here or elsewhere.”

The scoff that left you had her curling her lips higher. “Here? With Dr. Park? And you? I couldn’t possibly measure up to those standards.”

“Anything can happen.” She suggested, obviously more open minded then you were. When did you become so pessimistic? “I may not always be here. Brendon will probably rather die than transfer out. I always told him he was too comfortable.”

You laughed. The royal throne the Admin at PTMC created for him was so high; he didn’t let anything intimidate his position. It was laughable. The idea you could rumble the floor he stood on. The third-year resident Park abhorrently corrected, openly for humiliation. You would prefer a public execution to rid you of your misery instead.

“But, that can change too. Don't underestimate the power of your charm.” She winked at you, which made the color rise on your cheek.

Before you can oppose or deflect into something that didn't include talking about Park and you, Emmick straightened her stance, looking past you with brightened eyes. “Park, how was the day shift?”

You immediately spun around, hoping to not see exactly whom you two were talking about. It took everything in you to flash him a polite smile as you begged to whatever high authority could hear you that Park’s ears did not pick up anything about him. 

His hands swayed, muscles probed by the tight sleeves of his scrub top. He looked at Emmick with the scrunched lips and tight jaw. “Enlightening.”

The monotone response didn’t sound enlightening. You peeked at the watch on the inside of your wrist. The two of you hadn’t been gone for long, but for Park, any delay is unnecessary. He then moved his sights on you, tablet tucked away with the coffee in your hand. He eyed you down, like some high school kids caught without their hall pass, before turning back to Emmick. “Do you make it a habit to distract the residents?”

Emmick grinned, shaking her head. “You don't scare me, Brendon.”

Her hand landed on your shoulder, flashing you her dashing smile. Distracted, she pulled the tablet from your arm. “I was just catching up with my star pupil that you’ve so selfishly pulled from the night shift”

You look at her suspiciously. Selfish? Park the Shark was cruel and brusque, but never did that amount to selfishness. If anything, the one redeeming quality you could agree on was his selflessness. He did everything on behalf of patient care, even if his methods were unorthodox. 

“You still have R&R. I could’ve switched any of them for Sullivan, Marla.” He quipped back, not too intrigued with playing a game. His eyes still hooded and although misery was his best company, he seemed comfortable making the jokes with Emmick.

“Except you didn’t.”

You had bowed your head at that point, wondering how inappropriate it would be just to slip away without so much as an excuse. It wasn’t the type of limelight you wanted over you. With every passing second, you awaited Park’s sharp jaws. Considering you weren't anywhere near the other residents (where you should be), your blood pressure spiked with anticipation for the subject to pop up.

“No hard feelings, Park. She’s pretty special, isn’t she?” Emmick mumbled as she brushed past his shoulder.

When you lifted your head, your gazes met and she had on the same playful smile she was using with Park. She didn’t elaborate more as she departed towards post-op, leaving you and Park standing alone with each other. With an awkward laugh, your hands relied on the coffee cup to hide the sudden discomfort of the desolate hallway,

His head craned to watch Emmick disappear, and when she was far away, he set his sights on you. Emmick complimented every one of the residents, shamelessly. What she hadn’t done was practically shove you down Park’s throat. There was little reaction to the rhetorical question, except the crossing of his arms.

Suddenly embarrassed, your brain fumbled to form a coherent thought. “We were just talking about my life after residency. Inappropriate timing—“

“What is Emmick trying to convince you to do now?” He questioned, his forehead pinching ever so slightly.

“Nothing.” You responded, quizzical of the question. Now? A gnawing sensation picked in your stomach at the idea of Park and Emmick speaking privately about anything regarding you.

Knowing Emmick, she was hopelessly trying to convince Park to oppose the antagonistic view he had on his residents. Referring to them as humans still learning instead of cogs in the machine. You didn’t think that meant defending your character behind those closed doors. Shaking your head, you sighed. “She was checking in with me about my plans after residency. It was bad timing, but she is my attending.”

“While you’re on the night shift,” Park recalled curtly, tucking his head barely to stare at through his long eyelashes, wispy while also emphasizing his dark blue pupils. “Right now, you should be handing off to the night shift so you can go home like the rest of your co-residents.”

Nodding once, you began making your way around him. There was no reason to erupt in some disagreement over an argument that he was right about. You kept your head down while you walked down the hall and you noticed the sounds of footsteps following behind you. Trying to ease your body with the coffee, you took a hasty sip. 

“I know Emmick managed to convince you to move to the night shift, but you should make your own decisions over what you do after your residency.”

You stopped in your steps, spinning around with raised eyebrows at your attending. That wasn’t what you told him when you gave him your monologue. You hadn’t even mentioned what Emmick had told you because it had little to do with the actual reason. Meanwhile, the actual reason was standing right in front of you.

The idea was to be civilized with Park, to move onto the night shift as smoothly as possible. So far, it was working. He continued to linger in ways you didn’t expect. He’d ask a question or remind you of your responsibilities. What you didn’t expect was for it to feel different. 

He had stood up to you from Dr. Norton. He had gently (compared to his previous nature) been considerate after 30 hours on the clock. None of that was residue of the attending who had belittled you in the hallways. Echoes of his name and his methods of teaching you as his resident were fading.

None of that meant that you had turned over a new leaf. There was still time to convince you otherwise. Instead of letting the slight bitterness of his tongue sour your mood, you offered him a tight lip smile. Regretfully, you were still hopeful you were wrong about the type of attending Dr. Brendon Park was. “That’s the plan, Dr. Park.”

He folded his arm, his chin elevated. There was no need for the power play. You made it clear there was no competition between you and him–not that you felt you had an inkling of the talent he had. You were confident in your work as yourself, but not nearly enough in the work he considered perfection.  

“That means not letting Sullivan convince you to do what he wants either.” He sharply followed.

You were sure he had seen the small retraction. Now, you were definitely confused. To you, it was clear Park didn’t have excessive personal concern over his resident. He didn’t ask them courteous questions about their days off or their aspirations or goals. It mattered little to him. As long as it didn’t make him look bad, it seemed to be the most concern he had. 

“What makes you think I’m going to Chicago?” You incredulously asked, your eyebrows curved downward. He didn't need to elaborate to make his point. With Sully gone for the exact implication Park was making, it left little to question.

It was a major ‘eye roll’ situation. You didn’t want to repeat yourself. The only reason you had put your career on the line, shaming Park as if you had nothing to lose, was for the opportunity of staying. If you had enough respect to your name and your work, Admin could potentially stand against Park the Shark’s opposition.

Sucking in a sharp breath, your hand brushed away the stray hairs tickling your face. “Dr. Park, I’ve made it clear my intentions are to stay at PTMC.”

“But, if that stops becoming an option, I will make sure to weigh my options out wisely.” You were satiating whatever prompted the conversation. Whether it was the grudge he still held or the fact you were talking with Emmick while working under his shift, it was making you nervous. 

He hummed deeply, and you were sure it was the end. Not that you wanted the last word, but you just wanted to go home to recharge enough to endure him the next shift. After this conversation, there was no doubt the alter of your sleep schedule was messing with your brain. Dr. Park was starting to appear more as a mentor than a dictator.

“It shouldn’t unless you don’t want it to be.”

You felt your lower jaw loosen in shock. Was it an endorsement? Whatever happened with Norton seemed like a slip-up. Just an excuse to not delay patient care, which was fine as long as your head wasn’t on a stick by the end of. The patient had survived, which was a win for all parties.

This surpassed that, and it created a whirlpool in your mind. Maybe you were reading too much into it. Brendon Park was complicated and you had decided long ago it wasn’t worth racking your brain over.

Before you could stop it, Park plucked the cup from your hand. You attempted to reach back for it, which only made him pull it farther from your grasp. With a straight face, he started walking away, your still warm coffee cup in your hand. “No drinking in patient care areas.”

You had tried to convince Maura to go home. It was your job to answer the consultations, no matter how late duty called. Therefore, when Annette found the two of you wandering past the nurse’s station, passing along the message from the ED, it left you answering the call. That is when you told Maura to pack up. She wasn’t being paid to put in the overtime.

She insisted, though. Arguing it was beneficial for her education to adapt to the demands of the job. You weren’t convinced she wanted to do orthopedic surgery yet. The drive would help her in a trauma unit like the ED or General Surgery.

When the door swung open of Trauma 1, you saw the small fleet of ED staff including Dr. Shen, Langdon, and King. Among the sea of gray and black scrubs, you caught the plum scrubs from across. With her hair tied back, it was easy to make out the huff and grin she sported, as if she was surprised to see you. “Where have you been?”

While pulling out a pair of gloves, you chuckled. “Dr. Walsh, haven’t you heard? They’ve put me on the dreaded day shift for the next couple of weeks.”

Walsh rolled her eyes playfully, arms folded. “Of course, Park did. Just a cloud of misery.”

“If it’s any consolation, we love having you around, shark pup.” Langdon huffed out, working beside Dr. King, who smiled and nodded enthusiastically.

Your eyes began to put together the scene. A conscious male patient on the gurney, hooked to monitors and medications. What you had neglected was still standing towards the corner, watching like a deer in the headlight. Walsh, with her dog-like scent, cocked her head to the side, staring straight behind you. “Who’s Bambi over there?”

When you glanced over your shoulder, you caught the wide eye stare she gave Walsh. You just realized she did look like a doe. Pointing a finger internally, she swallowed thickly. “Me?”

“Play nice, Walsh.” You playfully jabbed, which earned you a playful surrender of her arms. With a polite smile, you acknowledged everyone before turning back to the med student. “Maura, MS-4.”

“Meet Dr. Walsh, night shift surgical attending.” Your hand pointed in her direction, like serving her on a silver platter. Walsh liked to joke she was royalty if Park was to be the residential predator. With a military background, she was one-step away from earning a crown. 

Maura waved a shaky hand–somehow, more intimidated humanizing Emery Walsh and her devilish smirk. “Nice to meet you.”

“I wish it were under better circumstances.” Walsh jerked her head to the patient. Maura finally took the invitation to take the leap of fate, while you were already at the bedside, leaning over the patient.

“What is your name sir?” You asked softly, yet loud enough over the monitors, chatter, and sounding of machines. 

His breath was trembling and his line of sight glued to the ceiling. Despite the fact you tried to slip yourself into his purview, his state of shock was overcoming him. The C-collar keeping his face upward didn’t make it any easier to assimilate to his surroundings.

“Nate.” He shakily let out,

“Hello Nate.” You responded, a smile gracing your lips, even if he couldn't see it. Indicating to Maura to your right, you clasped your hands. “We are from orthopedic surgery and we are going to take care of you, alright?”

He hesitantly tried to nod his head, the morphine masking most of the pain he probably felt in his neck and collar. You turned to Maura, capturing her attention, pushing her to focus. “Maura, go ahead with the neurovascular exam.”

Maura stared at you, uncertain and something relative to scared. With a firm nod, she finally listened. You pulled away, wandering over to peek at the imaging. You saw her hands go over to the open tibial shaft fracture. Stalling at first, then she touched the deformed leg. Walsh was watching the examination, asking the patient to move his foot and toes. She’d notice the small grimaces on her face. “You aren’t squeamish are you, Maura?”

“Emery.” Came the warning sign from you, supervising the examination. Maura eyes were fleeting between the two of you, mostly nervous Walsh was sniffing out a flaw she hadn’t nipped away. Your eyes remained on her as you came closer to the bedside.

“Yikes, first name.” Walsh joked, shaking her head humorously. There was a sound behind you, like the door opening, which you paid no mind to. “Did you learn that from Park?”

“It works, doesn’t it?”

That sound did call for your attention. With your eyebrows shot up, you spun quickly, alarmed. Park was already snapping on his own gloves, examining the matching, caught-off-guard stares from you and Maura. Annette knew the consultation had been answered, meaning the party wasn’t necessary. You wondered whether he already knew of the consult before you came down—wanted to test your patience when you should’ve been long gone with the rest of day shift. 

His name was the only thing that could come out of your mouth at first. He approached the bedside to your right, closer to the patient's head than his legs, where most of your concerns lie. With his towering height, he didn't need to lean over to see the fracture. It was an odd sensation to feel his bicep brush against you, the room suddenly stuffy.

Tearing your eyes from looking up at him, you looked over at Maura, putting on an easy smile. “Maura was just about to tell me what she found from the neurovascular exam.”

If she wasn’t nervous walking in, she was shaking now. Up to this point, you had managed to hide her from the great white shark. It wasn’t pity so much as mercy. If she had any desire to apply for orthopedic residencies, she didn’t need the likes of Dr. Park ruining her hope. He considered dreams thoughtless actions. You had conferring ideologies. You hummed, “Thoughts?”

She cleared her throat, acutely aware everyone had their eyes on her somehow. Park and you were more expectant than the others. Retracting her hands, you could notice the flushed look on her face. “I think everything is intact.”

“You think?” Park asked rhetorically. 

Her body deflated in an instant. It was like a bad dream. All the embarrassing moments you recalled of yourself as an intern, trying not to make a fool of yourself while failing miserably. Accepted in a trauma-1 hospital in the orthopedic surgery program, you always feared to be out of your depth. You didn’t see yourself having the qualifications to match. Maura had some qualities you wished you had at her age instead of flipping around like a fish out of water.

Before Park could inquire punitively about her vague answer, you inched closer. “What do you feel uncertain about?”

Instead of looking at Park's formidable disapproval, she turned to you for some assurance. This would be unfit for a resident. Park always preached about hesitancy and lack of preparedness. Nothing was worse than showing up to a consultation like a deer in the headlights. While Maura was a medical student, she still had many opportunities to turn it around in her favor. She gnawed at her lower lip, “I don’t know. It didn’t feel right.”

“Do it again.” You instructed firmly. It wasn’t a demand, but it was a firm redirection from the clouds in her head. You knew the fog was hard to navigate. Her own mind was playing tricks on her. With the pressure to perform with Park in the room, you could sense it was in control of her rationale.

