Stories And Sliding Doors

Maya kicks the covers off with a huff, a hot flare of irritation curling like smoke in her stomach.

For the third night in a row, she can’t sleep.

There’s no thread count high enough, no magnesium gummy strong enough, no goddamn meditation app calming enough to get you out of her head.

And she’s starting to feel crazy.

She keeps thinking about that day in the trailer, the meeting that knocked her world off its axis. And that evening in her office, the impromptu dinner date.

The way you looked so relaxed on her sofa, like you belonged there. The way your eyes glazed over for a second when she said, “A lot can happen in five minutes.”

Maya stares at the ceiling, the soft glow of the city casting familiar shadows. She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes.

Slowly, she slips her fingers into her underwear.

Maya has never been one to feel shame about touching herself. But tonight, she can’t ignore the hot flush of humiliation at how wet she is.

Because there’s an absolute mess waiting between her legs. She’s slick and swollen, throbbing to the point of distraction. Has been for days.

She can’t stop wondering what might have happened if Matt hadn’t interrupted everything when he did, at the exact moment she finally worked up the nerve to make a move. Brushing her arm against yours. Stealing candy out of the open bag in your lap. The little stutter of breath catching in your chest as she lingered there, taking her time, teasing you.

Maya circles her clit, hips jumping at even the slightest pressure. She’s so far gone, lost in the details of her memory—the way you smelled, the way you laughed—the edges of which are starting to blur into fantasy...

You’d probably enjoy seeing her like this, all fucked out and feral, desperate to come.

Working so hard for something you could give her so easily.

“What’s the matter, princess? Can’t get there on your own?”

Maya bucks up against her palm, grinding shamelessly. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Her breath is coming in shallow gasps, little broken whimpers falling from her lips. She just needs to come. Then she’ll finally be able to sleep.

She can easily picture you sitting at the foot of the bed, legs spread, that little smile on your face.

“Let me see your tits.”

Maya hikes her shirt up. Your smile widens.

“First you let me tell you how to do your job,” you taunt, watching her hungrily. “Now you let me tell you how to fuck yourself?”

Maya growls. Even in her fantasies, you’re infuriating. She brings her other hand up, rolling her flushed nipples between her fingers, pinching and tweaking the sensitive buds. It helps. She can feel her orgasm building, the coil of heat in her belly tightening…but the release is still just out of reach.

“Come on,” she whines, all alone in her bedroom, horrified to feel tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

She takes an unsteady breath. Pictures you at the foot of the bed. Legs spread like you own the place. Watching her pathetic attempts to get off. That impassive look on your face. Like you couldn’t care less.

The indifference makes her throb, and she slides a finger inside. It’s not enough, not nearly. She adds another, wanting to feel the stretch, the fullness.

Her heart is hammering in her chest.

Maya doesn’t think she’s ever been this turned on. She’s had crushes before, sure. But this is more than that. It’s molecular. It’s obsessive. You’ve gotten under her skin.

“Rougher,” you say, nodding toward her heaving chest. “You can take it.”

Maya doesn’t understand your meaning at first. Then comprehension dawns and she gives her tits a sudden slap.

She moans at how much the pain articulates the pleasure, pulsing through her pussy. She does it again, arching her back off the sheets.

“There you go. See? Such a good listener.”

Your tone is so condescending that she feels her cunt clench reflexively.

And now Maya imagines you taking your top off, baring your broad shoulders, your smooth skin, crawling up the bed and boxing her in with your body. The feel of you against her would be heavy, powerful, solid.

“You’d let me do anything to you, hmm? Say it.”

Maya nods, her humiliation a visceral thing. She’s writhing on the mattress, arousal dripping down into the palm of her hand and soaking her underwear.

“I’d let you do anything to me,” she groans out loud, and she feels her cunt flutter wildly at those words, at how true they ring. Maya’s always been a top, the dominant energy in bedrooms, boardrooms, everywhere she goes.

But something about you has her feeling needy, desperate. She’s in totally uncharted territory. She brings her hand up to her throat, squeezing experimentally, begging her body for release.

“Please, please, please,” she chants softly, eyes watering as she restricts her own air supply, blurring her vision so much that she can almost believe you’re on top of her, giving her everything she needs. “Please let me come.”

For a second she feels like she might finally tip over…then:

“You can’t fuck me out of your system, baby.”

Maya whimpers at the pitiless look on your face, praying your prediction isn’t true, but knowing it is.

“Only I can do that.”

And with a final wail of frustration, she collapses back against the pillows. The fantasy disintegrates.

“Fuck you,” she says, tears trailing down her cheeks. “Fuck you!”

Maya glances at the alarm clock beside her bed. It’s 4:30 in the morning. Her orgasm is ruined. The possibility of sleep is well and truly gone. She decides she can’t lay here like this for one more minute, sweaty and frustrated and aching.

Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she runs her fingers through her hair and turns on the lights.

Maybe a workout will help clear the cobwebs. It’s practically the only thing she hasn’t tried yet, and for good reason. Maya hates working out. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

She slouches into the kitchen and begins to brew some coffee. She takes a moody bite of a banana, shifting in her satin sleep shorts, thighs rubbing together. The sticky mess lingers, reminds her just how pathetic she really is.

She watches the coffee drip through the filter without seeing. Flashes of your arms, your pretty smile, your laugh are dancing through her imagination on a steady loop.

She pours a cup of coffee and checks her email, eager for any distraction. Then she heads back into her bedroom and starts getting ready for the gym.

The studio provides every full-time employee with a complimentary membership to the health and wellness facilities on the lot. In the evenings, the place is always a scene. Swarming with insufferable producers and casting directors taking meetings in the cold plunge or the steam room. But it’s early enough now that Maya figures she’ll be alone.

She brushes her teeth then pulls on tights, an old band t-shirt, and a baseball cap before heading out the front door.

The drive to the studio is quiet, dark. She flicks on the radio, spinning the dial in search of a song that doesn’t make her think of you, or sex, or sex with you. She sucks irritably at the straw in her enormous orange Stanley cup, restless energy still coursing through her limbs.

By the time she pulls into the parking lot, her mood has improved slightly. She snags a spot near the entrance reserved for executives, feeling a little boost of ego.

She’s Maya fucking Mason, baby.

Then, stalking through the front doors and swiping her key card, she quickly finds a treadmill and hops on.

There’s nobody else here. She feels her shoulders drop an inch, some of the tension bleeding out. This is good. This is exactly what she needs. Nobody to impress. Nobody to bother her.

Clicking up the speed to a brisk walk, she resolves to fully focus on the workout. She will sweat. She will lock in. She will do whatever it fucking takes to conquer this ridiculous distracting schoolgirl crush and then she will—

A flicker of movement catches her eye and she realizes with a little jolt that she’s not alone. Not entirely. There’s one other person on a bench across the room, lifting weights.

She feels a twinge of irritation. She doesn’t need some dudebro making awkward eye contact or worse, chatting her up while she’s held hostage on the treadmill.

She watches for a moment. Whoever he is, he’s strong. Benching well over 100 pounds. Maya can’t see his face, just a flash of toned forearms beneath the barbell as it appears and disappears.

Then “he” stands up, and Maya’s blood gets hot. Not a dudebro. That would have been too easy.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You’re wearing earbuds, head bobbing a little to the music. Sweat is pouring down your face and neck, chest heaving as you catch your breath.

You step to the rack, lost in your own little world. It looks like you’re adding more weights to either side of the bar. What was that, a warmup? Maya seethes, trying to ignore the familiar surge of irritation mingled with attraction.

The sleeveless muscle tee you’re wearing shows off your shoulders, glistening and smooth. She draws her bottom lip into her mouth, feeling wrecked all over again. The goddamn universe is conspiring against her.

Then you go still, like you can feel someone watching you. And time does that funny thing again, where it seems to slow down as your eyes find hers.

Maya forgets to breathe.

Because the smile that lights up your face is everything. So bright and earnest she can’t help but return it, feeling a little surge of shyness. She waves, then feels like an idiot when you start walking over.

“Oh god,” she mutters, panicking, stomach suddenly full of butterflies.

She lifts her phone, taps mindlessly at the screen, pretending to answer emails. This screen is her refuge. Her fortress. But it can’t save her from what’s about to happen.

“Hi again.” Your voice is raspy from the early hour.

Maya swallows, trying not to let the sound go to her head. Or anywhere else.

“Hi,” she manages.

For just a second, she keeps her eyes angled downward, scanning the phone, lips pursed in faux concentration. On anyone else, this behavior would bother you, coming off as self-absorbed or vain. But on Maya you find it strangely endearing.

“Do you ever stop working?”

A dry look of amusement flickers across your face, softening the question. Maya flushes a little.

She opens her mouth to say something pithy, something glib. But something else catches her attention.

Now that you’re closer, she can see the lingering bruise, the purplish discoloration. Her eyebrows crinkle together in concern.

“Should you even be working out with your arm like that?”

Your smile hooks to the side of your face, evasive. “I’m taking it easy.”

Maya rolls her eyes. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Then she launches into a brief tangent about her ex-boyfriend. The one with the shoulder problems. How he used to swear by a regimen of ice and stretching and massage. How she probably still has the massage therapist’s number, actually, if you’re interested.

While she’s babbling, you lean against a nearby machine, crossing your arms and dragging your eyes over her.

Your gaze is slow and unblinking, lingering on her long legs and then working your way up. The t-shirt she’s wearing is so worn you can see the silhouette of her waist, her hips through the thin fabric.

Her baseball cap gives her a sporty, almost tomboyish look. So at odds with the typical hyper-feminine image she projects, but it feels natural on her. Like something she might wear around the house.

And you suddenly picture Maya Mason on a lazy Sunday afternoon, lounging in bed, reading the paper…

You realize the other woman is giving you a funny look, waiting for you to respond. You shake your head, like a dog trying to get water out of its ears.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was saying, you should ice it,” Maya repeats slowly, trying to keep her voice steady.

“You’re probably right,” you admit, so shameless at having been caught staring that Maya begins to wonder if she imagined it. But the way you were just looking at her doesn’t leave much room for interpretation. “I’m just not very good at…”

“Resting? Relaxing? Taking it easy?” Maya guesses.

You grin, the dimples deepening in your cheeks with every word that leaves her lips.

“Following the rules,” you say with a shrug.

“Mm-hmm,” Maya hums, like she’s got your number.

And then, because you like keeping her a little off balance, you tug your shirt over your head in one quick motion, using it to wipe the sweat off your forehead and neck. You’re close enough now that you can see every detail of her reaction.

Maya feels her jaw go a little slack, her eyes dilating just a bit more as she takes in the shape of your tits in a simple black sports bra, the elegant line of your clavicle, the smooth plane of your abs. The ache between her legs, which had started to subside, surges back with a sudden deep intensity.

“I’ve never seen you in here before,” you continue without missing a beat, draping the shirt over your shoulder with all the nonchalance you can manage. “What’s the occasion?”

For some reason, this question seems to make Maya even more nervous. Her spine stiffens a bit, like she’s assuming a defensive posture.

“Occasion?” She repeats, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. “No occasion, I just…just needed to clear my head.”

Your ears perk up at this bit of information. What’s got Maya Mason so distracted that she’s resorting to cardio before 5:00 in the morning?

“Oh yeah?” You say, tone perfectly innocent. “Anything I can help with?”

Maya opens her mouth, but no words come out. Her brain is too busy short-circuiting. No one has any business looking so good in a sports bra and some gym shorts. Before she can help it, she sees flashes of her morning fantasy, made all the more vivid by your half-naked body right in front of her. You sitting on her bed, telling her exactly how to touch herself…

“Uh - well, I mean,” she splutters, and is only saved from finishing that sentence when she trips over her own feet.

Her sneaker hits the belt of the treadmill at just the wrong angle. The world tilts sideways and she sees the floor rushing up to meet her face…

“Whoa!” You surge forward, catching her around the waist before she hits the ground.

Again, time does its funny trick of slowing to a crawl. The belt on the machine powers down automatically, and the gym gets quieter. She’s staring up at your face, suddenly just inches away from her own. Then in a rush of honesty she admits with a scowl: “I hate working out.”

You duck your head to your chest and laugh. Maya gives herself a second to enjoy the rumble of your voice against her ribcage, the feeling of strong, warm arms encircling her. Then she slowly disentangles herself and stands up, readjusting her baseball cap, smiling idiotically.

You can’t resist riling her up again. Just a little. Just enough to make her eyes get a little wide, her cheeks flush that pretty pink color. It’s like a drug, addictive and intoxicating.

“Maybe you just need a better incentive.”

Maya fixes you with a glare. She knows you’re teasing her again. But there’s a different glint in your eye all of a sudden, something more suggestive, more forward.

“Like what?” She asks, following this dangerous line of conversation like she has a death wish. Maybe she does.

“Well,” you say, arching an eyebrow. “That depends.”

You let the silence build, waiting for her impatience to bubble over.

“I’m listening,” she says, that familiar edge flaring in her voice.

“First, we have to understand what motivates someone like Maya Mason? What makes her want to behave?” You pause, eyes flickering down to her mouth briefly. “Once we figure that out, it’s just a matter of rewarding the good and punishing the bad.”

Maya’s brain goes a little foggy. Because it’s very obvious that you’re not talking about exercise anymore. You let your words hang in the air, crystallizing into something like a challenge, an offer. Maya swallows.

Suddenly, a couple of young men enter the gym. Their laughter bounces off the ceiling, loud and unwelcome. Maya flinches. You catch her eye again.

“I’m going to finish up my last set,” you tell her carefully. “Then…I’m going to grab a shower.”

You hold her gaze for a beat, and you hope it’s long enough to convey your meaning. Your invitation. Then you’re walking back to the bench, racking your weights, looking for all the world like you didn’t just suggest what Maya thinks you’re suggesting.

She gets back on the treadmill, but forgets to turn it on. She’s too preoccupied by the sight of you, by the permission she feels to watch you openly now.

Your movements are smooth, unhurried, confident. Like you’re showing off a little. Like you can feel her eyes tracking you.

When you’re done, you stand up and take a long pull from your water bottle. Then you walk across the gym. And just before you disappear into the locker rooms, you glance back at Maya. And you wink.

Maya huffs in disbelief.

Her eyes slide over to the other gym-goers, wondering if they noticed anything amiss. But they have headphones on. They’re stretching on mats, warming up, lost in their own bubble.

She dismounts the treadmill a little gracelessly, and marches after you. Because Maya Mason is a lot of things, but a coward isn’t one of them.

The locker room is quiet, shadowy. The lights are low, and it takes Maya a second to adjust. Then she sees you in the corner, pulling your sports bra over your head. The muscles in your back ripple. Maya feels her mouth go a little dry. She clears her throat, makes herself known.

You glance over your shoulder at her, sweat dripping down from your hairline. She sees a flash of your bare breasts, perfect and tight, then glances up at the ceiling, flustered.

“Now who’s the stalker?” You tease.

Maya’s mouth twists to one side. “Ha, ha, ha.”

From the corner of her eye, Maya sees you peel off your shorts. For one glorious moment you stand there totally nude, all toned muscles and smooth skin. Then you pull on a cotton robe, and start walking toward the showers.

Maya stands there, frozen, all her previous confidence gone.

“Well,” you say softly, voice bouncing pleasantly off the tiles. “Are you coming?”

Maya glances around uncertainly.

“Don’t worry,” you say, seeming to read her mind. “No one’s here.”

She flicks her hair over her shoulder, following you further into the locker room. “I’m not worried,” she says reflexively.

“Oh right,” you say archly, applying air quotes to your next words. “You ‘don’t get nervous’.”

Maya bristles at the callback to her earlier claim, at the direct challenge in your tone, at the way you don’t turn around to look at her—are you that confident that she’s trailing behind, like a little puppy?

