Summary: The sea had been Bucky’s and Steve’s life, both content to swim from ocean to ocean, side by side. A part of them always felt as if they were missing something, but neither could tell what. One night they come across a woman, and it’s as if their pieces fell into place. Only she comes with her own baggage and past horrors. Neither Bucky or Steve are willing to live their life without her, but first, they have to figure out how to help her with her own.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty- Four
Chapter Twenty- Five
Chapter Twenty- Six
Chapter Twenty- Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty- Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty- Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty- Five
Chapter Thirty- Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue
Tag list for this are closed.
Fanart:
Moodboard by @myjoonifiedheart (Whom I can’t tag)
Moodboards and Headers and more by @prettybubblesintheair
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As someone who was alive when Bob Ross (and William Alexander before him — that’s where the approach is from) was on PBS, I can 100% testify that you can paint along with him.
You may need to learn how to set up your paints and such… but this is what people did, live, while the show aired. That’s what the show was for. I had family members create lovely works of art they enjoyed, which I still have on my walls, because William Alexander and Bob Ross both said:
SCREW METICULOUS CLASSICAL ART PRACTICES — JUST GRAB A PALETTE KNIFE AND BIG OLD BRUSH AND PAINT!
They freed a whole generation of people who were taught to paint detail and realism and exact representation of reality — people who largely gave up this kind of thing because it got tedious.
I watched the joy of family members as they rediscovered art as a messy fun spontaneous half hour activity.
description: morticia and gomez addams if they survived the horrors of hawkins, got married, raised two equally dramatic children, and spent the rest of their lives being unapologetically obsessed with each other.
pairing: eddie x wife!reader
tags: eddie x reader, no y/n, husband!eddie munson, dad!eddie munson, morticia and gomez addams coded, tooth rotting fluff (they're obsessed with eachother), soulmates, edward jr & corvina, domestic bliss, slice of life, gothic romance, munson family, black cat x black cat, love as devotion and worship
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, unprotected, mushy fluff
WC:7.3k
A/N: requested by @pierrotandsam AGH HERE IT IS!!! I HOPE YOU LOOOOOVE IT :))) reblogs are a writer's best friend <3
I'm so obsessed with this. **I proofread as best as i could...i got three hours of sleep last night, so my brain is straight mush
Eddie still remembers the day he first laid eyes on you. Summer, going into his third senior year at Hawkins, you walked into Larry’s Auto Body Repair looking like something pulled from the pages of a half-burnt gothic novel left to rot in an attic trunk.
The heat outside had been miserable; thick, wet Indiana air that made grease cling to skin and tempers run short, but you arrived untouched by it all. Draped in black despite the July sun, lace sleeves swallowing your wrists, silver rings glinting like tiny knives beneath the fluorescent lights.
Your perfume smelled faintly of clove cigarettes, old paper, and rain. Long dark hair spilled down your back in soft waves, and your eyes, God, your eyes, looked mournful in the way stained glass saints did. Beautiful enough to make a man confess every awful thing he’s ever done, truth or not.
Eddie had nearly dropped an engine part directly on his foot.
You’d stepped into the garage like you belonged in another century entirely, gaze drifting slowly across the room with detached fascination, lingering on rusted tools and oil stains as if they were artifacts in a museum.
Then you smiled at him. Not sweet, not shy, but devastating. Like you already knew every terrible thing about him and adored him for it anyway. From that moment on, Eddie Munson was ruined.
Years later, the people of Hawkins still spoke about the two of you in hushed, bewildered voices. The Munsons of the Creel House. The strange family on the hill with wrought iron gates, tangled in dead vines and black roses that somehow bloomed year-round.
Children swore candlelight moved through the windows at impossible hours. Neighbors whispered about organ music drifting through storms and the silhouettes dancing behind curtains long after midnight.
The truth was far less sinister, mostly. You simply loved beautiful things that others were too frightened to appreciate. And Eddie loved you enough to follow you anywhere, even the old Creel House.
At first, he’d refused to even step onto the property. Too many memories. Too much blood soaked into those walls. Vecna. Chrissy. The Upside Down. Every rotten thing Hawkins tried desperately to bury lived in the bones of that house.
But then you’d walked through the front doors for the first time, black dress trailing over dusty hardwood, staring up at the massive chandelier with wonder glowing across your face like moonlight.
“Eddie,” you’d whispered softly, almost reverently. “It’s perfect.”
And that had been it. Because you looked at the house the same way you looked at him, not with fear, but affection. Like ruined things deserved devotion too. So he rebuilt it for you.
Every creaking staircase. Every shattered window. Every rotted inch of wallpaper. Together, you turned the graveyard of Victor Creel’s legacy into something warm, strange, and terribly romantic. A home, your home.
Corvina, your eldest daughter, drifted through the manor like a tiny phantom in velvet dresses, all solemn eyes and unnerving intelligence. She collected moth wings in glass jars and read Poe beneath thunderstorms while Eddie watched with equal parts pride and concern.
Meanwhile, Edward Jr, though everyone called him Teddy, was chaos incarnate. Wild curls, scraped knees, and his father’s crooked grin. The poor kid had inherited Eddie’s dramatic flair and your complete lack of fear, which meant most afternoons ended with him attempting something mildly catastrophic somewhere on the property.
Eddie had been hesitant about naming him after himself. Truthfully, he was terrified.
He remembered sitting beside you in bed while rain battered the windows, your newborn son asleep against your chest. Candlelight flickered gold across your skin as Eddie stared at the tiny little thing wearing his name.
“What if he ends up like me?” he’d asked quietly. You’d looked at him then with that same devastating softness you’d always reserved for his ugliest thoughts.
“My darling,” you murmured, brushing your fingers through his curls, “I should certainly hope so.”
And just like that, the fear dissolved. Because in your eyes, Eddie Munson had never been something to outgrow or overcome. He had always been something to cherish.
The Creel House came alive slowly in the mornings. Rain tapped softly against the tall windows that morning, the sky outside painted silver and gloomy in the way you adored most.
Eddie stood at the stove in silk pajama pants and a black robe hanging open over his tattooed chest, swaying dramatically to the music while making pancakes shaped vaguely like bats.
“Darling,” you called from your place at the kitchen table, long black sleeves draped elegantly around your coffee cup, “I do believe those are becoming progressively less edible.”
Eddie pressed a hand to his heart in mock offense. “Cruel. Wounded before breakfast.”
“You married me for my cruelty.”
“I married you because you looked at me like a Victorian widow cursed by the sea.”
You smiled over the rim of your mug. “And you looked like trouble wrapped in leather.”
“Mm,” Eddie hummed proudly. “Still do.”
Before you could respond, Eddie appeared beside your chair suddenly, dramatically dropping to one knee like a man overcome with passion. He took your hand delicately, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Then another to your wrist. Then another just beneath your sleeve.
You laughed softly, tilting your head as his curls brushed your skin. “Edward Munson,” you murmured. “The children are awake.”
“Good,” he replied against your hand. “They should witness devotion.”
Right on cue, Corvina entered the kitchen carrying three books against her chest, long dark braid hanging over one shoulder. She glanced once at the scene before deadpanning:
“You’re disgusting.”
“Thank you, my dove,” you said warmly.
Corvina moved to pour herself coffee like she hadn’t witnessed anything unusual at all. Then came the sound of slower footsteps, Teddy.
Edward Jr. appeared in the doorway wearing his Hawkins High hoodie, backpack hanging off one shoulder, curls sticking up wildly like he’d been running nervous hands through them for an hour.
And immediately, both you and Eddie noticed the expression on his face, and Eddie straightened a little. “Whoa. What’s with the funeral look, Theodore?”
Teddy hesitated, then slowly held up a folded yellow slip of paper. Your brows lifted slightly while Corvina sipped her coffee with the detached calm of someone witnessing an execution.
“It’s a summons,” Teddy muttered.
Eddie blinked once, then dramatically pointed the spatula toward him. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“That’s exactly what I used to say,” Eddie nodded solemnly. “And I was usually innocent at least forty percent of the time.”
You extended your hand calmly. “May I see it, darling?”
Teddy crossed the kitchen and handed it over anxiously while Eddie abandoned the pancakes entirely to loom over your shoulder. His chin immediately dropped onto the top of your head while his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind instinctively.
You unfolded the slip carefully:
REQUESTED PARENT CONFERENCE.
PRINCIPAL HIGGINS.
REGARDING: EDWARD MUNSON JR.
Eddie groaned immediately. “Jesus Christ. They started early this year.”
Teddy looked miserable. “Dad, I swear, I didn’t even do anything. It was those idiots from the basketball team—they kept messing with my stuff in gym, and one of them shoved me into a locker, and when I shoved him back, he started bleeding and—”
“Bleeding?” Corvina asked mildly.
“He ran into the trophy case!”
“Ah,” she nodded. “Natural selection.”
“Teddy,” you said softly, reaching for his hand. “Look at me.”
He did immediately.
And despite being nearly Eddie’s height now, despite the deepening voice and teenage awkwardness settling into his limbs, he still looked at you the same way he had as a child: like you could fix anything simply by speaking.
“You are not in trouble with us,” you assured gently.
Eddie nodded instantly. “Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“Nope.” Eddie waved him off. “Listen, kid, Hawkins High has been blaming Munsons for shit since before you were born. It’s practically a school tradition.”
Teddy huffed out a nervous laugh. You rose from your chair then, smoothing your hands over Eddie’s wrists where they rested around your waist. “We’ll attend the meeting.”
“Together,” Eddie added.
“And if your principal insists on being unreasonable,” you continued calmly, “your father does so enjoy making authority figures uncomfortable.”
Eddie grinned wickedly. “Baby, remember the vice principal in ‘89?”
You smiled faintly. “He looked moments from cardiac arrest.”
Teddy finally laughed properly at that, the tension melting from his shoulders almost instantly.
Without another word, Eddie reached over and grabbed one of the bat-shaped pancakes, shoving it onto Teddy’s plate. “Eat up, kid,” he said. “Nothing scarier than school administration on an empty stomach.”
Corvina glanced toward the stove. “Those are burnt.”
“They’re wonderful,” Eddie corrected.
You reached for his hand again, kissing his knuckles this time. “My talented husband,” you said softly.
Eddie practically preened under the affection, leaning down immediately to kiss you dramatically enough to make Corvina groan.
“Oh, my God.”
“Teddy,” Eddie said seriously against your mouth, “never settle for a love that doesn’t make your children physically ill.”
“Noted,” Teddy muttered through a mouthful of pancake.
By noon, rain had turned into a heavy mist that clung to Hawkins like a veil, which was the exact kind of weather you loved. The kind of weather Eddie insisted was “romantic as hell.”
The two of you walked through the halls of Hawkins High side by side like something entirely out of place amongst the fluorescent lighting and beige walls. Students slowed as you passed, conversations dipping into whispers almost immediately.
You floated through the hallway in a long black coat that brushed your calves, silver jewelry gleaming beneath the dim lights, while Eddie walked beside you in dark rings and leather, one hand firmly wrapped around yours, as if he physically couldn’t stand not touching you for more than a few seconds.
Which, truthfully, he couldn’t.
“Sweetheart,” Eddie murmured low enough only you could hear as you approached the office, “if Higgins pisses me off, are we thinking subtle psychological warfare or full public humiliation?”
You glanced at him calmly. “Let us see how brave he feels first.”
“God, I love when you threaten people poetically.”
The secretary barely looked up when you entered the office, though her expression tightened almost immediately at the sight of Eddie, still, after all these years. Eddie noticed too, squeezing your hand once before leaning casually against the counter.
“We’re here about Teddy,” he said.
The woman cleared her throat awkwardly. “Principal Higgins is expecting you.”
“Lucky him,” Eddie muttered.
You placed a gentle hand against his chest before he could continue, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his jacket. “Behave, mon amour.”
Eddie looked down at you like you’d hung the moon itself in the sky. “For you?” he said softly. “Always.”
The secretary looked deeply uncomfortable. Good.
Principal Higgins’ office looked exactly the same as it had when Eddie sat in it at seventeen; stale coffee smell, ugly filing cabinets, school banners hanging crookedly on the walls.
Only now, Higgins himself had more gray hair and less patience. He didn’t stand when you entered. Instead, he leaned back slowly in his chair, eyes moving between you both with poorly concealed irritation.
“Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”
Eddie sat down across from him casually, slinging an arm immediately across the back of your chair. “Higgins,” he replied. “Still alive, huh?”
You rested one elegant hand atop Eddie’s knee beneath the desk, feeling him relax instantly under your touch.
Higgins ignored the comment. “Teddy was involved in an altercation yesterday afternoon.”
“Involved,” Eddie repeated. “Interesting wording.”
“He assaulted another student.”
“He defended himself,” you corrected smoothly.
Higgins finally looked directly at you then, expression tightening slightly. “And how exactly would you know that, Mrs. Munson?”
“Because, unlike this institution,” you replied calmly, “our son tells us the truth.”
Higgins folded his hands atop the desk. “Mrs. Munson, with all due respect, Edward Jr. has inherited certain… behavioral tendencies.”
There it was. Eddie’s jaw tightened instantly beneath the lazy posture he wore like armor. But you? You simply tilted your head slightly.
“What an unfortunate thing to say aloud,” you murmured.
Higgins shifted faintly. Eddie watched you carefully now, eyes practically sparkling because he knew that tone and knew it well. It was the same tone you used moments before verbally disemboweling someone.
“The Munson family,” Higgins continued carefully, “has had a difficult history with this school. Your husband, especially.”
Eddie gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, because this town treated me like I was carrying the plague.”
“You developed quite the reputation.”
“And your athletes didn’t?” Eddie shot back. “Interesting.”
“Eddie,” you said softly, not looking away from Higgins. You folded your hands neatly in your lap, expression serene enough to be unsettling.
“Our son,” you said carefully, “was cornered by three boys larger than him.”
Higgins opened his mouth, but you continued before he could speak.
“One shoved him into a locker repeatedly. Another destroyed his sketchbook. And when Theodore defended himself after being physically provoked, suddenly, he became the problem.”
Silence, and Higgins shifted again. You leaned forward slightly then, dark eyes steady on his.
“And now you sit before two former students who know exactly how Hawkins High operates and imply there is some sort of inherited defect in our child because his last name is Munson.”
Eddie looked dangerously proud beside you.
Higgins cleared his throat. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“No?” you asked gently. “Then perhaps choose your words more carefully.”
The office went quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows. Eddie finally leaned forward himself, rings clinking against the desk.
“Look,” he said flatly, “I know exactly what this place thinks about me. Fine. Whatever. But you do not get to stick that shit onto my son because some meathead couldn’t keep his hands to himself.”
Higgins sighed heavily. “No one is suspending Teddy.”
“Very generous,” Corvina’s voice drawled suddenly from the doorway.
All three of you turned. Corvina stood there holding a hall pass and looking deeply unimpressed.
“She followed us?” Higgins asked incredulously.
“She’s observant,” you replied.
“And nosy,” Eddie added proudly.
Corvina stepped inside without invitation. “Also, for the record, Tyler Bennett admitted in chemistry that he started it because Teddy wouldn’t let them make fun of that freshman girl.”
Eddie blinked. Then slowly turned toward his son’s principal with the most insufferably smug expression imaginable. “Huh,” he said. “Would you look at that?”
You reached over then, brushing your fingers lovingly along Eddie’s jaw.
“My darling,” you sighed softly. “It appears our son inherited your unfortunate tendency toward heroics.”
Eddie practically melted into your hand. “Baby,” he whispered dramatically, grabbing your wrist to kiss your palm, “you say the sexiest things to me.”
Corvina stood near the doorway with her arms crossed, entirely too pleased with herself. Eddie lounged back in his chair again, one boot hooked over his knee while he admired you with open, ridiculous affection.
Meanwhile, you remained perfectly composed, which somehow made you infinitely more terrifying.
“Well,” Higgins said stiffly after a long silence, “I believe this matter can be considered resolved.”
“How fortunate,” you replied smoothly.
Eddie snorted under his breath, and Higgins ignored him. “I’ll speak with the boys involved.”