She agreed, placing her hands back on the patient’s leg. While she re-asked Nate to enact some movement, you were watching his face for stimuli.

“Present.” Park announced while Maura continued her exam. He circled around you and Maura, to the x-ray machine towards the double doors. He leaned over the machine, soaking in the images.

“Nate. Twenty-three year old male involved in a motorcycle collision with an open tibial fracture.” Maura began, still checking the tibial nerve. She continued reciting what she was able to pick up from the administered medication and vitals.

Your eyes caught the retraction of her hands, and she seemed more at ease with the second go. Park picked up the silence, eyeing the med student from behind. She sighed, stepping back to confirm with both you and Park. “Neurovascularly intact.”

Her sight stopped back at you, earning a subtle double-thumb up from you. She repressed the chuckle. Walsh continued presenting to Park about the other surgical concerns not regarding orthopedics; you noticed the continuous flexing of his toes. Glancing over at Nate, he still grimaced as if something was wrong but he hadn’t acknowledged it. 

Maura picked it up and she waited to follow your directive. Positioning yourself at the end of the bed, your hand went to test the nerves for yourself. “Nate, does this feel the same as the other foot?”

There was silence in the room, waiting for Noah to answer. A pause then a small groan. “No, actually.”

You nodded, and when you looked to your right, Park was already standing there. Leaning in, you kept your voice low. “I think his sensation has decreased.”

Park’s jaw ticked as he examined the leg from where he stood. You motioned for Maura to switch places with you. When she reserved the spot, her hand followed the same movement yours did to reevaluate the nerve. Carefully watching her eyebrows furrow and relax gave you a clue as to what she was feeling. “What nerve?”

“Deep peroneal.” She responded with no hesitation.

“What compartment?” You followed up. 

A pause. “Anterior.”

“What does that mean?” Your chest was beating rhythmically. Park might be concerned over the constant questions he considered prompting, but you gave no indication of the answers. She was coming up with them based on her knowledge. Under the shy exterior, her brain was picking up quickly what you and Sully had taught her in three weeks.

“We need to keep reassessing him. This could be compartment syndrome.” She concluded, releasing a heavy sight that came from making her way to the end of—what felt like—a riddle.

You tried to keep your smile professional, but you knew the crinkle in the corner of your eyes gave you away. “Good.”

Feeling as elated as Maura, your eyes wandered behind her to your attending. When you two locked eyes, he relaxed them from the narrowed, curious look he had when trying to make something out. Giving him a tight lip smile, you raised your eyebrows at him, inviting anything pertinent to the case.

“How did you get roped into the consultation?” Was the question that escaped his lips. So he didn’t know what he was walking into.

Pulling your gloves off and tossing them into the nearest bin, you shook your head. “Annette caught us by pre-op 2. Guess we were unlucky.”

The response was sufficient because he gave you one nod. He didn’t appear to want to elaborate on the matter. Maura stared confused about what to do next. She suddenly remembered she was over an hour into her scheduled rotation. From the look Park gave her and you, he noticed that fact as well. His head jerked upward, “Head up and let Annette know I’m down here, then go home.”

There was a sternness in his glare, but the longer the two of you stayed locked on one another, it lacked the bite he usually had. The one that didn’t require words or even the movement of his jaw. In the past three years, you had hyper-fixated on his subtle movement to read him. You knew every twitch and strain you did nerves in Noah’s tibia. It told you a story without the need of complicating words. 

Park always warned not to trust patients so easily. They’ll lie through their teeth even if you were the only person who could save him, he told you on your first pelvic reconstruction. You wondered whether that truth could be applied to him as much as the rest of you. While sanitizing your hands, you sighed. “Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“I sure hope not.” Park snorted, shaking his head. He was looking down at the patient’s leg, ignoring some of the questionable looks from the ED staff. Even Walsh was stunned in her place.

She pressed her lips together, unable to obscure the curve in the corner of her lips. She turned to Shen at the head of the gurney, the snapping of her gloves echoing. “I will book the OR.”

Walking behind Shen and towards where you and Maura stood by the door, she pointed a finger at Park. “It’s on you if he dies before then, Brendon.”

You caught the small twitch of his nose before slipping out the door. Walsh followed with her hands on her hip. Maura stayed close behind, yet far enough to not be noticed. You could recognize the technique anywhere, except it didn’t work nearly as smoothly as she had hope. Walsh was searching for her, facing her with arms crossed. “Impressive, Maura. I’m sure you didn’t learn all of that from Park.”

Walsh playfully glanced over at you while you pressed the up arrow for the elevator. Maura folded her arms in front of her, polite and back to her reserved nature. “I mean, he’s a good surgeon…”

The words ran out like printer ink. Endeared, Walsh chuckled; she softly hit your arm with the back of her hand. “I see you haven’t taught her everything.”

When the elevator doors slid open, the three of you settled in and Walsh pressed the floor button. The humming of the elevator buzzed as it came to life, sliding upwards. She stood beside you while Maura was in the opposite corner, fiddling with her badge. Walsh admired Maura. “You still have the wide, glossy eye, childish fear of Park the Shark.”

“It goes away with time.” You joked. When Maura looked at you through her lashes, you winked at her.

She was already learning her way around the hospital. Even if she went into another specialized surgery program, she’d take with her the processes she was learning with you. You could see she didn’t want to disappoint what you had seen in her when she’d stall or shrink within herself. It was hard to convince someone to not drown with the presence of Park in the room.

But you had done so; and even if it’s not Park, you were sure she’d need it to survive somewhere else. 

The elevator stopped and Maura was the first one to exit, leaving you and Walsh walking side-by-side. You could sense her lingering eyes and she leaned in, her arm pressed against yours. “That’s what I was talking about, by the way.”

Awkwardly chuckling, you furrowed your brows, staring at her blankly. “What do you mean?”

She scoffed, shaking her head in feign disappointment. “Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t going to spell it out for you?”

Your face fell at the echo of her voice, recalling that dawn in the break room. You had performed a surgery on your own, thanks to Dr. Emmick. She had trusted you. Park never reciprocated that sense of trust. That sensation reconstructed what being a surgeon meant, but now, you were worried you had overreacted. Maybe Park wasn’t some figure of evil coming out to get you. Was it wrong of you to try to stop it before it got worse?

“Park the Shark doesn’t just remind residents to go home.” Walsh clarified a knowing glimmer in her eye. When her spectralink rang, she gave you a farewell in the form of a nod before continuing further down the hall.

You hadn’t realized how much you slowed down until Maura was several feet ahead of you, watching you speak in hushed voices with Walsh. Maura waved at Walsh as she passed by, waiting for you to approach her. You gave her an upside down smile, “You didn’t have to wait.”

“Well, I wanted to invite you to this taco truck that me and some other med students are going to.” She offered politely. 

You had to be almost four years older than her, mid-twenties, although she looked barely old enough to drink. It was obvious she was flustered by the idea of inviting someone she considered superior, more than halfway done with a residency and attending-bound. You didn’t see yourself as much different than her.

Nodding, more enthusiasm than she was expecting, it eased the tension in her shoulders. A mix of the post-shift stress and the nerves. She sighed, smiling wider. “I know hanging out with med students probably isn’t your version of fun.”

“Nonsense.” You lazily waved your hand. “I was a med student too once. Plus I’d like to get to know you more outside the hospital.”

The two of you walked shoulder to shoulder. Your hand stuffed in your scrub pockets while she continued fiddling with her badge. “Unlike Dr. Park.”

“He’s a difficult person to understand.” You muttered, bowing your head. 

If anything Walsh implied had merit, it just confirmed what you and the rest of the residents assumed of him. He was too complicated personally, but too good of a surgeon. Apart from the fact his molars did oddly resemble those of a shark, he did impressive work. Everyone cursed his strength. If only he weren’t so good, then maybe it’d be easier to hate him.

Instead, people aspired to be him—or at least tolerated by him.

It took you time to realize you were wasting more energy than making worth of your training. Yet, the longer you were forced to spend with Park, there were new vines growing in the place of dead weeds. It was strange to feel as acknowledged by him as you did with Emmick. As if, the two of you could jest, like friends more than colleagues, or a mentor-mentee.

If the two of you could get along, respect the work, and learn boundaries for each other, you could see yourself even liking Park for once.

“You’ll have to come visit!” Sully’s girlfriend, Josie, yelled from wherever she was in her apartment. You could hear the echo bounce off the walls and the only person in fame was Sully. He sat slumped on the couch, the computer he was video calling you sitting on his lap. “I don’t get why Sully keeps you over there.”

“She is afraid of getting attached.” Sully responded, grinning back at you. This is what you get for agreeing to a FaceTime call on your lunch break. The surgical department was mostly doing scheduled, non-emergent surgeries. You had spent most of the morning in surgery, scrubbing out at the perfect time to sit and eat.

“Says the guy who keeps trying to persuade me to move to Chicago.” You retorted back, taking a bite into your sandwich. With your phone propped on your water bottle, you clearly saw him roll his eyes.

Josie slumped beside Sully, leaning closer to be in the camera view. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail, sporting a pink tank-top. She smiled into the camera, one hand braced on Sully’s shoulder. “We could all be roommates! It’d be fun!”

You hummed, frowning in disagreement. “I don’t think I want to be your guy’s third wheel.”

She shrugged, recovering the optimism of a child. It was ironic since she worked with kids. She was the ideal physician any parent would want. “We can settle on neighbors.”

“I can also fix your single dilemma.” She gleamed, which earned a chuckle from Sully who already expected whatever his girlfriend was about to say. “I know some cute doctors who would die to meet you!”

You snorted, pushing down your food with the lukewarm coffee from the morning. “You sure they’ll be into the long distance thing?”

“It wouldn't be a long distance if you moved.” Sully retorted. It was your turn to roll your eyes. This was a never-ending debate, not just between you two, but the other residents as well.

With Sully gone, all the residents had been asking the same questions. It would be casual conversation turned into interrogation. It didn’t make sense why anyone would want to stay willingly, but when they thought about it, they’d nod. You had concluded they were compliant to the idea no one else would want to deal with Dr. Park except you.

With your sandwich almost meeting your mouth again, you rapidly pulled it away, staring at Sully. “Are we really going to have this debate again?”

“Forget about that. Right now, you still have time to decide.” Josie mediated perfectly, smiling between the two of you. The lovesick look in Sully’s eyes told you everything he felt for her. If only she knew, he was hiding an engagement ring in his nightstand he bought almost six months ago. “But, I would like to meet the woman who’s been after my heart even through video calls.”

Sully’s face immediately morphed into something childishly envious, mouth agape as he continued staring at Josie. You covered your mouth to suppress your laugh. With one hand clutching his chest, he scoffed. “I’m right here.”

“I can’t let you ruin my chances of meeting my soulmate!” She exclaimed, her smile widening the longer Sully remained wounded.

“Sweetie.” He pleaded softly, now frowning. It was comical watching the two of them. It also reminded you how pathetically single you were.

“I’m messing with you.” She sighed, pressing a brief kiss on his lips. You visibly saw color come back to his previously mortified expression. 

“You guys make me sick.” You coughed as you mistakenly swallowed down a piece of your food too thick to pass down smoothly.

“Don’t avoid the subject.” Sully warned while Josie stood up from the couch at the sound of something ringing in the background. 

“Once you have a full furnished apartment over there, then we can talk.” You joked, chugging the rest of your coffee down. 

Sully pointed a finger towards the camera, a small grin on his face. “Don’t tempt me with a good time. By then, I might have convinced you to pack your bags.”

You mockingly nodded your head. You tried reminding him Chicago wasn’t that far, nor were the time zones much different. The two of you could always text or call and once you settled into your last year of residency, visit.

“How are things over there? Playing nice with Park?” Sully transitioned the conversation. The couch beside him dipped again, and Josie came into view.

“Is that your scary attending I keep hearing about?” Josie questioned. Park was notorious even to the ears of those who didn’t know his face, His reputation surpassed the walls of the hospital. He would spend most of the resident’s program being their worst nightmare. It came to no surprise that it would seep into their personal lives. 

Sully grinned, shaking his head. “He’s not scary. He’s mean more than anything.”

You agreed without hesitation before leaning back in the chair, readjusting the wireless earphone. “Things with Park are fine. I have mostly been finding reasons to stay away from him. I just can’t wait to go back to night shifts.” 

Before you could follow up with some weird encounter of your day or anything regarding Park, the breakroom door swung open. You lifted your head from the phone and a thick figure poked his head in first. Park had one hand braced on the doorframe, his eyes landing immediately on you, in the solitary breakroom. With raised eyebrows, you both stared at one another, the anticipation increasing with the ongoing silence.

“Have you eaten yet?” He asked, the same cadence he’d speak in when demanding someone to present a trauma in the ED. To anyone unfamiliar, it wouldn’t seem remotely friendly, but you heard the subtle muttering from Sully who was equally confused through the phone.

You quickly confirmed, scrunching up the plastic wrapper of your sandwich. Your brain was still stuck on the question. When did it concern Dr. Park if you ate? He stepped into the break room, letting the door close behind him. “The patient in pre-op 5 still needs to sign some forms, but Delgado and that new med student couldn’t get anywhere with the parents. I have a labral repair to scrub into.”

“Is that the 16-year-old scoliosis correction?” You inquired, completely ignoring the conversation between Sully and Josie. You were glad Park couldn’t hear the ruckus. You were sure he hadn’t even noticed the fact your phone was propped up vertically. 

He gave you a curt nod, before shaking his head. There was visible frustration in his face. “Parents are getting cold feet and we can’t rely on the words of a 16-year-old child. They’ll listen to you more than Delgado.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief in his words. He had a lot of trust for someone who felt there was such a thing as ‘too much’ empathy. Slowly a smile was growing on your face. “That’s a lot of faith to put on a person.”