“Fine,” she snaps, a little desperate for your attention now. “You make me nervous, alright? Is that what you want to hear? That I’ve been thinking about you all week?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. Instead you shrug out of your robe, baring yourself to Maya completely in the dim light of the showers. She feels her breath catch in her throat. You’re so beautiful it almost hurts to look at you.

“Come here,” you say, voice low and smooth.

She feels herself drawn forward. You reach out, removing her baseball cap and brushing your fingers through her tangles. Next you tug at the hem of her shirt. “Take this off.”

Maya raises her arms, letting you pull the shirt over her head.

“Now this,” you say, slipping your fingers under the band of her sports bra. She unzips it with trembling fingers, and the moment her breasts spring free your hands are there.

You brush the pad of your thumb over her nipple, which tightens instantly into a hard pebble. Maya jolts forward, helpless and over sensitive.

“Fuck,” she says.

Because what else is there to say? Her mind is blissful static. Distantly, she wonders if this is really happening. Or if she’ll wake up in a moment, strung out and alone in her own bed all over again.

You smile, your hand traveling higher, skating along her bare chest and then gripping the back of her neck. You pull her forward slowly, with an aching tenderness. Your eyes track her reaction, giving her plenty of time to pull away.

But when your lips brush against hers, the noise she makes is one of long-overdue satisfaction. She stills for a moment, then shivers. It feels like every single atom in her body is attuned to you, vibrating with need. Tilting her head to the side, Maya opens her mouth and welcomes the gentle flick of your tongue against hers.

And Maya knows with sudden, unflinching certainty that this is real, realer than anything she’s ever experienced.

“Finish getting undressed,” you whisper in the shell of her ear. “I’m going to warm the water up for us.”

Then you slip into the shower. Maya stands there for just a heartbeat, blood running hot in her veins. She hears the rush of water as she slides her leggings off, folding them hastily and placing them on a nearby bench.

She glances around the locker room one more time, confirming that you really are alone. There’s no one here. Would she be able to stop herself if there were? She doesn’t think so. She feels feverish with desire.

Maya runs a shaking hand through her long brown hair, smoothing it back. Then she opens the shower door and follows you inside.

———

Finally the day is winding down and she has a little room to breathe. She steps into her office and closes the door. 

Before she can question it, she’s calling you. The line rings and rings and rings. Just as she thinks it’s going to go to voicemail, there’s a click and then silence. 

“Hey.” She says your name, voice soft. “You there?” 

“Yeah,” you answer finally, just as quiet. “I’m here.”

Maya feels her breath catch in her chest. You don’t sound mad. You sound…dull, distant. 

No trace of your usual confident drawl. 

Maya isn’t sure how to handle it. 

She was ready for a fight, maybe. For you to throw her actions back in her face. She twists a strand of hair around her finger, suddenly more nervous than she’s been all day. 

“I was just calling to check on you,” she says, feeling her way into the conversation, wondering if she should apologize or if she can get away with glossing over it. “To see …how the rest of your day was.” 

You exhale shortly in what might pass for a laugh. 

“The rest of my day was fine,” you say. There’s a long beat. Then: “You don’t have to do this, you know.” 

“Do what?” Maya asks, genuinely curious. 

“Pretend to give a shit.” 

Again, you don’t sound mad. Just sort of hollow. It’s giving Maya a hive. 

“That’s not -” she starts. 

“I’m serious,” you interrupt. “You really don’t need to go through the motions. I’m a big girl. I get it. You were just…doing your job, smoothing things over. He was probably some big shot producer with millions tied up in the studio, right?”

Maya feels the little fist of fear start to unclench in her chest. “Well…yes, actually.” 

She waits for you to say something else. But there’s just silence. So she ventures forth, eager to avoid an argument. 

“Thanks for understanding,” she says. Then, because she can’t stop replaying it in her head, she adds: “I’m sorry he spoke to you like that.” 

You remain silent for a long beat. “Don’t worry about it.” 

She frowns. Because getting off this easy is…suspicious. 

“Don’t worry about it?” Maya repeats, troubled by how far away you sound. “Okay, what’s going on?” 

You sigh. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

And alarm bells are ringing for Maya now. She hates that this conversation is happening over the phone, that she can’t see your face. She takes a deep breath, and says your name on the exhale, begging for some sort of guidance. 

“It just…doesn’t really work, does it?” Your voice wavers for the first time, sounding small. “Me and you. Not outside the bedroom.”

Maya is so stunned for a second that she doesn’t speak. She licks her lips. 

“No,” she stammers when she finds her voice. “I don’t agree.” 

You take another shaky breath. Why is Maya making this harder than it has to be? “It’s alright, Maya. Don’t worry about it -“ 

“Stop saying that!” Maya demands, her chest heaving suddenly as she realizes that you’re slipping away, that the consequences of her actions are colossal, far bigger than she ever imagined. “This is…this is crazy, alright? Where are you? Hmm? I need to see you.”

You hesitate, and the pause kills her. 

Because it’s like all the trust between you has evaporated overnight. Weren’t you just curled up in the sheets with her this weekend, laughing in the early morning sunlight? 

“Baby,” she whispers, knowing you can’t resist when she gets all soft and sweet. “Where are you?” 

“ …I’m - I’m wrapping up on set now.” 

“Meet me in the parking lot,” she says, decisive, taking control. “I’ll drive us home.”  

It’s been a long day. All you want is to fold yourself into Maya’s luxury SUV and let her take care of you. 

But then you remember the way you felt this morning, and you wrap those soft little feelings in a box, shove them away somewhere deep and dark. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Maya freezes. “Why not?”

There’s some shuffling on your end of the line. She feels scared, like you’ll disappear forever if the call ends. “Answer me, hmm?” 

Maya clenches the phone so hard her hand shakes. 

“I can handle a lot of things,” you say, voice tight with emotion, like you’ve been practicing these words in your head all day. “But I can’t keep…caring so much about someone who doesn’t care about me. So I think it’s better to end things now, before we …before we really hurt each other.” 

Maya grinds her teeth together. 

“No,” she says, laughing a little at how much she refuses to let this happen. “I fucked up, I get it. But come on, you have to let me apologize, make it up to you. Please?” 

There’s a shout in the background and when you sigh, Maya can hear how uneven your breathing is. Like maybe you’re holding back tears. Like maybe you have been all day. 

“I don’t know…”

And you sound so lost, so hurt. In the blink of an eye, she’s on her feet and walking out the door. 

“Don’t leave,” she warns, half-begging. 

“I’ve got to go,” you say quietly. “Bye, Maya.” 

You arrive early for your first official day back on duty. The mission packets are laid out on a large table in the briefing room. You take a seat in the middle, thumbing through the document.

There’s a pleasant buzz of excitement in your stomach, a renewed sense of purpose thrumming through your veins. This morning feels like a fresh start, a bright spot after several dark days spent recuperating alone in your quarters.

Peter walks in first, looking every bit the bright-eyed schoolboy. He smiles when he sees you, and goes in for a hug.

“Hey, you,” he murmurs softly, slightly muffled against your hair. “You’re back!”

Peter is younger than you, but still closer in age than most of the other Avengers. Maybe that’s the reason you find it so easy to talk to him. Or maybe it’s just the fact that his buoyant energy is infectious.

Either way, you feel your shoulders easing a bit at the sound of his voice, the tension ebbing out of your frame as you admit, “If I had to spend one more day on bed rest, I’d go crazy.”

He makes a sympathetic noice and hugs you a little tighter. “Glad you’re okay.”

Just as he’s pulling back, you clock Natasha and Clint in the hallway. Clint has his back to you, but Natasha’s eyes are glued to you and Peter, to the way his arm stays slung around your shoulder for a few moments as you chat with him; she can’t help but notice the smile on your face, the easy laughter.

You do your best to ignore her. You tell yourself it’s not petty—it’s clearly what she wants, since she’s been doing the same thing for days. After the night you spent together on the roof, you’ve seen neither hide nor hair of the other woman. She changed the game, and you’re just playing by her rules.

Slowly, the rest of the team trickles in and everyone takes their seats. Fury calls the meeting to order and begins outlining the operation, another attempt to gather intel from a HYDRA base overseas. This one seems more ambitious in scope, more people on the ground, more security levels to breach.

You flip open the first page of the briefing packet, and your eyes land on the personnel section only to find…your name isn’t there.

You scan it several times, until finally confusion gives way to disbelief and then anger. Your eyes snap up, immediately finding Natasha’s. She glances away, but you can tell in that instant…she was watching, waiting for your reaction.

The rest of the time drags by. You simmer with incandescent rage. As soon as the meeting is over, you corner Fury, demanding an answer.

“Romanov submitted a transfer request,” he says, seeming bored. “Wanted a different medical lead on the op.“

You can’t help the growl that emerges from the back of your throat. Fury finally looks up from the tablet he’s been scanning, forehead crinkled above his eyepatch.

“Do we have a problem?”

You school your expression into something like contrition and duck your head, years of military hierarchy snapping into place. “No, sir.”

“Good,” he says in a tone that indicates this is the only acceptable answer. “Take it up with her.”

You open your mouth to reply just as you see Natasha’s flash of auburn hair. She’s exiting the conference room, making her getaway.

“Yes, sir,” you mutter, then dart out into the hallway and round the corner, hurrying to catch up with her.

“Can I have a word with you?”

It’s the first time you’ve seen her since that night on the rooftop, much less spoken to her. She’s made herself scarce. Her absence has been so complete, so absolute, you know it has to be intentional. What you don’t know is why.

She nods but there’s a flicker of something in her gray eyes. You catch it easily now that you know what you’re looking for—guilt.

She follows you into a nearby stairwell.

There are a thousand ways you could start this conversation, but something about the betrayal (first of her abandonment, now of her outright rejection) cuts so deep that you just burst out with an inarticulate explosion.

“What the hell?”

She presses her lips into a flat line, wincing as your accusatory question echoes off the concrete walls.

“Keep your voice down.”

Your eyes widen, even as you feel something like tears building in the base of your throat. “You’re worried about appearances? Really? After humiliating me like that?”

“It’s nothing personal,” she says, infuriatingly reasonable in contrast to your jittery, emotional outburst. “This mission is going to be extremely dangerous, and we need a team that sticks to the plan. You’ve got a proven track record for…improvising.”

She’s speaking in such an even tone that you wonder if she rehearsed this explanation before arriving, anticipated just how she would deal with your reaction.

“Improvising,” you repeat, thinking back to the night she’s referencing. “You mean saving your ass?”

She nods. “And almost getting yourself killed in the process.”

You’re stunned into silence for a moment. So this is about her…what, trying to protect you? If so, it’s bullshit. She has no right. You’re a more-than-qualified medic with plenty of experience. You earned your stripes.

You open your mouth to tell her just that, but something entirely different comes out.

“So I guess everything you said that night…” You trail off, surprised to find the words won’t cooperate, your voice thick with emotion. “It didn’t mean anything.”

That seems to pierce through her armor, bursting the bubble of disaffected calm that she’s been projecting. Her eyebrows furrow.

“What are you talking about?”

“You said you…misjudged me. That it wouldn’t happen again. But you’re just a liar.”

You can see the word land like a slap, Natasha recoiling slightly. She says your name, soft and urgent. She looks genuinely surprised at that assertion, her dark eyes shining with disagreement.

“It’s just one mission,” she breathes, almost reaching for your hand and then pausing, thinking better of it. “I just…I want you safe. Take the extra week off, please. Get some more rest.”

It does nothing to mollify you. Instead, it infuriates you. “So is the problem that I’m impulsive or that you just want to keep me safely tucked in bed?”

Natasha feels her ears heat up at your words. Part of her knows she’s wrong, and part of her doesn’t care. “It’s my mission, and my decision stands.”

You shake your head in disbelief.

“Do you even hear yourself? Making decisions for me without my consent is not your job, Agent. The only people in this building who have that right are medical staff and Nick Fury.”

Natasha exhales sharply through her nose, hating what she’s about to resort to, knowing it’s the only way to make her point. So what if you end up hating her in the process?

She reaches out and grips the zipper of your tac vest, pulling the metal tab down in one smooth motion. Before you can protest, she’s lifting the hem of your shirt and prodding your ribs. Her touch is almost gentle but you still flinch, curling inwards as she applies pressure to the fresh scar tissue, the stubborn bruises that linger.

“See?” Natasha says, but there’s no satisfaction in the victory. “You’re still hurt, still healing. You can’t do your job like this. It would only get someone killed.”

She doesn’t bother adding that that someone might be you, that she’s been having nightmares about it for days now. You knock her hand away roughly, feeling exposed.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice cracking a little. “But it’s for your own good. You get that right?”

You blink hard, focusing on her face as the pain in your side ebbs. It’s the first time you’ve looked at her properly all day. She looks…terrible. There are shadows under her eyes, a dull blurriness to her usually crisp complexion.

It almost sparks something like concern in your chest.

You think back to that night under the stars, the feeling of safety that washed over you as you lay tangled together, wrapped up in a sleeping bag with this woman.

Whatever that connection was, it feels light-years away.

With all the strength you can muster, you shove her backwards.

“Fuck…you.”

————-

It’s been a long morning. Billy is a gifted witch in his own right, but he’s not especially talented when it comes to brewing. He doesn’t have the patience, the eye for detail. Much like someone else you know…

Agatha’s been hovering nearby all morning, fading into the background for the most part, letting you teach. Billy turns to grab a bottle from the shelf, and his elbow brushes the simmering vial beside your hand. The liquid splashes across your skin, leaving an immediate welt. You don’t react, just reset the vial and shove your injured hand in your pocket.

Billy is none the wiser, and there’s no sense in bringing it to his attention. It would only set his confidence back further, you reason.

Your eyes flicker once to Agatha, seated in a wing-backed chair. She’s lazily turning the pages of a book. You breathe a sigh of relief, thinking you’ve escaped notice.

But Agatha doesn’t miss a thing when it comes to you.

She waits until Billy’s gone before she makes her move. She approaches the table, scanning your face for some sign of discomfort, some evidence of pain.

But instead your expression is unreadable. You’re cleaning up the work bench in smooth, calm motions. Agatha feels a small flicker of unease in the pit of her stomach.

If she hadn’t seen the spill with her own eyes, the way the boiling liquid splashed on your skin, she’d never know anything was amiss.

You’re too good at this, she realizes.

Pretending everything is fine. Ignoring the pain. Not expecting comfort. The reaction unsettles her, unnerves her.

It’s an instinct Agatha understands, but one she won’t tolerate here. Not in her classroom, and not in her home.

“Look at me,” Agatha says, waiting until your eyes settle on her face. Those eyes. So pretty, so bright.

She peers at you expectantly, giving you a chance to be honest. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” you say with a little smile and a practiced quizzical shrug, hoping she’ll drop it. The burn on your hand throbs from being shoved in your pocket.

All you want is some privacy, a chance to clean the wound and apply the burn salve you know is on the far shelf.

“I’ll rephrase,” she says, hands gently gripping the sleeve of your shirt, not letting you shift away, not letting you hide. “Where are you hurt?”

Her eyes drift over your face, watching your expression go slack with faint surprise at being caught. Agatha really is too smart for her own good.

“I won’t ask again,” she warns, asserting her dominance in that theatrical way you love.

You’re still learning each other. But one thing she’s noticed is how you practically melt when her voice gets a certain quality to it. Because for all your fierce independence and stubbornness, you like letting Agatha take charge. Handing the reins to the other woman quiets your mind. She can see it on your face, plain as day. The way you settle into her lead, like she’s draped a warm blanket over your shoulders.

She’s rewarded a moment later when you swallow the instinctual resistance in your throat and nod, indicating she can investigate.