“You should,” you said. “Especially if the school wishes to maintain the illusion of fairness.”
The principal’s jaw tightened faintly. Then, as though remembering something unpleasant, his eyes flicked briefly toward a framed flyer hanging beside his desk.
Hawkins High Arts Expansion Fund: Sponsored by the Munson Mortuary.
Eddie noticed immediately, as did you. A slow smile touched your lips. “You know,” you mused softly, rising from your chair, “Edward and I have always cared deeply about the arts.”
Eddie stood the second you did, naturally gravitating toward your side like a shadow stitched to your heels.
“The theater department,” you continued thoughtfully, smoothing the sleeve of your coat, “the music programs, student scholarships…”
Higgins straightened slightly.
“Hell,” Eddie added casually, “the new ceramics kiln was us.”
You turned your attention back to Higgins, expression warm enough to unsettle.
“It would simply devastate us,” you said gently, “if the environment here became hostile enough that we no longer felt comfortable continuing such generosity.”
Higgins cleared his throat quickly. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“No,” you agreed pleasantly. “I imagine it won’t.”
Eddie grinned beside you like the devil himself. God, he loved you. Loved the way you could flay someone alive without ever raising your voice. Loved the way people underestimated your softness right until the moment they realized it had teeth.
You reached for his hand, and he took it instantly.
“Well,” Eddie sighed dramatically, “this has been deeply irritating.”
As the four of you started toward the office door, Higgins spoke again. “Mrs. Munson.”
You paused, turning slightly. “I assure you,” he said carefully, “Theodore will be treated fairly.”
You held his gaze for a long moment, then smiled faintly. “I should hope so.”
And with that, you left. The halls quieted again as your family walked through them together.
Eddie’s hand remained clasped tightly with yours while Corvina drifted ahead in a sea of black fabric, entirely unbothered by the stares surrounding her.
The second the front doors shut behind you, Eddie turned toward you with outright admiration burning in his expression.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Marry me again.”
You looked at him calmly. “I would a thousand times.”
Candles flickered low throughout the house, golden light dancing against dark wallpaper while thunder rolled softly somewhere in the distance.
Dinner had long since ended, dishes abandoned in favor of the far more important activity of Eddie dramatically sprawled across the velvet chaise in the sitting room with his head in your lap.
“Darling,” he sighed as you lazily combed your fingers through his curls, “if I die right now, know that I died fulfilled.”
“You’re forty years old,” Corvina deadpanned from the armchair across the room. “Not a dying Victorian poet.”
Eddie pointed accusingly toward her without lifting his head. “Your mother encourages this cruelty.”
You smiled softly down at him. “I find it endearing.”
“That’s because you worship me.”
“Correct.”
Corvina physically recoiled. “Can you two act normal for ten minutes?”
“No,” both of you answered immediately.
Teddy snorted from the floor where he sat building something suspiciously dangerous out of spare radio parts. Then, the doorbell rang, and everyone paused. Corvina moved first, way too fast for her character.
You noticed immediately. Eddie noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. The three of you slowly turned toward her as she stood abruptly from the chair, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her black skirt.
“…Interesting,” you murmured.
Corvina narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”
Eddie sat up slowly now, a grin already forming. “Oh, my God.”
“It’s probably nothing.”
“Corvina Lucille Munson,” Teddy gasped dramatically. “Are you nervous?”
“I will kill you.”
The bell rang again. Corvina moved toward the front door with all the rigid dignity of someone approaching their execution.
You and Eddie exchanged a look. Then, silently, both rose from your seats to follow.
The front door creaked open, and standing beneath the porch light was perhaps the least expected person imaginable. A boy. Tall, clean-cut, nervous beyond belief. Bright blue varsity jacket. Hair neatly combed. Holding flowers.
The poor thing looked like he’d wandered into the wrong horror movie. Corvina stared at him; the boy stared at Corvina. Then his eyes slowly lifted, and landed directly on you and Eddie looming behind her like two beautifully dressed vampires awaiting explanation.
His face drained completely of color. Eddie blinked once, then immediately leaned toward you and whispered with genuine awe:
“He looks like he says ‘yes ma’am’ unironically.”
You nodded thoughtfully. “How refreshing.”
“Mom,” Corvina warned.
The boy swallowed hard. “H-hi, Mr. and Mrs. Munson.”
Eddie lit up instantly. “Oh, I like him.”
Corvina closed her eyes briefly like she regretted ever being born. You stepped forward gracefully, gaze drifting over the bouquet in his trembling hands.
“How lovely,” you said softly. “Funeral lilies.”
“They’re her favorite,” he blurted.
Then you looked at Corvina slowly, while Corvina looked horrified. Eddie looked seconds from losing his mind entirely.
“Teddy,” he whispered sharply. “Your sister has a boyfriend.”
“I KNEW IT.”
“He is not my boyfriend,” Corvina snapped immediately. “He’s an experiment.”
The boy blinked. “An… experiment?”
“You’re studying social dynamics?” you guessed politely.
“Yes,” Corvina said quickly.
Eddie crossed his arms. “By holding hands with the quarterback?”
“Second-string quarterback,” Teddy corrected.
Everyone looked at the boy while he awkwardly raised one hand. “We lost regionals.”
Eddie burst out laughing. “Oh my God, sweetheart,” he wheezed to you. “She brought home a jock.”
“He’s not a jock.”
The boy tried to help. “I’m also on the debate team.”
You gasped softly. “How multifaceted.”
Corvina looked moments from throwing herself from the staircase.
Eddie grinned wickedly at her. “Baby bat’s got a crush.”
“I do not.”
“He knows your favorite flowers,” Teddy sang obnoxiously.
“I hate this family.”
The boy, still somehow standing there despite the obvious psychological warfare occurring around him, looked toward Corvina carefully. And to everyone’s shock, his expression softened.
“She talks about you guys a lot, actually.”
Corvina froze.
Eddie immediately clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, my.”
“Dad.”
“She told me,” the boy continued nervously, “that her parents are… intense, but very in love.”
You smiled faintly. Corvina looked like she wanted the floorboards to consume her.
“And,” he added carefully, “that her dad still leaves dead roses on her mom’s pillow every morning.”
Eddie looked at you instantly, utterly smitten. “Baby,” he whispered emotionally, “our love is inspiring the youth.”
You reached up, smoothing your hand against his jaw affectionately. “We are deeply romantic.”
“You’re deeply weird,” Teddy corrected.
“Thank you.”
Corvina groaned. “Can we please go before they start kissing again?”
Too late. Eddie had already grabbed your hand dramatically.
“You wound me, little raven,” he said, pressing a theatrical kiss against your knuckles. “Your mother’s beauty simply overwhelms me.”
The boy stared. Teddy stared. Corvina pinched the bridge of her nose. And you, you simply looked at your husband with soft, endless devotion while thunder echoed gently overhead.
“Oh, mon amour,” you sighed lovingly. “You are still the most handsome thing this house has ever held.”
Eddie nearly died on the spot.
The house felt different when the children were gone. Corvina had vanished off to some poetry reading with her painfully polite almost-boyfriend, while Teddy was staying overnight at a friend’s house after aggressively insisting he was “old enough to survive one night without parental supervision.”
Eddie had looked personally offended by the statement.
Now the evening rain had finally stopped, leaving the world outside soaked silver beneath the moonlight.
You stood in front of the bedroom mirror, fastening a pair of silver earrings, when Eddie appeared in the doorway, already staring at you like a man deeply unwell. His dark button-up hung half-open, curls still damp from the shower, rings glinting in the candlelight.
But his expression, my God. After all these years, he still looked at you like the first breath after drowning.
“Well,” he murmured, leaning against the doorframe, “there goes every coherent thought I’ve ever had.”
You smiled softly at his reflection. “You say that every time I wear black.”
“Because every time you wear black, I fall in love with you all over again.”
“You’re very dramatic.”
“You’re very beautiful. We all cope differently.” You laughed quietly as he crossed the room toward you.
The second he reached you, his hands found your waist instinctively, warm and familiar through the fabric of your dress. He buried his face briefly against your neck with a content sigh like “this—this right here—was the safest place in the universe.”
“Close your eyes,” he murmured.
You raised a brow. “Edward.”
“Please?”
Amused, you obeyed. You heard him moving around the room for a moment before something soft brushed across your palms.
Flowers.
When you opened your eyes again, Eddie stood before you holding a bouquet of black dahlias and dead roses tied together with velvet ribbon, just like your first date.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Eddie suddenly looked shy beneath all the tattoos and bravado. “I know they’re a little wilted, but Gareth’s florist cousin said—”
“They’re perfect.”
The relief on his face was immediate. You reached up carefully, fingertips brushing his cheek while he melted into your touch on instinct.
“Do you remember,” you asked softly, “what you said to me the night you gave me flowers for the first time?”
Eddie grinned a little. “Yeah.” He leaned closer. “‘Most girls want roses. You looked like you’d appreciate something half-dead.’”
“And I nearly married you on the spot.”
“You definitely wanted me carnally.”
You laughed again and kissed him gently. Eddie hummed happily against your mouth, already chasing after another kiss before you’d fully pulled away.
“Come on,” he whispered. “I’ve got a surprise.”
The graveyard sat at the edge of Hawkins beneath enormous twisted trees, moonlight filtering silver across old headstones and damp grass. Most people found it unsettling, but you found it beautiful, especially tonight.
Your breath caught softly as Eddie led you through the cemetery gates hand in hand.
Because there, beneath the crooked oak tree where he’d taken you all those years ago, sat an entire picnic laid out atop black blankets and velvet pillows. Candles flickered inside lanterns. An old radio played something metal, low enough to blend with the wind.
Your favorite wine rested beside a basket overflowing with chocolate-covered strawberries and homemade pastries, which Eddie had very obviously burnt slightly. And in the center, a vase of black dahlias. Eddie rubbed the back of his neck suddenly, almost bashful. “I know it’s kinda stupid—”
“It isn’t.”
Your voice was so soft that it stopped him immediately. He watched as you stepped slowly into the little space he’d created, moonlight catching the emotion shimmering across your face.
“You remembered everything,” you whispered.
“Course I did.”
Eddie moved closer then, taking your hands carefully. “This is where I fell in love with you,” he admitted quietly. “Figured it deserved revisiting.”
Your chest ached. Because despite all his theatrics, despite the flirting and dramatics and endless teasing, Eddie loved with terrifying sincerity, always had.
You touched his face gently. “You never told me you loved me that night.”
“No,” he said softly. “But I knew.”
The wind moved through the cemetery trees around you, carrying the scent of rain and earth and candle smoke. Then Eddie suddenly dropped dramatically onto the blanket.
“Now,” he announced, patting the spot beside him, “come seduce your husband under the moonlight.”
You smiled helplessly and settled beside him. Immediately, he pulled you into his lap like gravity itself demanded it. You curled against him easily, fingers playing with the rings on his hand while his chin rested atop your shoulder.
For a while, neither of you spoke. You simply existed there together beneath the stars, wrapped in candlelight and old music and decades worth of devotion.
Eventually, Eddie pressed a slow kiss against your neck. “You know,” he murmured, “I was so scared to bring you here on our first date.”
You turned slightly. “You were?”
“Terrified.” He laughed softly against your skin. “Wayne told me if I took a girl to a graveyard, she’d think I was either a serial killer or possessed.”
“And instead?”
“You told me it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for you.”
“It still is.”
Eddie looked at you then. And suddenly he was twenty again; grease stains on his hands, heart beating too fast, staring at the most hauntingly beautiful girl he’d ever seen while wondering how someone so lovely could possibly want him back.
Only now, he knew, because you’d spent decades proving it.
His hand slid carefully against your cheek. “My sweet girl,” he whispered.
You kissed him before he could say anything else. Slow and loving, the kind of kiss built from years and years of choosing each other over and over again. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled softly again.
Eddie smiled against your mouth. “Think the kids are behaving themselves?”
You smoothed your fingers through his curls lazily. “Not our concern tonight.”
“God,” he sighed happily, pulling you impossibly closer, “I adore you.”
“Eddie,” you whispered, tilting your head as his lips brushed the side of your neck. “You’ve outdone yourself, mon amour.”
He hummed against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “Only the best for you.”
You laughed softly, and the sound made him tighten his hold, one hand sliding reverently down your side, tracing the black silk of your dress.
Eddie loved pleasing you more than anything, maybe even more than breathing. He lived for the way your breath would hitch when he touched you just right, for the way you looked at him like he was the only man in any world worth having.
His fingers found the hem of your dress and slipped beneath it, warm palm gliding up your thigh. “Let me worship you here,” he murmured, voice low and rough with devotion.
You turned in his lap, straddling him, your long dark hair falling around you both like a curtain. The cemetery was empty, the night yours alone. You cupped his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, silver rings cool against his skin.
“Then worship me, Edward,” you said softly, the command wrapped in velvet.
Eddie’s eyes darkened with hunger and endless love. He kissed you deeply, almost reverently at first, then with growing heat as your tongues met. His hands roamed, pushing your dress up around your hips. He groaned when he realized you’d worn nothing beneath it.
“Fuuuck me,” he breathed against your mouth, a crooked, adoring grin breaking through.
“Oh my love, I plan to.”
He laughed, the sound rich and warm, then lowered you gently onto your back atop the velvet pillows. The cool night air kissed your skin as he peeled the dress from your body, kissing every inch he revealed. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. When he reached the apex of your thighs, he looked up at you with pure reverence.
He settled between your legs, curls brushing your inner thighs as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue found your center with devastating patience; slow, worshipful strokes that had your fingers tightening in his hair.
He moaned into you like you were the finest thing he’d ever tasted, savoring every gasp and whisper of his name that left your lips.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against your slick flesh, voice thick. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
Your back arched as pleasure coiled tight inside you, and Eddie watched it all unfold like a man witnessing divinity. When you came undone beneath his tongue, thighs trembling around his head, he held you through it, kissing you gently until the waves subsided.
Only then did he rise, shedding his shirt and pants with reverent haste. His cock was hard and aching for you, but he took his time, crawling over you, kissing you so deeply you tasted yourself on his tongue.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, lining himself up. “More than life. More than death. More than anything in this fucking universe.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him inside you with one smooth thrust. Both of you moaned at the perfect fit; years together, and it still felt like coming home.
Eddie moved with slow, deep rolls of his hips, savoring every clench of your walls around him. His forehead pressed to yours, curls falling around your faces as he gazed into your eyes.
“Look at me while I fuck you, baby,” he breathed, devotion dripping from every word. “Want to see those saintly eyes when you come on my cock again.”
The cemetery felt alive around you; the wind whispering through the trees, the distant hoot of an owl, the scent of earth and night-blooming flowers mixing with sweat and sex. Eddie’s pace gradually quickened, one hand sliding between you to circle your clit while the other pinned your wrist gently above your head.
You came again with a soft, broken cry of his name, pulling him over the edge with you. He buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan, hips stuttering as pleasure wrecked him. Even then, he kept moving; lazy, loving thrusts to draw it out, kissing you through every aftershock.
Afterward, he collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin. His fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine while your leg draped over his hip.
Eddie pressed a kiss to your hair, voice hoarse with satisfaction. “I’d desecrate every grave in Hawkins if it meant making you feel like that.”
You smiled against his chest, fingertips playing with the silver strands beginning to thread through his dark curls. “If we keep this up, Corvina and Teddy may have a sibling.”
“Would that be so bad? Another mini-Munson running around, raising hell?”
You rolled your eyes lovingly, planting a few peppered kisses along his chest and jaw. “Poor Principal Higgins wouldn’t know what to do with himself with a third Munson.”
Dinner in the Creel-Munson House was rarely quiet. Not because anyone particularly tried to be loud, it was simply impossible for four Munsons to exist in the same room without the atmosphere becoming theatrical.
Thunder groaned outside while candlelight flickered across the dining room, illuminating velvet curtains, silver dishes, and the massive candelabra Teddy insisted made “every meal feel like a vampire intervention.”