He scoffed and even though he pressed his molars together, you sense he was repressing something he didn’t want known yet. “Am I wrong?”

You weren’t sure how to answer that. On one hand, this could all be a ploy to test ego. See whether all the compliments and validation from Emmick was finally getting to your head. He didn’t indulge the animalistic necessity to satiate the hunger in his residents for the verbal acknowledgments. It was an unknown practice.

On the other hand, he could be—for once—genuine. You weren’t sure if that was something tangibly visible or what you were overthinking, Since talking with Walsh, it put ideas in your head you didn’t want to entertain. Not because you didn’t believe in the slightest she was being dishonest. On the contrary, Walsh specialized in slipping it in her jabs and sarcasm. Those who got along with her understood her cryptic way of talking.

It meant obsessing over every nuance then on after. Thinking of the possibilities you might have misread everything since before you spoke to him in his office. You didn’t need to start doubting your ruinous decision months after.

Instead, you gave him a tight lip smile, “I can try. I don’t like making promises.”

“Well, if you can’t, I don't have much hope for anyone else. So, make sure you do.”

It felt less of a threat and more of an attempt at a joke, bordering on flattery. This had to be a trick. All Brendon Park knew how to do was speak in one-sentence monologues, unless the situation called for more; and typically, that was when someone fucked up. Then it’d turn into suave hooks and jabs, where the opponent is more so struggling to survive than to keep up. 

Right now, your chest tightened at the expression on his face, relaxed. You wondered if you hadn’t eschewed your relationship, if he would laugh at the joke.

“I will make sure to pull out all the stops, Dr. Park.” You wittily gave him a lazy salute. That earned something of a scoff and a snort. 

He still stood by the door. The corner of his eyes crinkled slightly enough to disturb the usually clean canvas of his face. He was almost ten years your senior even if he didn’t look like it. Whatever he did to maintain his muscular stature and pristine skin was working for him.

From your earphones, you could hear Sully mutter a question, asking if he was still there from the silence that befell the room. Eventually, Park affirmed with a nod before walking out the door briskly. The sigh that escaped was audible to the microphone. With your eyes back on the illuminating phone, Sully and Josie stared back with wide, expectant eyes. 

Josie broke the silence first snickering, “That’s your attending? Dr. Park?”

“Why are you saying it like that?” You questioned when you heard the little melody she added to his name, like there was something amusing about it.

“Because he doesn’t sound like the person I keep hearing about.” She snickered harder, one hand pressed against her cheek.

Sully frowned, but there was a matching mischief in his eye. “Trust me, he is never like that.”

You stood, tossed the rest of your trash, before grabbing your phone and water bottle by the handle. You caught the smirk on Josie’s face. She was insinuating something with her look alone, which made you stop in your tracks. She readjusted herself on the couch she was sitting on. “Is he hot?”

Sully exclaimed her name, a laugh escaping him that edged around a cackle. With one hand on the door handle, you sputtered. Hot? Of all the things, she could have asked you. Now she’s put a dreaded idea in your head. Thinking of your attending in an aspect HR would not approve. There was no way you could put into words whether he was attractive enough to your liking. That was surely crossing boundaries. 

“Josie!” You whispered sharply. “In no way am I going to entertain that question.”

“What?” She asked, offended by your offense. How could she possibly find nothing wrong with that question? She also worked at a hospital for crying aloud. “I just asked if he was hot, not if you wanted to jump his bones.”

“Josie!”

“What the fuck?”

There were overlapping voices between you and Sully who both felt slimy about the topic. Sully wouldn’t disagree if you said Dr. Park was the social standard of attractive, but to personally identify him as such, you could hear him imitating gagging noises. Engrossed in your current debate, you had opened the door, head bowed while arguing to the screen. Too distracted and slightly disgusted, you had lost track of what was in front of you.

Not until you bumped into a mass of something that was most definitely not a wall randomly placed in the middle of the hall. You clutched onto your phone tighter, alarmingly jumping back. Two hands settled on your biceps, right as you almost tumbled backwards. While trying to push space, your feet hadn’t planted gracefully. 

When you looked up, pulling the phone into your chest, Park was staring down at you. His eyebrows knitted together and the heat of your face felt too hot to touch. He was now wearing his matching scrub cap, covering any evidence of his perfectly gelled hair. It somehow chiseled the rest of his face; Sharper edges that could make you bleed to the touch.

You opened your mouth to say something before he beat you to it. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

That’s when you remembered the ongoing call you were still having, without even thinking you quickly pressed the red button, cutting Sully and Josie from pestering them with burning questions. The last thing you heard was the utterance of ‘Park’ from Sully until the call ended. You sighed, stuffing your phone in your pocket, putting on a shaky smile.

It was then that the warmth of his hands on your arms tingled, and as you shifted, he finally pulled them away. “Sully was just checking in on me.”

Park hummed, crossing his arms. It was clear when Park didn’t like something. A surgical plan, post-surgery care, or the staff he was unfortunately stuck operating with. It never occurred he might not like you talking so much about Sully until now. The small scrunch of his nose told you that much might be true, but it didn’t make sense.

“Came back to tell you ED needs a consult. Sounds like an ORIF case. Take care of that with your little puppy before speaking with the spinal corrections kid.” He informed you, immediately brushing past you. 

Huffing out, you spun. “What if they go into emergency surgery? I could be stuck in there.”

“Handle the consult,” He advised, stopping to turn back to face you. There was a hand trying to ease any concern over conflicting schedules. You weren’t exactly put off by the suddenly full plate, but still frazzled over the bump and his hands on your arm. “Delgado will jump in if surgery is anytime soon. I just need someone competent down there right now.”

You cocked your head, “And Delgado isn’t?”

There was a pause. He had never spoken so briskly about another resident in your presence, surely not a fourth year resident. Maybe he was suffering separation anxiety with Sully being gone. He pressed his lips in a thin line before shaking his head, “For whatever reason, Robby, Garcia, and them like you. I don’t need to hear about one of my residents fucking up while I’m scrubbed in. Especially not from Garcia.”

There was desperation in his tone. Help me by doing this for me. He would never outlandishly say it, but the shift in his eyes trying to read yours was enough to convince you. “Okay. I will try to calm the tides on the floor and the ED. Do you have your pager?”

“I gave it to Annette, along with my cell.” He jerked his head over to where Annette was most likely stationed. His hands rested on his hips.

“If anyone pages or calls for anything pertinent until then, I’ll handle it with Maura.” You assured, it would’ve sounded presumptuous, especially if Delgado were here. It wasn’t like you to go over the head of your senior resident. You wouldn’t do it to Sully, but he also acted as if you two were equals and not at different levels of the surgical hierarchy. 

You only waited long enough for him to give you a resigned nod in agreement. Whether or not he was comfortable allocating some power to his resident, he wasn’t left with much of a choice. You didn’t make any promise that you were the most capable to solve whatever emergency may occur, but you were willing to try. You could use this as a perfect chance to demonstrate leadership he may otherwise shrug off.

Continuing down the opposite end, you still listened for his movements. Your ears picked up the small thuds of his footsteps, slowly unrecognizable the further the two of you parted. Once you rounded the corner, you pulled out your phone to see the chaos you erupted.

SULLY 4m ago What the fuck is going on with you and Park?

You were almost done with your first week. If you had to classify it in comparison to the shifts you’ve worked on nights, you’d say it ranked somewhere under alright. Apart from the exhaustion of long surgeries and back-to-back travel from the ED to the surgical floor, everything else had been fine. Slightly manageable, which was your version of the brink of bad.

If you weren’t answering basic consultations or debriefing about surgical plans with Maura, you were in the OR. You had spent it mostly working, which for a change, felt like a reward and not a punishment. Park had sought you out more than once to run some consultation or reassigned cases he wanted you to handle. At first, it was as if he wanted you stuck in the OR instead of seeing you wander the floor. He’d even send Maura away with someone else when she could as easily sit in and observe.

“She could be of use elsewhere, instead of serving as a distraction, like how you should be more worried about what you can do for the patient,” He muttered the first and only time you had opposed. It was a bit snappy, considering he was already preoccupied with the emergency limb re-implantation the two of you had consulted. 

After that, you didn’t push the idea. Maura was doing fine, and you didn't want to put a target on her back. Park had a hard enough time restraining himself from criticizing her with you always in the vicinity.

You had just finished with an ORIF procedure that for some reason was scheduled later in your shift, just the right time to catch hand off. Assuredly, you made your way to post-op, figuring hand off was probably close to wrapping up. The first person you saw was Park, apart from the small handful of residents. Instead of immediately joining the fray, you walked to the nursing station, leaning down to speak to Sarah about turning over a new room.

With your eyes still focused on Park and the residents, you saw them move from patient in post-op 2 to post-op 6. That’s when you noticed Maura clutching to an electronic chart, the black bulky case appearing too big for her hands. Sarah was talking to you about the triage plan they came up with as the line of patients being sutured up increased. You were listening, arms on your hips, but your eyes picked up the horrific site of Maura presenting in front of Park,

She had presented in front of Park before, but with the messy bun, she managed to wrangle into a claw clip slipping, you could tell the poor girl was exhausted. A timid girl from South Carolina still didn’t quite know how to navigate a big city or large trauma hospital. She was swimming in a tank of larger fish, Park being the shark that stalks the rest of you. There was breath that came out of you while you watched alone from behind the nursing station.

“Definitive management.” Park asked, arm crossed as they stood outside the patient’s room. You could mostly make out the side profile of Maura’s face, while Park had his back to the patient, making him most visible.

“Urgent irrigation and debridement with operative fixation.” Maura responded, frowning slightly with the line of question. You hadn’t heard the entirety of her presentation of the patient, but you came to trust her judgment at this point. She was about to graduate from med school and become an intern at some hospital. You wanted her to know the trust that came with that responsibility.

“Why Cefazolin?” Park followed up. He didn’t have a chart like her in his hand. You were sure Maura must have mentioned it, but it was impressive the details he stored in his own head sometimes.

Maura didn’t rattle so easily, but the longer he stared down at her, waiting for her to react just made her body shiver. Even with the fleece jacket, you could see something of a tremble under the fabric. “Coverage for gram-positive organisms.”

“Which ones?”

You moved around the nursing station, remaining unnoticed by Park. What? This seemed excessive for a hand off. Oftentimes, those facts were assumed. Residents had more experience than med students, which meant they had unspoken understanding of certain decisions, but this? It felt like he was trying to make her trip.

Maura finally broke. Her shoulder sank lower and she readjusted the device to be held by her forearms, gripping the top edge. “Staphylococcus.”

“Which species?”

Silence. The long awaited slip up. The questions leading up to this agape mouth and glossy eye look she had on her face was watching the climax of a movie. There was a disaster in the wake, the audience gripping their seats as if they could brace for some fictional impact. The residents were watching the back and forth. You could sense the horror of the moment, something most of them have lived more than once. 

You had once stood in her place.

What would you add for a type III injury? When would you broaden coverage for farm contamination? How long do you continue antibiotics?

The questions followed one after the other. The more words he kept spewing out, the less she was able to stand confidently. It was like seeing a lion in the wild, forced to confront a force of nature, bared defenseless. A bad case of déjà vu. You could envision the narrowing vision and the sick dread in your stomach. From the way, her hands kept clamming on the device, tethering her dignity to a piece of metal and wiring. 

“You had all day to familiarize yourself with the patient.” His voice had a deeper base to it now. It sounded like he was the only source of noise around even though there were call bells, machines, and miscellaneous conversations in the perimeter. “There is no excuse as to why you don’t know this. Patient care is about understanding the condition and treating it.”

A storm alarm was playing in your head, warning you of waterworks and wobbly lips. Maura was only a step away from running off to hide in shame. He didn’t yell, he punctured with the sharpness of emphasizing. “Tell me why none of it stuck with you. Does the patient mean nothing?”

“Dr. Park,”

Your voice came from the back of the group. All the heads swiveled and Park’s eyes knew where to land. He may not have seen you approach, but the sound of your voice was undeniable. He recognized the intrusion in a second. It cut through the pause of his question and Maura’s lack of response. A pit settled low in your stomach. You felt reminiscent of the post-shift encounter between you and him in his office.

Hands still on your hips, you looked over at Maura who was hiding from you too. Even if she was grateful for the interruption, she couldn’t face anyone. You shifted your focus back on Park, arms still curved over his chest. “This is starting to sound like an interrogation instead of a presentation for handoff.”

He repositioned himself to face you. As he stared you down, you finally realized he could find you in any room if he wanted. There was an animalistic character to how he positioned his body from six feet away towards you. “She’s not answering the questions anymore. That’s the problem.”

“I can see that.” You affirmed, picking up the nervous glances from Maura. If the other residents weren’t nervous before, they were now. 

No one would expect a handoff to ‘escalate’ to this matter. Everyone silently agreed to just accept what Park gave. He was the attending, the rest were bottom dwellers. It came to a surprise to yourself that his name dare escape your mouth. The instinct was natural. Some might argue this would turn into a performance for anyone interested in watching, but this was more than that for you, Maura, and him

His eyebrows furrowed, appearing equally confused for your interruption. “She needs to perform under pressure.”

You chuckled, “She does.”

The fleet of eyes on you now grew. You were now standing on a metaphorical stage, interrupting a drama that had everyone on the edge of their seat. Maura and Park matched their expressions. Maura seemed more concerned over your objective. What sparked you as interesting was the retraction Park had. You were agreeing with him, but to what degree. You shook your head, “But, right now she ‘s trying not to embarrass herself. She’s stopped thinking.”

“If your goal is to see what she knows, this isn’t measuring that.” You motioned to the public entourage that had witnessed her shut down. 

You knew some of the residents would gawk at you after; acting like this was a form of self-sacrifice. Selflessly throwing yourself in the trail of Park the Shark. Except, that wasn’t the reason at all. Your vows were to do no harm. Surely, the medical board extends that vow to the fellows, residents, and med students. How could you perform ‘no harm’ without teaching it to others first?