You remind yourself it’s alright to accept this tenderness from Agatha, that submitting to her care is part of this arrangement you have.

That for the first time in your life, letting someone help you doesn’t have to feel like weakness.

Agatha’s hands ghost over your skin as she rolls back the sleeve of your shirt, every movement familiar and knowing in a way that still catches you off guard. You can’t help but shiver. It’s the raw sensation of being seen, being carefully held after so much time on your own.

Her eyes flash up at you, noticing the slight tremble working through your body. “Pain?”

You shake your head, a little embarrassed. “No, just…tickles.”

Agatha smirks, comprehension dawning. “Behave yourself, pet,” she purrs.

You roll your eyes. The ego on this woman should be infuriating. You’ve never met anyone who could turn an insult into a compliment like her.

“You know,” you say with a little sigh. “You’re not as irresistible as you think.”

Agatha’s eyes flash. “Is that any way to talk to your mistress?”

The challenge is clear. Agatha waits for the deference that you don’t want to give. But eventually you can’t resist a little duck of your head, a mumbled apology.

Agatha purses her lips, clearly pleased at the submission, the obedience.

“Good girl,” she hums, and you do your best to ignore the bolt of pleasure that hooks into your chest at those two words. “Now let’s take a look at this hand, if you please.”

You let her pull your hand fully from your pocket, her touch incredibly gentle. When she sees the burn, her eyes widen.

She swears softly and you squirm. “Sorry,” you say automatically.

Agatha glances up at you, eyes narrowing. “For what?”

But you don’t answer. Judging by the look of confusion pinching your features, Agatha assumes you don’t exactly know the answer.

She returns her attention to the burn. It’s worse than she thought. If this was her own hand, she’d be howling. She tells you as much, wondering if you’ll admit to how much pain you must be in. But all you do is shrug.

She sets to work cleaning the wound, pausing when you wince.

“You should have said something sooner,” she scolds, worry making her irritable. “Why didn’t you?”

Your blank stare, fixed at the far wall, makes Agatha nervous. She turns away, reaching for a small vial.

Suddenly the words bubble up almost without permission.

“I wasn’t allowed.”

She’s looking through different poultice jars, but your words make her go still. She hardly dares to move, afraid you’ll retreat if she reacts, expresses too much interest.

“My father,” you add, voice still oddly flat. “He didn’t tolerate crying or …or anything like that.”

Agatha feels her blood run cold. Suddenly a piece of the puzzle is clicking into place and it’s a big one, a terrible one.

The warning from Melina all those weeks ago flashes through her head again. And she realizes some part of her knew all along. Because it’s a twin scar, one that Agatha also bears. The betrayal of a parent runs deep. You never really heal from it.

She turns to face you and finds your eyes are fixed on her face, searching, uncertain. Waiting to see if you made the right decision to share this information, to trust her.

“You never have to apologize for being hurt,” she says slowly. “Not in this house.”

Your shoulders tremble a bit, and then sag. Like a cord of tension has been cut. And Agatha can tell she’s landed on something deep, something painful.

But she doesn’t back down. Because more than anything, she needs to know you’ll always come to her with any injury, that you won’t hide away.

“Okay,” you manage, voice shaking a little.

“It’s my job to take care of my things,” she continues lightly, hoping to make you smile. “What kind of mistress would I be, letting my pets limp around in disrepair?”

She picks your hand up and begins massaging ointment.

You shiver again, enjoying the soft touch, the soothing effect of the balm. And enjoying the claim. You think you could happily spend the rest of your days being one of Agatha’s things. Something precious and needy in her care.

“Promise me,” she adds, a stern undercurrent lacing her words. “If you’re hurt, you let me know. Even if you think you can heal yourself. Even if it’s small.”

Your eyes flutter, pleasure obvious on your face as the pain dissipates, easing the pinch around your eyes.

“Promise,” you sigh.

Agatha proceeds to bandage your hand in silence for a few moments, expression thoughtful. The sudden relief after so much discomfort is heavenly. Your shoulders drop further, tension easing out of the muscles in your back. You watch her, how careful she is, how thorough. And being this close to the other woman does what it always does—you feel your thoughts getting slow and warm and loopy, and so you open your mouth and speak without thinking.

“Going to kiss it all better too?”

Agatha freezes, then fixes you with a wicked look.

“Would you like that, pet?”

Your heart suddenly feels like it’s hammering in your chest, so loud you wonder if the other woman can hear it. You nod, dumbstruck as she drifts closer to your hand, presses her pink lips against the clean bandage. She looks up at you from beneath those long, dark lashes. Your blood feels hot in your veins.

“You bring everything to me.” The words are soft but powerful, like an incantation. “We’re a team.”

“Team,” you repeat the word with reverence, eyes fixed on her face.

Agatha nods. “Good girl,” she whispers again, and you know with sudden certainty that she knows how much you like hearing it. “Now go upstairs and get warm by the fire.”

“But I need to clean up —“

“Do as I say,” she chides, bumping you with her hip and guiding you toward the stairs. “This can wait until tomorrow.”

“8 letter word for pottery,” you murmur, head bent low over a slightly crumpled crossword puzzle.

You tap the short lead pencil against your lips, thinking.

Suddenly a voice floats over the intercom, and you swear you can hear a hint of a gloating smile behind it.

“Ceramics.”

“Jarvis!” You roll your eyes, quickly scanning the blank spaces. Of course he’s right. “Come on, man!”

There’s a pause, then another infuriatingly reasonable reply from the AI. “If you don’t want my help, may I suggest you refrain from reading the clues out loud?”

“Fair enough,” you sigh, scribbling the letters into their appropriate boxes. Then, under your breath: “Know-it-all.”

You wonder idly how many crosswords you’ve completed at this point in your life. You always keep one or two tucked in your medical bag. It’s a force of habit after so many years being dropped into conflict zones all over the world.

The distraction soothes your nerves in the long, tense hours between emergencies, just waiting for something to happen.

Speaking of…

Your eyes drift to the small screen tracking Hawkeye and the Widow. Two of the Avengers’ most valuable assets, reduced to tiny dots transmitting signals from inside an enemy compound about a half-mile away.

You take a deep breath and roll the pencil between your fingers, trying not to fidget.

It’s your first mission with her and Barton. While they have years of experience working together, you’re a relatively new addition to the team. A skilled pilot and a trained combat medic in your own right, but it’s always hard to embed with new people.

Luckily, your directive is simple. You’re here to fly the twinjet, to provide evac, and to patch them up if necessary. Something Agent Romanoff had been quick to remind you of right before disembarking.

“Don’t leave the jet.”

You grind your teeth just thinking about the way her eyes had flashed when she said the words, almost like she was taunting you.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” you said, trying to brush it off.

“I’m serious.” Her voice was low, eyes scanning your face like she could read your thoughts. “No matter what happens. Don’t get in the way.”

And you hadn’t been able to conceal your displeasure then, bristling at the implication that you couldn’t handle yourself, that you were somehow a liability.

You weren’t a soldier, but you had years of experience in field operations. Long enough to know that her instructions were absurd, insulting even. These types of missions always required a certain amount of flexibility, even for medics. People without guns could still be killed by them. Especially if they got lazy, complacent.

But it was more than that, you know. It was the way she looked at you—dismissive, curt, like she was sidelining you before you even had a chance to prove yourself.

“Is that standard protocol?” You had asked, cheeks flushing a bit as your temper flared.

“It’s my protocol,” had been her reply before sweeping off the jet, silent and deadly as her namesake.

Clint had given you a friendly half-smile, told you not to sweat it. “It’s nothing personal. Nat doesn’t trust easily.”

A muscle in your jaw twitched as you stared into the inky darkness after them.

It felt fucking personal.

Personal enough that, three hours later, you’re still stewing about it. Technically, yes, she outranks you. But you’re not a child. You’ve been in war zones. You’ve been shot at and bombed. You’ve saved lives and lost friends and everything in between. If she thinks she can just write you off…

Suddenly the tracking monitor begins to beep, pulling you out of your sullen reverie. You kick your legs off the console, scooting closer to observe. Before you can decide if this is good or bad, the dots disappear from view completely.

And a pit forms in your stomach.

“Jarvis?” Your voice is pitched up an octave, adrenaline coursing through you.

“Recalibrating,” the system responds.

The next five minutes pass in tense silence.

Then you hear it. Clumsy footfalls outside the jet. You swipe a pair of infrared goggles off the wall and scan the tree line. There’s a lone figure, limping closer. On his back, you see the outline of a bow.

“Barton,” you mutter, opening the bay doors and hurrying through the tall grass to meet him.

“Doc,” he says, winded and bleeding, eyes squeezed shut. He trips on something, a decidedly un-Barton move, and you catch him under the armpits with a hushed oomph.

Immediately you start to cough, chest seizing slightly. There’s a thick, chemical residue clinging to his clothes, his hair. It makes your eyes water.

“What happened?” You let him put his weight on you, then begin guiding him toward the jet. “Where’s Natasha?”

He shakes his head once. “We got ambushed. There was an explosion, then a bunch of gas grenades. I couldn’t see a thing. Still can’t. Managed to drag myself back the way we came. Lost her in the fray.”

You can tell he’s furious with himself. He shakes his head again, as if to clear his vision. But it’s futile.

“Let me take a look,” you say, setting him down on a bench near the cockpit and tilting his head back.

The whites of his eyes are cloudy, darkened by whatever chemical agent the enemy used. You turn to a nearby table, finding a simple saline solution and loading up a dropper.

“This might sting a bit.”

To his credit, he only flinches a little.

“Any other injuries?” You ask, already scanning him with a measured look.

He gestures to his leg, impatient. “Think I took some shrapnel in the knee. It’s not bad. Just fix my eyes, so I can get back to Nat.”

You bend closer, examining the ugly gash in his thigh with a low whistle. “An inch to the left and it’d be a very different story.”

Barton seems unfazed by this information. All he cares about is getting to his partner.

And you can’t blame him.

You apply a tourniquet and dress the wound with quick, efficient movements. The bleeding slows enough that you’re satisfied he’s stable for the time being. But as far as mounting a rescue mission for Romanoff…

“Your vision could take hours to return,” you say, broaching the topic carefully.

“That’s not good enough,” he snaps. “She needs evac now!”

You raise your hands in a gesture of supplication, even though he can’t see you.

“I agree,” you say, a plan already forming in the back of your mind, hoping you can lead him to the only logical solution. “And we’re too remote to call for backup...”

His head tilts to one side, reminding you of a very intuitive dog. “If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, the answer is no. You don’t have the training.”

But you’re already on your feet, packing a tactical kit with a few supplies.

“All due respect,” you snap. “But I’m really fucking tired of people telling me that. I’m a combat medic, emphasis on combat. And right now, I’m the best chance we have of recovering Agent Romanoff.”

Barton stands too, maybe to try, but his leg buckles.

“You can’t see, and you can’t put weight on that leg,” you continue ruthlessly, zero intentions of letting him stop you. “And you said it yourself, she needs intervention now. There’s no time to argue.”

You can see several emotions play across his face. Frustration, uncertainty, apprehension, and then—finally—acceptance.

“Fine, goddammit,” he grunts, sitting back down on the bench with a little grimace. “Listen very carefully, rookie. Your life depends on it.”

Clint gives you a quick walkthrough of the facility, the number of guards he spotted on their way in, the weapons they carried, the location of the holding cells and the armory. Everything he catalogued before all hell broke loose. You nod along, committing as much as you can to memory.

“I’ve got coordinates,” Jarvis adds suddenly, and you feel the tightness in your chest loosen slightly. Coordinates you can work with. “Her asset tag is back online. It may have been temporarily damaged by the gas exposure.”

You grab a mobile tracker, studying the screen. That little red dot is Natasha. You ignore the way your chest gets tight as you wonder what condition she’s in. Hurt? Scared?

You tell yourself it’s strictly professional. You simply refuse to lose an asset on your first official mission. It has nothing to do with proving Natasha wrong. And certainly nothing to do with wanting to make sure she’s alright.

“Wish me luck,” you say, glancing at Clint and giving him a tight smile.

Then you’re gone.

You breach the outer gates with relative ease. It’s quiet on the perimeter, as if all the attention has been pulled elsewhere. Taking the Black Widow prisoner will have that affect, you think wryly.

You follow Clint’s instructions to the letter, immediately identifying the staircase that leads to the sub-level of the compound. You check the beacon as you go, plotting as direct a line as possible.

The hallways are a maze underground, twisting and turning. You try to go slow, not wanting to run into any guards. But the longer you stare at that unmoving dot, the more urgency you feel. You need to see her with your own eyes. To know she’s still in once piece.

Finally there’s just one more corner. You peer around and then…freeze, leaping back into the safety of the shadows, praying you haven’t been spotted. There’s a heavily armed guard standing outside a large cell door.

Multiple locks.

Fortified steel.

They’re clearly taking no chances with a prisoner this valuable.

Your brain slips into a familiar tactical mode that comes from years of experience; your movements are all calm efficiency, belying the storm of doubt and anxiety and fear just below the surface. You tamp down everything that isn’t useful in that moment, suppressing all extraneous emotions with a steady breath.

Withdrawing a tranquilizer gun, you load one of several darts and take careful aim. Then, looking down the crosshairs, you exhale and squeeze the trigger.

The guard’s hand flies to his neck, like he’s been stung by a bee. But the effect is much more severe. He’s crumpling to the ground before he can even make a noise.

You feel a delicious flicker of satisfaction as you creep out from your position and approach the cell door.

Now it’s just a matter of finding the keys.

There’s a fat ring on the guard’s belt. Easy.

You’re unhooking the metal clasp when feel the uncomfortable press of a gun against your head.

“Get up.”

You lift your hands on instinct, rising slowly and turning to face your new assailant. It’s another guard, younger than the first and quite. Bit scrawnier, and his fly’s down—he must have been taking a leak around the corner.

“What did you do to him?”

He looks almost as scared as you feel, glancing at the man on the ground. There’s sweat beading on his upper lip.

“I’m a medic,” you say, keeping your voice very low and calm. “He’s been tranquilized, I didn’t see who did it. But we should check on the prisoner, make sure she’s still secure.”

For a second, you think he’s going to buy your story. His eyes flicker around the dark hallway, like he’s looking for an unseen threat. But then he reaches for the walkie on his shoulder harness, trembling slightly.

“I’m calling for backup,” he says, voice uncertain. “Don’t move.”

It’s now or never.

Operating on pure instinct, you sweep your arm upward with all the force you can muster and manage to knock the pistol from his hand. It skitters across the floor, sliding under a parked vehicle.

Before you can celebrate the fact that you’re somehow miraculously still alive, he’s withdrawing a knife from his boot. Fuck. You rush him, powered by a wave of pure adrenaline.

The pair of you go flying in a tangle of limbs, rolling across the floor. As you’re scrabbling on the ground, you remember the backup tranq dart in your pocket.

You fumble, reaching for the only weapon you have. But his boot glances off your forehead in the fight, and for a second you see nothing but stars.

The guard senses his opportunity, twisting out of your grip.

You think he’s going to retreat, to finally call for help, but then you feel him close again. This time, something heavy connects with your abdomen—his fist maybe?—and you grunt, trying to get away as he pulls your shirt, dragging you by the collar.

This is your last chance, you realize. You won’t get another one. In a single swift motion, you withdraw the tranquilizer, pop the cap, and drive it deep into the meat of his thigh.

He yelps in surprise. Then his features are going slack, his eyes are closing, and he’s folding in half like a puppet whose strings have just been cut.

You lay there for a moment catching your breath, marveling at the fact that you’re still alive.

You don’t stay down for long. There’s no time to waste. You roll over, intending to stand. But you feel a sudden sharp lancing pain between your ribs, and your legs won’t cooperate.