Tonight, Eddie had been suspiciously smug since five o’clock, you noticed immediately. Corvina noticed immediately. Teddy noticed immediately. Which meant all three of you spent most of dinner staring at him with increasing suspicion while he fought a grin behind his wine glass.
Finally, Teddy pointed his fork accusingly. “You’re hiding something.”
Eddie gasped dramatically. “What a horrible accusation.”
“You’ve been smirking for an hour,” Corvina added.
“You also called the garlic bread ‘historic,’” Teddy said. “That means something’s wrong.”
You smiled faintly from your seat at the head of the table. “Darling,” you said gently to Eddie, “are you planning a crime?”
Eddie looked delighted by the question. “No,” he answered proudly. “Something better.”
Then, with all the ceremony of a man revealing the crown jewels, Eddie reached into his jacket and slapped four tickets dramatically onto the table. Silence.
Teddy squinted. Then his eyes widened so violently you thought they might leave his skull.
“No fucking way.”
“Language,” you corrected softly.
“No FUCKING way.”
Corvina leaned forward slightly now, dark eyes narrowing in interest. Eddie sat back in his chair with unbearable smugness. “Iron Maiden,” he announced grandly. “Indianapolis. Front section.”
Teddy SHRIEKED, like actually shrieked. The sound echoed through the dining room while Eddie burst into laughter.
“Oh my God,” Teddy gasped, grabbing the tickets with trembling hands. “Dad—Dad, are you serious?!”
“Your old man still has connections, baby.”
Teddy launched out of his chair instantly.
You sighed knowingly. “Brace yourself, mon amour.”
A second later, Teddy practically tackled Eddie backward in a hug. “There he is,” Eddie wheezed dramatically as Teddy nearly crushed him. “My son. My flesh and blood.”
“You are the coolest person alive.”
“I know.”
Corvina, meanwhile, carefully picked up one of the tickets with much more restraint. But you noticed the tiny upward twitch at the corner of her mouth immediately.
“Dickinson is still performing?” she asked calmly.
Eddie clutched his chest. “That sounded almost excited.”
“It wasn’t.”
“She got the Munson concert gene,” Teddy informed you loudly.
“She absolutely did,” Eddie whispered emotionally. Corvina rolled her eyes, though there was the faintest flush creeping into her cheeks now. You watched your family fondly from your chair, chin resting against your hand.
This. This was your favorite thing.
Eddie glowing with happiness while the children inherited every loud, passionate, ridiculous piece of him without even realizing it. Teddy flopped back into his chair, grinning wildly.
“This is literally the greatest day of my life.”
Eddie pointed at him immediately. “That’s exactly what I said when your mother kissed me the first time.”
“You say that about everything Mom does,” Corvina muttered.
“Because your mother is extraordinary.”
You reached over and touched his hand gently, as Eddie looked at you like he’d been shot directly through the heart.
Then, Corvina cleared her throat, causing everyone to look at her immediately.
“…What,” she said flatly.
Eddie narrowed his eyes. “You’re about to ask for something.”
“I’m not.”
“You did the voice.”
Teddy gasped dramatically. “She DID do the voice.”
Corvina looked deeply regretful. “I hate all of you.”
You smiled softly. “What is it, little raven?”
A pause. Then, with visible reluctance: “…Could I possibly have one additional ticket?”
The room went silent, and Eddie blinked once. Then slowly lowered his wine glass.
“…For who?”
Corvina stared at her plate. “No one.”
“Corvina.”
Another pause.
“…Damien.”
Eddie’s entire body reacted as if he’d just been informed the government had finally collapsed.
“THE BOYFRIEND?”
“He is not—”
“The assistant quarterback?!” Teddy shouted.
“THE DEBATE CLUB ONE?” Eddie cried simultaneously.
Corvina groaned into her hands. You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to smile.
“He likes Iron Maiden,” Corvina muttered.
Eddie looked genuinely betrayed. “The clean-cut child likes Maiden?”
“He listens to metal with me.”
Eddie stared at her for a long moment. Then suddenly leaned back in his chair, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Oh, my God.”
“What?”
“She likes him.”
“I do not.”
“She’s sharing music with him,” Eddie whispered hoarsely to you. “Baby, that’s intimate.”
Teddy looked horrified. “That’s like… sacred.”
“Exactly.”
Corvina looked ready to walk into traffic. You finally spoke, voice warm with amusement.
“Perhaps,” you said carefully, “she simply enjoys his company.”
Corvina nodded quickly. “Exactly.”
Eddie narrowed his eyes immediately. “Have you held hands?”
“Dad.”
“HAVE you?”
“No.” Too fast.
Teddy slammed both hands on the table. “THAT WAS A LIE.”
Corvina pointed at him. “You are dead to me.”
Eddie suddenly looked emotional again. “Oh, sweetheart,” he sighed dramatically, “your first love.”
“It’s not love!”
You stood then, gliding around the table toward your daughter. Corvina visibly braced herself for teasing. Instead, you simply smoothed a strand of dark hair behind her ear gently.
And very softly, you said: “If someone makes our little raven smile enough to frighten her this badly… we should like to know him.”
Corvina froze. Because despite all the drama and teasing, your family loved hard. Openly, and without shame, just like Eddie always had.
The house had long since gone quiet. Somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock groaned past midnight while rain tapped softly against the windows of your bedroom. Eddie lay sprawled across your chest like an oversized cat, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist while you lazily played with his curls.
This had always been his favorite place to exist, right here, with you.
Even after all these years, he still sought you out instinctively. Every night, somehow ended the same way: his head in your lap, or tucked against your chest, or buried into your neck while he mumbled half-asleep nonsense against your skin. Tonight was no different.
“You know,” Eddie murmured sleepily, eyes closed, “I think Corvina gets scarier every day.”
You smiled softly, carefully winding one silver-threaded curl around your finger. “She is your daughter.”
“Exactly why I’m concerned.”
“You cried when she said she held his hand.”
“I did not cry.”
“You absolutely did.”
Eddie cracked one eye open. “I became emotional.”
“You gasped loud enough to frighten Teddy.”
“That was fatherly grief.”
Your laugh came soft and quiet in the dark. God, he loved that sound.
Eddie tilted his head slightly against you just to hear it again. Then your fingers paused suddenly in his curls, a tiny thing, barely noticeable. But Eddie felt it immediately.
“What?” he murmured.
You said nothing at first. Instead, your fingers carefully separated one curl from the rest, then another. Eddie finally looked up slightly, finding your expression softened by something achingly tender.
“My darling,” you whispered.
“Hm?”
You gently pulled something free: a silver strand, then another.
Eddie blinked once. “Oh,” he said.
There was no fear in his voice, just surprise. You held the strands delicately between your fingers, studying them beneath candlelight like they were precious threads of moonlight themselves.
Eddie suddenly looked sheepish. “Well,” he muttered, “guess I’m getting old.”
You looked almost offended by the statement. “Edward Munson,” you said softly, “you have survived.”
You slid from beneath him carefully, crossing toward the antique vanity near the window while Eddie watched you in sleepy confusion.
Then you reached for the little silver locket resting beside your jewelry tray, the one you wore nearly every day, etched with the letter ‘E’.
Eddie pushed himself upright slightly as you opened it carefully. Inside rested tiny fragments of your life together.
A pressed black rose petal from your wedding bouquet. A piece of the guitar pick Eddie used the first time he played guitar for you. A photograph so faded it barely showed two young people grinning in a cemetery beneath storm clouds.
Eddie went completely still.
You placed the silver strands gently beside them, like they were treasures. Then you closed the locket softly and climbed back into bed.
Eddie stared at you for a long moment after you settled beside him again. “…You kept all that?”
You looked genuinely puzzled. “Of course I did.”
“Baby, there’s literally a piece of an old guitar pick in there.”
“The broken corner because you were nervous while playing for me.”
His expression cracked instantly. “You remember that?”
“You dropped it three times before speaking to me,” you replied calmly. “You were adorable.”
Eddie let out a weak laugh, suddenly overwhelmed in the way only you could overwhelm him. Because no one had ever looked at the broken, embarrassing, vulnerable pieces of him and treated them like sacred things before you.
Your fingers slowly returned to his curls. “You know what I see,” you murmured softly, “when I look at these?”
Eddie shook his head once.
“A life.”
His eyes burned immediately, so you kissed his forehead gently.
“The silver only proves you stayed long enough to grow old with me,” you whispered.
And that nearly destroyed him. Eddie suddenly pulled himself over you completely, burying his face into your neck while holding you tight enough to make you laugh softly again.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled against your skin. “How are you real?”
You stroked your fingers through his curls carefully, silver strands and all. “I might ask you the same thing.”
“No, seriously,” Eddie groaned dramatically. “You put my gray hairs in a locket. That’s insane behavior.”
“You married me willingly.”
“I’d marry you in every lifetime.”
Your expression softened instantly. Eddie lifted his head, then just enough to look at you through the candlelight; older now, yes, lines at the corners of his eyes and silver threading through dark curls.
But still the same boy who fell hopelessly in love with a gothic girl in black lace all those years ago. Still yours, always yours.
“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured sleepily.
“What’s that, mon amour?”
“I still get nervous around you.”
You smiled. Then pulled him down into another kiss while rain whispered softly against the windows of your haunted little home.
AGH I HOPE YOU ALL LOVED ITTT:)))
Hell of a Summer pt.2 is currently in the works, GET EXCITEDDDD YUHHH
it's a good thing when someone shoots up with a clean needle.
it's a good thing when someone carries Narcan, whether they use drugs themselves or not.
it's a good thing when someone switches from using laced drugs to clean drugs.
it's a good thing when someone starts using only one drug at a time.
it's a good thing when someone goes on medication assisted treatment like suboxone, methadone, or amphetamines.
it's a good thing when someone reduces their spending on substances, or the frequency of their drug use.
it's a good thing when someone gets regular tests for STIs.
it's a good thing when someone is using with friends instead of using alone.
people who use drugs don't have to be abstinent to take better care of ourselves. any positive change we make around our substance use should be encouraged and accepted, never stigmatized or dismissed!
Back in the day I worked at a certain very famous and very high caste art museum in the US as a junior curator. Part of my job was to catalog the objects in the museum database. This includes details like provenance, measurements, and a visual description of what the object looked like.
Like I said, the museum was a pretty snotty institution. It’s got a LOT of objects it’s way famous for possessing, but nobody knew about the absolutely massive collection of Moche erotic pottery it had because the curators were totally embarrassed by this stuff.
Some examples:
Pretty hot shit, right? They never, ever put any of this stuff on public view or published it in any catalogues but - we legit had like several hundred pieces of Moche ceramics in the “dirty pots” category. Anyway, I was left alone to just do my job with regard to the database for several years, ok? And I figured, well, these’re accessioned objects in the museum’s collection - better get down to bidness.
I catalogued every goddamn bestiality, necrophiliac, cocksucking, buttfucking, detached penis, and giant vulva drinking cup in that collection. I’d be like,
A drinking vessel in form of a standing man wearing a tunic and cap. He holds an oversized erection in his hands and stares into the distance (note I did not say “like he’s hella-constipated”). The vessel has a hole at both the tip of the penis as well as around the rim of the figure’s head, thus forcing the drinker to drink only from the penis or risk spilling wine all over themselves from the top of the vessel. Red and orange slip covers the surface of the piece.
Pretty straightforward, right? Apparently the deep seated fear of these objects that the curators exhibited was meant to spread to me as well, but - no one ever gave me that memo, because I guess Midwesterners reproduce asexually. When the curators understood that I had catalogued all of these objects in addition to the other, non-sexy pieces in the collection, they were apparently livid, but knew they had no legs to stand on in terms of getting pissed at me for it.
I visited the museum’s online public access database a few years back and - every single description I wrote of these pieces has been totally neutered to say something like Male figural vase.
Long story short? Just call a dildo a fucking dildo. It’s all gonna be ok, I swear.
Museums should have sections dedicated to artifacts like these with a warning that says “There’s a lot of private parts in here but we’re dedicated to displaying history so we won’t censor these. Enter at your own risk” or something. It’s prudish to deliberately hide history because of some ding dongs.
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summary : when you're taken by an unsub who holds a peculiar grudge against your father, seven minutes make a hell of a difference between life and death.
warnings : angst with maybe -45% comfort, kidnapping, torture, mentions of harm being done to other people, completely made up plot btw so no spoilers for the actual show, spencer losing his shit, established relationship
word count : 9.5 k
a/n : as usual, not proofread ! probably about season 10-11!reid as in looks reference but the plotline is all over the place so uhm sorry abt that i was legit js pulling shit from my criminal minds memory bank and shoved them all together... so yeah defo not season-wise accuracy. (the crash is based on s13 so lil spoilers on that... and i also looked up every technical term i could think of to make spencer sound accurate so uh) enjoy !
Spencer's hands are careful as he fastens your bulletproof vest over your chest, his brows furrowed. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen wash him pale, catching the faint shadows under his eyes from too many nights spent buried in files.
“You tightened it too much,” you mumble, wincing as he tugs the straps.
“It’s supposed to be tight,” he says automatically, not looking up.
“Pretty sure breathing is also supposed to happen.” That finally earns you a glance. Not amused. Just worried.
“You joke when you’re nervous.”
“And you lecture when you are.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. My lungs would like to file a formal complaint.” His mouth twitches despite himself, but it disappears almost immediately. Spencer smooths his hand over the front of the vest one last time, checking for gaps like he doesn’t trust the fabric to do its job properly. You study him for a second.
“You know,” you say quietly, “most people just say ‘be careful.’”
“I did say that.”
“Three times.”
“Because you ignored me the first two.” A snort escapes you, but it fades when you notice the way his fingers linger near your ribs. Restless. Anxious.The case had gotten ugly fast.Three victims in four days. All connected to the Bureau in some way. Retired agents. Informants. One federal prosecutor. And now the unsub had escalated from taunting the BAU to targeting your father directly. Aaron Hotchner had made enemies before. Plenty of them. But this one felt different.
Personal.
The unsub had been sending photographs for weeks now. Grainy shots of Hotch entering Quantico. Jack at soccer practice. You grabbing coffee outside the bullpen with Spencer. Watching. Waiting. The latest message had arrived that morning.
Tick tock, Hotchner.
And underneath it:
What hurts worse? Losing your team… or your daughter?
Hotch had gone frighteningly still when Garcia read it aloud. You’d watched the muscle in his jaw tick once before he started assigning teams like the world wasn’t tilting beneath his feet. Now the bullpen buzzes around you—agents moving quickly, radios crackling, Emily and JJ arguing quietly over routes—but Spencer still hasn’t stepped back.
“Spence,” you say softly. His eyes flick to yours immediately. “I’ll be okay.” The problem is he doesn’t answer. Because Spencer Reid has seen too many people promise that before bleeding out anyway. Behind you, your father emerges from his office already shrugging into his jacket.
“We hit the road in two,” Hotch says. The entire room shifts instantly into motion. Spencer finally lets go of your vest, though reluctantly, like peeling his hands away from something important.
“You stay with Luke,” he says firmly. “Don’t split up. Don’t go anywhere alone." You blink at him.
“Wow. You and my dad should start a podcast.”
“I’m serious.”
“You’re always serious.”
“That’s statistically inaccurate.” That almost gets a real smile out of you.Almost. Then Hotch’s voice cuts through the bullpen again.
“Let’s move.” You reach up and pull Spencer down towards you, catching his lips in a quick kiss as your dad, Luke, Walker and Emily all walk towards the black SUV's waiting for you downstairs.
The kiss barely lasts two seconds.
Still, Spencer chases it for half a heartbeat when you pull away, his hand catching briefly at your wrist like he’s fighting the urge to keep you there.
“Be careful,” he says quietly. You soften a little at the look on his face.
“Spence, we’re literally just surveilling a warehouse.”
“That statement significantly increases the statistical likelihood something catastrophic is about to happen.” Luke snorts from beside the elevators.
“He’s got a point.” You roll your eyes, backing toward the bullpen doors.
“You’re all dramatic.” Hotch appears behind you, expression unreadable but tired in the way only your father can manage.