You were holding your breath, but you didn’t see yourself giving up so soon. 

Before Park could get in the last word, a phone rang. Park grumbled to himself as he recognized the sound of his spectralink. He whispered something to Delgado who was standing opposite of Maura, before slipping between the two of them. Delgado stepped forward taking his spot, reciting the information Maura had presented, while simultaneously answering what Maura couldn’t. 

The rest of the handoff was a blur. Emmick joined sometime after, trying to make small talk with you while the group traveled from one patient to another. 

It was hard to focus when you were more worried with Maura. She kept towards the front of the group, but her head remained bowed, and she had instead passed the device off to someone else. She had taken a backseat in her own education from the wash up of self-reproach. The week after Park had chewed you up for what happened with Mr. Stevenson, you had fallen into the same pattern. He didn’t consider you worth the aggravation, so you hid. If you could obscure yourself in the work, keeping your head down and your presence unknown, you could work without dispute. 

That didn’t do you or the patient any justice. When you finally came to terms that your education mattered more than the validation you were chasing from Park, it made you center your work on the patient’s more. 

Departure was quick. Everyone dispersed quickly, including Maura. You went straight for the residents room grabbing your things to try to escape. Maybe it was smart Maura left instead of hanging around. She risked Park finding her to finish the lecture, and if she were still as wobbly as when you saw her last, it would only make matters worse. As you were rounding the corner to the elevators, you found a small figure standing in front of the doors.

“Maura?” You called out. Her braid flipped as she followed the sound of her name. You caught the light reflecting over her wet eyes. Her skin was red, as if she had wiped her face enough to irritate it.

She hummed, keeping her mouth shut. As you approached, you smiled at her. You saw the face she was putting on; pretending Park’s words didn't affect her. You had left in the same shambles before. The elevator door ding and you let Maura slip in first. It was quiet, up until the elevator started descending to the main floor.

Maura scoffed, brushing her bangs. “He’s awful.”

You stared at her before laughing. She was confused, but her body reacted in the same manner. There was an understanding between the two of you. That you two could laugh about how awful your experiences were. When your laugh’s settled, you leaned onto the elevator. “I used to work the day shift.”

“I switched over last year because of one of Dr. Park’s monologues.” You rolled your eyes, “There was a patient who just…slipped through the cracks during a MVA we had. He had developed compartment syndrome and when Park found out he was my patient, he ripped me a new one while transferring the patient up for surgery.”

“He told me I wasn’t worth the aggravation.” You concluded, the words clear in your mind. It was like ripping off stitches still too raw. 

Maura shook her head, a frown on her face. The elevator had stopped and the two of you stepped out, walking towards the main entrance, side-by-side. “How do you still manage to work with him, let alone for him?”

There was still a small spring breeze, but the rest of the humidity outside had your clothes sticking uncomfortably. You shrugged, “I stopped caring about what he thought of me and not my work.”

“I wanted to impress him since the moment I got here, and I worked my ass off for any acknowledgment.” You laughed at yourself again. Maybe the delirium of an adrenaline high like calling Park out in front of the rest of the residents was affecting your brain. “After that though, I forgot that I had qualities different from Dr. Park that helped me help patients. They weren't bad qualities, just different. Park is a stickler for doing it his way though.”

The two of you had stopped somewhere halfway between the hospital and the parking garage. She smiled back at you, slightly more hopeful than before. “Yeah, you're right.”

You stuffed your hands into the pocket of your fleece jacket. She recovered perfectly fine, which comforted you more than you expected. If she could learn to balance out her expectations and that of others, she could become a fine surgeon. She was eager, adaptable, and even when Park knocked her down; she was still one of the last ones to leave. Bumping her shoulder, you giggled. “I get that a lot.”

The two of you found your way in front of the elevator of the garage, waiting for the doors to open. She’s turned to you again, eyebrows furrowed. “You know, I’d find it hard to believe he doesn’t like you.”

“What makes you say that?” You questioned, narrowing your eyes.

She shrugged, “He respects you. I mean a lot of people here do, from what I’ve picked up.”

When the doors slid open, you clicked the button to the fourth floor while she pressed the sixth. She gripped onto the strap of her backpack, shrugging her shoulders. “I haven’t known him for long, but something tells me he wouldn’t just let anyone talk to him like you did at all.”

You remained quiet as you continued to stare at her. Her cheeks flared up and she started stumbling while trying to find words. “Thank you by the way. You didn’t have to risk yourself for some med student.”

“You’re going to be a doctor, Maura.” You remembered, grinning slightly. If today didn’t set her back, that’s what she had to look forward to. “You should act like one.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but you gave her a look. She knew better than to disagree with you. Instead, she sighed. “I’m sorry if he gives you a hard time about it.”

You waved your hand. The elevator dinged and you stepped forward, “Don’t worry about it. I can handle Park the Shark.” 

That earned a confident support from her. The two of you paid farewells and ‘goodnights’ and you only made your way to your car when the doors closed again. Sighing, a small groan escaped you. Despite what she may think, you were dying to know what to expect. If your relationship wasn't ruined, you sure caused a shit-show of it today. Even if Park did respect you, it wasn’t your place.

You couldn’t stand to watch it. Your body itched the longer Park kept talking, and it reacted to the painful memories of your own embarrassment. If it were so wrong, why didn’t he stop you the minute you said his name? Unless he wanted you to dig your own grave. At least that way half the work would be done.

What the fuck had you done?

SULLY 10m ago 6 image attached This is what you could be enjoying…

You chuckled as you tucked your phone, discreetly peeking at the message. You had an inkling this visit would be another way to coax you into applying for an attending or fellowship position at Mount Sinai—dragging you with him like a childhood toy he couldn’t part with. 

If it meant having to cover for him more times than once, you would have to think long and hard over that decision. Especially how your first week back on the day shift has gone.

It would be nice to have someone familiar in an attending position. At least you know you’d have someone you could trust and work well with. Except, you were enjoying life in Pittsburgh. You enjoyed your job, where you lived, and all the small friends you’ve made outside the hospital. Even if your boss was a prick most days, you could get over it with the nice company of everyone else.

Leaving would be abandoning the one place you felt home, even when Sully played a big part in that.

It was hard to complain about Park through a computer screen. He had too many questions about your current dilemma with Park, his strange behavior you didn’t know how to interpret. It had slipped your mind to mention what happened during shift change. It wasn't the type of conversation to have over the phone, plus nothing had come out of it yet. You thought you could spare yourself the interrogation from him for a while more.

“Are you having trouble?” The patient questioned. A 45-year-old woman required a split, questioned, looking down at her. She was sedated in the affected area enough to not be bothered by the pain.

Maura sitting at the bedside started the first step off, pulling at the hand before hesitating when it came to manipulating the wrist and wrapping the splint in place. The ER nurse beside her watched with a slight grimace as she withheld judgment. You leaned forward in your chair, watching Maura almost break a sweat as she tried to maintain composure for the patient’s sake.

She had been floating by since the other day. You were right about one thing: she recovered like a bouncy ball. 

“Maura, take a second.” You instructed calmly, noticing the tension from the nurse, Princess, and the patient, Leslie.

Listening to your instruction, she released the force she was putting on her hand and arm. Looking at her with raised eyebrows and a smile, she let out a breath she was holding. “What doesn’t feel right?”

“It’s not supported.” Maura breathier voice responded. The sleeves of her jacket pulled up halfway. She had stuffed her stethoscope in a pocket to clear everything around her face.

“What’s the purpose of the splint?” You questioned simply, watching her try to focus on the question and not the resistance materialized in her gloved hands. 

“To keep the fracture from moving.”

“Good.” You encouraged, eyes moving along the sugar tong split she was using. She would start strong and then her doubt kicked in and she could not proceed with wrapping the splint. From the way she’d look at the binding of the arm with the soft padding and rigid splint material. “What position are you trying to preserve in turn?’

“The reduction position.”

“Does your splint support it?”

Instead of answering, she quietly examined the wrist in the splint. She started readjusting it, without you prompting what movements to make next. With each breath, she made the necessary movement that when she applied the splint again you were sure she changed the position. When you glanced over at Princess, she had an easier smile on her face. 

As she lifted her head, she caught the two thumbs up you flashed her. She humbly tried to hide her smile, but you could see the curve of her lips as she bowed her head. When Leslie’s arm was wrapped and next steps were explained, the two of you excused yourself.

Walking alongside each other to the elevators, you could sense the little skips to her steps. You giggled lightly from the change in her demeanor, sensing the youth you missed having. “Good job. Just a word of warning, if you panic, your patients tend to panic.”

“I know. I just couldn’t get it right the first time.” She explained, deflating her ego a bit.

With your hands in your pocket, you nodded in understanding. “I get it. During med school, I spent hours staying up just trying to get it right.”

Right as you two were approaching the elevator door, one of the doors to the trauma rooms was pushed open. Halting in both your steps, the stocky, broad body of Dr. Park came at you two. He eyed the two of you like you were in the wrong department. His eyes landed on Maura, who clasped both her hands in front of her. 

Neither of you had talked about what happened. Considering you had the next few days off after the fiasco of a hand off, there wasn’t much of a chance to, You were partly grateful for the break, but the lingering questions of what Park might do to you when you came back lingered. You had missed him during hand off, and that kept the suspense in the back of your mind.

“Did you two need anything?” He questioned, mostly drinking in Maura’s shrinking figure.

You had warned her he fed off the scent of scared prey. He was an attending who wanted his residents to fear his judgment. If they weren’t worried about what he thought, then they weren't doing their job right. You had quietly assured her you were planning to work as many cases together as possible. Partly for her sake, but mostly for yours.

The longer you spent away from his sights, the less likely you were to be caught by him. That was the reason you were taking the ‘easy’ consultation. The bedside reductions and the non-emergent calls from the ED. They were all teaching moments for Maura and ways to hide from Park the Shark.

A win-win situation.

Except, it wasn’t working and you two had been caught. Hook, line, and sinker.

“Maura just got done with a bedside reduction. Applied a sugar tong splint. We will repeat the neurovascular exam and imaging for alignment.” You informed without hesitation. Maura was relying on you to take charge of communication with the intimidating attending.

With how she timidly stood, begging with wide eyes to be dismissed, you thought it’d be best she kept quiet. She didn’t need the attention.

“She will repeat neurovascular exams and imaging. You will be scrubbing in on surgery.” Park states, turning for the elevator without waiting for a response. You cursed his inflated ego. Of course, the one time you two meet, he is bossing you around. You weren’t going to fight it. Deep down you felt you deserved it. It was a cynical idea, but he was attending, and what said goes.

Stumbling over your words, you furrowed your brows approaching close behind him. “I’m sorry. In what case exactly?”

The glance to you over his shoulder was barely perceptible. It took you craning your head further to notice his line of sight on you. He curled his lips lightly before rolling his shoulders back. “28- year-old patient, entrapped in a hydraulic steel press. Limb salvage with a mangled extremity.”

You and Maura turned your heads to stare through the glass of Trauma 1, where the bustling ED team stabilized a patient. You could barely make out the status of the patient, but you noticed Dr. Garcia worked alongside Dr. Langdon and Dr. King to stabilize the patient.

The elevator door dinged, and as Park stepped in, you slipped behind him. Only a few steps behind, Maura slipped in as the doors began closing, pressing her body against the wall. You looked up at Park who seemed disinterested in

entertaining a conversation with the third-year resident he was stuck with. “I’m sure Delgado would like to sign up for it.”

“Did I ask for you to nominate someone on my behalf?” Park scoffed, twisting his neck lightly to look down at you. He was luring you further. He knew exactly what you were thinking from the look of your eye. Was Brendon Park messing with you?

Hands falling to your side, you sighed. “I just think you would prefer a fourth-year resident to assist you with a complicated surgery.”

“You’ve done enough on your own.” Park pointed out and it was hard not to distinguish a condescending voice from his tone. No thanks to him. If you hadn’t considered moving to the night shift, who knows what you would have or have not accomplished while under his supervision. “Delgado is stuck on the last trauma.”

“So, I’m what, chopped liver?” You joked, cocking your head to the side.

“You’re the third-year resident who is going to scrub into the surgery.” Park said simply.

The elevator door slid open and Park stalked out first. You hated the feeling of following behind him—all but confirming the ‘shark pup’ jokes made at the expense of your self-worth. Walsh still made jabs at you every so often when she was feeling particularly spunky. She’d shrug, tell you to feel proud of the fact you shook off his razor sharp teeth from your back. 

It’s a badge of honor to make Park the Shark broad, she had joked while in the midst of a surgery. You were skeptical of the ethics of the conversation in front of the scrub nurses. At least he finally might give to all those soft, human feelings.

You rolled your eyes at her. Feelings? Like it was possible for Park to have anything as perceptible as sympathy. He was the living embodiment of an industrial, surgical machine. His precision was clean, and his record impeccable.

In what universe would Park give in?

When you looked at your watch, you motioned to Maura attempting to keep up with you and both your bosses. “You should probably eat something.”

She nodded vigorously, eyeing Park nervously, awaiting him to object to your command. “I will be stuck in this surgery for a while. Find Lucia afterwards. She’ll keep you busy.”

Park stopped in front of the viewing and OR lounge to prepare for operative planning. You flicked your head to the side, silently pleading for Maura to run off. You were grateful one of you was able to escape the traps of Park’s jaw. 

You weren’t as lucky apparently.

When facing Park again, his blank expression didn’t give in to any disfavor of you. Even when his emotions appeared ambiguous, you could know to expect something later. He shelved his monologues for a timing where his words could wound. It wasn’t like to forgive and forget. 

“I should’ve apologized for what happened—“

“Are you good to scrub in?” Park questioned, his tone even. He wasn't remotely too interested to stem any concern on your part, but it did raise some alarms. Rendering you speechless, he rolled his shoulder. “I don’t need you passing out in the middle of surgery.”