Glancing down, you see about a 4 inch gash between your ribs. You probe it, pulling back the ripped fabric of your uniform, and blood leaks out around your fingers, hot and bright. That pressure you felt earlier wasn’t his fist, you realize dimly.

It was his knife.

“Shit,” you murmur with a shaky laugh.

This needs tending to now, before you do anything else. So you prop yourself up against the cell door and fumble in your med kit. Withdrawing another small syringe, you triple check the label before injecting yourself in the thigh.

Moments later, your heart rate increases starts and your vision seems to sharpen. Adrenaline. That should keep you upright, buy you enough time to get back to the jet.

Next, you remove a small bottle of super glue, doing what you can to pinch the skin in your side together and stop the worst of the bleeding.

Finally, you unbutton your tunic and slap a wide bandage over the gash, securing it with some tape. When all that’s done, you haul yourself to your feet and disengage the key on the guard’s belt.

You unlock the heavy metal door and stagger into the cell. It’s dark inside. And cold.

You squint into the shadows and see a crumpled figure in the corner. Your stomach does an unpleasant somersault, and fear propels you forward on shaky legs. What if all this is for nothing? What if she’s already dead?

Please be alright, you think. Please, please, please.

Dropping to your knees, you grasp her by the shoulder. You’re about to say her name. But before you can speak, before you can even open your mouth…your world tilts sideways and suddenly you’re flat on your back, all the wind knocked out of your lungs.

It would be impressive if it didn’t hurt so fucking much.

With the agility of a panther, Natasha has swiped your legs from underneath you and pinned you to the ground. Now she’s on top of you, knees on either side of your hips.

And before you can even manage to catch your breath, her hand is wrapped around your throat.

You weren’t exactly expecting a warm greeting. But this is definitely frostier than you were imagining.

She tightens her grip mercilessly, and the edges of your vision begin to go dark. What the hell is going on? She’s looking straight at you…but it’s like she’s not seeing you.

Not seeing you…

And you realize, just like Clint, she can’t see.

She thinks you’re one of the guards.

And she’s quickly dispatching you with exacting efficiency, just like she’s been trained to do.

You open your mouth, but all that comes out is a choking sound. You kick your feet, bucking your hips upward, trying to throw her off. But all this does is amuse her. She leans closers, breath tickling your ear.

“Go to sleep,” she says, voice deadly soft, and your stomach tightens in something that feels way too much like arousal.

You bring your arms up, gripping her shirt with your fists, and give her a rough shake. She barely moves, a solid weight on top of you.

You blink hard, trying to focus. Time is running out. You can feel your limbs getting heavy, blood roaring in your ears.

With the last of your brainpower, you lower your hands and start tapping her wrist.

Morse code.

Your name.

Once.

Twice.

Her expression transforms in comprehension, the smile disappearing and replaced by a look of shock. She loosens her grip instantly, withdrawing her hand like she’s been burned.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You draw in a deep rattling breath and dissolve in a fit of hoarse coughing, pain blossoming in your throat.

“Saving your ass,” you answer when you can finally speak again, voice weak and reedy. “You’re welcome.”

Her face flickers with something you can’t quite interpret. It could almost be remorse. But in the next second, it’s gone. She’s all business again when she asks, “Where’s Clint?”

“In the jet,” you rasp, staring up at her and admiring the little pout of confusion on her features as she tries to put the pieces together. It feels nice to have the upper hand, to be the one with all the answers.

“You’ve both been temporarily blinded by some sort of chemical agent,” you explain. “But I think with treatment your vision should be restored soon.”

Another odd expression flickers across Natasha’s features. Maybe impatience? You decide you don’t care. You’re too tired to try and keep up with her little mind games at this point.

“Now get off me,” you say, voice a little stronger.

Natasha rolls to the side, elegant and smooth as ever. But her knee brushes against your ribs, and you inhale sharply as she makes brief contact with the bandage in your midsection.

It’s a small noise. Barely more than a stutter in your breathing. And yet the redhead goes totally still.

Even though she’s blind, you could swear her eyes flicker down to the bloodstain quickly seeping across your tac suit.

“What’s wrong?”

You sit up, pressing your palm against the wound. It’s deeper than you initially thought. Your hand comes away a little sticky. The makeshift suture isn’t holding. You lick your lips, adrenaline still pumping through you.

“Besides the fact that you got yourself captured?”

Your taunt has the desired effect, distracting Natasha from her previous line of questioning.

“Please,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “I have them right where I want them.”

And even though she’s blind and locked in a cell, you somehow believe her.

“Come here,” you say, unzipping your med kit and defaulting into physician mode. “Let me look at your eyes.”

Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue.

You disinfect your hands, rinsing blood off your palms. Then you carefully extract the vial of saline solution and turn back around to find she’s already kneeling on the ground, head tipped back obediently.

You take a moment to appreciate the sight. Natasha is so rarely compliant. In fact, it seems like she’s been on your ass since the moment you met her. Challenging you. Questioning you. Baiting you.

Seeing her like this makes your breath catch.

You wonder briefly how many people have ever seen her like this. Submissive, vulnerable, almost like she trusts you….

You shake your head, grateful she can’t see the blush that’s spreading on your cheeks.

You approach her. Cautiously this time.

“I’m going to touch your face,” you say.

She nods. Then you’re placing your fingers against her cheek and using your thumb to pull the eyelid back gently.

You administer three drops in each eye. She barely reacts.

“Blink a few times,” you say.

Again, she complies.

“How does it feel? Any pain?”

She smirks. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

You don’t smile back.

“Clint said there was an explosion. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Natasha doesn’t answer so you keep pressing.

“We’ll need to move quickly on the way back to the jet. If you can’t keep up, tell me now.”

“I’m fine,” Natasha says, voice cold again.

“Besides being blinded by gas,” you seethe, and it comes out a little more harshly than you intend. But goddamn, she’s infuriating.

“Nice bedside manner,” she says with a tilt of her head, like she’s trying to push your buttons. You snap your bag closed.

“I’m a combat medic,” you say shortly. “It’s not my job to coddle you, it’s my job to keep you alive. And I can’t do that if you’re not honest with me.”

You expect more arguing but she just stares at you, unseeing and oddly beautiful in the flickering light.

“Some abrasions on my chest from the explosions,” she reports. “I’ll be bruised tomorrow, but that’s all.”

Your eyes flicker down to the small tears in her tac suit, wishing you had more time to do a full examination.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” you say. “But if you’re fine to travel, let’s get going.”

You start zipping up your bag, already planning your evacuation route. Back the way you came, pray you don’t run into any more guards. But as soon as you straighten up, your side screams in protest. This time you press your lips together and manage to suppress the reaction.

Or so you think.

“Hang on,” she says suddenly, tilting her head to one side. “Since we’re being honest with each other…why’d you flinch earlier?”

You don’t want to answer honestly. You can just hear the smug gloating now if you were to tell the truth. Reminding you that you’re not an agent. That the guard got the drop on you. That you should have stayed in the jet.

So you evade.

“You mean when you were strangling me?”

You feel little bad for throwing that in her face, but you don’t want to give her the satisfaction of admitting the truth.

Natasha’s forehead crinkles in concern. “Did I hurt you?”

And her voice is different now, softer somehow. It makes your chest twinge painfully with guilt.

Before you can think how to assuage her, there’s a commotion in the hallway. Natasha’s head snaps toward the noise, reminding you of a predator—alert, lethal.

You step toward the door, peeking out. “Three men,” you whisper. “About 50 yards away.”

You glance at Natasha. She’s still a force to be reckoned with, vision or no vision. But it would be better to avoid a confrontation, if possible. A lightbulb goes off in your head.

“I have an idea,” you say.

And before Natasha can argue, you’re stepping out the door in plain sight of the approaching formation.

“There you are,” you bark, authoritative and impatient as you kneel beside the unconscious guards. Without missing a beat, you begin performing CPR.

“These men need medical evac, get on the radio and tell them we have two officers down. The Black Widow has escaped and she’s heading for the southwest gate.”

They stare at you for a moment, dumbfounded by the barrage of information. Just as you suspected. They’re obviously foot soldiers on patrol around the facility, accustomed to taking orders.

So you double down on your bluff.

“Fucks sake, don’t just stand there!” You shout between chest compressions, and it seems to startle them into action. “Send for medical and get after her before she escapes!”

The tall one in front snatches the walkie talkie off his chest and relays your report.

“All available units respond to southwest gate!”

They take off on a dead run, weapons drawn. As soon as they round the corner, you abandon your position on the ground and step back into the cell.

Natasha is waiting in the shadows, poised to strike.

“It’s me,” you say, approaching quickly and gripping her by the hand. “They’re gone.”

In the next second you’re leading her out of the cell and down the hall in the opposite direction.

The place is a maze, but you think you remember how you got here. Two lefts and a right and you should be free and clear. You pause at an intersection, peering around the corner.

“Quick thinking back there,” Natasha says in the sudden silence. “Not bad.”

You snort, glancing over your shoulder to ensure no one is following you.

“That was a compliment, ya know?” Natasha’s looking at you, mouth twisted to one side in a wry smile that makes your chest feel tight and warm.

“Not bad?” You repeat. “Am I supposed to be swooning over that?”

Natasha’s smile widens, cavalier. “Most girls do.”

And your brain goes a little fuzzy at the cocksure lilt in her voice. There’s no misunderstanding her meaning. “Are you…flirting with me, agent? In the middle of a rescue mission?”

She shrugs. “When else am I supposed to do it?”

You stare at her for a beat, dumbfounded by the audacity, by the sudden shift from insulting you, undermining you to…to whatever the hell this is.

“What’s the matter, doc?” She goads, voice soft and seductive in a way that reminds you exactly who she is. “Cat got your tongue?”

You inhale sharply, hating that she’s managed to get under your skin, to fluster you.

“No! No, I just—” you exhale in frustration, grateful she can’t see the flush in your cheeks. “I don’t flirt with people who don’t respect me.”

Then you grab her hand, leading her further down the empty hallway. You expect another taunt, another tease. But Natasha comes to an abrupt halt, forcing you to stop as well. The sudden movement jostles your wound.

“Ow! What are you -“

“You think I don’t respect you?”

Again you’re struck by her uncanny ability to make you feel so raw, to peer right into your very soul with those gray, unseeing eyes.

“We don’t have time for this,” you growl, glancing up and down the corridor impatiently. But Natasha doesn’t budge.

“I respect you.”

She says it so sincerely, as if you’re not in the middle of a rescue mission. As if you understanding this is all that matters. How strange.

“Fine, you respect me. Can we just -“

But you don’t finish that sentence. Because suddenly, your vision gets dim and you feel your head start to swim. You reach out your other hand toward the wall, steadying yourself.

“Ahh fuck,” you mutter, fighting a wave of fatigue as the adrenaline shot begins ebbing out of your system. “Not now.”

Natasha’s grip tightens as yours goes slack. Her forehead crinkles and she steps closer, concern etched into every letter.

“What’s happening?”

She reaches out and grips your shoulder, furious at her own inability to see, to assess, to diagnose.

“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

You swallow once. Lick your lips. “Just listen, okay? The bird is parked a hundred yards beyond the treeline outside the northeast corner of the compound. Take this passage about 20 meters and then turn left, you should find a set of stairs.”

Natasha’s frown deepens. “Why are you telling me this?”

“In case -“

Before you can finish, an alarm starts to blare and a squadron of men can be heard shouting nearby. There’s a flurry of approaching boots. All the noise echoes off the stone walls.

Natasha picks her head up, trying to listen but clearly disoriented. And the rare sight of her like this—vulnerable and lost—drives home how much she needs you.

How failure isn’t an option.

The soldiers are suddenly much closer. In one smooth motion, you grip Natasha’s waist and turn with her in your arms, pressing her into the shadows of the closest corner, hiding you both from sight as the unit sprints past.

The danger disappears down the hallway, but neither of you moves.

“In case what?” She whispers, and the sound of her voice in your ear makes you shiver.

Natasha’s body is pressed flush against yours, and you feel the soft contours of her hips beneath your fingers, the strong plane of muscles in her stomach. For just a second, you sag against her fully, resting your forehead on her shoulder.

“In case we get separated,” you say, surprised by how steady your voice sounds, how easy it is to lie.

You lift your head and take a deep breath, like you weren’t about to collapse moments ago. It must convince Natasha because she nods.

She takes a step back, but your hand drifts into hers again, and you grip it tightly.

“Let’s get out of here.”

____________

The second Natasha crosses the threshold of the jet, Clint’s on her. “Nat,” he says. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

Her eyebrows shoot upward in surprise even as she returns the hug. “You can see.”

He nods, stepping back. “Vision came back about half an hour ago. That little potion the doc mixed up worked like magic.“

You pull yourself into the jet behind Natasha. The bay doors close behind you. You glance up to see her and Clint embracing, talking, debriefing in low voices.

“Jarvis,” you mumble softly, dropping into the pilot’s chair with what feels like the last of your strength. “Take us home.”

You extend one trembling finger and flick the auto-pilot control on.

“Yes, ma’am,” you hear Jarvis respond.

Then you’re slipping down, down, down into something like sleep. But deeper. Warmer. More dangerous.

“Get up,” you mumble to yourself, because even now in some distant corner of your mind, you know this isn’t good. You need to stop the bleeding. “Do it now.”

And somehow you push yourself to your feet, swaying precariously as your vision darkens at the edges. You turn around, managing to take one step, then another.

“Natasha.” You hear Clint’s voice nearby, suddenly low and urgent. “Shit you’re hurt, you’re - Christ, you’re covered in blood.”

He spins her around roughly, looking for the source, his touch somehow gentle and frantic at the same time. Natasha’s hands drift to the midsection of her suit and she feels it, sticky and fresh.

And suddenly everything clicks into place. She grips Clint’s wrist, stalling his investigation.

“I’m okay,” she says, already turning on her heel, already looking for you. “It’s not mine.”

Her unseeing eyes somehow find yours again, landing square on your face. Her expression is accusing, fearful, guilty. You wish you had the strength to tell her it’s alright, not her fault. But your head is swimming.

“Guess you were right,” you mumble. “Should’ve stayed on the jet.”

Then you’re falling and the floor is rushing up to meet you.

But it never does. Because Natasha moves with superhuman speed, catching you just as your legs give out, before your head can crack against the metal floor.

Natasha swears, voice rough with panic.

Her hands gently probe your midsection until she finds the rip in the fabric, tracing it with her thumb and pulling it back to reveal the soaked gauze, the warm tacky texture of fresh blood.

“I knew it,” she bites out, lowering you fully to the ground, laying you out on your back. “Jarvis, I need a medical report!”

She places your head in her lap and brings her fingers up to your pulse point, feeling the unsteady rhythm.

“Clint,” she barks, desperation lacing every word. “Help me.”

The man drops to his knees beside you, unbuttoning your jacket and pulling the fabric away from the wound.

“How bad?” Natasha asks through clenched jaw, bracing herself for the answer.

“Not good,” he admits. “But I’ve seen worse. We need compression, possibly a transfusion.”

“Definitely a transfusion,” Jarvis interrupts politely. “If you don’t mind me saying so. But one of the platelet stabilizers we have on board should hold her until we get to proper medical facility.”

Clint rummages in the med bay and finds the stabilizer. He comes back holding it along with a few other supplies, including some fresh gauze.

“Hold this here,” he tells Natasha, guiding the fabric into her hand. She applies pressure against your side, faltering slightly when you make a low pained noise.

“Nat?”

Natasha goes totally still.

Because you’ve never said her name before.

It’s been Agent this and Romanoff that since day one. So the sound of her name - her nickname - slipping out, soft and defenseless, catches her off guard.