“Move.”And just like that, the moment’s over. Everyone scatters into motion.
The unsub’s name is Daniel Kessler.
Former paramedic. Former military. Smart enough to stay ahead of the BAU for six weeks and angry enough to make mistakes.
More specifically: angry at Aaron Hotchner.
Three years ago, Hotch testified in a corruption case involving Kessler’s brother. The brother went to prison. Died there eleven months later.
Kessler blamed Hotch.
And now bodies were piling up across Virginia with surgical precision and handwritten messages left behind at each scene.
The latest lead had come fast—a possible location tied to one of Kessler’s shell companies just outside Quantico. Which was why the team was mobilizing so quickly. Three SUVs. Hotch and Rossi in the first. JJ and Tara in the second. You, Luke, Emily, and Walker in the third. Spencer stayed behind with Garcia to monitor incoming intel. He looked miserable about it.
At first, the drive is almost painfully normal. Walker’s driving. Emily sits shotgun flipping through case notes while Luke scrolls through updates on his phone beside you in the backseat. Rain taps softly against the windows. The highway stretches dark and endless ahead of you. Your phone buzzes.
SPENCE
You forgot your scarf.
You smile despite yourself.
YOU
Tragic. I’ll hold a funeral later.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then:
SPENCE
Funny people are statistically more likely to survive traumatic situations.
You bark out a laugh. Luke glances over.
“Pretty Boy?”
“Unfortunately.” Emily sighs dramatically from the front seat.
“You two are disgusting.”
“You say that like you haven’t watched them stare at each other for ten straight minutes in briefing rooms,” Walker says.
“I have,” Emily replies. “That’s why I said it. I've also watched them pine for each other for years. This sudden shift in dynamics is weird. I honestly liked it better when Reid was all stuttery and shy around her."
"We didn't pine." You grumble, shifting in your seat. Four separate looks immediately get directed at you. Luke actually lowers his phone.
“Be serious.”
“He wrote you a six-page apology because he accidentally snapped at you once,” Emily says to absolutely no one’s surprise.
Walker snorts from the driver’s seat.
“Reid used to look like he was being held hostage every time she touched him.”
“He still does sometimes,” Luke says.
“Okay, wow,” you mutter. Emily twists slightly in her seat to look back at you.
“Sweetheart, he once walked into the glass conference room wall because you smiled at him.”
“That happened one time.”
“Twice,” Luke corrects. Walker laughs.
“Nah, my favorite was the coffee thing.” You narrow your eyes.
“What coffee thing?”
“You brought him coffee every morning for like eight months,” Walker says.
“Because he forgets to eat when he’s working.”
“And Reid started memorizing your coffee order after day two,” Emily adds smugly. Luke points between all of you.
“See, this is why none of us were shocked when they finally got together.”
“You were all shocked,” you argue.
“We were shocked it took this long,” Emily corrects. Emily cackles. “You're dating a textbook.”
“A very pretty textbook,” you mumble before thinking better of it. Unfortunately the entire car hears you. Walker makes a wounded sound.
“Oh, that’s disgusting.” Emily clutches her chest dramatically.
“No, let her continue. This is healing me.” You flip her off from the backseat. Rain continues tapping softly against the windshield as the SUV speeds down the dark stretch of highway. The radio crackles quietly every few seconds with updates from the other cars. Somewhere ahead, Hotch and Rossi are already discussing entry routes. JJ’s voice cuts in briefly over comms before fading back out. For a moment, everything feels strangely normal.
Easy.
Luke elbows you lightly.
“You know Reid almost called Hotch Sr when he asked permission to ask you out.” Your head whips toward him.
“What?” Emily bursts into delighted laughter.
“He did.” Walker nearly misses the curve in the road because he’s laughing too hard now.
“No he did not.”
“Oh, he absolutely did,” Emily says. “Hotch just stared at him for like ten full seconds while Reid visibly aged.” Luke deepens his voice badly in imitation. “‘Agent Hotchner, respectfully, I was wondering if—’”
“Stop talking,” you groan.
“—if your daughter would potentially—’”
“You’re all dead to me.” Emily wipes tears from under her eyes.
“Your father looked so uncomfortable.” Walker grins into the rearview mirror.
“Honestly brave of Reid. I’d rather fistfight a bear than ask Hotch for dating permission.”
“He didn’t ask permission,” you defend automatically. Luke raises an eyebrow.
“He absolutely did.” Luke laughs. And for one perfect, stupid second, everything feels fine.
Then you see it. Up ahead. Small. Sharp. Metal glinting beneath the headlights. Your stomach drops instantly.
“Walker—” Too late. The SUV hits the spike strips hard. The sound is explosive. All four tires blow at once.
"Shit !" Walker jerks the wheel violently as the vehicle fishtails across the slick highway. Emily shouts something.
"Everybody hold on !" Luke grabs for the handle above the door. Your seatbelt locks brutally across your chest as the world spins sideways.
Then— Headlights. Blinding. A truck horn screaming— And impact. Metal shrieks. Glass detonates. Your body whips sideways so hard your vision whites out completely. Something slams into your ribs.
When you wake up, you can’t breathe. Pain hits first. Not sharp. Everywhere. Burning agony flooding through every inch of your body like someone poured gasoline into your veins. A broken sound leaves your throat. Smoke curls through the crushed SUV. Your head lolls sideways. Everything looks wrong. The windshield is gone. The dashboard is crumpled inward. Blood streaks the windows. Your seatbelt digs painfully into your chest. For a second you can’t understand why your left arm won’t move properly. Then feeling rushes back all at once and you nearly black out again.
“Fuck—” Your voice comes out shredded. You force your head up. Emily’s slumped against the passenger door, unmoving, blood running down the side of her face. Luke’s crumpled awkwardly beside you.
Walker— Walker’s head hangs at an angle that makes your stomach twist violently. Too still. Far too still.
“Walker,” you croak. No response. You try again, panic climbing your throat. You reach forward, wincing at the pull of your seat belt, shaking him. “Walker!” His entire body slumps forward, head landing on the steering wheel with a deafening thud. You bite back the bile threatening to spew out of you, your vision tunneling as you jerk back. Your chest caves inward.
Oh God. Smoke thickens around you. The car groans. Somewhere outside, people are shouting. You fumble clumsily for the seatbelt release with trembling fingers. It finally clicks. The second it unlatches, your body pitches forward violently and agony tears through your side hard enough to make you scream. Something’s wrong. Something is very, very wrong. You look down. Blood. So much blood. A jagged piece of metal protrudes from beneath your ribs. Your vision flickers.
“No no no—” The driver-side door suddenly jerks open. Cold rain floods in. A man appears beside the wreckage wearing EMT gear. Reflective jacket. Medical gloves. Calm eyes. Relief crashes through you so hard you almost cry.
“Ma'am,” he says firmly. “Stay still.” You nod weakly.
“My-My friends - Please you have to-” Your eyes dart around, trying to catch a glimpse of the other cars. You can see smoke and fire from somewhere behind you, and panic claws up your throat. "Oh, god- my-my dad is in- please, you have to-"
“We’ll get them,” he says quickly. “I need to move you first.” Your brain feels slow. Foggy. He cuts through your vest with terrifying efficiency. Strong hands slide beneath your arms. Pain explodes through your abdomen as he pulls you free from the wreckage. You scream.
“I know,” he says soothingly. “I know. I got you.” Rain pours down around you. Lights flash red and blue across the highway. Your head lolls weakly against his shoulder as he carries you toward the ambulance. You can barely keep your eyes open. Your body feels heavy.
Wrong.
“Dad,” you mumble. “Need my dad—”
“We already got the two other cars evacuated. We have extra RA's en route to escort your friends to the hospital. Your father is waiting for you there.” the EMT says. You nod, rain soaking your clothes. He loads you onto the stretcher. The ambulance doors stand open behind you.
Then— Movement. Across the wreckage. Another SUV. Crushed against the guardrail. And stumbling out of it— Hotch.
Your father can barely stand. Blood runs down the side of his face. One arm hangs limp. But the second his eyes land on you— Pure horror floods his expression.
“Sweetheart !” Your breath catches.
What ?
Your breath catches. The EMT had said Hotch was already at the hospital. Your stomach drops so violently it almost makes you vomit.
No.
No, no—
Hotch stumbles forward through the rain, slipping against the soaked pavement as he tries to run toward the ambulance. Rossi is behind him shouting for medics, for backup, for somebody to stop the vehicle, but your father’s eyes are locked entirely on you. On the man beside you. And suddenly you understand. The EMT’s hand tightens on the stretcher rail.
“Wait,” you whisper. Hotch sees your expression change.
“No!” he roars. The ambulance doors slam shut. The sound nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. Panic detonates through your body. You jerk upright instantly despite the agony ripping through your abdomen.
“Stop the fucking ambulance!” you scream, scrambling backward across the stretcher. Pain tears through your ribs so hard your vision whites out, but adrenaline keeps you moving. “Stop—” The EMT grabs for you. You swing first. Your fist cracks against his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. For one glorious second, he actually looks surprised.
“Bitch,” he mutters. You lunge for the door handles. Your blood-slick fingers almost catch them before he hauls you backward violently. Agony explodes through your side and a scream rips out of your throat. Outside the tiny rear windows, you can still see your father. Hotch is running after the ambulance. Actually running. Broken. Bleeding. Desperate.
“Dad!” you sob, slamming your palm against the doors. “Dad!” The ambulance swerves sharply.
The EMT hooks an arm around your waist and drags you back against him with brutal force. You fight instantly, elbows flying despite the pain.
“Get the fuck off me!” you choke out.
“Jesus Christ,” the man snarls, struggling to keep hold of you. “You really are his kid.” Something cold presses suddenly against your neck. A syringe. Your blood runs cold.
“No—” The needle plunges into your skin. You gasp sharply and shove at him harder, but your limbs already feel wrong. Heavy. Slow. “No no no—” The man restrains you easily now, forcing you back onto the stretcher as the sedative floods your bloodstream. Your vision starts swimming almost immediately. Outside, through the blurred back windows, you see Hotch reach the ambulance for half a second— His hand slams against the rear doors as he screams your name.
“No !” The sound breaks something inside you. Then the ambulance surges forward. And your father disappears into rain and flashing lights. Your body stops cooperating.
Your arms feel numb.
Your heartbeat echoes strangely in your ears.
The EMT pulls off his mask calmly while you struggle weakly beneath him.
Not an EMT.
Kessler.
You recognize him now. The eyes. Cold. Empty. Patient.
“You should’ve stayed still,” he says, almost disappointed. Your mouth won’t work properly anymore.
“You…” you slur weakly. Kessler sighs, pushing you flat against the stretcher as your body goes limp beneath his hands.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You’re bleeding internally. This is keeping you alive.” You try to fight him again anyway. Your hand barely lifts. Kessler watches you with detached fascination.
"Let's see if Aaron Hotchner's precious daughter is more important than putting me behind bars." He grabs another needle and grabs you arm.
You try to fight back- God, you try.
But your body feels like it's been filled with concrete, like your veins are hardening with every passing second, weighing you down.
Kessler grins.
"Sweet dreams."
-----------------
"Aaron- Aaron, listen to me-" Rossi is waving his arms in front of Hotch as real sirens flood the space. Emily crawls out of the car, coughing and bleeding from her temple, her hand pressed to her side as she limps her way over to Luke's side of the car and tugs him out. JJ stumbles from another wreckage, waving her hand in front of her face as she coughs, a large gash running down the side of her arm. Tara doesn't look badly hurt, just concussed as she stumbles down the stretch of highway, her hand pressed to her head in confusion as Derek helps her forward.
And Aaron Hotchner can't fucking breathe.
"N-No, we- we have to go after her." He rasps, shaking his head. "The ambulance didn't have a license plate but-but it was him. It was him, Dave." Rossi grabs Hotch hard by the shoulders.
“Aaron!” Hotch’s chest heaves violently. Rain pours down his face, mixing with blood from the cut at his hairline. His eyes are locked on the empty stretch of highway where the ambulance disappeared into the storm.
“The ambulance didn’t have plates,” he says again, voice shredded raw. “It was him. Dave, it was fucking him.” Behind them, chaos erupts across the crash site. Actual EMTs flood the highway now, shouting over each other as they move between the wrecked SUVs. Red and blue lights flash violently across twisted metal and shattered glass. Somebody yells for extraction tools. Another medic shouts about fuel leakage. Walker’s body is finally pulled from the front seat. Emily sees the tarp being unfolded and stops dead.
“No,” she whispers. Luke catches her arm before she can stumble forward. JJ presses a trembling hand over her mouth, blood still running down her forearm. Tara stands dazed beside Derek, one hand against her temple as she tries to process the devastation around her. For one horrible moment, nobody speaks. Then the highway explodes back into noise.
“Aaron,” Rossi says again, more firmly this time. “Talk to me.” Hotch looks like he can barely breathe.
“She saw me,” he rasps. “She looked right at me.” His voice breaks on the last word. Dave’s stomach twists. Because Aaron Hotchner does not break. Not like this. “She realized it wasn’t real,” Hotch says, staring blankly down the road. “She started fighting him.” Emily looks up sharply.
“What?” Hotch drags a hand over his bloodied face.
“He was dressed like an EMT.” His breathing turns uneven. “I thought she was being transported until I saw—” He cuts himself off hard. Too late. Rossi catches it immediately.
“What did you see?” Aaron closes his eyes for one second too long. When he opens them again, there’s something almost haunted sitting behind them.
“She was hurt.” The team goes still.
“How bad?” JJ asks quietly. Hotch swallows.
“I don’t know.” Lie. Everybody hears it. Aaron’s jaw tightens violently. “There was blood,” he says carefully, like each word physically hurts. “A lot of blood.” Emily’s face drains of color. Luke curses under his breath.
“She couldn’t move properly,” Hotch continues hollowly. “He had to carry her." Nobody says anything after that. Because they all know what that means. Then headlights tear onto the highway. A black SUV brakes hard across the shoulder. Spencer is out of the vehicle before it fully stops moving. Garcia barely gets the car in park before he’s sprinting after him.
“Hotch!” Spencer shouts, panic already threading through his voice as he takes in the wreckage. “What happened?” Garcia steps out behind him—and freezes completely.
“Oh my God.” The highway looks apocalyptic. Smoke. Rain. Crushed SUVs. Flashing lights reflecting off blood-slick pavement. Spencer eyes scan frantically across the scene.
JJ.
Emily.
Luke.
Tara.
Derek.
Rossi.
Hotch.
His stomach drops. Because you’re not there. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.
“Where is she?” Nobody answers quickly enough. And terror detonates behind his ribs. “Where is she?” Emily looks away. Garcia starts crying immediately. Spencer stares at them.
“No.” Luke steps forward carefully.
“Reid—”
“No.” The word cracks out of him violently. “What happened?” Hotch finally steps toward him, rain dripping from his ruined suit.
“Kessler staged the crash,” he says hoarsely. “He took her.” Spencer just stares at him. Like the sentence physically does not make sense.
“Took her?” he repeats faintly.
“The ambulance was fake,” Rossi says grimly. “He disguised himself as an EMT.” Garcia lets out a broken sob behind them. Spencer’s face goes completely white.
“When?” he asks.
“Less than four minutes ago,” Luke says. “Local units are already searching—” Spencer looks immediately at Hotch. Not Rossi. Not Emily. Hotch. Because Hotch saw her last. And Aaron realizes Spencer already knows that too. Their eye contact lasts half a second. It’s enough. Spencer’s expression changes instantly.
“How bad was she hurt?” Hotch doesn’t answer quickly enough. Spencer takes a step forward. “How bad?” Aaron looks wrecked. Actually wrecked.
“She was conscious,” he says carefully.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Aaron,” Rossi warns quietly. But Spencer doesn’t look away from Hotch. Hotch exhales shakily through his nose.
“There was blood.” Spencer’s breathing stutters.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” Another lie. Spencer hears that one too. And suddenly he looks furious. Terrified, grieving, furious. “She couldn’t move on her own,” Hotch admits quietly. “He carried her into the ambulance.” Garcia breaks down harder behind them and Derek crosses the space immediately to grab onto her. Spencer physically sways where he stands. For a second it looks like he might actually collapse. Then his face hardens into something sharp enough to cut glass.