Nervously smiling, you shook your head. “I’m good for surgery, Dr. Park, but we should talk—“

“About the surgery? I agree.” He interjected again. You were sustaining your patience with the strength of an elephant at this point. He never made it easy to want to like him. He pulled out his phone, staring down at something. He didn’t bother to lift his eyes again. “Anything else you’d like to redundantly speak about?”

You barely shook your head until he spun away, scrolling on his phone. This was going to be an eventful surgery, for reasons other than the actual procedure.

It took over an hour to prepare for the surgery. While orthopedics, along with vascular and trauma planned the order of repairs with the degloving and compromised arteries, it dawned on you the severity of the case. You were internally groaning at how irritating the fact was that you’d be stuck in a salvation surgery with Park. 

You had messaged Sully, telling him you’d probably miss the nightly video calls you’ve been having with him–a meaningful way to decompress from the day shift.

It was bloody and more gruesome than the injuries the poor worker came in. Nonviable muscle was the first to go, and in between incisions and removing the muscles, Park was staying centrally focused.

“So, Dr. Sullivan is almost on his way out.” Fatima cooed, earning a snicker from under your mask. You rolled your eyes at her, and she picked up the cue from beside you.

“Dr. Sullivan is shamelessly leaving me to deal with the lease of the apartment he invited me to live in.” The retort came out bitterly, but she could read in between the lines of the joke. The two of you including Sully had a good time while in the OR.

You eyed Park from the rims of your goggles, the black scrub cap hiding away the glistening of his combed, slicked back hair. While passing along the instrument to Park you turned back to Fatima. “Don’t worry, you will always remain his favorite OR nurse.”

She hummed, pleased by that statement. “I’m not the one he’s trying to drag to Chicago.”

The bumping of the music continued, something Reyes chose as the rest of the surgeons failed to guess the number Bailey (the anesthesiologist) was thinking. Garcia lifted his head from across the table, listening to the conversation. “Dr. Park, losing two of your well esteemed shark pups in the span of a year? You must be a repellent.”

Park glared at Garcia, which only fed her ego. She must be picking that up from Walsh. If he weren’t wearing the mask, the tension in his jaw would be more visible. He grumbled something, practically telling everyone to shut up without using the words. 

Once vascular began working in returning arterial flow, Garcia’s eyes landed on you mischievously. When you noticed, she had cocked her head to the side. “So, baby shark, going to abandon ship like your second half?”

Your eyes stayed glued to Reyes’ work near the patient's foot, “Why? Going to miss us when we’re gone?”

She narrowed her eyes, feigning offense to the insinuation. “You wish.”

“Oh, that’s confirmation if I’ve ever heard it.” Reyes intervened, announcing aloud before mumbling something to the nurse and Park. “We all know she’s a teddy bear inside.” 

There were small chuckles all around. Everyone silently agreed the prickliest of the bunch was Garcia. Despite the fact Park was dubbed the predator of the OR and entire surgical department. Garcia had the exterior of a cactus while Park had the canines of a shark. Somehow, the two were meant to coexist in liminal spaces like this moment. 

“Okay, check for arterial flow.” Reyes called out, pulling his hands away.

Moving closer to Reyes, you began gently lifting the heel. There was slight chatter as you and Park stared down at the paleness of the foot. Her ears were busy and her eyes kept looking at the external fixator. It was like the external fixator was making a buzzing noise. Lifting your head to look at Park, he was barely an inch away from touching shoulders. “Can we rotate internally five degrees?”

The rest of the noise finally silenced, and Park stared at you with the sunken, shadowed eyes. He had the same precision when he was reevaluating in real time his course of action. There was serious consideration as he stared at the metal, medieval-like device—pins stuck in places over the lower leg.

You were prepared for the interrogation. A divulge into why you thought what you thought. Park didn’t follow the instruction of others, and while you had posed a question more than an objection to the procedure, you expected pushback. He leaned over the external fixator, looking at the lack of movement from the artery and the leg they were set to salvage.

“Loosen it.”

Right as he nodded at you, there was movement to the frame, your hands directing it by minimal degrees. It was an unbearable wait as you watched the arteries and the foot, begging for there to be something viable to conserve. When the arterial flow did revitalize, the color of his leg had changed. The rosiness that came from lively limbs was apparent under the fluorescent lights.  You let out a sigh along with everyone else. Garcia whistled which made you lift your head. 

She nodded at you, appreciation and mutual respect. Then, her eyes landed on Park. “You sure you want to let this one go?”

You couldn’t see whether Park had acknowledged the questions. What you did notice was the shift in his feet. This man could stand hours over a table like a challenge he willed himself to beat. You two were barely a few hours in. He didn’t just shift for the sake of it. You concluded you were overthinking the action. He had dismissed your attempt at an apology. He obviously had no interest in racking his brain over you.

Surgery continued silently between the two of you. It was astonishing to you that there was still and unspoken partnership. It was also probably best that you two didn’t speak. The awkwardness was unfit for the operating room. It was fair to throw anyone else in between the unspoken differences the two of you had. Maybe it was inappropriate on your behalf to have a noticeable indifference for your attending, but it didn’t affect Park, so what was the harm? 

Garcia’s question rang in your head. Would he turn you down as a potential addition to the orthopedic department just for the distaste you left in his mouth? Park was considered ruthless at times. You knew exactly what the other residents meant when they threw that word. At this point, you couldn't put anything past him.

Surgery concluded after nine hours. The man had a leg, but the amount of follow up surgery still needed would take grit from his part. He was recovering in the ICU, which would bring his own troubles if he didn't make it past the night.

Once you scrubbed out of the OR, there were barely any day shifters left. When you made it to the dictation room, it was past 10 pm. You had decided you needed to call it quits. There was enough on your plate as it was. Moreover, if Sully heard you had stayed until midnight just to catch up with charting, he’d rip you a new one. 

You had solemnly packed your bag, draping it over your tiresome body. Anyone who recognized you down the hall knew to keep the greetings simple. You weren’t scheduled for a double and they could tell from the disheveled appearance of your civilian clothes, you were ready to go home. You were set on leaving until you approached the elevators. 

There was something left unsaid.

You couldn’t scrub off the anxiety of what Park thought of you now. You had publicly stood up to him and didn't even apologize for it (not that he let you anyways). You were going to end up just like Park if you didn’t do anything about it. He may not be familiar with the concept of apologizing, but it couldn’t be too late to teach an old dog new tricks.

That's how you found yourself walking through a pair of double doors instead. The beep of your badge unlocked the doors and you trudged through the dimly lit hallway. The day shift attendings were gone, and if there was anyone on nights, they were probably on the floor with how desolate the offices were.

The one source of visible light came from the Chief Orthopedics office. 

You grasped onto the cup of coffee tighter than before. It was a lame excuse, as well as a form of a truce, along with a protein bar from the residents lounge. You had doubts it would work in your favor but it was worth a try, You knew he’d read into your intentions, make some joke of your nice nature. Too kind to just let laying dogs lie. The two of you were able to power through 9 hours of surgery without a hiccup. You knew he considered that good enough without addressing the issue. 

When you approached the office, the door was slightly ajar. You called out his name first. There was silence and then a deep grumble that you made out as an invitation. You pushed the door open, lightly to not scare him (although you had never caught him off guard). Peeking your head in first, you saw the sight of Park leaning back in his chair. He was oddly more casual then his usual day to day. His combed gel hair wasn’t as shiny, no longer sporting his scrub cap. He had a few hairs that fell in front of his face, brushing his forehead. 

He rubbed a hand down his face after he saw who was at his door. He must have known from your voice alone, but maybe he was holding out hope it wasn’t who he expected. You closed the door behind you before extending the coffee towards him. When you got a view of his desk, there wasn’t much but a water bottle off to the side. Smiling, you still held out the coffee. “I thought you might be charting late. It’s just black coffee. I know you don’t do sugar or creamer.”

You put the cup down in front of him, along with the protein bar in your pocket. He lazily extended his arm, playing with the sleeve on the cup. His eyes remained on you. “What are you doing here?” 

“I was going to get some charting done—“

“No,” He interrupted swiftly, his fingers no longer twiddling with the sleeve. “What are you doing here?”

The emphasis on the word made it clear what he meant. The sanctity of his office. The same place you had so bravely announced your switch to the day shift. The same place you had told him that you didn’t approve his methods of teaching; like you had a say in the matter. You had preemptively nipped what you thought was a problem. Park felt otherwise in the matter.

You are now riddled with anxiety. He had seen right through you. Park the Shark could sniff out an ulterior motive. He had the previous time you paid him a visit in his office.

Nervously laughing, you tried to put on a polite smile. “Because our conversation was cut short before the surgery.”

“What conversation?” He asked, folding his arms over his chest. He had teased you when he reached for the coffee. He knows better than to cave in to handouts.

“I guess the better way to put it is my apology for my public indifference to your approach with Maura.” You clarified, clearing your throat. It was closing in on itself, enough so to cut out the words spilling halfway out your mouth. 

You didn’t understand why now—all of a sudden—you couldn’t speak to him like an adult. All the self-improvement you thought you made had gone down the drain. You were the same scared resident he met three years ago. With your sudden act of bravery, you should’ve acted and sounded different. How else was any of it supposed to be worth it?

Pulling out the seat in front of him, you pulled off your backpack, placing it beside you. Gauging his reaction, you saw his eyes track your movement. He didn’t expect you to sit down with the way he readjusted himself in his seat. With your hands in your lap, you rubbed them beside your thighs. “I didn’t intend to undermine you.”

“Your intentions don’t matter.” His voice was quieter to match the serious tone you had sent. If this was the way you want to approach it, he was entertaining it so far. “Sometimes you don’t intend to kill a patient, but with the wrong decision, you’ll still kill them anyway.”

One of the commandments all the residents learned. He always warned them about being the reason a patient didn’t make it out of the OR. He followed up with another warning: he didn’t need to hear sob stories after. He was cold-heartily teaching everyone to compartmentalize, whether he or she wanted to or not. Come to terms with what they did wrong, and repent for it later—preferably away from him. 

You sucked in a breath. He was right. Whether you intended to embarrass him in turn didn’t matter, because you already had. In the end, it made you no better than him. Shaking your head, you chuckled dryly. “I don’t know why I did it. I was looking at her, and all of a sudden, I saw myself in her place almost 6 months ago.”

Park didn’t respond. There wasn’t a place to. You could tell he was itching. He was expecting a sob story. All he saw in front of him was someone who let herself feel too much into the work. Meanwhile, he reserved his internal emotions for somewhere more private. The longer he stared, the less walls you saw obscuring his thoughts. He leaned forward, resting both arms on the desk. “You undermined me.”

“No, Dr. Park,” You corrected, gently, but with less restraint than before. “I interrupted because she wasn’t learning anymore. You just kept pushing after you accomplished what you wanted.”

“What’s that?”

“To prove we don’t know everything.” You answered rapidly. It wasn't anger or impatience. You just didn’t find any point in the song and dance when the two of you knew. “To prove there is always something for us to learn. She’s a med student. Don’t you think she knows that?”

“What she doesn’t need is lasting embarrassment that comes from whatever happened during hand off.” Your eyes were stuck on him. Not because you need to be right, and for him to have a relapse of judgment. This wasn’t retribution, it was a wakeup call. “How is anyone supposed to measure up to some standard that will always be unachievable in your eyes?”

He paused, furrowing his eyes barely. “Are we talking about Maura? Or you?”

Some lines must have blurred. You were blindsided by the thorns still sticking in your sides. Maybe it was all an excuse to make him repay you for what he did. You never considered yourself spiteful, but sitting in front of Park now, maybe your intentions were mixed up in between the incident and now.

“You’re wrong, pipsqueak.” Park muttered, reaching for the coffee and taking a sip. You watched him skeptically. When he pulled the cup from his lip, he didn’t elaborate. His lips pressed together, staring back at you blankly.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “About what?”

“About my standards, as you put it.” He clarified. On any other occasion, it would’ve sounded condescending, except he was being serious. “It’s not so unachievable for everyone, it seems.”

You blinked a couple of times. What? It was like Park had been switched out. Since you started covering for Sully, you suspected there was something off with Park. At first, you thought it was because you weren't used to working consistent shifts together. 

When you worked doubles, you didn't need to read too much into Park. 12 hours together in the span of a month was considerably small compared to the hours you did spend up to last year. Except, with this prolonged, inevitable time the two of you had to spend revealed a new nature in Park that didn’t exist until after switching to the night shift.

Did Park finally approve of your efforts? 

That's what you were making out with what little he gave. Give someone an inch…

“Considering we will have the same turnover of senior residents, Emmick and I have strongly considered who we will choose for the chief positions.” Park informed you. The change in his tone had your body preparing for bad news.

You knew the conversations were circulating. The other third and second year residents were already making predictions. Oddly enough, you were the front runner. Walsh and Garcia had endorsed you, subtly making a hint of ‘chief resident’ aspects they found in you. Earnestly, you were happy that they found some form of leadership qualities in you. That was important for an attending. 

Anyone would be proud to have the title; and although many had faith in you, there was hesitancy on your part. You wanted to rightfully earn the title–meaning trust from both Emmick and Park. You knew one party would be easier to convince than the other. What you didn't want was for Park to cave into Emmick because he was left with no choice.

“Dr. Park, I apologize—”

“Can you stop with the apologies?”

The irritability in his subtle eye roll caught you off guard. Had you done that so much in the span of a week? He refocused his gaze on you, “It's unfitting for a future chief resident.”

Future chief resident. Did he mean to let that slip? Nothing Park did was unintentional. He was the most prepared person in the OR. You envied how much he knew, and you knew you couldn't hate someone who could give the knowledge back to you. Your mouth must have been agape because she frowned from your lack of response.

Slowly, you began shaking your head, hands raised, trying to slow down time to replay what you just heard. “What?”

“Dr. Emmick and I have agreed on naming you and Cal chief residents.” He firmly stated, providing you the confirmation you needed. You just had to hear it from his lips.