And for a moment, Natasha is frozen, lost. Because soft isn’t something she trusts herself to be. Not with you. From the first moment she saw you, she felt an inconvenient flare of affection, attraction. And she’s been working overtime to tamp it down, to keep you at arm’s length.

But tonight changed everything.

And now, she’s terrified she might lose you before she ever gets to set the record straight.

“It’s better if she stays awake,” Clint says gently, realizing Natasha can’t see your face, the way your eyes are glassy and half-lidded. “Talk to her.”

“Hey, I’m here,” she says, voice tight with fear. “I’m right here. Just- just stay with me, okay? You’re gonna be alright but I need you to stay with me.”

You groan, eyes fluttering open for a moment then closing again as you teeter on the edge of consciousness. You mumble something, but it’s incoherent.

“What happened in there?” Clint asks, keeping his eyes fixed on the fresh gauze, tracking the slow but steady staunch of blood flow.

Natasha shakes her head, clearly at a loss.

“Must have been a run-in with the guards outside my cell,” she mutters. “I knew she was hurt I just…I didn’t realize how bad.”

Clint can hear the regret, the self-blame lacing her words.

“It’s not your fault,” he says evenly. “You were flying blind.”

She shakes her head. “She should never have been there in the first place.”

“We had no other option,” he says, hoping he can make her see reason. “She’s a fighter.”

“She’s a doctor,” Natasha interrupts with a snarl, hands cradling your face protectively. “Not a superhero.”

He starts to argue again, but she fixes Clint with an impressive glare considering the fact that she can’t see him.

“She could have been killed and then what?” Natasha continues, chest heaving with emotion at the thought of you, lifeless and lost forever. “We’d be bringing back a body on top of no actionable intel.”

Suddenly, your voice floats up from the floor.

Weak, but laced with something playful.

“N-nice bedside manner.”

Natasha’s head snaps down toward you, mouth opening in surprise as you throw her own words back in her face.

“You’re…how…” Natasha splutters, trailing off.

Clint schools his face into a neutral expression, fighting the urge to laugh outright.

“She made the right call,” he says smoothly. “I was out of commission. There was no other option.”

Clint pulls the gauze away and, satisfied with the bleeding, he picks up a bottle of antiseptic.

“This is going to suck,” he says apologetically.

“Just do it,” you say, voice ragged at the edges as you brace yourself.

Then he douses the wound and your world ignites in a fresh wave of pain.

“Fuck,” you whimper, back arching off the floor as you turn your face toward Natasha, pressing against her thigh.

She brings one hand to brace on your chest, holding you down, and the other rests on your cheek, stroking her thumb back and forth in a restless instinctive pattern.

“You’re okay,” she says softly. “You’re okay.”

In the next second, you go totally limp, body finally giving in to the exhaustion and pain.

“JARVIS,” Natasha snaps. “ETA?”

“We’ll be arriving back at base in approximately 2 hours.”

Natasha picks you up off the floor and walks carefully toward the small medical bay, setting you in one of the beds. Then she finds a chair and parks herself beside you.

Clint hovers nearby, watching her stew for several minutes. He takes a deep breath.

“You’re not going to want to hear this,” Clint says.

“Then don’t say it,” Natasha snaps.

“But she did exactly what you would have done,” Clint continues, forging ahead. “You underestimated her. We both did. And I think maybe that’s why you’re actually pissed.”

A muscle twitches in Natasha’s jaw. But she doesn’t say anything else.

“You should get some rest,” Clint tries, even though he knows it’s pointless. There’s no use in talking to her when she’s this heated.

“I’ll be in the cockpit,” he says. “Holler if the bleeding starts again.”

————-

You wake up to the sound of beeping. A heart monitor, you realize. So you’re not dead.

You open your eyes. The room is bathed in a soft glowing light. You take a breath, working through your disorientation.

There’s someone in a chair beside your bed. You blink a few times, until a familiar shock of red hair comes into focus.

Natasha’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She’s looking at your midsection, eyes fixed on the freshly wrapped bandage with frightening intensity.

No, not just looking. Seeing. And it dawns on you.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s impolite to stare, Agent?” You ask, voice scratchy from disuse.

Her eyes snap up, and you can see the relief flooding her features.

“Hey,” she breathes, bringing one hand up to squeeze your arm. “You’re awake.”

You give her a crooked smile, pleased at the obvious improvement in her vision. “And you can see.”

She nods, sheepish. “Yeah, thanks to you.”

You clear your throat, intending to ask a few questions—what happened, how long you’ve been here—but you wince as pain flares to life.

“Careful,” Natasha says. “Your stitches are still pretty fresh.”

But it’s not your side that’s bothering you.

You cough, throat bobbing as the discomfort there asserts itself with a dull aching persistence. And you see her eyes flicker down, expression darkening as a shadow of something passes over her face.

“You thirsty?”

She turns away, but not before you start connecting the dots. Natasha returns to the bedside, holding a cup of ice water, and again her gaze darts below your chin. It dawns on you with sudden, certain clarity that she’s staring at the bruises she left on your throat.

“Hey,” you say after taking a few sips from the straw. Natasha doesn’t respond, just sets the cup on the table beside your bed. “Look at me.”

She glances up, uncertain. You realize she’s expecting blame. It makes your chest ache.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” She asks evasively, even though she now’s exactly what you’re talking about.

“The guilt thing,” you tell her. “It’s pointless.”

She shakes her head, hair falling across her face so that she’s partially shielded. You reach out on instinct, tucking the loose strands behind her ear. Natasha goes still, but doesn’t pull back.

“I could have killed you,” she says, voice quiet. A little shiver goes through her frame, like the mere idea is enough to make her feel sick. “I almost did.”

“You actually did me a favor, if you think about it. Now I can tell people that I fought the Black Widow and lived to tell the tale. That’s some major street cred,” you say, hoping to lighten the mood. “Plus, I look great in turtlenecks.”

She glares at you. “It’s not funny.”

“Sorry,” you sigh, falling back against the pillow. “Bad joke.”

She sees your eyelids getting heavy.

“I should go,” she says, already starting pull away. “Let you rest.”

Your hand darts out, gripping hers before you can second-guess yourself. And the feel of her palm against yours reminds you of that night, guiding her out of the tunnels, escaping together.

You wonder if she’s remembering it, too. If she’s still thinking about what she said in the heat of the moment.

She looks down at your fingers, intertwined with hers on the bed. She opens her mouth, maybe to come up with another excuse for leaving.

But then the med bay doors slide open softly, and Clint strides over. Natasha snatches her hand away before he draws up alongside your bed.

“Doc,” he says by way of greeting. “You’re looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.

You smile a little, then glance down at the bandages on your side. “Don’t tell me you did this hack job?”

“Hey,” he says in mock offense. “I’ve stitched myself up enough times to know my way around a needle and thread. But no, it was one of the doctors here.”

You scrub a hand over your face, rousing yourself a little. “How’s the leg?”

Clint shrugs. “Merely a flesh wound.”

“Ha ha ha.” You grunt in what could pass for laughter. Then, in the brief silence that follows, you add softly, “I’m getting too old for this shit.”

“You and me both,” Clint smiles.

He studies you for a moment, until he’s satisfied you’re in one piece. Then he glances at Natasha; she stubbornly avoids his gaze. He gets the sudden overwhelming feeling that he’s interrupted something. And he can see that you’re still healing, still exhausted. Clint lays a hand on your shoulder, giving you a quick squeeze.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you back out there.”

Then he’s retracing his steps and exiting the infirmary. It’s just the two of you again.

Natasha fidgets. She never fidgets. You open your mouth, intending to let her off the hook, to say she can go. But she beats you to the punch.

“I owe you an apology.”

Your forehead crinkles in confusion, wondering if your pain meds are making your head fuzzy.

“Look,” she says. “I misjudged you. It wasn’t right or fair. And I’m…I’m sorry.”

You quirk an eyebrow at her. You’ve never seen her this rattled. It’s kind of endearing.

“Don’t have an allergic reaction or anything,” you tease gently.

She gives you a half-smile.

“I don’t like being wrong,” she admits, drifting a little closer, lowering her voice. “But I was. You saved my life.”

You gaze up at her. The curve of her soft smile. The way her voice rumbles with sincerity. The path her eyes take as they drift over your face, lingering on your mouth.

You almost forget to breathe.

“Just doing my job,” you say eventually, swallowing around the flurry of emotions suddenly fighting to escape your throat. She blinks, like you’ve brought her back to reality.

“Right,” she says, withdrawing slightly. You miss her closeness immediately. You realize you don’t want her to leave. Not yet. Not ever, a traitorous voice in your head whispers. Her attention is like a drug.

“Stay?” You ask, eyes already slipping shut. “Just until I fall asleep.”

Natasha doesn’t answer at first. But then you hear her settle back into the chair beside the bed.

“Got anymore of these puzzles?” Her voice is a soft, grumpy rumble.

You smile, but don’t open your eyes. “Check the pocket of my bag.”

An hour later, you were crammed into the back booth at a shadowy dive bar with the Romanov sisters. Natasha was still peppering you with rapid-fire questions, and you were starting to understand why she was such a successful prosecutor.

Every single molecule in her body seemed to vibrate with intensity as she interrogated you, trying to get a clear picture of your potential as an informant. She was a force to be reckoned with, even in the dimly lit bar, and she didn’t pull any punches. Yelena snacked on pretzels and bar nuts, chiming in every so often when you needed support. 

“Ok, let’s recap,” Natasha said finally, pressing the heels of her palm into her tired eyes. “In two short weeks, you’re planning to meet your uncle, a known killer and a man you haven’t seen in over five years, at your family’s countryside compound, a place you haven’t visited in over ten years. While you’re there, you intend to secretly find and retrieve documents, photos, recordings, or other incriminating physical evidence so we can build a case, prosecute your family, and bring down one of the most notorious illegal arms dealers on the Eastern seaboard.” 

“And don’t forget the part about not dying,” Yelena added, mouth full. Natasha rolled her eyes. 

“What?” Yelena grumbled. “That part’s important.”

“She’s right.” The older Romanov turned to you, her voice pitching down as she tried again to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation. “There’s about a hundred ways this could go wrong, and every single one of them ends with you dead.”

Yelena picked up a cocktail napkin and began to shred it into small pieces, a troubled look on her face. 

“But there’s at least a few ways this could go right,” you countered in a sing-song voice, smiling crookedly. “So let’s focus on that.” 

Natasha laughed despite herself, glancing at her sister. “You play dirty.” 

“I don’t know what you’re referring to,” Yelena deadpanned.

“Oh, so you didn’t think I’d notice that your friend here is very reminiscent of a certain someone we both know?” 

You looked between the two women, brow furrowed as you attempted to follow their secret sibling language. 

Yelena gasped in faux surprise. “It never even crossed my mind! But now you say it, I do see some similarities to Wanda.” 

“Who’s Wanda?” You asked, trying to keep up.

“Let’s just say, my sister has a type,” Yelena smirked.

Natasha massaged her temples. “Stubborn, reckless, optimistic to the point of foolishness…why do I do this to myself?”

The older woman drifted off again, lost in thought. She’d love the chance to prosecute this case. But the collateral damage side of the equation was heavy. Maybe too heavy. 

“This would put you in immense danger.” 

“She’s already in immense danger,” Yelena reminded her grimly, flicking a peanut shell across the table. 

Natasha had to concede this point. 

“Let’s say you walk away from his offer altogether,” she proposed. “What does that path look like for you?”

“I’d probably have to disappear, go on the run,” you said. “And one way or another, I’m done running.”

Your words were hard, clipped, and they sent a shiver down Natasha’s spine. Yelena had a similar reaction. Her face darkened as the anxiety she’d been wrestling with all night finally surfaced. Pushing up from the table, she muttered something about playing pool, leaving you and Natasha sitting across from each other in the banquette. 

“She’s worried about you,” Natasha observed, tracking her sister’s movements on the other side of the empty bar. 

“I know,” you said quietly, shoulders hunching like the idea of making someone worry was physically painful to you.

Natasha watched a muscle in your jaw twitch as you peeled the label off your beer bottle. There were dozens of questions she still needed to ask you. Her eyes flickered to the thin scar over your eye, an uneasy suspicion gnawing in the pit of her stomach. But rather than keep pushing you, she decided to switch gears, lighten the mood a bit.

“How did you meet?”

You sat back, smiling at the memory. “Freshman year. This little blonde bulldog cornered me after chemistry class.“

“Sounds familiar,” Natasha laughed. 

“She told me that she needed a tutor and I needed a friend.” You could still hear the echo of that bold declaration, the way it had stopped you in your tracks, changed the course of your life. “She was right on both counts. I was…in a dark place at the time, and she pulled me out of it.”

Nat glanced across the room at her sister again—she was moodily applying chalk to the tip of her pool stick—and then back at you. Yelena always did have a soft spot for underdogs.  

“Hang on, freshman year?” Natasha frowned as she put the timeline together. “So how come I’m only just now meeting you?“ 

You glanced up at her through those long eyelashes, and the other woman’s breath caught at the intense storm in your gaze.

“I try not to inflict myself on people unnecessarily,” you said, sardonic smile hooking to the side of your face. 

Natasha tilted her head. “What do you mean?”  

You shrugged, cracking your knuckles.

“I always knew the past would catch up with me,” you said. “When it did, I wanted to make sure I was the only one in the line of fire.” 

Natasha felt like her chest might cave in at the casual way you said these devastating words, thinking anbout everything you had sacrificed over the years. Staying isolated, avoiding connections, never letting anyone close enough to endanger themselves. 

“Sounds like a lonely way to go through life,” she said, voice gentle.

“Yeah, well,” you said, taking another swig of beer. “It’s better this way.”

She could practically feel the self-loathing that radiated off you. Her hand twitched, like she wanted to reach out and touch you. “Better for who?”

You stilled at her question, her soft tone. You weren’t used to people looking at you like that—like you mattered. 

“Hey.” Natasha leaned forward, commanding your attention. “You don’t have to do this.” 

You swallowed around the sudden lump in your throat. This was dangerous, the absolution she was offering. You were only human, after all. And she was almost pleading with you to reconsider, something raw and real shining in her eyes. So you gathered all your resolve and did what you’d been doing your whole life. You pushed her away, breaking the tender silence with a ragged breath. 

“I’ve got red in my ledger.” Your voice was rough with emotion, tinged with exhaustion. “And I’d like to wipe it out.” 

Natasha frowned. Suddenly, it clicked. 

“You think just because you have the same last name as these people…” she trailed off, awestruck that anyone could buy into such cruel and unforgiving logic.

You stared back at her, and she was gutted by the expression on your face. Desperate, repentant. You’d risk everything to prove you weren’t like them. 

“I have to try,” you said, so soft she almost missed it.

Natasha sighed. She could see now that you intended to go forward with your plan, with or without her help. Together, you had a chance of taking a dangerous man off the streets, maybe even crippling a crime syndicate that supplied weapons to gangs and warlords around the world. Alone, you would probably go off half-cocked, get yourself killed.

 “If we do this,” she hedged. “We do it 100% my way. That means you take orders from me, you follow my instructions, and if I say something is too dangerous, that’s the final word. Deal?” 

You stared at her, considering the terms. “So you’ll help me?” 

An image flashed in her mind, unbidden and unwelcome, of your pretty face on the front page of the paper, beneath a brutal headline she could never unwrite. Slowly, despite her many misgivings, Natasha nodded. 

“Thank you.” You sagged forward, surprising her by gripping her hand. Your fingers were strong, calloused. “Thank you.” 

You made it halfway down the long gravel driveway before the skies opened up with a clap of thunder and the rain that had been threatening all day started to fall in heavy, violent sheets. 

Of course, you thought bitterly. What poetic timing. 

Even Mother Nature was conspiring to make this as hard as possible. 