“What direction?” Hotch blinks.
“Reid—”
“What direction did he go?”
“Eastbound,” Hotch answers carefully. Spencer immediately turns toward Garcia’s SUV. Hotch grabs his arm before he gets two steps. “You are not going alone.” Spencer jerks free instantly. His eyes are glassy with panic now.
“You let her get in that ambulance.” The words hit like a gunshot. Silence crashes down around the wreckage. Spencer looks horrified the second he says it. Because he knows exactly who he just said it to. A father who watched his daughter get kidnapped while injured and bleeding. Hotch recoils anyway. Not angry. Just devastated.
“I know,” he says quietly. That destroys Spencer more effectively than shouting ever could. His face crumples. Rain pours around all of you in endless sheets as sirens scream across the highway.
And somewhere out there— You’re alone with Kessler.
--------
When you come to, the first thing you feel is that the pain at your abdomen has lessened.
It’s still there.
Deep. Burning. Wrong.
But dulled somehow, like your body’s been wrapped in cotton. Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force them open. Darkness swims above you for a second before dim industrial lights sharpen into focus overhead. Concrete ceiling. Rusted pipes. Water dripping somewhere nearby in slow, echoing intervals. Your wrists jerk instinctively.
Metal rattles. Cold panic slams into you. You're strapped upright to some kind of steel chair bolted into the floor. Thick restraints pin your wrists and chest in place. Your injured side throbs violently when you struggle, making black spots burst across your vision.
“Easy. I bandaged you up but you're still actively bleeding out.” The voice comes from somewhere ahead of you. Kessler steps into view calmly, sleeves rolled to his elbows like he’s in the middle of an ordinary workday instead of holding an FBI agent hostage. Your breathing quickens immediately.
“Fuck you,” you rasp. He actually smiles faintly.
“That’s usually the morphine talking." Morphine. That explains the floating feeling in your limbs. You look down quickly. Your vest is gone. Soaked bandages are wrapped tightly around your abdomen beneath a gray thermal shirt that definitely isn’t yours. There’s dried blood everywhere. Along your arms. Beneath your fingernails. Across the floor near the chair. Your stomach twists hard.
“How long—”
“Thirty-six minutes since the crash,” Kessler answers smoothly. Ice floods your bloodstream. The team. Your dad.
“Where are they?” you demand. Kessler ignores the question entirely. Instead, he walks toward a camera mounted on a tripod across the room. And your blood runs cold all over again. “No.” Kessler adjusts the lens casually. “No no no—”
“You know,” he says conversationally, “your father’s reputation in the Bureau is fascinating. Aaron Hotchner. Untouchable. Unshakeable. Men like him always think they understand sacrifice until it becomes personal.” Your restraints clatter violently as you fight them.
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He doesn’t even blink. Then he reaches beside the camera and wheels something large into frame. A timer. Digital.
Bright red numbers glaring through the darkness.
00:59:48
Your stomach drops.
“What is that?” Your voice cracks. Kessler finally looks at you directly.
“The amount of time your team has left.” He grabs your arm, sighing as he squeezes and IV bag and mounts it onto the stand beside you.
“Kessler—”
The dosage is regulated electronically.” He taps the pump beside the bag. “Small increments over time. Once the drip reaches completion…” He shrugs lightly. “Multi-organ failure. Cardiac arrest shortly after.”
Your mouth goes dry instantly.
“No.”
“The fascinating thing about poison,” he continues conversationally, “is how personal it feels. Bullets are loud. Explosions are chaotic. But poison?” He tilts his head. “Poison makes people wait.”
Your stomach twists hard enough to make you gag. You stare at him in horror. Then fury detonates through you.
“You’re a fucking coward.” Kessler hums softly.
“And yet your father still can’t catch me.” He presses a button. The camera light turns red.
LIVE.
—————————
The BAU bullpen is chaos. Medics move between injured agents while tech analysts flood every available screen searching traffic cams, road footage, satellite hits—anything. Nobody’s winning. Hotch stands in the center of it all like a ghost. Still covered in blood. Still soaking wet from the rain. Spencer sits at Garcia’s station beside her, fingers flying across the keyboard so fast they blur. His hands are shaking violently.
“Nothing,” Garcia whispers tearfully. “No ambulance hits, no hospital pings, no traffic cams—he scrubbed everything.” Emily presses gauze harder against the cut on her temple.
“He planned this for months.”
“No,” Spencer says instantly. Everyone looks at him. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “Longer.” Before anyone can respond— Every monitor in the bullpen flickers. Static crackles. Garcia startles violently., fingers flying over her keyboard, trying to figure out how this is happening. Then your face appears onscreen.
Bruised. Bloodied. Restrained.
The room stops breathing.
“No,” Hotch says faintly. Your head lifts weakly toward the camera, disoriented and terrified and alive. Spencer goes white beside Garcia.
“No…” The digital timer flashes beside you.
00:58:03
“What the hell is that?” Luke breathes. Then Kessler steps into frame. And the entire room explodes into motion.
“Trace it now!” Emily shouts. Garcia is already typing frantically.
“I’m trying!” Kessler looks directly into the camera.
“Good evening, Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Kessler smiles like he’s hosting a lecture instead of a hostage broadcast. Garcia’s hands fly across the keyboard.
“I can’t get a lock—he’s bouncing the signal through multiple servers—oh my God, oh my God—”
“Penelope,” Emily snaps, though her own voice shakes. “Focus.”
“I am focused!” Onscreen, Kessler slowly circles your chair. The camera quality is grainy but clear enough to show the blood staining the bandages around your abdomen. Clear enough to show the IV line running into your arm. And the transparent liquid steadily dripping through the tube. Spencer goes completely still beside Garcia.
Not calm.
Worse.
The kind of stillness that means he’s trying very hard not to completely lose his mind. Your head hangs weakly forward before lifting slightly at the sound of Kessler speaking. Your eyes look unfocused. Drugged. Terrified. The bullpen falls silent. Even the analysts nearby stop moving. Because this isn’t just being streamed to the BAU.
This is public.
News stations are already picking it up. Social media feeds explode in real time across nearby monitors. Millions of people watching an FBI agent tied to a chair with a countdown beside her.
“Aaron Hotchner,” Kessler says smoothly, looking directly into the camera. “You know, I expected someone taller.” Hotch doesn’t react outwardly. But Rossi sees his fist tighten. Sees the blood dripping from where Aaron’s fingernails cut into his own palm.
“You built your career profiling monsters,” Kessler continues. “You taught agents how to think like predators. How to anticipate violence.” He tilts his head slightly toward you. “But you never considered what happens when someone decides to study you instead.” Your breathing trembles onscreen.
“Kessler—” you rasp weakly.
“Shh.” He adjusts the IV line almost tenderly. “You don’t need to talk right now.” Spencer physically flinches. Luke swears violently under his breath.
“The poison entering Agent Hotchner’s daughter’s bloodstream,” Kessler says calmly, “is administered incrementally through an automated pump system. By the time the timer reaches zero…” He smiles faintly. “Well. I imagine your Dr. Reid can explain organ failure better than I can.” All eyes snap toward Spencer automatically. Spencer’s face has gone corpse pale. But his voice still works. Barely.
“It depends on the toxin,” he says mechanically, eyes glued to the screen. “If it’s ricin-based or synthetic colchicine compounds, systemic collapse would begin gradually. Respiratory distress first. Then cardiovascular instability. Seizures. Multi-organ failure—”
“Spencer,” JJ says softly. He cuts himself off instantly. Onscreen, your eyes flutter shut for a second too long.
“Hey,” Kessler says sharply, gripping your jaw hard enough to force your head back up. “Stay awake. It's not fun for our viewers if you die right now." You whimper, trying to inch away from him. He chuckles, low and mean. A broken sound leaves your throat as your body jerks weakly against the restraints. Spencer’s breathing changes instantly.
“What just happened?” Emily demands. Spencer stares at the screen.
“The poison’s already active,” he says quietly. Garcia looks horrified.
“But there’s still fifty-seven minutes left—”
“The timer isn’t for symptom onset.” Spencer swallows hard. “It’s for fatal dosage completion.” Nobody speaks. Onscreen, Kessler steps back toward the camera.
“You have one hour,” he says conversationally. “Find me before the drip finishes…” He shrugs. “And maybe she lives. But I should warn you,” he continues. “Removing the IV incorrectly triggers the failsafe.” He taps the side of the electronic pump. “And if the line stops prematurely…” Another small shrug. “The dosage accelerates.” Garcia lets out a strangled noise.
“That’s impossible,” Luke snaps.
“No,” Spencer says faintly. Everyone looks at him again. Spencer’s eyes stay locked on the screen. “It’s not.” Hotch spins around, his chest heaving.
"Garcia, get me a list of Kessler's known adressesses, a list of his spending info- maybe he rented out a place- i want everything you have on him, now !"
Garcia is already moving before Hotch finishes the sentence.
“I’m on it, I’m on it - okay- okay - ” Her voice is high and strained, fingers slamming across the keyboard like she’s trying to outrun panic itself. Multiple windows open and collapse across her monitors. “Known addresses are mostly burned, he went dark after his brother's death but - there’s financial ghosting here, offshore shells, prepaid infrastructure - he’s not staying anywhere with a paper trail -he’s not staying anywhere period -”
“Focus,” Rossi says sharply, but even he sounds strained now. Emily is already leaning over her shoulder.
“What about municipal access points? Abandoned government facilities?” Luke shakes his head.
“We’re checking transit grids already. He’s not static - he’s moving through infrastructure, not occupying it.” Spencer doesn’t blink.
His eyes are locked on the screen. On you.
00:53:18.
Your head droops again, just slightly, and Spencer’s breath catches so hard it sounds like it hurts.
“Hey,” JJ says quietly, noticing him. “Reid, stay with us.” But he doesn’t answer. Because his brain is already somewhere else. Already rebuilding everything Kessler just showed them.
The IV pump. The feed latency. The lack of metadata. The stabilization pattern. Spencer swallows hard.
“He’s not in a building,” he says suddenly. Garcia looks up.
“What?” Spencer’s voice tightens.
“The signal stability - there’s too little fluctuation for a fixed structure. No HVAC interference, no power grid variance, no reflective bounce patterns consistent with concrete reinforcement -” Emily frowns.
“Then where is he?” Spencer doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Mobile containment unit,” he says. “Or a retrofitted transport shell. Something insulated enough to mask environmental noise.” Luke curses under his breath.
“Like a van.” Spencer shakes his head once.
“Bigger.” Silence. Hotch turns slowly.
“Bus?” Rossi suggests grimly. Spencer finally looks at them.
“No,” he says. “Something that can support medical-grade equipment, power draw for a stabilized livestream, and internal temperature control without drawing attention.” Garcia’s hands freeze mid-type.
“Ambulance.” Spencer nods once. But it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels worse. Because that still leaves too many possibilities. Too many jurisdictions. Too many vehicles. Too much ground to cover while the clock keeps bleeding out.
00:53:04.
Onscreen, Kessler steps back into frame briefly—just enough to adjust something near the IV stand. You flinch sharply. Harder this time. Hotch makes a sound low in his throat—barely audible, but it cuts through the room anyway. Spencer’s hands curl into fists at Garcia’s station.
“Garcia,” he says quickly, voice suddenly urgent. “Cross-reference registered medical transport units within a fifty-mile radius of the crash corridor. Anything that went off-route in the last hour.”
“I’m already - ” Her screen updates rapidly. “Got it, got it - Okay, there’s twelve possible matches - ”
“Twelve,” Luke repeats sharply.
“We don’t have time for twelve,” Emily snaps. Hotch steps forward again.
“Cut it to three,” he orders. “Now.” Garcia swallows hard.
“I can filter by signal - give me thirty seconds - ”
“Twenty,” Hotch says. Nobody argues. Because on the screen— You shift again. Barely conscious. Barely holding on. And Spencer Reid, who has spent his entire life turning chaos into patterns, suddenly looks like he’s staring directly into something he cannot solve fast enough.
Garcia’s screen updates again. Once. Twice. Then locks. Her breath catches so hard it hurts.
“I’ve got him,” she says. Nobody speaks. Hotch turns instantly.
“Where.” Garcia swallows.
“Abandoned agricultural zone outside Leesburg—old county service land. There’s a decommissioned livestock processing facility on the property. Signal’s cleanest there—he’s stationary.” Spencer is already there before she finishes the sentence.
“How far?” he asks immediately. Garcia glances at the route mapping.
“Forty-six minutes,” she says quietly. The number lands like a gunshot. Silence. Emily shakes her head once.
“We don’t have forty-six minutes.” Rossi is already moving toward the SUV.
“Then we don’t waste a second.” Hotch stares at the map like he can force the distance to shrink through sheer will. Spencer’s voice breaks through again, sharper now.
“How long—how long until completion?” Garcia’s fingers tremble over the timer feed.
“Fifty-three minutes,” she whispers.That finally shifts the math in the room. Because everyone understands it at the same time. Forty-six minutes to reach you.Fifty-three minutes until the drip completes.
Seven minutes.
That’s all they’ll have once they get there. Seven minutes to find you. Seven minutes to neutralize Kessler. Seven minutes to keep you alive. Hotch exhales once, slow and controlled—but his eyes are shattered.
“Let's move,” he says. The SUVs tear down the highway in formation, sirens splitting the night open. Inside Hotch’s vehicle, no one speaks anymore unless they have to. The countdown is on every screen.
Every phone. Every live feed Garcia refuses to close.
00:52:41.
Spencer stares at the map overlay like he can bend it into something faster. Luke grips the seat hard enough to go white-knuckled. Emily keeps her eyes forward, jaw tight, blood still drying at her temple. Rossi drives like a man refusing to accept physics as final. Hotch doesn’t move.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away from the road even once.
“Forty-six minutes,” Luke says quietly, almost to himself. Spencer’s voice is barely audible.
“That’s if nothing goes wrong.” Nobody responds to that. Because they all know what it means.
------------------
00:07:00.
Your body feels like lead.
Your veins are on fire.
Your mouth has gone dry, and you can barely breathe- every breath sounds like a rusty rattle of child's mobile. Your vision flickers in and out like a broken signal. Your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s heavy in the wrong places, light in others. Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints, but there’s no strength left behind it.
The IV pump beeps steadily beside you. Too steady. Too calm. Like it doesn’t care that you’re dying.
You groan, trying hard to stay awake, to stay concsious.
They're coming for you. They have to be.
The room hums with fluorescent light and something worse underneath it—your heartbeat, irregular now, stumbling against the poison like it’s losing the argument. Kessler circles you slowly, hands behind his back like he’s inspecting something he built.
“Do you know what your father hates most?” he asks lightly. Your head lolls a fraction toward him. It takes effort just to keep your eyes open.
“People like you,” he continues. “Not weak. Not careless. Just… loved.” Your throat tightens. Spencer’s name tries to form in your mind and doesn’t quite make it. Kessler steps closer, studying your face like he’s waiting for something interesting to happen.
“You’re very difficult to break,” he says thoughtfully. “That’s what makes this worth watching.” The IV pump beeps again. Too steady. Too final.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the restraints. Kessler leans in just slightly.
“I wonder how long it takes,” he murmurs, almost curious. “For Aaron Hotchner to choose between duty and family.” Your stomach drops hard.
“Don’t,” you rasp, but it’s barely sound. He smiles faintly.
“Oh, he already has.” And then— The doors behind him explode inward. Not an opening. An impact.
Wood and metal snap as tactical force hits the room like a wave.
“FBI! DOWN!” The shout is immediate chaos. Hotch is first through, weapon up, eyes scanning—locking instantly on you like everything else in the room ceases to exist.
“Aaron!” Rossi calls, sweeping left. Emily and Luke split right. Derek comes in hard behind them, already moving. Kessler barely has time to turn before Hotch has him pinned against the nearest surface, gun pressed high, voice ice-cold.