Your brain buffered and buffered. Chief resident. You couldn’t wait to tell Sully. He’d probably make some big deal of it when he came back. He looked for any excuse to have a ‘party,’ order cake, and have some fancy dinner. Your heart was thumping with the news. There was a smile waiting to break out, but your body was still in shock. 

That’s when it clicked. Dylan Calloway. A third year resident on the night shift. If the intention was to have a chief resident for both shifts, why would they nominate two from the night shift?

He saw the gear spinning in your head. That's why he had gone mute. Before you could utter a word, he leaned back in his chair. “There obviously needs to be one of you on the day shift. The conditions Emmick and I agreed on is to have you move back to the day shift.” 

Your heart was still thumping, except the acceleration was different. Your body wasn't filled with the butterflies that came with achieving a goal of yours. It was fighting the concept of going back to an environment you dreaded. If the interaction between him and Maura proved anything, it was that he still had those tendencies. He’d chomp his teeth if the occasion called for it in his eyes. His narrative. His directive. 

When you thought of it, your body went into a state of fight. To fight against the memories you had ruined by him and his words. 

“Why?” You questioned with a scoff, eyebrows furrowed. “Is this some punishment?”

He scrunched his face. He acted as if the theory were bizarre. Every correction, remark, and warning was chastening. There was no way none of that wasn’t a form of punishment. The way he was controlling the entire board of chess to place you back in a corner, back against the wall. Was your distrust in his intentions misplaced?

With a sigh, he flexed his fingers. Relaxing and tightening them inward. He was stalling to collect his thoughts. “The vessel was a good catch.”

That furthered the curvature in your brows. Your jaw was strained with uncertainty. Your brain didn't know whether to take the compliment to appease him or reject it to maintain a sense of humility. If this was another way to hook you in. He shrugged, “Most would have blamed vascular.”

“That's why.”

When your back hit the back of the chair, your body slumped in resignation. What he saw in most, he didn’t see in you—and in his perspective—that was a good thing. Good enough to be chief resident. Good enough to be recognized. Good enough to welcome you back on the day shift.

“Your med student has learned a thing or two as well.” He leaned forward, turning the monitor of his computer to face you.

On the edge of your seat, practically leaning your body onto his desk, you distinguish the familiar charting system. Your eyes skimmed the information. When you read the header with the patient’s name and chief complaints, you recognized it as the case you both worked on in the ED. You noticed the detail she added. Covering all the bases as if she were handed questions she knew Park would ask about. 

He examined your approval over the charting; with the faint existence of a grin, he scoffed. “Whatever program she joins, I’m sure her attending will appreciate her charting skills.”

You repressed the laugh that almost escaped you. Park had excellent comedic timing for someone who never cracked a smile; or the delirium was finally hitting the both of you. Slouching back in the chair, you grinned lazily. “She’s a smart girl.”

“No, she has a smart teacher.” He mumbled, readjusting his monitor with both hands. He didn't meet your eyes when he said it. Once he did, neither urged to add anything more to the statement. 

Clearing your throat, you smiled with tight lips. “I appreciate the consideration for the chief resident position.”

Park raised singular eyebrows as you clamped your mouth. “That’s it?”

Fuck no, you thought. Logistically, you were thinking of all the way this could go wrong. Sure, he was abnormally nice right now, but who's to say when push comes to shove, he won’t retaliate? You sucked in a sharp breath, “I understand I would have to move to the day shift to receive the privilege.”

A pause. Your niceties weren’t meant to intervene with this conversation. Park didn't need sweetness. He wanted to practice convening with his future chief resident. You bated your eyes, “But, I just want reassurance that there can be mutual respect that doesn't end with either of our egos bruised.”

“You want a pinky promise?” He joked with a frown.

“Of course not!” You groaned, dragging a hand to obscure the smirk. Curse his charm. “Let's agree to listen to one another. If you really want me as your chief resident, you have to trust me, and not use bullying as a form of lecturing.”

“I think I proved that there are other effective tools to teach residents besides crushing their hopes and dreams.” You cocked your head, peering at him through your eyelashes. 

His mind drew a blank. You had to lay the rules now, while you both were in the right state of mind too. He didn't have to mindlessly throw himself into your mercy. You’d always respect him as you're attending, but it should extend both ways. You always welcome the criticism—if done correctly. You wanted to learn from him after all, but not at the expense of your dignity. Now, he knew that. You weren't going to give that up easily.

While taking another sip of the coffee, he nodded. “As long as you stop apologizing for everything. You're about to be a chief resident and you should start acting like one.”

You hummed appreciatively at the sound of the words leaving his mouth. It felt right. Livelier and buzzing with newfound determinations, you smiled at Park. He didn’t like overt niceness, but he didn’t stop you from being bubbly. “I think I can work on that.”

He was crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes heavier with exhaustion. He bit down, but the small curvature of the corner of his lip gave him away. You reached down and grabbed the backpack on the ground. Stretching lightly, you shoved the sleeves up your arms, staring appreciatively at Park. “You should go home, get some sleep.”

All he did was lightly swing the chair back and forth, pushing with his feet. He didn’t make an effort to stand up, even when he continued staring at you through his lashes. Pushing the chair in, your hands lingered on the top edge of the back. Before the week, you didn’t know what to expect.

Park was predictable in nature and unpredictable in sentiment. He had exactly shown you a soft interior for you to believe anything similar to your gentler nature existed in him, but this was the start. 

“I think I should be telling you that.” Park grumbled, tossing his head back to run a hand through his hair. He tussled it around, stray hairs parting in the middle. 

You shrugged, “Balance, Dr. Park. That’s how this works from here on out.”

The pride in your chest for having some equality in this tug-and-pull relationship you two had was undeniable. Your intention wasn’t to abuse it, but to hopefully pave your way to a permanent position after residency. Park must have known the program and Admin would be looking for that in candidates. Walking towards his door, you didn’t sense the nerves eating you alive as when you walked in. There was a change in the atmosphere. It was charged with a positive energy that didn’t come from the agony of fearing Park the Shark. Being in the same enclosure brought you excitement.

Sparing him one last look, you scoffed. “You owe me a coffee, by the way.”

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But the longer he went without getting the response he clearly wanted, the sharper and more hateful his comments became. You knew it wasn’t entirely due to your designation. No, Jacobs was here as temporary coverage, to fill the spot Dr. Simmons left with her retirement. The spot you’d been hired to fill. He undoubtedly thought if he chased you off, he could keep the job. Asshole.

Unfortunately for him, today you were tired. Exhausted really, functioning only off spite and copious amounts of caffeine. You’d been on call the last three nights. And while you’d only had to come in for one surgery, you never slept well when you knew you could be summoned at any moment. So today, you weren’t putting up with his shit.

You sat at one of the computers finishing up your notes for the surgery you’d finished fifteen minutes ago. Jacobs stood nearby chatting with one of the trauma surgeons, though his voice was pitched to carry straight to you.

“I just don’t understand why they would even give her a fellowship. Omegas are naturally better at following than leading. The designation is wired for support roles. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just interesting that PTMC is encouraging it.” He dropped his voice just a fraction but still loud enough to be heard by you and anyone else that happened to be around. “They can’t possibly think that she’ll be a successful attending.”

You stood, hands braced on the desk and stared him down. “Just because I am an Omega, doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole to me and I just take it.” You leaned closer to him and his eyes widened slightly. “Shove your designation up your ass.”

The department was silent as the few witnesses took in the both of you. Even those who hadn’t heard the entirety of what had been said, knew that it had to have been too far, too much. You were level-headed and calm in even the worst situations. It came from a lifetime of biting your tongue. Well, you were done.

Jacobs’ face turned a brilliant shade of red as he opened his mouth to respond. It snapped shut as someone said your name.

Just your name, but it was enough when it was Brendon Park saying it. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t sharp. Just that calm, even tone he used when he wasn’t busy reprimanding the med students and residents.

Your face flooded with heat. A combination of embarrassment and anger, you supposed. You turned and found him standing a short distance away. His scrubs were impeccable even though it was nearing the end of the shift. Of course, they were. Just like his hair was still gelled back with nary a strand out of place. His jaw was sharp enough to cut. His blue eyes gave nothing away as they assessed the situation.Head of the department. Alpha. And all together perfect for you, even if he’d never be yours.

He didn’t say anything else, simply tilting his head toward the hallway that led to his office and waited. Once you moved to follow, he led the way. The corridor felt longer than it had any right to be. You kept your chin up even if your hands were shaking. Jacobs might be an alpha asshole but he was still your superior. Technically. Telling him to shove anything up his ass probably wasn’t the most intelligent thing you’d ever done.

Park didn’t say a word nor did he look back to make sure you were following. His office door was open and he gestured for you to enter first. He followed and closed the door behind you. You glanced around the office, finding no changes from the last time you were here. The office was sparse but it was all him.

 And here, you could detect the slightest hint of warm cedar. His scent was dampened but stronger here than anywhere else and you knew he probably changed his scent patches here when needed. You attempted to breathe shallowly, not wanting this man to get any further under your skin than he already was.

He didn’t sit behind the desk. He leaned against the front of it, arms crossed, posture casual. You realized he was trying to keep this from feeling like a disciplinary meeting and you appreciated it. Some of the tension bled from your shoulders.

“What was that about?” he asked.

You told him all of it. From the first comment about how omegas have no place in the OR to the one he’d made last week to a nurse about your scent being distracting and maybe you should consider a stronger scent patch. Then the suggestion, made twice in the last month, that you’d gotten your fellowship placement because some alpha had put in a good word to get into your nest.

As you spoke, your voice regained its steadiness and the shaking in your hands ceased. You watched his face as you spoke. His expression didn’t change but his jaw tightened, a muscle twitching under the skin. His eyes remained on yours, not looking away even once. He listened without interrupting. When you finished, you felt lighter than you had in weeks.

Park studied you for a moment. “When did this start?”

“His second day.”

His gaze narrowed slightly at that before returning to normal. “Why didn’t you report it?”

You sighed. “I didn’t want to be that omega. The one that couldn’t take a few comments from an alpha. I only have six more weeks before he’ll be gone. I thought I could ignore it.”

“You could have said something to me if you didn’t want to involve HR.” His voice had softened.

“I could have, yes.”

The silence stretched for a beat. “But you didn’t.”

“No, sir.”

He nodded just once, a short downward movement of his chin. An acknowledgement of what you’d told him.

“Finish your rounds and go home,” he said.

That was it. No platitudes. No promises. Just a dismissal.

So, you left.

When you returned for your next shift two days later, you found Jacobs’ name gone from the department board. You glanced at the wall lined with the photos of the surgical attendings. There was no longer a picture of Jacobs smirking from the end of the row. It was if he’d never been there at all. The corners of your lips curled up into a smile.

Park was already at the nurses’ station when you arrived, reviewing his charts for that day’s surgeries. He didn’t look up when you approached. When you said good morning, he responded with nothing more than a short nod, his eyes meeting yours for half a second before returning to the chart.

Gratitude washed through you. Park had handled it. He hadn’t questioned your sincerity, hadn’t taken an alpha’s word over yours. He’d simply assessed the problem and took care of it. And that feeling you’d been shoving down for months welled up. The feeling you got whenever you watched him operate, when you took in the set of his broad shoulders, when he approved of your work with a simple ‘good.’

You were six weeks from being his colleague instead of his fellow. Six weeks from the hierarchy between you becoming something simpler. You had promised yourself you would wait.

That evening you broke that promise.

You decided on brownies. Something that would keep for a couple of days without refrigeration. That he could take a bite of when he had a moment. But you didn’t make the quick ones you could throw together without a second thought. No, these were a layered concoction that were rich without being too sweet. Dark chocolate and raspberry and cream cheese.

The apartment filled with the rich aroma. Once they’d cooled you packaged them carefully in a glass container. You stuck a note to the lid. A simple Thank you for believing me followed by your name. You resisted the urge to add a little heart after it.

You rested your palm against the lid and took a deep breath. An omega bringing food to an alpha was not a casual act of gratitude. It carried weight. It was a courting gesture. It was the kind of thing that said, I value you, I appreciate you, you’re worth me spending my time on. You knew what you were doing. Had known as soon as he asked for no accolades for his actions that were going to do it.

The next morning you arrived an hour early for your shift. Even Park didn’t arrive that early. You set the container on his desk, carefully in the center where he would see it first thing. Then you left, your heart in your throat, and went to prepare for your day.

Brendon found the container just before 6:30. He always arrived a half an hour early for his shift, wanting a chance to review the day’s OR schedule. He paused, setting down his bag, eyes on the container and your familiar scrawl. His brow furrowed as he read the note. Of course he believed you. Why would he do otherwise?

He’d worked with you for years. Watched you grow from a shy resident into a competent, confident surgeon. Jacobs was just some asshole filling a spot that was rightfully yours.

He lifted the lid. The deep, rich aroma of good chocolate flooded his senses, his mouth instantly watering. A pulse of possessive warmth started low in his belly and spread outward, making the hair on his arms stand up. His scent changed before he could stop it, the cedar deepening mixing with the underlying spicy smell of a pleased alpha.

He stood very still for a moment and let himself feel it.

Then he shut it down. Hard.

The last thing you needed was an alpha reading too much into a thank you. You had just spent weeks being insulted and humiliated on a daily basis by another alpha. You didn’t deserve the unwanted attentions of another.

If he ate this food, if he accepted this gesture, he would not be able to maintain the distance he’d built between you shift by shift. He closed the container, carried it to the breakroom and left it on the table. Then he went back to his office, closed the door and did not come out for twenty minutes.

You found it when you stopped by to get a cup of coffee between procedures. Your glass container, still half full of brownies sitting on the table. Crumbs littered the area around it.

You stood just inside the doorway of the empty breakroom and took a deep breath. Then another. Then you picked up the container and carried it to your locker. That night when you got home, you threw the whole thing in the garbage. Then you walked away.