You had walked away from people before. People who cared about you, who might have offered something like a normal life. 

But it had never been this painful. 

So you faltered—just for a moment—standing there in the driveway. Because you knew what you were leaving behind, and it was like every fiber of your being was fighting to keep it. 

Safety. 

Shelter. 

Support. 

And maybe…maybe something more. Something rare and special and real. 

Unbidden, your thoughts drifted to the feeling of Wanda’s gentle hands on your body, her fingers playing with your hair. To the way Natasha had picked you up off the floor earlier, cradling you against her with such steadiness, strong when you couldn’t be…

No. You blinked hard, trying to banish those images from your mind’s eye. It was a fantasy, it was pathetic. 

Whatever had developed between the three of you in this house wasn’t real; how could it be? Natasha needed you like she needed any legal asset; you were a tool for the prosecution, nothing more. Her kindness was an extension of her professionalism. 

Yes, you were friends with her sister. And yes, the lawyer had done you a favor by agreeing to build the case. But when the gavel came down, when your utility had served its purpose, you’d be nothing special to her. And Wanda…Wanda was just a sweet person who probably felt sorry for you. 

Besides, you reminded yourself, they were married. To each other. You didn’t fit here and you never would. The soft touches, the heated glances…it was just a dream. 

And like all dreams, the details would fade. 

Agnes isn’t on duty. It’s her first night off in weeks. The house is quiet, warm from a little fire that’s crackling in the fireplace—the first of the season. 

She’s in her sweats watching the ball game when her phone rings. Glancing down, she sees a familiar caller ID illuminate the screen: Pain In My Ass. And for a second, she debates letting it ring. But her curiosity gets the better of her. 

“What, miss me already, chief?” 

The older man grunts, shuffling some papers on his desk. “Yeah, like I miss a hole in my head.” 

“You’d look good with a hole in the head,” Agnes smirks, cracking open a cold beer. “It would be an improvement.” 

He snorts. “You and my wife would get along great.” 

“That could be arranged,” Agnes says smoothly. “Tell her to come on over, I could use some company.” 

“Easy, O’Connor,” he warns. “Otherwise I might forget that I’m calling to do you a favor.” 

She’s cradling the phone against her face, half-listening. “Mmm, what favor is that, Chief?” 

He pauses. Then: “Got some intel I think you’ll be interested in.” 

Agnes considers this. She takes a swig of beer, tracking the play on the television and letting the silence stretch for a moment, trying to act like her interest isn’t piqued. 

“Oh yeah?” She says eventually. 

“Yeah,” he says, tone hedging toward something heavier, more serious. “And you’re not gonna like it.” 

She’s got a comeback on the tip of her tongue, something brash and bullish. Because winding the man up is one of her favorite pastimes. But the second he says your name, her mind goes completely blank. She feels her chest tighten, preparing for the worst. 

“What happened?” 

“Assault,” he says. “Bar fight down at Pat’s.” 

Agnes growls, a low threatening sound in the back of her throat. She slams the beer down on the coffee table, hard enough that the bottle almost cracks. Her mind is going zero to one hundred, already wondering who she needs to kill. The chief cuts her off before she can spiral. 

“Relax,” he tells her. “Your little girlfriend is the one who did the assaulting.” 

Agnes blinks in surprise, both at the correction and the accusation. For a split second she’s not sure which piece of information to respond to first. The girlfriend comment wins out. 

“She’s not - not my…!” Agnes splutters, indignant, unable to even say the word. “Christ, she’s young enough to be my daughter!” 

“Whatever,” the chief says, clearly not buying it. “She’s in the tank now.” 

Agnes pushes herself off the sofa and strides toward the stairs. “She been drinking?” 

“Not a drop, far as I can tell,” he says.

Agnes pauses, eyebrows furrowing. For some reason, this deepens her feeling of concern. Because what the hell are you doing picking fights at Pat’s on a Tuesday night stone cold sober? 

 “So, you want her or not?” The question slams her back into reality. 

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” she says. Then she hangs up and climbs the stairs two at a time. 

Her heart is hammering, guilt flooding her chest as she pulls on a pair of jeans. 

Shit, shit shit. She’s been meaning to call you, to explain why she missed the funeral. But one week became two became three…and somehow she just never got around to it.

That doesn’t mean she hasn’t been thinking about you. She has. Every time she comes up for air between cases. Every time her head hits the pillow, in the fragile moments before sleep pulls her under. 

But if there’s one thing that Agnes excels at, it’s pushing emotions to the back of her mind. Focusing on work and calling it practicality, instead of admitting the truth. She’s sure her therapist would have a dozen different names for it—avoidance, escapism—but in her heart she knows it’s plain old cowardice. 

The word sits in her mouth, bitter and true. 

Scrolling through her phone she finds her chat thread with you. The last message glares up at her, bright and damning. 

I’m going to put flowers on her grave today. Want to come? 

Agnes feels a deep pit forming in her stomach. Because she hadn’t even replied. You were her dead best friend’s daughter, and she had left you on read. 

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, scrubbing a hand over her face. Even for Agnes, this is low. 

Shrugging into her jacket, she grabs the keys to her truck and walks out the door. Time to face the music. 

________________________________

You’re sitting on a concrete bench, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed. 

Everything hurts. Your mouth, your eye, your head, your hands. The ceiling light keeps flickering, and the faint fluorescent buzz sets your teeth on edge. 

Despite all that, you wouldn’t change a thing. 

You crack a small, tired smile and flex your knuckles experimentally. You’ll be savoring the memory of tonight for a long time — the exact moment your hand connected with his jaw, the feeling of his bone crunching against yours, the complete look of surprise on his face before all hell broke loose. 

You chuckle, a sharp exhale followed by a wince as the pain lights up your face and head. 

You’ve never been arrested before. Maybe this is a cry for help, a sign that your life is officially going down the drain. Maybe you’re just a cliché…

And suddenly, with an intensity that almost makes you nauseous, you want your mom. You want her so badly it hurts. Because she’d know what to say. Probably tell you to look on the bright side. At least the jail is quiet tonight. At least you have the place to yourself. That was always her way. Finding the silver linings. 

You take a slow, shuddering breath. The side of your face feels too big, swollen and pulsing uncomfortably. There’s dried blood in your eyebrow. You lean forward, bowing your head and pressing the pads of your finger gingerly against the bruise. The pain reignites with a flare. In some sick way, you like the feeling. 

It distracts you from the pain in your heart. The grief that crests and crashes in waves. The biting, bitter tide of loss. It feels like you’ve barely been keeping your head above water for weeks, lost in a storm, drifting further and further from shore. You’re so tired. 

Your stepdad isn’t able to do anything for you. He’s too busy drinking his pain away. And most of your friends have moved on from this shithole town, just like you always meant to do after college. Until your mom got sick. Until you realized you couldn’t leave. 

Inevitably, like a broken record, your mind drifts back to Agnes. 

When you were growing up, Agnes was everything. Cool. Tough. Brave. And lately, she’s the only one your treacherous little heart wants.

It’s been years since you spent any time with her. But you sort of thought she’d always be there when you needed help picking up the pieces. 

You remind yourself that she’s busy. That she has her own life. 

Still. Back in the day, she was your mom’s best friend. Sure, they drifted apart over the years. But she should still be here. The fact that she's MIA tells you she’s hurting, in her own way.

Or maybe she just doesn’t give a shit about you.

That voice in your head is cruel, taunting. You stare at the floor, eyes welling with sudden tears. 

That’s how Agnes finds you several minutes later. A hunched figure in a jail cell, looking so defeated that she stops dead in her tracks. 

Her mind has been racing the entire drive here, full of empty excuses and one-sided conversations. Now it goes strangely blank.

She finally shuffles forward, unlocking the door. Your head snaps up. 

And for a second she can’t breathe. Because you’re so much more grown up than the last time she saw you. Because you’re bruised and bloodied. Because she wants to gather you in her arms and never let go. Because she has no right to feel that way. 

“Shit,” she says, closing the space between you in a few swift strides and gently tilting your face up. There’s a dark bruise around your cheek, a cut above your eyebrow. “You’re hurt.” 

For a second you just look at her, eyes wide with surprise. You’re too stunned to speak, to even remember your anger. All you feel is relief and so much longing it threatens to cleave your chest wide open.

“Has anyone looked at this?” 

Her words bring you back to reality and you twist out of her grip, like you can’t stand to be touched. Not by her. Maybe not by anyone. 

“Yeah,” you say, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the far wall.

“A doctor?” Agnes presses, resisting the urge to reach out again, wondering if anything’s broken, where else you might be injured. 

“It’s just a bruise,” you say, sounding tired. 

And for a half-second she catches a tiny glimpse of the surly, self-righteous teenager you used to be. But then the moment passes and she realizes that girl is long gone. 

“What happened?” 

You lean back, crossing your arms. Agnes immediately clocks the way you’re moving—slow, stiff, protective. She shifts her weight impatiently. Wanting to demand answers to a dozen questions she has no right asking. 

“Same shit that always happens,” you say with an unapologetic shrug. “Drunk frat boys. I wasn’t in the mood to be polite.” 

Agnes feels her blood boil a little. A muscle jumps in her cheek. She takes a deep breath then kneels in front of you, resting her elbows on her thighs. 

“Why didn’t you call me?” Agnes says. 

You drag your eyes away from the wall, settling the full weight of your gaze on the other woman. And Agnes feels her stomach somersault. Because the face staring at her is one that’s painfully familiar. 

You look so much like your mother that it’s almost eerie, like her best friend is sitting there in the cell, back from the dead. You’ve got the same big beautiful eyes. Same pretty mouth. And, she remembers, the same terrifying death glare. 

“I didn’t call,” you say, voice somehow flat and sharp at the same time. “Because I didn’t think you’d answer.” 

Agnes winces. “Guess I deserve that.” 

“Yeah,” you say, no trace of apology. “You do.” 

Agnes runs a hand through her hair, hating herself, not sure what to say. Glancing down she notices your knuckles for the first time. Her hand reaches out instinctively, tracing the pad of her thumb over the cuts and bruises. She swears. 

“You should see the other guy,” you murmur, trying to seem unaffected by the feeling of her hand on yours. Agnes is always so warm. You could melt in her touch. 

“It’s not funny,” she says. 

But the corners of her mouth tell a different story, curving upwards in a reluctant smile. And maybe…is there a glimmer of pride on her face? 

It would make sense. She’s the one who taught you to throw a punch, after all. 

You wonder if she ever thinks about those days. They feel like a lifetime ago, almost like memories that belong to a different person.

You clear your throat. “What are you doing here?” 

And for the first time all night, Agnes feels relieved to have an answer ready. 

“Jailbreak.” 

To underscore her point she stands and kicks the door to the cell wide open. You glance at her, uncertain for a heartbeat. The other woman just waits, one arm outstretched, patient and steady. 

“Unless you want to stay here all night?” 

Finally, you push yourself up off the bench and cross the room. Every muscle in your body aches. Agnes has the wild urge to scoop you up and carry you to the car, take you straight home and hide you away from the rest of the world. Her fingers twitch as you brush past her, walking into the hallway and disappearing around the corner. 

The officer at the front desk gives you a funny look. 

“It’s alright,” Agnes says, trailing just behind you like a guard dog. “She’s with me.”

While she’s getting your belongings from the evidence locker—coat, phone, keys—you step out into the parking lot, taking a deep breath of fresh air. The night is clear and cool, with a few stars peppering the inky canvas of the sky. You stand with your head tilted back until the other woman appears by your side. 

“See anything good up there?”

Agnes holds your denim jacket open and helps you into the sleeves. She wonders if you still have the telescope she bought you for your sixteenth birthday. If you still read books about outer space, distant planets, stars that burned out centuries ago.

“Nah," you say, squinting into the darkness. “Too much light from the city.”

Agnes sneaks a sidelong glance at you, briefly admiring the gentle curve of your nose, the familiar splash of freckles on your cheeks. 

“Come on,” she says softly. “I’ll take you home.” 

She’s standing close enough that your shoulders are brushing. So she feels the way you stiffen immediately, like the suggestion makes your skin crawl. Agnes frowns. 

“Unless…” she adds, trying to read the look on your face. “You’re staying somewhere else? Boyfriend…girlfriend?” 

She tries not to let the jealousy creep into her voice. To ignore the possessive feeling in her chest.

“It’s not that,” you say with a hint of exasperation. And Agnes feels something unwind between her shoulder blades. Maybe she is part guard dog, you think. You can practically see her hackles smoothing out, her fangs unsnarling. 

“It’s just…” You trail off, uncertain how much you want to tell her. “It’s just not so good at home right now, you know?” 

“Not so good,” Agnes repeats, voice low and already edged with anger.

She’s never liked your stepdad. Come to think of it, Agnes stopped coming around as much when your mom got remarried…  

Suddenly your head hurts. It all just feels too much, too messy. You shrug.

“Don’t worry about it, alright?” And just like that, you’re drifting away from her across the parking lot. “I’ll call someone to come get me.” 

It's a lie. You don't have anyone to call. But you can't stand her looking at you like that. Like she cares what happens to you.

Agnes falls into pursuit, calling your name as her cop instincts kick into overdrive. 

“He drinking again?”  

You pull a pack of cigarettes out of your jacket pocket. The question about your stepdad is still hanging in the air like a hammer waiting to fall as you flick a lighter and take a drag. 

Agnes arches an eyebrow. “Since when do you smoke?” 

“Give me a break,” you say dryly. “I was running out of coping mechanisms, alright?”

Agnes feels an almost painful pulse of fondness for you in that moment. But she doesn’t let you off the hook. She steps a little closer, plucking the cigarette from your fingers and taking a puff, eyes never leaving your face. “He getting rough with you?” 

You pinch the bridge of your nose, then look away. 

And every alarm bell in the book is going off, loud and impossible to ignore. Agnes taps her foot anxiously. Just when she thinks you’re going to ignore the question entirely, you speak. But you don’t sound angry.  

“Can you blame him?” Your voice is soft, tinged with sadness. “These days he can hardly stand the sight of me. Says I look too much like…”

Agnes draws her bottom lip between her teeth, guilt written on her face. You catch her eye.

“Seems like there’s a lot of that going around lately,” you continue, keeping your voice light. Like it’s a funny joke and you’re in on it. But Agnes can hear the pain beneath the surface. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me, right?” 

She flinches. Just a little. But you catch it.

And when she opens her mouth to deny it, no words come out. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice tight with anger. “That’s what I thought.” 

Then you’re walking away again. And Agnes almost lets you go. Because she’s no good at emotions. Because she let you down and doesn’t have the right to make demands. Because she doesn’t want to hurt you any worse than she already has. 

“Come home with me,” she says. 

The invitation brings you to a halt. “What?” 

Agnes licks her lips, then repeats the request. “Just for tonight,” she adds. “Come on, I’ll make dinner, you can get a hot shower, we’ll watch the rest of the game...” 

You turn around and fix her with a strange look. Agnes thinks it’s something like hope. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“I want to,” Agnes says, and she means it. “Please.” 

The pavement glitters strangely, reflecting the streetlights. It’s late. The city is quiet. You might be the only two people in the world. 

“Fine,” you say, swaying a little where you stand. Suddenly, you feel dead on your feet. “But I’m not eating one of those tragic little TV dinners, O’Connor.” 

Agnes is too relieved to complain. She closes the distance between you and loops her arm around your waist, securing you against her side. The tension goes out of your frame almost immediately, muscle memory taking over. Agnes has always equaled safety, strength. 

“Making demands already?” She says. “That’s got to be a personal record.” 

You lean against her, letting the warmth seep into your bones. Agnes guides you to the truck and opens the passenger side door.

“The seatbelt is a little tricky,” she mutters. 