“Don’t move.” Kessler actually laughs once. Spencer doesn’t even look at him. He’s already across the room. Everything else collapses into noise and motion behind him—Hotch securing Kessler, Rossi shouting commands, Emily cuffing him down—but Spencer doesn’t register any of it. He reaches you like gravity finally remembered him.
“Hey—hey, hey,” he breathes, hands shaking as they go to your face immediately. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Your eyelids flutter.
"Spence ?" He nods, hands working at your restraints atfer he softly tears the IV out of your arm.
"Yeah, yeah, it's me. I'm here, alright, i'm here." Your body falls forward, exhausted, the second those restraints stop holding you up, your body folding like it’s been waiting for permission to collapse. Spencer catches you before you hit the ground. Immediately. Completely.
“No - no, no, no - hey, hey, hey - stay with me,” he says, voice cracking violently as he pulls you into him. “Stay with me, okay? Stay with me-look at me.” Your head lolls against his chest. He’s on the floor now without even realizing it. One arm under your shoulders. One hand pressed hard against the bandages on your abdomen like he can physically stop what’s happening inside you. He looks up, his eyes frantic.
"Derek ! Derek !" He calls as Hotch and the others disappear outside, pushing a cuffed Kessler with them. Derek's head snaps over and his face drains of color.
"Holy shit." He gasps, his chest heaving. Spencer chokes on a sob, pushing your hair away from your face.
"We-We need an ambulance. She-She's losing blood, she-" He gasps in a breath, shaking his head. "He’s got to have—he’s not carrying something like this without a reversal agent.” Spencer doesn’t look away from you. “Shelves,” he says instantly, voice raw but focused only on survival. “Look—look everywhere. Cabinets. Lockboxes. He wouldn’t leave it unbalanced.” Derek moves immediately. The timer ticks down like a taunt.
00:04:53.
Derek rummages through shelves, cabinets, drawers, cursing under his breath as he throws things on the ground. You clutch weakly at Spencer's vest, your hands shaking.
"Spence.." He shushes you, pressing his lips to your forehead.
"Hey, hey, don't talk, okay ? You're going to be fine. Just fine, okay ?"
"I-I'm so cold." You manage, shivers coursing through your body. Spencer grimaces.
"I know, baby, i know." He looks up. "Derek, where the fuck is that antidote !" Derek rips open another metal cabinet so hard the hinge screams in protest.
“I’m looking, I’m looking!” he snaps back, breathless, scanning shelves packed with medical bags, vials, and sealed containers that absolutely should not be here. “This guy is insane—”
Spencer hears none of it anymore. All of it narrows down to you. To the way your fingers are trembling against his vest. To the shallow, uneven rise of your chest. To the way your skin feels wrong beneath his hands—too cold, too fast to lose heat.
“I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but it’s not steady anymore. It’s breaking apart at the edges. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—just stay with me, okay? Just—just stay with me.” Your head tips slightly against him. And for a second, his entire body goes rigid.
“No,” he whispers immediately, like he can undo it with the word alone. “No, no—hey—look at me. Look at me.”
Your eyes barely open. Barely there. But they do. And it ruins him.
“Got something!” Derek suddenly shouts from the far side of the room. Spencer’s head snaps up so fast it hurts. Derek holds up a small locked case - medical-grade, reinforced, labeled in a way that makes Spencer’s stomach drop immediately. “Is this it?” Derek demands. Spencer doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yes. Yes, that’s it - bring it here, now!” Derek slams it down beside them and Spencer’s hands are shaking so badly he almost fumbles the latch. The lock clicks open.
Inside: syringes. A sealed ampoule. A vial clearly marked in clinical print- ANTIDOTE.
He’s already drawing it up.
“Where do I—”
“Her arm,” Spencer says instantly, tearing his own focus into something sharp and functional because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart completely. “Right arm - no, no - left - there, there - ” Derek moves in, steady hands taking over what Spencer can’t control anymore.
“I’ve got it,” Derek says low. Spencer nods too quickly, not letting go of you for even a second. His other hand stays pressed to your shoulder like an anchor. “Okay,” Derek says. “Injecting now.” The syringe depresses. For half a second, nothing happens. Then your body jerks—just slightly. Spencer makes a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.
“Hey - hey, hey,” he says immediately, hand cupping your cheek. "You're gonna be okay." But you're still slipping somewhere he can’t follow fast enough. “I’ve got you,” he repeats again, but now it’s desperate. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you - please - please don’t do this - ” Derek looks up sharply at the doorway, where JJ stands frozen.
"We need medical backup now!” JJ nods, rushing away.
Spencer sobs, then immediately chokes on it, pressing your hand tighter against his chest like he can force you to stay by sheer will alone. Footsteps thunder back in—Hotch, Rossi, Emily. Hotch sees you on the floor. And something in his face breaks cleanly. But Spencer can’t look at him. Can’t look at anyone. Because you’re right there in his arms and still not safe.
“Hey,” he whispers, voice collapsing completely now, tears spilling down without permission as he holds you closer. “Hey, hey- don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, okay? Please - please don’t leave me.” Your fingers twitch once.
Weak. Barely there. But it’s enough. Spencer grabs your hand immediately like it’s a lifeline.
“Yeah,” he chokes out, crying openly now, forehead pressing to yours. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s it. Come back to me. Come back—please, just come back to me.” Your shiver, a soft whimper drawing from your lips.
"I-I'm tired." You manage, shaking your head. Blood from your abdomen is still soaking your shirt, your pants, and Spencer is shaking.
"You-You can't sleep, baby. You have to- You have to stay awake. Keep your eyes open." The antidote has taken effect. The colour that had drained from your skin over the hour is coming back, and your breathing has returned to a normal pace. And the pain flooding back into your body is unbearable. You can feel the blood pumping out of you from your abdomen, and you groan weakly as you try to press your hand over the wound, only to find Spencer's hand already lodged there. You gulp, bringing your hand up to softly touch Spencer's cheek.
"Yo-You came for me." You rasp. Spencer chokes on a laugh, a desperate, wet thing.
"Of course I did." He mumbles. "How could I not ? God.." He gulps, shaking his head. "I love you." You smile, holding back tears as you cough. Your body trembles with shivers, and you groan.
"I-I'm sorry." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer's heart drops. He shakes his head.
"Hey, hey- no. Don't apologise, you're going to be just fine, okay ? Y-You're going to be fine." You nod, smiling through the pain. You want to believe him.
You really do.
The antidote is working.
Derek said it is. Spencer knows it is. But you’re still so cold. Still shaking in his arms like your body can’t decide whether to stay or let go.
Spencer sniffles, brushing your hair away from your face.
"The ambulance is gonna be here any minute. They're going to make you all better. Okay ?" You nod.
"Okay." You say, forcing a smile, choking on the blood that creeps its way up your throat. "I love you, Spence." You rasp, shaking your head. Spencer’s heart hammers against his ribs, a frantic, desperate drumbeat of denial. He tightens his grip on your hand, bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to your cold knuckles.
“Don’t you dare say that like it’s a goodbye,” he orders, his voice a raw, broken thing. “It’s not a goodbye. You hear me? It’s an ‘I’ll see you in a minute.’ We’re going to have so much to talk about. Y-You're gonna rub this in my face, yeah ? Brag about how you-you survived this and i panicked for nothing.” He’s rambling, his brilliant mind reduced to a single, primal function: keep you here. Keep you with him. Your eyes are still on him, but they’re starting to lose focus, the light in them dimming like a candle in a draft. The smile on your lips is a ghost, beautiful and terrifying.
“Spence…” you whisper, and it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard, thin and reedy, threaded with the liquid rattle of fluid in your lungs. “It’s… so quiet.” He doesn’t understand what you mean. The room is chaos-Hotch’s clipped commands, Derek’s frantic pacing, the sound of JJ’s voice on the phone with dispatch. But then he realizes. For you, the world is collapsing. The sounds are fading, the pain is receding, and all that’s left is this.
Him.
“No, no, it’s not quiet,” he argues, his voice rising in panic. “It’s not. Just listen. Listen to me. I’m right here. I’m so loud, remember? You say I never shut up. So just… listen to me. Stay with me.” He’s pressing harder against the wound in your abdomen, a futile, desperate attempt to physically hold your life inside you. His hand is slick, warm, and the smell of copper fills the air, thick and suffocating. It’s the smell of his failure. Your breath hitches, a shallow, wet gasp.
"Tell… tell my dad… I’m sorry.” The words hit Spencer like a physical blow. Dad. Hotch, who is standing just feet away, right behind that door, pacing and shouting orders. Spencer can’t call for him. He can’t give him that. He can’t acknowledge the world beyond the circle of his arms.
“You’ll tell him yourself,” Spencer chokes out, tears streaming down his face, dripping onto your cheeks. “You’ll tell him tonight. When we get home. We’ll order Chinese food and you’ll tell him you’re sorry for worrying him, and he’ll pretend to be mad but he won’t be, and we’ll all be fine. We’ll be fine.” Your fingers, the ones he’s holding, twitch weakly. Your grip loosens. The pressure is gone. “No,” he whimpers, a sound so pathetic and full of pain it doesn’t even sound like him. “No, hold on. Hold my hand. Don’t let go. Don’t you let go of me.” Your eyes open again and you nod. He smiles, kissing your forehead. And then, through the cacophony of his own despair, he hears it. Faint at first, then growing stronger, clearer. A high, insistent wail that cuts through everything else.
Sirens.
Relief so profound it’s dizzying crashes over him. It’s the cavalry. It’s the answer. It’s another chance.
His head snaps up, his tear-blurred vision finding the window ahead.
“Did you hear that? They’re here. They’re almost here.” He looks back down at you, his face breaking into a wild, desperate grin. “You hear that, baby? You hear that? The ambulance is here. They’re here. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.” He’s laughing now, a wet, hysterical sound of pure relief, staring at the window as the red and blue lights start to show.
“We did it. We made it. Just hold on. Just a few more seconds. Please, just a few more seconds for me.” He looks back at the doorway, expecting to see the paramedics burst through with their bags and their machines and their magic. But the sirens are still distant, screaming down a street that’s too far away.
He looks back down at you. And the world stops. Your eyes are still open, but they’re not seeing him anymore. They’re fixed on a point just beyond his shoulder, glassy and vacant. The shallow rise and fall of your chest has stilled. The hand he’s clutching is limp and cool in his.
The silence in the room is absolute.
“No,” he whispers. The smile is gone from his face, wiped clean away. “No… no, no, no, no, no.” He shakes his head, a sharp, jerky motion of denial. “Hey… hey, look at me. Look at me. They’re here. The ambulance is here.” He shakes you gently, then a little harder. “Hey.. hey, look at me. You’re not allowed to do this. You’re not allowed to leave me. You hear me? C'mon, this isn't funny." He shakes you."Come on! Look at me.” But you don’t. You can’t. The sirens are closer now, screaming, a piercing, torturous sound. They’re the sound of hope arriving seven minutes too late. The door bursts open. Emily is the first one in, her face flushed and triumphant.
“Spencer! The ambulance is here, they’re coming, they’re—” She stops. Her eyes find Spencer, cradling your still body on the floor, and she sees everything. The blood. The stillness. The absolute, soul-crushing devastation on his face. Her triumphant shout dies in her throat, replaced by a small, choked gasp. Hotch is right behind her. He takes in the scene with one sweeping, all-seeing glance. He sees Kessler’s handiwork, he sees the discarded antidote, he sees Spencer on the floor. And then he sees you. He doesn’t make a sound. The unit chief, the man who faces monsters for a living, simply breaks. His shoulders slump, his face goes slack, and all the color drains from his skin. He stumbles forward a half-step, his hand reaching out, then falling back to his side. He knows. Emily rushes to Spencer’s side, her hand hovering over his shoulder, afraid to touch.
“Spencer…?” He doesn’t answer. He’s lowered his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body wracked with huge, silent, violent sobs that shake him to his core. He holds you tighter, rocking you back and forth, a desperate, rhythmic motion.
And Spencer Reid - who has spent his entire life understanding loss in theory before he ever had to survive it in practice - lets out a sound that is not human.
It rips out of him.
Raw.
Shattered.
“No - no, no, no, please - please, please - ” He pulls you closer instantly, like he can reverse it if he just holds you tighter.
"Reid." Derek's voice echoes around the small space. Spencer shakes his head. Spencer doesn’t hear him anymore.
Doesn’t hear Emily crying.
Doesn’t hear the radio chatter suddenly erupting outside as the medics arrive too late.
He just holds you. Like if he stops, even for a second, the truth will finish settling. Sirens flood the building outside. Red and blue light strobing through the broken doorway.
And still -Spencer is whispering your name into your hair like it’s a spell.
Like it’s the only thing left that still makes sense.
The paramedics finally burst through the doorway, their practiced efficiency grinding to a halt as they take in the scene. No one moves. No one breathes. The paramedics slowly back out of the room, hushed whispers echoing in the small space.
Spencer looks up, devastated.
"No.. No, where are they going ? They-They have to save her, they-"
"Reid." Derek rasps again, wiping at the tears falling down his face. He looks back down at you like it’s instinct, like he can anchor himself in you. But you don’t move. Not even a tremor. Not even the smallest betrayal of life returning. Just stillness. Heavy and final.
Spencer’s breath stutters.
Once. Twice.
Then completely stops behaving like it belongs to him.
His hand shakes as it smooths over your hair. So careful. So tender. Like you’re made of glass and he’s terrified of what happens if he presses too hard.
Emily makes a sound behind him—small, broken, human.
“Spencer…” she tries again, stepping closer like she might physically pull him out of it. But he flinches at her voice like it burns.
“No,” he snaps instantly, sharper than he means it. Then it collapses immediately into desperation. “No, no—don’t—” Hotch is still at the doorway. Still completely still. Like something inside him shut off in self-defense the second he understood. But his eyes don’t leave you. Not once. Not even when Rossi puts a hand on his arm and squeezes like he’s trying to hold him together by force. Spencer presses his forehead to yours again.
Harder this time. Like proximity alone can reverse biology.
“I got you,” he whispers, voice breaking into pieces now. “I got you, I got you, I got you—” His sentences stop making sense. They turn into fragments. Into breath. Into something raw and animal and terrified. “I didn’t—” he chokes, pulling you closer like he can physically shield you from the truth, “I didn’t get here fast enough. I didn’t—I didn’t—”
Derek steps forward again, slower this time. Careful. Like approaching something sacred and shattered.
“Reid,” he says quietly. “Kid…” Spencer shakes his head violently again.
“No,” he says again, but weaker now. So much weaker. “No, no, no- Just - just help her. Just - just fix it. Fix it - please - ” His voice breaks completely on the last word. And then he tries again, because Spencer Reid has always believed that understanding something well enough means you can change it. “If I - if I give her CPR - if I - if we - ” His hands move like they don’t belong to him anymore as they lay you down on the ground, flat on your back.
One presses to your chest. Wrong. Desperate. Begging.
“No!” he shouts suddenly, panicked, frantic. “No, no, I can— I can do it. I can fix it. I can- I can-” His voice disintegrates mid-sentence. Because your body doesn’t respond. Because nothing changes. Because time doesn’t care how hard he tries. And that’s when it hits him all at once.
Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Spencer goes completely still.
His hands freeze where they are on you. His breath catches like it’s been hooked on something sharp. He falls backwards, his hands coated in blood coming up to press against his eyes as he sobs. Emily is by his side in an instant, pulling him into her, rocking him as Derek sniffles and gets to his feet, walking over to your and softly guiding your eyes shut. Hotch swears under his breath, wrecked sobs escaping him, and he turns away from you, gasping for air as he rushes out into the night. Luke, Tara, JJ and Rossi have gathered in the doorway, watching as Derek grabs a folded sheet from one of the drawers and lays it down over you, clearing his throat.
"The- uh, the EMT's should come back in here. Take-" He clears his throat, "Take her to the morgue."
The timer beeps behind them like some sick alarm clock. They all look back and the flashing numbers.
[id. A twitter post by @/Bennieeexyz
Jury duty letter came addressed to my cat.