As the days passed, you changed. You knew it but didn’t care enough to correct it. You spoke less in rounds. You kept your eyes anywhere but on Park when he was speaking. You stopped lingering at the nurses’ station to talk to him after your work was finished or between procedures. It was the only thing you knew to do. He had made his position clear and you weren’t going to push when you weren’t wanted.

Park changed too. His interactions with you became shorter, the tone more formal. Not cold, never that, but careful in a way he hadn’t been before. He stopped standing quite as close to you in the OR. Quit making small talk.

The distance between you grew enough that it was noted by others in the department. It was brought up to you exactly once and your cold dismissal was enough to keep them from asking again. No one was brave enough to broach the topic with Park.

It was fine, you told yourself, meaning it less with each passing day.

The shift was a brutal one.

You’d nearly lost a patient on the table. A tib-fib fracture that shifted, nicking the artery. For the longest ninety seconds of your life, the blood had come faster than you could clamp it. Your hands remained steady through all of it. As you found the bleed, as you repaired it, finished the surgery and closed. The patient was stable and in recovery now.

Your hands waited until after to shake. You stood at the sink, too hot water running over your trembling fingers. You pressed your forehead against the cool tile and breathed. Once you were more certain of yourself, sure the anxiety had ebbed enough to not be read on your face, you headed back to work.

At the end of the day, you were still carrying it there in the middle of your chest. As you passed the nurses’ station on your way out you heard the distinct sound of Park’s laugh.

Not the short exhale he gave when he found something mildly amusing. No, this was a real laugh. Low and easy, the way you’d only heard a handful of times. You stopped walking without meaning to, eyes searching him out.

He stood nearby with one of the floor nurses. Cindy, a pretty unmated omega that made residents trip over their own feet when she graced them with a smile. She had her hand on Park’s arm as she smiled up at him. And he let her. He stood there in his stupid purple scrubs with his stupid perfect hair while his eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something another omega had said.

He didn’t move her hand.

You kept walking and didn’t look back again. You swiped your badge to clock out then got on the elevator to head to the parking garage. You pushed through the doors to your level. You did not let yourself think about it until you were sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, engine off. The world mostly quiet around you.

And oh gods that hurt. It was one thing to know he didn’t want you. Another entirely to discover he wanted someone else. You sucked in a shaky breath as your fingers scrabbled to get a purchase on the scent patch on your wrist. First your left, then the right, ignoring the sharp pull of the adhesive against your skin.

You tossed them into the trash you kept on the passenger side of your car. Then you removed the larger one on your neck, at the junction of your throat and shoulder. The one that did the most work. Your omega scent began to bleed back into the air around you. The feeling of relief was immediate as your muscles loosened.

You braced your hands on the steering wheel and dropped your forehead to rest against them. You closed your eyes. And you cried.

Quiet sobs filled your car as your shoulders shook with the action. You were exhausted. You’d been holding onto everything so tightly. Pretending the rejection of the only alpha you’d ever really wanted hadn’t affected you in the least. Pretending you could keep things professional. That you could work with him every day without it tearing you up inside.

Your body had finally reached its limit and broke. Tears warmed your cheeks and dripped onto the wheel. You didn’t try to stop them. You could fall apart here in the quiet of the parking garage. Gods knew you wouldn’t be the first person to break in employee parking. You just needed to let it out, then you could pull yourself together and drive home. No one would ever know.

You barely registered the yank of your car door opening. Then hands were on your shoulders, turning you and pulling you out of the seat before you could even fully process what was happening. And then you were against his chest.

For a moment you panicked until that warm cedar scent flooded your nose. Brendon. His arms went around you, one hand resting on your back, the other cradling your head. His touch was gentle, grounding and…not meant for you.

You pushed against him, putting distance between you, minimal as it may be. His hands shifted to hold onto your upper arms.

His gaze raked over you, looking for injury maybe. “Who made you cry?” His voice was rough, urgent. “Tell me and I’ll take care of it.”

You shook your head and huffed in disbelief. You had cried so many times over this man. This alpha that wasn’t yours. “It was you, Brendon. It’s always been you.”

His hands stayed on you but he went still. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, quietly, “Me? What did I do? Please tell me so I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix it. Sometimes things just hurt and you can’t fix them,” you insisted then sucked in a bracing breath. “You’re allowed to not want me, Brendon, but it will take me a while to get over your rejection. It’s just how it is. I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable.”

His brow furrowed. “Rejection?”

Maybe he wasn’t as smart as you thought he was. “You left my gift on the breakroom table for everyone to eat. That usually counts as a rejection, yes.”

He stared at you, eyes wide with something that looked like panic. “The brownies. You were courting me?”

You blinked. “What did you think I was doing?”

“Saying thank you.” His voice was so quiet you barely heard him.

“Brendon Park.” His name dripped with disbelief as it rolled off your tongue. This stupid, idiot alpha. But just because he didn’t understand, didn’t mean he suddenly wanted you. You opened your mouth to say something else but he interrupted by cradling your face in both of his hands.

His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones. His eyes were dark, blue almost swallowed by his pupils. His scent grew warmer, headier with contentment and something that felt like want.

“I’m sorry, Omega.” His voice was low and rough. “We can discuss what an idiot I am later, but right now I need to kiss you. You smell divine and it’s making my head swim.”

And then he did.

His mouth was warm and softer than you’d imagined. And you had imagined it. So many times. His hands slid from your face to the back of your neck and he kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for as long as you had. Perhaps that careful distance he’d maintained between you had cost him something too.

You kissed him back. Your hands found his chest, clutching onto his scrubs to pull him closer. He chuckled against your lips. The world around you disappeared until all that was left was his mouth on yours and his scent in your lungs.

When he pulled back, his breathing was uneven. His forehead rested against yours, his thumbs still tracing your skin. “Five weeks until you’re an attending. I can wait five weeks.”

You laughed, the sound bright and relieved. “I couldn’t.” You closed your eyes and just enjoyed the moment before you pulled back to look at him. “I don’t want to wait, Brendon. I’ve been waiting. I already have the position. We can be discrete but don’t make me wait.” When he didn’t immediately respond, you added, “Please, alpha.”

His mouth curved. “Whatever my omega wants.”

Then he kissed you again.

He turned to you with those sad eyes and immediately pulled you into his arms. “Thank you for coming in. It’s been…a day.”

“I gathered.” You wrapped your arms around him to return the hug. “You okay?”

“Better now.”

The two of you parted and he gave you a quick rundown of the patients and the situation in chairs. While you worked you made a habit of finding Robby whenever you could. Your fingers would find the hair at the nape of his neck and rub gently. It was a self soothing gesture he’d done since he was a kid. One you’d picked up on to help him when he was really stressed, you calming him better than he could ever do by himself.

Every time he closed his eyes and just let himself sink into the sensation for a moment. Neither of you thought much of it, having done the routine for years at this point.

Jack returned from his SWAT run expecting to find you still in bed or maybe curled up on the couch. Instead, he found a note stating you’d headed into work. He frowned then got ready to follow you. He wasn’t sitting around the house by himself.

His eyes scanned the ED taking in the chaos before falling on you standing behind Robby while he sat at one of the computers. Jack’s gaze narrowed at the sight of your fingers playing with the fringe of hair on Robby’s neck.

He walked over to the hub. “What are you two doing?” he asked, not sounding at all accusatory. (This is a lie. Though the tone didn’t affect you and Robby in the least.)

Instead of answering, you gave Jack a small, sad smile and looked pointedly at the man in front of you. Jack studied him for a moment then he realized what this was. You were comforting Robby.

“Oh no.” Jack’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Carry on,” he stated louder before heading to the locker room.

“Did I call him in? I don’t remember calling him.” Robby asked as his friend walked away.

No one answered him.

A couple of hours passed, the end of shift growing ever closer. Night shift started to trickle in. Jack was moving past the hub when his gaze fell on Robby sitting at the desk, palms pressed against his eyes.

Jack’s gaze frantically moved around the department searching for you.

“She’s in a trauma,” Dana’s voice cut in.

He glanced over to find her gesturing toward Robby. ‘Do something,’ she mouthed.

Jack sucked in a breath, nodded once and moved up behind his best friend. His fingers attempted to replicate the comforting pattern that you’d long memorized.

Robby froze.

His hands dropped as he blinked. Once. Twice.

“Jack?” Robby drew out the word. “What are you doing?”

“She’s busy. I’m all you have. Deal with it.”

Robby huffed a laugh and tried to duck away, but Jack’s hand merely followed. “Believe it or not, it’s not near as comforting when you do it. In fact, it’s fucking strange. Knock it off.”

“No. Let me comfort you.” Jack was nothing if not stubborn.

Robby started to protest before just deflating. “Fine.” A pause. “Go a little higher.”

Melissa King walked past the hub, tablet in hand, nodding to the attendings as she passed. Then she stopped, processed and turned to face them. “I…um…I’m not certain that’s entirely appropriate.”

Her words caught Crus Henderson’s attention and he turned to see what had snagged her attention. He grinned and stepped up beside her. “Oh, you don’t want to get in the middle of that. Trust me. Just keep moving.”

Jack narrowed his gaze. “I’m soothing him. Do you have a problem with that? I didn’t realize you were so closed minded, Dr King. What if he’s my husband? Have you considered that?”

Crus snorted and patted Mel’s shoulder. “Good luck.” Then he walked off and left her to the wolves—or rather the Abbot.

Mel stuttered, her brow furrowing. “No. I mean…” She huffed in annoyance. “Aren’t you already married to Dr. Abbot?”

“I am Dr. Abbot,” Jack answered, lips twitching as he fought his amusement.

You’d stepped out of the trauma room during the initial conversation and made your way over with a shake of your head.

Robby looked from Mel to you and glanced over his shoulder at Jack. “I’m keeping my last name. Three Abbots is too many.”

You shrugged. “I could always switch to Robinavitch.”

A resounding “No!” came from both men and you smiled.

You turned to Mel. “Ignore them. They’re just like this. It’s a problem really. Hand off your patients to Dr. Henderson, please.”

She nodded slowly, clutching the tablet to her chest as she walked away. She looked back once with a heavily furrowed brow as she tried to process what had just happened.

“You two are menaces,” you said to the men once she’d left.

“I’m soothing,” Jack insisted and Robby chuckled. A real smile was on his face for the first time all day.

You smirked and huffed a laugh. “You just going to keep letting him play with your hair all night or do you want to do handoff?”

Robby straightened and brushed Jack’s hand away. “Stop it.”

“I mean, it’s fine. I don’t want to interrupt your bonding moment or anything,” you continued.

“Oh, shut up,” Robby said as he stood, cheeks flaming red.

Bonus:

As Mel gave Crus a rundown on her patients, she kept glancing back to the hub where the attendings were in conversation.

“Hey, you with me?” he asked drawing her attention back to him.

She startled and cleared her throat. “Yes, sorry. Yes.”

Crus chuckled as he flashed her a smile. “I take it you haven’t seen the three of them interact much.”

“Not really. No.”

“You’ll get used to it. They’re a little chaotic, but there is no one better to learn from.”

Mel nodded absently. “So, the Doctors Abbot are married and Dr. Robby is…”

You'd only known him for eight months.

Eight months since he'd moved into the apartment across the hall after his roommate skipped town, eight months of accidentally becoming each other's favorite person, of borrowed sugar and movie nights and impromptu grocery trips because one of you remembered at ten-thirty at night that neither of you had milk for coffee in the morning, eight months of Danny somehow inserting himself into your routines so naturally that you couldn't remember what your evenings had looked like before he started knocking on your door simply to ask if you wanted to split a pizza.

Everyone else had noticed before either of you had.

Your coworkers asked about "your boyfriend Danny."

His friends constantly referred to you as "Danny's girl."

Even your grandmother had smiled over FaceTime after meeting him exactly once and said, "Sweetheart, marry that one before someone else realizes how lovely he is."

You'd laughed.

Danny had turned bright red.

Neither of you had corrected her.

And yet somehow...

Nothing had happened.

There had been moments, thousands of them really, tiny things that lingered just a little too long. His hand resting at the small of your back whenever crowds got thick. The way he looked for you first whenever something funny happened. How every celebration somehow ended with the two of you sitting on your apartment rooftop sharing takeout containers beneath the stars. How he'd once fallen asleep on your couch with his head in your lap during a movie marathon and, upon waking, had simply smiled sleepily and settled back down for another ten minutes as though that was the most natural place in the world for him to be.

Neither of you had crossed the line.

Neither of you had seemed brave enough.

Until today.

You had barely made it through the front doors before Danny spotted you.

His face lit up.

Then immediately panicked.

"Oh, God."

You blinked.

"What?"

"I—I should've practiced."

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

"Practiced what?"

"This."

He held up the bouquet almost accusingly, as though it had betrayed him. "This whole... this."

Your eyes dropped to the flowers.

Sunflowers.

White daisies.

Blue delphiniums.

Little sprigs of eucalyptus.

Wildflowers.

Not the polished, perfectly arranged bouquets people bought for obligatory occasions.

These looked cheerful.

Messy.

Like someone had walked into a florist and said, "I need flowers that look like sunshine."

"They're beautiful," you said quietly.

"I know absolutely nothing about flowers."

"...Then how did you pick these?"

"The florist asked what you were like."

"And?"

"I said..." Danny rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. "I said you're the kind of person who stops to look at dogs even when you're running late. That you smile at babies. That you collect weird mugs because you think coffee tastes better out of ugly ceramic. That you always pull your sleeves over your hands when you're cold instead of wearing gloves. That your favorite season is autumn because you think the air smells happier."

Your chest tightened painfully.

"And then?"

"And then she smiled at me for, like, thirty straight seconds—which was terrifying, by the way—and handed me these." He looked down at them. "I think she knew before I did."

The rain tapped softly against the awning above your heads.

Neither of you moved.