You watch her fussing with the vinyl for a second, pulling the strap across your lap. 

“Agnes?” 

She doesn’t quite look up from her task. "Hmm?"

You don't know what makes you do it. Maybe you're delirious. But you bring your hand up, brushing your thumb against the little frown lines around her mouth. She goes still.

“Thanks for coming to get me.”

Your words are soft, simple. Turning her head, she realizes how close your faces are. Your big eyes shine in the low light of the truck cab.

She wets her lips. “Always.”

Then she clears her throat and finally clicks the lock into place.

Agatha’s sharp eyes sweep around the dark, cavernous room. Searching. Hungry. Desperate.

It’s been a week since you disappeared, snatched right off the streets of Westview. You were on your way back from the library, smoking a cigarette, just like any other day.

Except the sun went down. And you didn’t come home. And Agatha’s entire world turned inside out.

The older witch has been following the faint trace of your magic ever since. She’s never been more grateful for the binding ritual she performed the first night you met. That ancient bit of spell craft has become a lifeline, tethering you to one another.

Through the tenuous connection, she can feel how weak you are. The signal has been getting fuzzier and fuzzier each day, like a dying star.

Your light dimming.

Your energy waning.

And yet, Agatha never allowed herself to imagine the worst. Not really. Losing you is out of the question.

And she was right to believe that, to keep the stubborn faith. Because the signals finally led her here, to this isolated cabin in the woods.

In a matter of moments, the witches at the door have been struck down. Followed quickly by the witches sleeping upstairs, the witches in the library.

All dead.

An entire coven, wiped out with zero hesitation, zero regret.

Finally, Agatha stands alone, exhausted, peering into the shadows of the only place left to search.

She wants her prize.

To see you, feel you in her arms.

It all comes down to this.

But as she peers again into the dank, festering cellar, the room appears empty. She frowns. Calls out your name.

….and goes completely still when she sees movement in the far corner.

What she originally dismissed as a pile of rags is actually a person beneath a thin blanket. With a mop of very familiar shaggy hair.

In the next second, she’s flying across the cold concrete, kneeling beside your body, which is slumped awkwardly against the wall. Your face is mostly hidden by the filthy fabric. But she would know you, even an inch of you, anywhere.

Her hands tremble for the first time as she reaches out.

“Please,” she whispers aloud, voice breaking.

Please what, she wonders? Please be alright? She knows you aren’t. Please forgive me? She knows you shouldn’t.

Not when it was her job to protect you.

The guilt surges forward, ferocious and bitter. She just wants to fast forward to the ending.

To the part where you’re not chained up like a prisoner.

To the part where you’re safe and warm and tucked in bed.

To the part where you inevitably absolve her of her sins, even though she doesn’t deserve it.

She pulls the blanket back as gently as she can, noticing the way your face twists in discomfort, the way you begin to shiver. She hates that it fills her chest with relief. Because it means you’re alive.

In the next moment, her relief is replaced by horror.

Your wrists are bound tightly in your lap, head slumped forward, chin against your chest.

There’s a heavy manacle around your ankle. Agatha can feel dark magic crackling within the rusted iron chain, which is fixed to the floor by large bolts.

Your skin is rubbed raw around the shackle, red and angry, blood tricking down into your filthy socks.

And that’s just the damage she can see at first glance.

With unsteady hands, she grips your chin and tilts your head back, brushing away your tangled hair so she can get a proper look at you.

There’s an unnatural heat radiating off your skin, a fever roiling just below the surface. Bruises darken your orbital socket, and there’s more blood. A long bright gash at your hairline that looks nasty, infected.

She calls your name. Once. Twice.

The third time you finally stir, eyes fluttering open.

Your gaze is cloudy, confused. Like you don’t know if you’re awake or dreaming. But the second you lock onto Agatha, you recoil with a whimper. The small, timid smile that was playing around her lips vanishes.

“No,” you croak, voice hoarse but still clear enough that there’s no mistaking what you say next. “Not you.”

Agatha feels her blood run cold at the dread on your face, at the clear mistrust in your reaction. Not you.

She opens her mouth, intending to explain that you’re safe. That nothing can hurt you now.

But she doesn’t even have time.

Before she can blink, you’re wrenching yourself out of her grip, hands still bound tight and useless in your lap.

There are shadows under your eyes, dark circles of exhaustion. But you’re using every last ounce of energy to get away from Agatha.

“Pet,” she breathes, trying to ignore the feeling of heartbreak that’s cracking open in her chest at the moment. “It’s - it’s me, you’re safe.”

If anything, this assertion seems to make matters worse.

Tears spring to your eyes. You glance up at her, like you can’t help yourself. Then you look away.

“Please don’t,” you say, eyes red-rimmed and stormy. “I did what you asked, I h-healed your people, I gave you everything.”

A little piece of the puzzle clicks into place then.

No wonder all those witches were so strong, so vital. They’ve been draining you for days, pulling from a reservoir of white magic.

Well it didn’t help them, she thinks with a pitiless thrill. They were still nothing compared to the furious, fathomless wrath of Agatha Harkness.

She shakes her head, draws a shaky breath.

“I’m here to bring you home,” she says, voice low and threaded with careful tenderness.

A broken sob slips past your lips.

“You always say that,” you whisper, flat on your back now, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

A shiver wracks your frame.

Agatha frowns. You sound delirious, not making any sense. She reaches down to touch your face, hoping to redirect your attention.

But the second she makes contact, you flinch. Hard.

“Don’t touch me.”

This makes Agatha go completely still. She feels sick, powerless to do anything as you push yourself up and attempt to crawl further away from her.

Suddenly your arms give out and you crumple, face connecting with the stone floor. Your grunt of pain echoes off the walls.

“Stop,” she hisses, voice tight with desperation, wringing her hands to keep from grabbing you, from making it worse. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“Oh right,” you say, resting against the cool stone, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s your job.”

And then you laugh, a slightly crazed sound. It scares Agatha more than anything so far.

“Just get it over with,” you snap, baring your teeth in a weak snarl. “Do whatever you came to do.“

Agatha shakes her head. “What are you — ?”

“My answers haven’t changed,” you recite, going down the list like you’ve had this conversation a dozen times before.

“I’m just an apprentice. If Agatha’s still alive,” and here your voice shakes, almost breaking, but you push through with a determined grimace. “She won’t come for me, she’s too smart for that. I don’t know anything about the Darkhold. Even if I did, I’d never tell you. And I don’t have any more magic to give your people.”

Finally, you cut your eyes toward the other woman. And there’s a look there she’s never seen.

“So in conclusion, you might as well kill me,” you whisper, a jagged sound. “You fucking coward.”

Your words land with all force of a physical blow. Agatha feels the breath leave her body in a rush.

Because none of this makes sense. Because you’re talking about her like she’s not even in the room.

But mostly because she’d rather die than hurt you. You’re more than an apprentice, more than a ward. You’re…everything. Her whole world.

She hasn’t exactly told you in so many words. But she knows you know. And now you’re talking like you don’t matter. Like you aren’t even expecting her to come for you.

Slowly, carefully she lays a hand on the bindings around your wrists. With a murmured spell, they disappear.

You freeze, looking down in confusion. For a second, your eyes flicker toward Agatha’s face. Then away again. Like it hurts to look at her for too long.

You flex your fingers experimentally, breath catching as pain lances through the stiff, aching muscles.

Instinctively, Agatha reaches for you again. This time, she’s ready for the recoil and doesn’t let you pull away. Her hands are warm, covering yours completely.

“It’s me,” she says again, more firmly this time. “See? You know me, pet.”

And because she’s touching you, she feels the way you tremble at the sound of her voice. Fear. And something else, something hopeful and wretched and small.

A dark picture is forming in Agatha’s mind, but she doesn’t pepper you with further questions. Not yet. She just keeps gently massaging life back into your freezing fingertips, her touch gentle, her movements slow and unhurried.

“Tell me something,” you say, voice edged with suspicion. “Something only Agatha would know.”

Your shoulders are drawn, braced for disappointment. As if it’s a request you’ve made before, as if it’s the beginning of a road that only leads to heartache.

“Like what?” Agatha huffs peevishly, drawing a blank.

You lick your lips, nervous because you promised yourself you wouldn’t let this happen again.

It’s just…you want so badly to believe it’s her. And the magic feels real, familiar in a way that nothing else has so far.

But you’ve been tricked before. And your head is a mess. Since being brought here, it’s been nothing but mind games.

No sleep, no food, hardly any water. And so much pain you can barely believe you’re still alive.

Still, you force the words out anyway. A moth to the flame of Agatha. No matter how many times you get burned.

“H-how did we meet?”

There’s a brief pause as she stares at you, dumbfounded by the simplicity of the question.

“Nicky,” she says, drawing out the word and punctuating it with a little shrug. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s too easy.

The answer detonates between you, a supernova, and you inhale sharply, looking up at her in disbelief.

Then before she can blink, you’re launching yourself into her arms. The sudden onslaught overbalances her and you both fall back, a tangle of limbs.

She has just a moment to notice the strange catch in your breathing, the way you stiffen in her arms. But then you’re burrowing your head against her chest, hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt.

Like you’re determined to never let her go again.

“You’re alive,” you say, barely getting the words out around the lump in your throat. “You’re okay.”

Agatha frowns. Shouldn’t she be saying that to you?

“Of course I’m alive,” she huffs, indignant and slightly confused. “What are you talking about?”

She tries to pull back, to look at you. But you just shake your head stubbornly, clutching her tighter.

“They were h-hurting you…I could hear you screaming and then they sh-showed me - terrible things, awful things, and I didn’t know what - ” you stop short, voice cracking on the words as you relive the memories.

Your hands are moving in ceaseless patterns along her shoulders, her arms, her waist, as if you’re confirming she’s still in one piece.

“I thought you were dead,” you whisper. “Or hurt. Or trapped. Or that you f-forgot me.”

Agatha closes her eyes briefly, processing this information.

“I could never forget you.”

She feels a little sick to her stomach as the full picture becomes clear. The torment you’ve endured. The suffering, the anguish. It hasn’t been just physical.

“Shhh, pet,” she says, shushing you gently. “I’ve got you, I’m right here.”

For several seconds you both just sit there clinging to each other, rocking back and forth.

Now she’s the one running her hands over your hair, your back, your hips, feeling how thin you are. Her fingers twitch, wanting to pull you closer, but aware that she needs to be careful. That you’re hurting in ways she can’t fully see yet.

She needs to get you home.

Gently, she disentangles you from her body, shifting you into her lap. Once she’s sure you’re settled, Agatha starts to examine the chain. It’s bewitched to be unbreakable.

She’s working on a counter curse, trying to free you from the binding without causing any more damage.

As the minutes drag by, she can feel you staring openly, drinking in the sight of her.

“You look terrible,” you say suddenly, a line of worry creasing your forehead.

And Agatha can’t help the laugh that bubbles up out of her chest. “You’re one to talk,” she says, glancing down and scanning your face again.

The feverish flush in your cheeks has gotten even brighter.

“I’m serious,” you rasp, not letting her weasel out of this one. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

You reach out a hand, ghosting your palm against her chest, trying to do a quick reading. It’s a force of habit when it comes to Agatha. But she catches your wrist in her hand.

“If you try to start an energy feed right now, I’ll kill you myself.”

It’s a joke. Clearly it’s a joke. You know that. But instead of smiling, you seem to fold inward. Agatha watches the way the little light in your eyes flickers, dies.

She frowns. Whatever happened down in this cellar, the scars are more than just physical.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she continues quietly, returning her attention to the chain. “Nonstop. For a week. I haven’t slept. Haven’t eaten.”

You give her a reproachful shake of the head. And it’s so domestic, so out of place in this context, that she feels herself start to blush.

“Don’t give me that look,” she says. “I can sleep when I’m dead.”

Again, she realizes belatedly that it’s probably not the best choice of words and glances up to gauge your reaction.

But your eyes are suddenly heavy, lids drooping. You hum in agreement, clearly only half-listening.

She doesn’t like it. The fever makes her nervous.

But she decides to let you drift while she works, thinking you need the rest.

A few more minutes pass. In the silence, she can hear your breathing become more ragged. Almost wet. Like you have a respiratory infection. Or worse.

“Pet?” She says suddenly, trying to rouse you. “Don’t fall asleep.”

When you don’t answer she calls your name, sharply.

“M’tired,” you slur. “So tired.”

Agatha knows the feeling. She’s on the brink of exhaustion herself. And suddenly, she’s had enough of fiddling with this goddamn chain.

Her magic surges forward in a rush of protective desperation, and the shackle explodes. It’s unintentional, messy, an overreaction of epic proportions. She lifts her hands, turning away, bracing for an impact that…never comes.

Out of pure instinct, you cast a protective shield over Agatha’s exposed face and hands.

“No!” She shouts, knowing that the spell requires energy you don’t have to spare. But it’s too late.

The brunt of the metal shards are easily deflected, harmless. You have a half-second to give her an unapologetic smile, a look that clearly says “couldn’t help myself”, before your eyes roll back in your head and darkness takes you under.

———-

When you wake up again, everything is warm and soft. You blink, stretching experimentally before you open your eyes.

You’re lying on the sofa. Back at home. Home. The word makes your chest ache. Part of you wondered if you’d ever see this place again.

Agatha is in an armchair beside you, face twisted with worry.

“There you are,” she says, fear making her angry. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I like your face the way it is,” you grumble, voice hoarse, throat sore from disuse. Or from screaming, Agatha muses darkly.

You cough once and try to sit up. She raises her hand immediately, intending to stop you…and there it is again, that involuntary flinch, sharp and fearful.

For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then:

“Why do you keep doing that?” Agatha’s voice is careful, neutral as she pulls a blanket over your chest, fussing in her very specific way.

You glance up at her, wary. “Doing what?”

“You’re acting like…like I’m going to hurt you.”

For a second, you consider denying it. Playing it off. But you know it’s not fair.

“I’m sorry,” you say, hating the crestfallen look on her face. “It’s not you, it’s just…I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “What….what happened down here?”

Your face gets a faraway look. She thinks you might not answer.

“They came to me in different forms, using glamours,” you say suddenly. “To confuse me, to trick me, to scare me. I didn’t know what was real and what was fake.”

Agatha considers this information.

“Me?” She asks quietly, though she already knows the answer.

You nod, not quite able to hide the little shiver of horror at the memories. “The first time I saw you I thought…it was all over. A rescue. And then you…she…”

Your hand drifts to your face without meaning to. Agatha’s keen eyes narrow. “I did that?”

You freeze, looking troubled. “Not you,” you remind her.

It’s cold comfort, Agatha thinks. A technicality, nothing more.

“What else?” She demands. She’s nothing if not a glutton for punishment.

You squirm. “Agatha, we don’t have to -“

“What. Else.”

You don’t move, so she does.

Slowly, so slowly, she reaches out and grips the hem of your shirt with trembling fingers.

Then she’s staring at the soft skin around your midsection, your ribs. The bruising here is dark, mottled, swollen. No wonder you can barely move. No wonder your breathing is jagged, wrong.

“It looks like someone tried to kick you to death,” she says, feeling nauseous.

And even though she wasn’t there, she can somehow see it all clear as day. You, curled on the floor, defenseless. An imposter towering over you.

With her voice.

Her face.

She feels a rage unlike anything she’s known in recent memory. She wishes she could kill them all again.

“Agatha,” you say, calling her back from whatever dark edge she’s hurtling toward.

“You thought…” she trails off, swallows back the bile rising in her throat. “You thought I did this?”

Her eyes are glued to the dark ugly bruises.

“No,” you say, too quickly, expression glazed over a little with pain and fever. Even in your depleted state, the last thing you want is to make her feel worse than she already does. “I knew it wasn’t really you, that it couldn’t be.”