Not a mistake. "Felix Martinez" - that's his full name according to his vet records.
My last name. His first name. Somehow he's a registered voter now.
Called the county clerk.
Me: My cat got summoned for jury duty.
Clerk: Is the name correct on the summons?
Me: Yes, but he's a cat.
Clerk: Is Felix Martinez a legal resident of this county?
Me: He's a legal cat.
Clerk: Sir, if the name matches our records, he needs to appear or file an exemption.
Me: He can't file anything. He has paws.
Clerk: You can file on his behalf.
Me: Under what exemption? There's no box for "is a cat."
Clerk: (pause) Check "unable to serve due to medical reasons."
Me: What's the medical reason?
Clerk: He's a cat.
Me: That's not a medical condition.
Clerk: It is if it prevents him from serving.
Sent in the form. Got rejected two weeks later.
"Insufficient documentation. Please provide medical professional's statement."
Took the letter to my vet.
Me: I need you to write that my cat can't do jury duty.
Vet: Why is your cat summoned for jury duty?
Me: Excellent question. No good answer.
Vet: This is the weirdest request I've gotten.
Me: Can you just write that he's medically unfit to serve?
Vet: On what grounds?
Me: He's a cat.
Vet: (started typing) "Patient is unable to serve due to species-related limitations including inability to speak, read, or comprehend legal proceedings."
Me: Perfect.
Sent it in. Got another rejection.
"Summons is mandatory. Failure to appear will result in contempt of court."
My roommate thought this was hilarious.
Roommate: Felix is going to jail.
Me: This is serious.
Roommate: Bring him to court. See what happens.
Decided that was actually the only option left.
Day of jury duty, put Felix in his carrier. Brought the entire paper trail of rejection letters.
Checked in at the courthouse.
Clerk: Name?
Me: Felix Martinez.
Clerk: (looked at the cat carrier) Is that Felix?
Me: Yes.
Clerk: (long stare) He's a cat.
Me: I've been saying that for six weeks.
Clerk: Why didn't you file an exemption?
Me: I filed three. All rejected.
Showed her the letters. She read through them, expression shifting from confusion to disbelief.
Clerk: Someone rejected the veterinary documentation?
Me: Twice.
Clerk: (called her supervisor over) You need to see this.
Supervisor read everything. Looked at Felix. Looked at me.
Supervisor: How did a cat get registered to vote?
Me: You tell me.
Supervisor: This is a data error.
Me: Took you six weeks to figure that out.
They dismissed Felix immediately. Apologized for the inconvenience.
Supervisor: We'll remove him from the voter registry.
Me: Appreciate it.
Supervisor: (pause) Out of curiosity, how would he have voted?
Me: Probably whatever party supports universal treats.
Got a formal apology letter a week later and a voter registration card.
For me this time. Apparently I wasn't registered, but my cat was.
Roommate: Felix committed voter fraud.
Me: Felix committed nothing. He's innocent.
Roommate: That's what they all say.
Felix is sleeping on the jury summons now.
Fitting end to his legal career.
end id]
It appears that boredom lies behind the most creative ideas. That's why quarantine has produced some of the most entertaining activities. One of them is the Getty Museum challenge, that so many of you have already seen in our previous article here.
These are art in themselves, in a some of them point out what lockdown was like for us, they’re expressed themselves in a really cool way. But I think these are going to be talked about in the future.
hey!!! have you ever wanted to watch an actual Quileute elder talk about Quileute culture, language, and tradition? (as well as his family history, the damage Twilight has done, climate change, and so much more?)
trick question. this is an intervention. even if you’ve never wanted that, you do now.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmfbQRclFf8
this is a video of Chris Morganroth, a Quileute elder, canoe-builder, language teacher, and a fantastic storyteller. he is wearing a shirt covered in pictures of wolves: his cousin made it for him! this is a recording of a 2012 speech at the Smithsonian. it is about an hour long. it is so worth it.
(big thanks to @twilightphasepodcast, who cited this as a resource in their latest episode, which was how i found it!)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Some people met theirs at six years old. Others died without ever learning their name. Plenty divorced them. Plenty married someone else entirely. There were support groups, government registries, psychologists who specialised in soulbonds, and entire supermarket aisles dedicated to products designed around them.
Soulmates weren’t fairy tales. They were biology. Or fate, depending on who you asked.
An overwhelming majority of the population shared pain. 75%, according to the latest census.
A scraped knee here became a scraped knee somewhere else. A headache echoed across cities. Broken bones were shared. Childbirth had become an odd source of sympathy from complete strangers who suddenly found themselves doubled over in agony while their soulmate was on the other side of the world.
The remaining 25% were… stranger.
Shared dreams. Shared senses. Shared emotions. Occasionally something so rare that medical journals spent decades trying to categorise it.
Writing was common enough to earn its own chapter in school textbooks.
Anything written directly onto one soulmate’s skin would appear on the other’s moments later. Ink. Paint. Marker. Charcoal. Anything that bonded to skin.
The world adapted.
The first time a corporate lackey woke up with eyeliner because their soulmate had gone clubbing the night before, an industry had been born.
Make-up companies sold soulmate-safe eyeliner, lipstick, sports chalk, and any makeup that used synthetic compounds specifically designed not to transfer across writing bonds.
But it cost a shit tone more than the ordinary stuff, so most people didn’t bother.
It was just another part of life.
Damian Wayne had never considered himself lucky. He simply acknowledged facts.
His soulbond was uncommon, but it suited him.
Charcoal had always stained his fingertips. From the time he was old enough to hold it properly, he’d sketched anatomy, architecture, animals, weapons, portraits.
His mother insisted observation was as important as combat. His grandfather insisted beauty existed to be conquered.
Damian decided beauty should simply be understood.
As his sketchbooks multiplied, so did the messages.
A doodle across his wrist. A rough smiley face. Practice strokes. Sometimes things he assumes to be his soulmates friend’s crude humor. Occasionally an absent-minded note written during lessons somewhere across the globe.
He never replied.
Not because he lacked curiosity. He was plenty curious.
But curiosity was a weakness.
That lesson had been taught long before he could remember learning it. The League did not celebrate soulmates. They acknowledged them.
A soulmate was another variable. Another vulnerability. Another weapon waiting to be used.
Children raised within the League were instructed never to trust the bond. Never to assume affection. Never to reveal themselves first.
If your soulmate became known to your enemies, they ceased being a blessing and became a target.
His grandfather called them leverage. His mother called them responsibility. Neither called them love.
By the time Damian was ten, he’d already concluded that the outside world was naïve.
Children giggled over mysterious wounds appearing on their arms. Teenagers filled notebooks trying to guess who was on the other side. Adults got tattooed to find the other before they’d ever exchanged names.
Ridiculous. Your soulmate was simply another person. Potentially useful. Potentially dangerous. Nothing more.
Then Father took him to Gotham. The city believed in soulmates just as readily as it believed in monsters.
Robin learnt pretty quickly that civilians asked too many unnecessary questions.
“Have you met your soulmate?”
“What bond do you have?”
“Is it true you bats don’t have soulmates?”
He ignored every one.
His bond remained hidden beneath gloves, sleeves and armour. His teammates knew he possessed one, none knew which.
Which was intentional.
Dick guessed shared pain, trying to bond with him. Drake theorised dreams. Todd insisted it had to be shared aggression.
Damian allowed the misunderstanding to continue. Knowledge was power, there was no reason to surrender it.
Besides, his soulmate had never written anything worth answering.
Not yet.
You’d spent most of your childhood convinced you were defective.
Not in the way children sometimes decided they were adopted because their parents said no to dessert, no. You thought that something inside of you had been assembled incorrectly.
That fate hadn’t seen your file cause the page accidentally got stuck to another’s.
Everyone had a soulmate.
It was one of the first things children learnt in school, somewhere between tying shoelaces and basic maths. Teachers would explain the different soulbonds with colourful diagrams while students excitedly compared scraped knees and odd dreams.
“I saw them by the ocean last night!”
“My soulmate likes spicy food.”
“I broke my arm when I was five because my soulmate fell out of a tree.”
Children always had stories. You never did.
No mysterious bruises. No shared dreams. No sudden cravings. No inexplicable emotions. Nothing.
At first your parents smiled. “They’re probably just a late bloomer.” “Some bonds take longer to show.” “Just wait.”
So you waited.
You turned seven. Nothing.
Eight. Nothing.
Ten. Still nothing.
Eventually your parents stopped saying, “Just wait.” And started booking appointments instead.
Doctors asked endless questions. Had you ever blacked out unexpectedly? Experienced vivid dreams? Random pain? Hearing voices? Objects appearing? Writing?
You answered no so many times it became automatic.
Test after test came back blank. There wasn’t anything medically wrong with you.
“Symptoms usually present in early childhood,” one specialist explained gently while flicking through your file. “It’s… unusual.”
Unusual.
That was the word everyone preferred. Not broken. Not defective. Just unusual.
Children weren’t nearly as polite.
“What do you mean you don’t have one?”
“Everyone has one.”
“You must be lying.”
Some looked at you with pity. Others with suspicion. One kid had actually asked if soulmates could reject people before they were born.
You laughed along.
Then cried in the bathroom afterwards.
By fifteen, you’d stopped expecting anything to happen. You’d accepted it. Maybe fate had really skipped you. Maybe whatever invisible force connected billions of people had simply… forgotten.
Life moved on. It had to.
School still expected assignments. Friends still invited you out. The world didn’t stop just because yours felt slightly emptier than everyone else’s.
There was only one strange thing.
Your fingers.
Every now and then they’d end up stained a dusty grey-black. Not all of them. Usually just the pads of your fingers. Sometimes the side of your palm.
Like charcoal.
You’d notice it halfway through class or while eating dinner.
“…Huh.”
You’d scrub at it absent-mindedly. Soap didn’t work. Water didn’t work. Hand sanitiser didn’t work.
It never smudged onto anything else either. It simply existed. Then it’d disappear by the next morning as though it’d never been there at all.
You blamed whatever you’d touched that day.
Cheap pencils, old books, dust, maybe the graphite from your mechanical pencil had somehow stained your skin.
It wasn’t worth thinking about. There were bigger things to worry about than mysteriously dirty fingers.
After all, if you actually had a soulmate..
Surely something would’ve happened by now?
↑↓←→
The questions never really stopped. They just became less frequent. Less innocent.
Children asked because they were curious. Adults asked because they couldn’t imagine another answer.
“So..” a co-worker leaned against the break room counter, stirring too much sugar into their coffee. “Have you met your soulmate yet?”
You smiled automatically. “No.”
“They overseas or something?”
“Maybe.”
“Long-distance must suck.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
They laughed.
You laughed too. It was easier. People preferred believing your soulmate was somewhere out there rather than accepting you might not have one at all.
The truth made them uncomfortable.
Eventually the conversation drifted elsewhere. It always did. You’d become good at redirecting it. Years of practice had a way of doing that.
Nowadays, the mention of soulmates barely stung. It was more like pressing on an old bruise. Tender, but manageable. Something you’d learnt to live around.
Your phone buzzed. A message from a mate.
Movie tonight?
You smiled.
Only if you’re buying popcorn.
Hell no.
Then no deal.
A few more messages followed before the conversation inevitably dissolved into memes and poorly edited reaction images.
Normal.
Wonderfully, painfully, normal.
You slipped your phone into your pocket and reached for your bag.
Halfway there, you paused.
“…Seriously?”
Grey-black dust coated the tips of your fingers again.
You rubbed your thumb over your index finger. Nothing came off.
“Must’ve touched something.” You couldn’t even remember saying it aloud anymore. It had become a habit.
See charcoal → Blame the environment → Move on.
You grabbed your bag anyway. By tomorrow morning it’d be gone. It always was.
Outside, the city carried on around you. People hurried between work and home. Couples argued over dinner plans. Parents held children’s hands as they crossed busy streets.
A teenager absent-mindedly scribbled something across their forearm while waiting at the lights, grinning when fresh handwriting appeared beside it a heartbeat later.
Their soulmate had replied.
Lucky them.
You looked away before they noticed you staring. There was no point wondering what it felt like. You’d made peace with the fact that you’d probably never know.
Or at least, you’d gotten very good at pretending you had.
Jason had made every news station in Gotham before breakfast.
Damian hadn’t intended to watch it. He’d walked into the kitchen cause Alfred had insisted everyone eat together while they were all in Gotham, only to find the tv already running quietly in the corner. A familiar image occupied nearly every channel. Red Hood disappearing across a rooftop. The freeze-frame paused just as the damaged plating along his hip shifted enough to expose black ink beneath.
A soulmark.
The reporters seemed incapable of discussing anything else.
“The identity of Red Hood’s soulmate remains unknown…
…social media has already begun comparing the mark to historical soulmate registries…
…raising renewed questions about whether Gotham’s vigilantes are adequately protecting those connected to them…”
Damian looked away before the segment finished.
People had always been intrusive where soulmates were concerned. They asked strangers questions they’d never dream of asking otherwise. When were you meeting them? Were you together? Were you trying? Had you rejected them? Did they reject you? Had they wanted you when they saw you?
It was strange what the existence of a bond entitled complete strangers to know.
Todd hadn’t commented on it once. Neither had Father.
Though, neither needed to.
The manor simply carried on as though nothing had happened, despite the fact every member of the family had undoubtedly seen the footage already.
Alfred served breakfast. Dick complained about the coffee. Tim answered emails between bites without looking up from his phone.
Only the occasional glance toward Jason betrayed that anyone had noticed at all.
Damian appreciated that.
If the mark had belonged to him, he would have expected the same courtesy.
←↓→↑
He found himself wondering whether his soulmate had seen the broadcast.
Statistically, they probably had. Everyone watched the news after a vigilante was involved.
Would they have recognised the mark for what it was? Would they have wondered what sort of person belonged to Red Hood? Would they have imagined someone dangerous?
The thought irritated him more than it should have.
His soulmate had no reason to concern themselves with another person’s bond. Their attention belonged elsewhere.
His gaze dropped, almost unconsciously, to the inside of his own wrist.
Nothing.
No fresh handwriting wound around his skin. No absent-minded doodles.
Nothing had appeared there in years.
When he was young, the messages had arrived often enough that he eventually began expecting them.
Never on a schedule or enough to establish a pattern. Just, frequently enough that every few weeks he would wake to find unfamiliar handwriting stretching across his arm.
Are you there?
Sometimes that was all. Other times there was more.
Today’s been really bad.
I don’t want to be by myself right now.
The handwriting had always been clumsy.
Large letters that struggled to stay in straight lines, becoming neater with every passing year as childish motor skills gradually matured into something steadier. Occasionally there would be little smudges where the side of a hand had dragged through still-wet ink.
He had read every message.
Yet he had never answered one.
At the time, the decision had been obvious.
The League did not encourage soulmates. They acknowledged their existence because denying reality served no purpose, but sentiment had never held any value there. Your soulmate represented another avenue through which enemies might reach you. Another weakness to be managed.
Replying achieved nothing.
Years later, Father had reached the same conclusion for entirely different reasons.
Bruce had never instructed him not to respond, but he had agreed that anonymity offered protection. A soulmate nobody could identify was a soulmate nobody could target.
Objectively, Damian knew he had done the correct thing. Which only made one question increasingly difficult to dismiss.
Why had they stopped?
They had simply… disappeared. The last message had appeared years ago. Nothing after that.
No questions. No frustrated scribbles written during boring classes. No childish attempts to reach whoever existed on the opposite end of the bond. Just silence.
He had assumed, at first, that they were waiting. Perhaps they expected an answer. When none came, they would eventually try again. They always had before.
Except this time they hadn’t.
It should not have occupied his thoughts as often as it did.
People moved on. Children abandoned imaginary friends. Adults stopped believing in impossible things. Perhaps they had simply reached an age where writing to someone who refused to acknowledge them became embarrassing.
A reasonable conclusion.
One he found himself disliking more every time it occurred to him.
Because that implied they had given up.
On him.
Damian closed the sketchbook resting on his desk with more force than intended. The sound echoed briefly through his room before the manor settled back into its usual quiet.