Danny swallowed.

"I had this whole speech."

"You did?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Where'd it go?"

"I don't know." He looked genuinely distressed. "I had bullet points."

"You made bullet points?"

"Mental ones."

"I see."

"They're gone."

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too widely.

"So... improvise."

He stared at you.

"I hate improvising."

"You've literally improvised your entire life."

"Yeah, but usually it doesn't involve potentially ruining the best friendship I've ever had."

That made your smile falter.

Danny exhaled slowly, his shoulders dropping as though he'd finally accepted there was no elegant escape route left, and for the first time since you'd met him, the endless confidence disappeared entirely, leaving behind nothing but a man who looked frighteningly hopeful and impossibly vulnerable.

"I like you."

Your heartbeat stumbled.

"I know that's probably obvious."

"It is."

"I mean..." He laughed nervously. "No, I don't think you understand."

He stepped closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough that the rain outside seemed farther away.

"I wake up wondering if you're awake yet because I know you'll text me good morning if you are."

Your breath caught.

"I buy groceries based on things you like because half the time you end up eating dinner at my place anyway."

He smiled faintly.

"I keep noticing little things during my day and thinking, 'I have to tell her about that later.'"

Another step.

"I've started measuring weeks by how much time I get to spend with you."

Your eyes were beginning to sting.

"And somewhere..." His voice softened. "...somewhere along the way, I stopped being excited just because I got to see you."

He laughed quietly.

"I started missing you while you were still standing next to me."

Silence.

Rain.

Traffic in the distance.

Your entire world narrowing to one man holding flowers with slightly trembling hands.

Danny looked down.

"I don't know exactly when I fell in love with you."

Love.

The word settled between you with astonishing gentleness.

"I just know that one day you smiled at me from your doorway because I'd brought you soup when you were sick, and I remember thinking..." He shook his head with a disbelieving smile. "'Well. I'm done for.'"

A tear escaped before you could stop it.

Danny noticed immediately.

"Oh, no." He looked horrified. "You're crying."

"I am."

"I made you cry."

"They're happy tears."

"Are they?"

"I think so."

"You think so?"

"I can't exactly process at the moment."

"Oh." He nodded solemnly. "Understandable."

Despite everything, you laughed through the tears.

"There she is," Danny whispered, relief flooding his face. "Okay. You laughed. That's good."

"You idiot."

"I've been called worse."

"You absolute, ridiculous idiot."

"I know."

"You couldn't have said something sooner?"

He blinked.

"You liked me?"

You stared.

"Danny."

"I genuinely wasn't sure."

"You brought me soup."

"You were sick."

"You knitted me a scarf."

"You were cold."

"You fixed my bookshelf."

"It was dangerous."

"You stayed with me until four in the morning because I couldn't sleep after watching a horror movie."

"It was scary."

"You drove three hours because I mentioned missing the beach. You learned how to make my grandmother's lasagna. You remembered my coffee order after hearing it once. You remembered my birthday after I told you once. You came to my work Christmas party. You hate Christmas parties."

"I do."

"You still came."

"I wanted to see you." He stared at you for a very long moment. "...We're both kind of idiots."

"The biggest."

He laughed.

"Yeah."

You looked at the flowers again.

"So..."

"So?"

"Weren't you going to ask me something?"

His eyes widened.

"Oh!"

He'd forgotten.

Completely forgotten.

He looked so adorably horrified by the realization that you couldn't help laughing again.

"Right!"

He straightened instinctively, nearly dropping the bouquet in the process before catching it against his chest with a muttered, "Don't embarrass me now."

Then he looked back at you.

Really looked at you.

Like there was no one else in the world.

His smile was warm enough to make the gray evening seem brighter.

"So..." he said softly. "Would you maybe... possibly... if you're interested... and absolutely no pressure because I know technically this whole thing has gotten much bigger than originally intended..."

You folded your arms, waiting.

He groaned.

"I'm overthinking."

"You are."

He took one determined breath.

"Would you go on a date with me?"

You didn't answer immediately.

Instead, you stepped forward until there was barely any space between you, reached for the bouquet, and gently took it from his hands, breathing in the scent of fresh flowers before looking back up at the man who had spent months loving you quietly enough that you'd both mistaken it for friendship until it became far too large to ignore.

Then you reached up, curled your fingers around the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

It wasn't hurried.

It wasn't dramatic.

It was the kiss of two people who had unknowingly been falling toward each other for months and had finally stopped pretending gravity wasn't involved.

Danny froze for exactly half a second.

Then his hands found your waist with extraordinary care, as though he couldn't quite believe he was allowed to touch you this way, and when he kissed you back there was laughter hidden inside it, relief woven through it, months of restrained affection finally given permission to exist all at once.

When you eventually pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

"I'm going to assume that's a yes," he murmured.

You smiled.

"I'd love to go on a date with you."

His grin spread slowly, brilliantly, until it became the kind of smile that transformed his whole face.

"I should've asked months ago."

"You really should have."

"I was scared." He laughed quietly. "Seems like I wasted a lot of time."

You slipped your hand into his.

"Maybe."

His fingers intertwined with yours instinctively, fitting together with startling ease.

"But," you added, squeezing his hand as the rain finally began to ease into nothing more than a mist, "we've got plenty of time now."

Danny looked at you with the unmistakable expression of someone who had finally found the place he'd been trying to get to all along, leaned down to steal one more kiss before either of you could overthink another second, and smiled against your lips.

The ghost will not stop screaming.

It’s really starting to piss Robby off as he stands in Trauma One, listening to it screech obscenities into his ear.

You didn’t try hard enough.

You could have saved me.

Why the fuck did you stop.

He doesn’t turn his head to look at it, he doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just stands there with his hands clasped in front of him as he observes the moment of not-so-silence with the other members of his team who tried to save twenty-year-old Samantha Robbins who fell off an overpass because she was trying to film the latest trend of doing dumbshit on Tiktok.

The sobbing starts, her hand reaching out, fingers raking over his hoodie, sinking through his flesh. It sends a chill coursing through his nervous system, like the haemoglobin in his blood has turned into ice and is now pumping through his veins. He clenches his jaw as pleas emit from her mangled features.

Shock me again.

Please, I don’t want to die.

But it’s too late. Her soul is standing right beside him, watching their moment of quiet respect. If he could, he’d thrust her back into her body, give her another round but that’s not how it works.

Christ this is it, isn’t it…

I’ll never get married, never get to have kids, I haven’t even found my signature scent yet…

“That sounds like unfinished business to me.”  Myrna pipes up from beside him, her wrist still handcuffed to the wheelchair she died in.

Ironically… it’s not PTMC’s wheelchair. It’s one from another hospital, where the staff didn’t give enough of a shit about the woman in the gold coat to realise she was dead for twelve hours.

Apparently, she’s meant to be his new spirit guide, since the other one retired because he was ‘too old for this shit.’

I’m too old for this shit, he’d felt like saying. Too tired, too worn down, too exhausted from three years of this bullshit.

Myrna angles the wheelchair towards the new ghost, gripping her sleeve to pull her aside because she doesn’t want to deal with the ulna that’s clearly bursting out of her flesh from the fall.

Despite his griping Myrna is actually pretty good at this. She’s taken it upon herself to wrangle any ghost that gives Robby too much shit, laying down the law and giving them the downlow on their new set of circumstances. However, when she’s bored… she’s a bonified menace especially now that no one else can see her.

Usually, souls transition almost immediately when someone passes away but sometimes, they get stuck because there’s something left unsaid or unfinished. Most times it’s saying goodbye to a loved one, that’s easy to take care of but others…

It’s dumb fucking shit like Samantha’s unfinished business, which is why he ends up spending an hour in The Perfume Bar after his shift asking the woman behind the desk to spray the air with every scent known to man from Guilty by Gucci to Chance by Chanel.

“Sir.” The assistant says, squirting J’Adore by Dior into the air. “I really hope this isn’t some kind of fetish, and you’re just wasting my time getting your jollies off-”

“I fucking wish.” Robby responds, his eyes rolling towards the Samantha who is trying to rearrange her long dark hair over her caved in skull so you won’t notice the brains that are seeping out. Myrna lingers beside her, her phone in hand as she keeps a list of all the scents they’ve tried because every fucking perfume name sounds exactly the same to him. “Any luck?”

“I like that one.” Samantha tells him pointing at the bottle that’s shaped like high heel shoe. “Good Girl by Carolina Herrera.”

“So, the first one we tried.” He sighs, tilting his head towards the assistant who’s looking at him like he’s batshit crazy. He doesn’t blame her, he’d think he was crazy too, asking her to spray all sorts of perfume and talking to thin air. “I don’t suppose you could just spritz a little in that direction.”

The assistant looks like she’ll do anything to make him go away so she picks up the bottle, spraying it in the space alongside him. A white light starts to form around Samantha, framing the outline of her ghost as she looks up at him, her skin starting to knit back together, her bones rearranging themselves to where they’re meant to be. “Am I…”

He nods his head and she smiles, fading out into nothing,

“Are you going to buy it?” The assistant asks, shaking the perfume bottle from side to side. “Or are you just going to make me stand here all night spraying it?”

“I’ll come back another time.” He tells her, pushing away from the counter and heading towards the door.

He hears her mutter “weird fucking asshole” as he steps out onto the street.

You don’t know the half of it, he thinks, sniffing his coat.

He smells like a whore’s boudoir or so Myrna tells him as she wheels herself alongside him. The sky is darkening now, the colors from the sunset bleeding into darkness as the streetlamps flitter on. He feels Myrna’s tug on his hoodie, slowing his step as he tips his head down to meet her gaze. “I’m gonna head off, go find some mischief to get into at Club LaLa, you gonna be ok tonight?”

She’s talking about the panic attacks he gets, the nightmares about people with half their faces missing, following him around. “Got my new sleep meds. I’ll be fine.” He waves her off.

“Maybe you should try something else.” She jerks her chin to the only store that’s still open on this block.

Light emits from a neon purple circular sign in the window, a moon and stars in the centre. ‘Psychic and Tarot Open’ written underneath. His eyes rise to the wooden plaque overhead. By day it masquerades as curios & antiquities store and by night, he guesses it’s this.

“You may get some answers in there.” Myrna prompts.

“Not sure what else I need to know.” Robby tells her, his palm scrubbing across his beard. It needs a trim, but he simply hasn’t had the energy with all the comings and goings lately. “I had a motorcycle accident while I was on sabbatical and now I see dead people.”

Robby starts to walk away as she disappears, heading towards his bike. He pauses as he picks up his helmet, glancing back at the sign.

Talking to someone like him… it might be interesting, might be nice to compare war stories if they’re the real deal.

But that’s the issue isn’t it, finding out if the ‘psychic’ in that shop is in fact the real deal.

He sighs as he sets down his helmet.

He guesses there’s only one way to find out.

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The problem with being the Napoleon of Crime is it’s boring.

No one can match up to your supreme intellect; people don’t quite get you. It makes for dull days and lonely nights. A summary of Jim Moriarty’s entire existence…

… until the Hope Diamond goes missing.

It’s a brilliant heist. Rambunctious, clever and an absolute middle finger to the Americans who staked their claim on it, despite the fact it was reportedly stolen from a religious statue in India, and then looted from French aristocracy during the revolution.

The whole thing has the FBI seething, Interpol chasing their tales, it’s a hoot really it is.

And the best part is… Moriarty has no clue who stole it, absolutely none at all.

The theft… it energises him, it gives him a puzzle.

One he spends weeks trying to solve.

Visiting the crime scene, obtaining files, breaking down all of the angles. A new madness sets in, an obsession unlike any he’s never known. It plagues every single one of his waking thoughts, and then it slips into his dreams too, haunting him with images of diamonds slipping through his fingers like worthless trinkets until he comes to one conclusion.

This isn’t the work of a team like he originally suspected. This is just one person, one dazzling, sharp little chaos monster, who has been stealing rare jewels under his nose for decades.

His ferocity renews. He tracks down fences, steals his way into private collections because gemstones like that… they have to go somewhere, but he can find absolutely no trace of them.

He spends his evenings sitting in front of his Brazilian Rosewood desk, his head clutched in his hands as he stares down at the details spread out across the surface. The truth is you are as elusive as smoke, not even a code name in a Scotland Yard file and it’s starting to drive him crazy.

So, he decides to set his own trap. It starts with a whisper in the ear of philanthropist Nita Amba, a play to the vanity and ego of a woman who has nice things… and likes to show them off.

The L’Incomparable Diamond Necklace has always been a stunning piece, one that deserves its own showcase, along with the rest of the other rare pieces in her collection. It’s a bounty to big for any self-respecting jewel thief to resist.

He dons his finest tuxedo for the gala and attends the event waiting for the reckoning…

Only the reckoning never comes.

There’s plenty of people milling around but there’s no master criminal at play, no heist…

It’s all terribly disappointing.

He sips his champagne indignantly, cursing out invitees who don’t attend parties that their invited to and that’s when he sees it…

That rare flash of slate blue.

Surely no one would ever be so bold…

But you are.

You’re as bold as fucking brass, wearing The Hope Diamond around your throat as if you didn’t just steal the thing a couple of months ago, as if it’s not the only that anyone is talking about at this party. And the thing is… no one even notices because you’re a cunning little thing.

The actual diamond itself has been removed from the centrepiece and instead hangs on a silver chain like a pendant in the sweetheart neckline of your dress. The clear gems that circled it are now earrings, gorgeous ones that hang from your lobes glittering like stars underneath the chandelier above. The forty-five diamonds that made up the chain itself are now a series of three stacker bracelets, each one artfully crafted to fit around your wrist.

It’s the work of a master jeweller

His master jeweller.

The one he’s always dismissed as being too demure, too quiet.

“Oh, you clever, clever girl.” He drawls as you glance over your shoulder, casting a radiant smile in his direction as you raise your champagne glass up to toast him. “I truly did underestimate you, didn’t I?”

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