But it’s so easy to slip back into that cold, dark place of uncertainty. Your face goes a little blank.

And suddenly, you’re remembering that night. The surge of hope. How Agatha held you, untied you, snuck you up to the landing on the first floor…

Then turned and shoved you back down the stairs, ribs cracking as you landed in a heap on the basement floor.

How it took several long moments to push yourself upright, head pounding, blood tricking down your face.

And then…the swift, sudden blow that brought you to your knees again. The pain, the confusion, the betrayal.

Followed by that laugh.

Her laugh.

A sound you loved, turned into something awful, something cruel.

Agatha sees it all play out on your face with aching clarity.

“Give it to me,” she says suddenly.

Your forehead crinkles in confusion. “What?”

“Give me the memory.”

You shake your head slowly.

Agatha presses her mouth into a thin, dangerous line. “I’m not asking, pet.”

“No.” You cross your arms. Stubborn despite your obvious exhaustion. “No way.”

Agatha exhales sharply, half-exasperated, half-impressed at your selfless streak. How infuriating you are, she thinks. How good.

“What’s the alternative?” She snaps. “You keep flinching every time I try to touch you?”

Your cheeks pinken with shame, tears clouding your eyes. And Agatha instantly regrets her words, her tone.

Her head drops forward, hands covering her face. “I’m bad at this, aren’t I?”

You chuckle, eyes glassy as you sink back against the sofa cushion. “It’s not like there’s a handbook.”

“No,” she agrees, lowering her hands slightly and peering at you over the tips of her fingers. She takes a steadying breath, thinking of how best to proceed.

“You’re hurt,” she says. “And it’s my fault. So please just let me do this. Let me take it away. Let me make you forget.”

You blink slowly, feverish brain feeling sluggish. “How is this your fault?”

Agatha practically growls.

“They wanted me, they wanted the Darkhold,” she says, standing with such explosive energy that it makes you jump. Again.

You cringe, hoping Agatha didn’t notice.

But Agatha notices everything when it comes to you.

“It’s my job to protect you,” she says, gesturing at you helplessly. “And you’re…afraid of me.”

She turns on her heel, staring into the hearth beneath the mantle where a small fire crackles pleasantly.

“I’m not afraid of you, Agatha,” you explain gently. “It wasn’t you. My head knows that. My heart knows that. My nervous system just needs a little time to catch up. Can you give me time? Please?”

Her mouth twists to one side. “My idea is better,” she insists, with a pouty whine.

You tilt your head to one side, trying not to smile. Because she’s so cute when she’s being petulant and impossible.

“Better how exactly?”

She shrugs, arms encircling her waist in the protective stance she tends to favor when conversations drift into an emotional territory.

“Faster, cleaner,” she says it so simply. “I can take it right now. I deserve it.”

“No,” you say firmly. “You don’t.”

You can’t lie. The idea of erasing this entire ordeal from your memory banks is…attractive. To never look at Agatha again and have her likeness sullied by betrayal would be a welcome gift. To never second guess her movements. To never recoil from her touch.

But the thought of burdening Agatha with one more painful experience? You’d never agree to that. She has more than her fair share of loss, grief, heartbreak already. You can carry this. For her, you’d carry anything.

“Say you believe me,” you whisper, voice low and commanding despite how weak you feel. “Tell me you understand it’s not your fault.”

Agatha rolls her eyes, but she feels a warm prickle of gratitude. “I understand.”

Then she’s stalking back to the sofa and perching beside you, fingers brushing against your forehead. Your fever is still high. She chews her bottom lip.

“If you won’t let me take the memory, at least tell me what I can do to help? I’m useless at white magic. But I can brew, I can cook —“

You snort, interrupting her with a fond, tired smile. “Since when?”

Agatha blushes. “I managed to feed myself just fine before you came along, pet.”

And you know it must be true, but you don’t like to think of Agatha doing anything alone.

“How are you at drawing baths for fair maidens?” You waggle your eyebrows and drape a hand over your forehead with effort, hoping to make her laugh.

Agatha blinks. For just a moment, her eyes flicker down to the soft petal of your mouth, the pretty pink of your lips.

“As it happens, you’re in luck,” she says, standing up and extending one hand to you in an exaggerated gesture of chivalry. “I’m exceedingly good at helping fair maidens bathe.”

“I didn’t say I need help bathing —“ you start, but before you can finish that sentence, she’s carefully lifting you in her arms and sweeping up the stairs toward the bathroom.

“I heard what you said,” she huffs. “But I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

She sets you on the edge of the sink and busies herself with the taps, waving her hand to get the temperatures just right, conjuring a few healing droughts and adding one for pain, one for inflammation, one for fever.

She may not be able to heal you, but she can ease the pain until you’re strong enough to heal yourself.

You can’t help the small smile that works its way onto your face as you watch her. The little frown of concentration. The furrowed brow. The way her hair falls across her face.

“I’m glad I didn’t die,” you say, a little sleepy as the steam from the water begins to fill the room.

And yes, you’re glad to be alive. But mostly you’re glad to be here. With Agatha.

She pauses, turning to face you. You’re so out of it that you don’t catch the mistiness in her eyes. She sniffs once, clears her throat.

“You’re not allowed to die,” she says.

“Is that so?” You giggle, head lolling back against the wall. “Well, same goes for you.”

The water is almost ready. Agatha turns around fully now, intending to help you out of your clothes, into the tub. She finds you with one hand outstretched.

“Let’s shake on it,” you say. “No dying. Deal?”

Agatha stares at your hand for a heartbeat and wonders how she got here. Completely wrecked for you. After she swore she’d never let anyone into her wretched heart again. What a mess.

But she just slides her palm against yours. Because what else can you do? It’s a losing game.

“What did I do wrong?” 

Agnes feels your question punch the air out of her lungs. For a second, she’s paralyzed by her own cruelty, characterized in such clear and unflinching terms. 

Silence settles between you, thick and electric. You’re at a crossroads. No turning back now. Then she sets the bag of peas on the coffee table, and for a spilt second you think she’s running, leaving. 

Your heart starts to break all over again. 

But she doesn’t get up. Just squares her shoulders. Bracing herself. Then she reaches for you, slow and gentle like she expects you to recoil. 

“Nothing,” she says, cradling your face in her hands, not letting you turn away, not letting you brush her off. “Listen to me. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

The words feel puny, pathetic. She forces herself to keep going. 

“Things with your mom were complicated and I - shit, I guess we just drifted apart. It sounds fucking cliché but it’s the truth. She didn’t even tell me she was sick. And then she was just…gone.” 

The pain radiating off Agnes is almost palpable. But you don’t interrupt. 

”So yeah, I went dark,” she admits. “Buried my goddamn head in the sand. But I should never have shut you out.” 

She twists her mouth to one side, wanting to say more, trying to work up the courage. But she’s never been good with words. Actions were always more her speed. 

So she waits, wondering if you’ll forgive her, wondering if she even deserves that much. She strokes her thumb against your cheek, skirting the worst of the bruise, tracing a soft idle pattern in your skin.  

And it feels so good to be touched, to have the weight of her undivided attention after weeks of wondering if you’d ever see her again. You think that’s what tips the scales, finally. Her touch ignites the little flame in your belly, stokes it to a full-blown fire. Suddenly, you ache all over with need, an emptiness that only Agnes can fill. 

You take a shuddering breath, blinking up at her through your long eyelashes. 

“Show me.” 

Agnes feels the room start to tilt sideways. Because you’ve never looked at her like that before. 

“What?” She croaks. 

For a half-second, she thinks she must have misheard.

But then your eyes dart down to her mouth, lingering there with unmistakable intent. And the moment catalyzes into something dangerous, something forbidden. 

You sway forward. Agnes finds that she’s frozen to the spot. She can’t move. She’s not even sure she can breathe. And then you’re right there, nuzzling into her neck, her chest. 

“Show me how sorry you are.” Your breath is warm, ghosting against her skin.

Then, to remove any doubt about your meaning, you press your lips against her pulse point. 

Agnes inhales sharply. Because your mouth is so soft, so warm. And the sensation sends a bolt of longing straight through her. 

She groans, placing her hands on your arms. “W-what are you doing?”

You expect her to push you away, but she just digs her fingers into your skin. You can feel the other woman trembling. 

Then she whispers your name like a curse. 

“This can’t happen,” Agnes finally manages to say. There’s a strange buzzing in her head. She blinks once, swallows hard. But she doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Why not?” You’re still tracing the sensitive skin along her jawline with your lips. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

A million reasons, she thinks. But the words won’t come. You smile at her, sad and sweet. 

“I’m not a kid anymore, Agnes,” you say, like you can read her mind.

She blinks. Opens her mouth, then closes it again. 

“Please?” You beg softly, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Don’t shut me out again.” 

And that’s what breaks her. 

Agnes cradles the back of your neck, threading her fingers into the fine hairs at the base of your skull. Then you’re pressing your lips against hers like a question, like a plea. Like you’re braced for rejection even though it would crush you.

She tries to think of another argument, but her mind is blank. All the stress and the sorrow and the heavy weight of the past several weeks is suddenly lifting. The only thing that exists in this moment is your body against hers. 

For the first time, it occurs to her how much you both need each other. That she’s been stupid, as well as cruel. That in some twisted way, this makes perfect sense. 

And she can’t fight it anymore, this sudden inevitability. So she does the only thing she can think of...she kisses you back. 

You whine a little in instant, abject pleasure, gripping the front of her shirt in your fists, bringing your bodies even closer so there are no gaps left between you. 

“Tell me again,” you gasp into her mouth. “Tell me how sorry you are.” 

“So sorry,” Agnes whimpers, and the sound of the other woman apologizing goes straight to your cunt. “Fuck, I’m so sorry for making you think I didn’t care.” 

Melissa glanced at the clock on the wall. It was well after midnight. Her eyes itched with exhaustion.

She should be in bed. Minding her own business. Getting some much needed shut-eye at the end of a long week.

Instead, she was waiting in a crowded ER, piled awkwardly in a wheelchair with a total stranger.

She couldn’t make this shit up.

After a few minutes of dozing, your head tipped back at an awkward angle. Melissa reached forward, cradling the base of your skull and maneuvering you into a more comfortable position, securing you against her body.

You didn’t wake up once throughout the whole process, just nuzzled deeper into the soft pillow of her chest.

“Idiota,” she murmured, carefully laying your injured arm in her lap and studying the blood-soaked bandages. A tiny flicker of angry rekindled itself on your behalf. That brother of yours better hope she never met him in a dark alley.

Over the years, Melissa had experienced her fair share of family drama. But it sounded like you were in an especially toxic situation. She wondered if you had anyone on your side—a cousin in your corner, or an uncle you could call if (when) things got really bad. But judging by the fact that you’d shown up here tonight, totally alone, she was guessing you didn’t.

It seemed so unfair.

And speaking of unfair…how could anyone manage to look so damn pretty on one of the worst nights of their life?

She traced an idle finger down the side of your face, studying your features, enjoying the way you leaned into her touch. Your expression was so unguarded, like you had placed every last ounce of faith in her.

Before she could worry too much about what it meant, about whether she deserved all that blind trust, she heard someone call your name. A blonde nurse with a clipboard was scanning the crowd of upturned faces.

Melissa caught her eye. “Here!”

Her voice was rough and gravelly, so she raised a hand, waving the other woman over.

Melissa glanced down, thinking the sudden sound and movement would have startled you awake. But your head remained slumped against her, your face slack…and very pale.

“Hey,” she murmured shakily, cupping your chin in one hand. “Wake up, kid.”

But you didn’t move. And suddenly Melissa’s adrenaline roared back online, her heart hammering in her chest. She gripped your shoulders, giving you a firm shake. Your head lolled to the side like a rag doll.

The nurse with the clipboard approached, eyebrows knitted together in concern. “Everything alright?”

Melissa didn’t answer, couldn’t answer.

She raised her hand, tapping you on the cheek a few times. Her touch was soft at first, then more firm. It was the last slap that finally roused you.

“What the fuck?” You grunted in surprise more than anything, bringing a hand to rub the lingering sting on your cheek. Then, because you couldn’t help yourself: “Take a girl to dinner first, Schemmenti.”

Melissa exhaled sharply. Her nervous system couldn’t take much more of this.

Not wasting any time, she stood up, angled your wheelchair toward the blonde, and started pushing.

“I can walk,” you said sleepily, twisting around to try and look up at her.

“Don’t even think about it,” Melissa growled, following the nurse into a small exam room. A pleasant shiver went down your spine at the commanding tone, the dangerous look that flashed in her eyes. Jesus Christ, you were such a goner for this woman.

As soon as the curtain closed behind you, the nurse introduced herself and got right down to business. She had an easy, unshakeable confidence. Like she’d been doing this for years. Like she’d seen it all. Melissa couldn’t help but admire that.

“My name’s Dana,” she said, flashing Melissa a small smile and then scanning you with shrewd eyes. “Sorry about the wait, we’re a little short-staffed. Looks like you’ve both had a rough night.”

She hooked one hand under your arm and helped you climb into the bed.

“What gave you that idea?” You joked, trying to hide a groan, trying not to give away how much pain you were in. Now that you were awake, your arm was throbbing with dizzying intensity and your head was starting to pound.

In the light, Melissa could see that more blood had soaked through the gauze on your forearm, staining the front of your shirt a dark, terrifying crimson.

“She’s uh…she’s lost a lot of blood,” Melissa stammered, hating to state the obvious but seemingly unable to stop herself. “I’m worried she’s like, I don’t know…in shock or something.”

“Hey,” Dana said smoothly, noticing Melissa’s vaguely queasy look. “Can you do me a favor, doll? Go get some fruit snacks from the vending machine. Her sugar levels are probably a little low.”

Without missing a beat, the nurse peeled a couple bills from her pocket. Melissa gave her a doubtful look before letting the other woman press the money into her hand. Truthfully, she was grateful for the task. Just reluctant to leave you.

“Be right back,” she promised, then disappeared from the exam room.

“That your girlfriend?” Dana nodded toward the departing redhead, scribbling some notes on her clipboard.

“I wish.” You smiled and tipped your head back, eyes fluttering shut. “Way outta my league.”

Dana grinned, popping some bubblegum between her front teeth. “Don’t sell yourself short, hon. Seems like she’s got a soft spot for ya.”

You snorted, opened your mouth to reply. But in the next second you went limp, slumping to one side.

Dana called your name sharply, then removed a pin light from her breast pocket and stepped forward in one smooth motion, cupping your jaw in the palm of her hand.

“Hey slugger,” she said, trying to ignore the flutter of fear in her throat. “You still with me?”

She lifted one eyelid, then the other. A few tense moments later you recoiled from the light, wincing.

“Shit, sorry,” you said, giving your head a little stubborn shake. “What happened?”

Dana frowned. Why were you apologizing?

“You passed out,” she said gently. “Nothing to be sorry for. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

She took your temperature and blood pressure with renewed urgency, anxious to examine your arm. “Can ya tell me what happened?”

With great difficulty, you started to explain the circumstances of the evening. Your brother. The fight. the window. The drugs.

It was harder than before to string the story together coherently. Your head was swimming. But Dana heard enough to know she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Your brother sounds like a real piece of shit,” she said bluntly.

For some reason, this made you giggle. “You and Melissa would get along really good.”

“Melissa,” she said, hastily hooking you up to an EKG machine and starting an IV drip. “That your girl’s name?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, a dreamy look on your face. “Melissa Schemmenti.”

Then you frowned. “What’s your name? Did you already tell me?”

The blonde smiled. She looked like an angel. A very tough, very patient angel.

“I’m Dana,” she reminded you.

You repeated it, a little breathlessly. And the sound of her name in your mouth made the older woman’s stomach flip pleasantly…