He remained staring at the cover for several long moments.
He had done exactly what he was taught.
Exactly what logic dictated.
Exactly what would keep both of them safest.
So why did it feel strangely.. wrong that they had finally listened?
Your parents used to joke that they had never really known privacy.
If your father stubbed his toe in the kitchen, your mother would wince from the garden. If your mother caught the flu, your father would spend the week curled beneath blankets beside her, feverish despite never catching the virus himself.
Broken bones, headaches, paper cuts, childbirth. Nothing belonged to just one of them. The pain had always been shared.
But in a way, so was relief.
You grew up watching them laugh over bruises that appeared in matching places, your father kissing your mother’s scraped knuckles that had never touched the pavement because he had been the one to fall.
They carried each other’s suffering so naturally that neither of them seemed to remember there had ever been a time when they hadn’t.
“That’s what soulmates do,” your mother would say whenever you asked.
“No one hurts alone.”
It was spoken like a promise. A fact as certain as gravity. As ordinary as breathing.
You believed it. Everyone did. Then, slowly, your parents stopped talking about your soulmate.
First, they stopped asking whether anything new had appeared. Then the appointments became routine instead of hopeful. Then they stopped mentioning them altogether.
Your father buried himself in research.
Your mother lingered outside your bedroom more often than she used to.
One night, you woke to voices drifting through the hallway.
“…there has to be something they missed.”
“They didn’t.”
“They’re wrong.”
“They’ve repeated every test.”
“They’re still wrong.”
Silence.
Then your mother’s voice, barely louder than a whisper. “What if…”
Another silence, longer this time.
“What if there isn’t anyone?”
You had never heard your father shout before. “There has to be!”
“There doesn’t.”
His voice cracked. “Don’t.”
“You know it’s possible.”
“No.”
“If they’re right..” she whispered. “…then one day they’ll get hurt, and no one will feel it with them.”
The house fell silent.
You stared at the ceiling until morning.
After that, something changed. Your parents still loved each other. They still loved you. But grief settled into the spaces between them.
Your father refused to accept the diagnosis. He found specialists halfway across the country, obscure researchers overseas, experimental studies no one had ever heard of. Every answer that came back the same only convinced him the question hadn’t been asked correctly.
Your mother went with him every time. But eventually even she had stopped believing that there would be a different answer.
When she stopped asking for another opinion, your father never forgave her for it.
Years later, they divorced.
Two people who loved each other deeply enough to share every wound, discovering there was one pain they couldn’t carry together.
You.
Neither of them blamed you.
They looked at you with the same expression people reserved for tragedies no one had caused.
You grew older. Doctors wrote papers about you. Researchers asked for blood samples. Every form returned with the same impossible conclusion.
Inconclusive.
You tried telling yourself it didn’t matter. People survived without parents. Without friends. Without homes. You could survive without a soulmate.
Except no one else ever had. Not once. There hadn’t been a single case of someone born without a soulmate ever.
You weren’t unlucky. You were impossible. And impossibilities weren’t supposed to exist.
Sometimes you’d catch your parents looking at you when they thought you weren’t paying attention.
You couldn’t tell if it was disappointment, resentment, or grief.
You stopped wondering why fate had forgotten you.
It followed you through school. Through birthdays. Through every doctor who couldn’t explain you. Through every pitying glance. Until, one day, it stopped sounding like fear.
It simply sounded true.
You should have never been born.
The food on the plate in front of you had gone cold a long time ago.
You’d bought it mostly to justify occupying the table, pushing fries around the paper tray more than actually eating them.
Around you, the food court buzzed with the usual afternoon crowd. Children tugged exhausted parents toward the dessert stands. Teenagers laughed too loudly over shared drinks. Somewhere nearby, someone dropped a tray, followed immediately by the chorus of sympathetic groans from strangers.
You were halfway through convincing yourself to leave when a shadow fell across your table.
“Mind if I sit here?”
You glanced up.
Whoever this person is was about your age, maybe a little older. Attractive enough that a few nearby heads had already turned in their direction before looking away again.
“There are plenty of empty tables.”
“There are.” They smiled easily. “But you are sitting at this one.”
You stared for another second before giving a small shrug. “If you want.”
They slid into the seat opposite you without hesitation.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You expected the silence to become awkward. Instead, they stole one of your fries.
“You weren’t eating them.”
“I was considering it.”
“Well, now you have to. Can’t let me win.”
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. It surprised both of you.
Then they were grinning. “I knew you could smile.”
You rolled your eyes, though there wasn’t much annoyance behind it.
This person was.. easy. Felt like the sort of person who filled silences without suffocating them.
Conversation came pretty naturally after that. Nothing particularly important. Complaints about the shopping centre. The impossibility of finding decent coffee. A movie neither of you had actually finished despite insisting you’d eventually get around to it.
It was pleasant. Dangerously so. You caught yourself relaxing.
Then your phone buzzed and you caught the time.
“I should get going.”
“So soon?”
“I’ve got things to do.”
“Fair enough.” They stood as you gathered your things, rocking back on their heels for a moment before patting their pockets.
“Damn.”
“What?”
“I don’t have any paper.”
“…Congratulations?”
They laughed. “I was trying to ask for your number.”
“Oh.”
You hadn’t expected that.
“I mean…” They rubbed the back of their neck sheepishly. “You’re hot. So I thought I’d at least give it a shot.”
You hesitated just long enough for them to snap their fingers.
“I’ve got an idea.”
Before you could ask what they meant, they reached for your wrist, uncapping a pen they’d pulled from their pocket.
“You don’t mind, do you?”
Without really waiting for an answer, they turned your arm over and, with surprisingly neat handwriting, scribbled a phone number across the inside of your forearm.
The pen tickled against your skin.
“There,” they said, clicking the cap back on. “Now you don’t have an excuse.” They winked, gathering their things.
You looked down automatically to the black ink stretching across your forearm.
Their name: Ash. Their number: 0401 863. ‘Call me’ written smaller underneath.
It should have been nothing. Just ink. Just another stranger taking a chance.
Instead, it made your chest tighten. For a fleeting, impossible second, your mind brought up a memory your body hadn’t forgotten.
Small hands. Crayon pressed too hard against skin.
Are you there?
Another message.
Please answer.
Another.
I think something’s wrong with me.
You blinked hard.
The memory vanished as quickly as it had come.
“…You okay?”
You looked back up, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
“Yeah.”
Your fingers unconsciously drifted over the fresh ink. “I just…”
You couldn’t explain why seeing words on your arm suddenly made your chest ache.
“…haven’t written on myself in a very long time.”
The afternoon was loud. Far too loud for Damian’s liking.
He sat at the edge of the group, his posture perfect, expression a mask of practiced indifference. Public outings required a level of restraint that felt unnatural to him.
Dick was laughing at something Jason had said, and even Bruce seemed slightly less tense than usual.
Damian didn't care about the noise. Or about the conversation. He was mostly preoccupied with the sensation of the sunlight hitting his forearms. For the first time in years, he wasn't wearing the long sleeves or the tactical gloves he used to shroud his skin.
He had decided, with a cold sort of logic, that the bond was dead.
The silence from his skin had lasted so long years of nothingness that he had finally accepted the most likely reality: his soulmate had stopped looking for him. You had given up.
He was fine with that. It was efficient.
Then, the sting began.
It wasn't a sharp pain, but a slow, itching warmth, as if a heated needle were dragging across the underside of his left forearm. Damian stiffened. He kept his hands resting on the table, but his heart gave a singular, heavy thud against his ribs.
No, he thought. Not now.
He watched the skin. It started as a faint, dark smudge, then the lines began to bleed through the surface of his flesh, as if an invisible hand were pressing a pen into his muscle.
Dick was the first to notice the change in his posture. "Dami? You okay?"
Damian didn't answer. He couldn't. He was too busy staring at his own arm.
The writing was appearing in elegant, sweeping loops. Cursive. It was beautiful, flowing, and utterly offensive.
Ash
0401 863
Call me ;)
Damian’s breath hitched. His eyes scanned the script, his brain overworking with the mechanical speed of a detective.
He knew your handwriting. He had spent a decade studying the messy, jagged print of the messages he had received as a child.
His soulmate’s handwriting had always been blunt. Childish, hurried, and unrefined. You’d written in print, scrawled in desperation.
This wasn't it. This was polished. This was intentional. This was the handwriting of a stranger.
Someone had held your arm. Someone had pressed a pen to your skin. Someone had dared to claim a space on a body that belonged, by divine right, to him.
"Whoa," Jason leaned in, his eyes widening as he spotted the dark lines on Damian's arm. "Is that... is that a soulmark? Since when do you have a writing bond?"
The table went silent as the family stared. For the first time in his life, the secret was out. The quiet, private connection he had guarded like a weapon was visible for everyone to see.
"Damian?" Bruce asked, his voice low, laced with a rare note of surprise. "You never said-"
"Be quiet," Damian snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
He wasn't looking at them. He was staring at the name. It felt like a slur.
Ash
He could feel the phantom sensation of the stranger’s hand on his skin, a greasy, intrusive warmth that made him want to scrub his arm until it bled.
It had been years. He had waited in the silence, convinced you had forgotten him, convinced you had moved on to a life where he didn't exist. And then, finally, the silence broke. The bond had screamed back to life after years of dormancy.
But it wasn't a "hello." It wasn't an "are you there?" It wasn't a cry for help.
It was a phone number. It was an invitation. It was a stranger's attempt to steal the only thing Damian was supposed to truly call his own.
His hands curled into fists on the table, his knuckles turning white. The rage was quiet, but it was absolute. Someone was touching you. Someone was talking to you. Someone was trying to take the person who had spent a lifetime writing into the void, waiting for a response that wasn’t coming.
And the response was a stranger's name.
"Damian, you're shaking," Dick said softly, reaching out a hand.
Damian pulled his arm back, tucking it close to his body, hiding the elegant, loathsome cursive from their eyes.
His gaze was dark, focused, and predatory.
The sound of the city became nothing more than a dull roar in the background. Damian didn't hear Bruce's worried voice or Jason’s insensitive joke. He didn’t see Tim and Dick’s shared glances. The only thing that existed was the black ink on his skin.
He slid out of the booth, his movements jerky and frantic.
"Damian, where are you going?" Bruce asked, his voice sharp and commanding.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. If he spoke, he was afraid of what might come out.
He stormed away from the table, ignoring the confused looks from his family, and practically ran toward the restroom.
The moment he locked the door behind him, he collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the cold tile. He yanked his sleeve up, his fingers digging into the skin around the words.
Call me ;)
He hated it. He hated the person who had written it. He hated the precision of the cursive, how confident and sure it looked. This was a person who had no idea who they were dealing with. They had no idea that by writing on his soulmate, they had essentially written a death sentence for themselves if he could ever find them.
But as he stared at the ink, the rage began to ebb, replaced by something far worse.
He felt sick.
He felt small.
He hadn't answered his soulmate.
For years, he had read your heartbreaks, your fears, your lonely pleas, and he had met you with sterile, echoing silence. He had waited. He had played a game of patience, convinced that if he just waited long enough, you would eventually find him on your own.
And now you had. You had found someone else.
"You should have kept writing," he whispered, his voice cracking. He pressed his forehead against his knees, his eyes burning. "You should have waited for me."
He felt pathetic. The great Damian Wayne, the heir to the League of Assassins, was currently huddled in a public restroom tearing up over a phone number.
He felt like a child again, the one who would read the messages on his arm and then uselessly try to rub them away with a damp cloth, pretending they never existed, even as he felt his heart break every single time.
He reached for the paper towels on the dispenser and grabbed a handful, soaking them in water. He held his arm out, his hand shaking, and began to scrub at the ink.
At the name.
He rubbed harder. The skin turned red, the water and rough paper scratching at the surface of his flesh. He wanted it gone. He wanted the name to vanish, to disappear as if it had never been written. He wanted the stranger to be erased from existence.
But the ink wouldn't budge.
"I'll find you," he whispered, his voice ragged. "I'll find you and I'll make sure you never forget who you belong to."
He didn't have a plan. He didn't know who the person was or where you were. But as he sat there in the dim light of the restroom, his chest heaving and his arm raw and red, there was a new, sharper purpose in his eyes.
He had ignored you long enough. Now, he would be the one doing the hunting.
The evening had passed in a blur of crowds, train announcements, and familiar exhaustion that settled over Gotham once the workday ended.
By the time you unlocked your apartment door, your attention was fixed on the familia routine. Keys in the bowl beside the entrance. Bag on the chair. Shoes kicked off near the wall.
You were halfway through rubbing at your eyes when something on your arm had caught your attention.
For a moment, your brain failed to make sense of what you were seeing.
The writing was gone.
You stared down at your forearm.
The name that had been written near your wrist had disappeared beneath a thick streak of black ink. The number stretched somewhere underneath it, hidden beneath layer after layer of aggressive, uneven marker.
Whoever had done it had covered the writing completely, obscuring every letter beneath a blown-out dark smear.
A hundred explanations flashed through your head, each more ridiculous than the last. None of them made sense.
Slowly, you turned your arm beneath the light.
The ink stayed where it was. Fresh enough that it still looked almost glossy beneath the overhead lamp.
Your fingers brushed across it. Dry.
You frowned.
The stranger's number should have still been there. You'd checked it at least three times on the train ride home.
Twice because you were considering calling, then again because you couldn't quite believe someone had actually flirted with you so outright.
Now it looked as though someone had taken a marker and buried every trace of it.
Your stomach tightened. Your mind going back years ago.
To one of many small examination rooms. Familiar bright white walls. The smell of disinfectant.
You were eight years old, legs dangling from a chair too tall for you.
"Have you ever tried writing on yourself?" the doctor had asked gently.
You remembered laughing.
Of course you had.
Every kid who hadn’t gotten hurt by another yet did.
You'd covered your arms with marker for years. Names. Questions. Drawings. Entire conversations directed at a person who never answered.
Nothing had ever happened.
The specialists called it unusual. Some forums called it heartbreaking. Or fake.
Your gaze dropped back to the black ink covering your arm. Something had written over that number. Something had responded.
You didn’t feel any excitement. Or hope. If anything, what you felt seemed closer to dread.
Hope was dangerous.
Hope was what had kept your parents scheduling appointment after appointment, convinced the next specialist would finally have an answer. Hope was what left your mother crying behind closed bathroom doors after another inconclusive test. Hope was what taught you, over and over again, that wanting something badly enough didn't make it real.
You'd spent years trying not to care. Years learning how to ignore the empty space where everyone else seemed to carry certainty. One strange mark wasn't enough to undo that.
You pulled your sleeve down over your arm. The black streak vanished beneath the fabric. Better. Safer.
"Means nothing," you muttered.
You didn't believe your own words.
The rest of the evening passed normally enough. Dinner. Dishes. Television playing quietly in the background. The ordinary rhythm of a life that had long since moved on from childhood fantasies.
Yet every so often, your hand drifted toward your covered forearm.
Every time it did, the same feeling returned. An uncomfortable awareness that something had changed. After years of silence, something had finally answered.
And you had no idea whether or not that was a good thing.
→↓←↑
You shuffled into the bathroom still half asleep, already thinking about getting an energy drink more than anything else.
The mirror was fogged around the edges from the shower running in the neighbouring apartment, and the cold tiles beneath your feet made you wish you’d bothered finding your slippers.
You rolled your sleeve up almost absent-mindedly. The black streak was still there.
You reached automatically for the sink, wetting a corner of the hand towel before rubbing experimentally at the edge of the ink.
Nothing.
“Figures.” The muttered complaint barely left your mouth before something caught your eye.
You frowned. The towel paused against your skin.
You leaned closer to the mirror.
Yesterday, the marker had been solid. Messy, thick, almost violent in the way it covered the stranger’s handwriting. Now there was a gap big enough for your skin to show through.
You were certain it hadn’t been there before.
For a ridiculous moment, you wondered whether you’d accidentally rubbed some of the ink away on your sleeve.
Then you noticed the line beneath it. Fresh ink.
Your stomach sank. The handwriting wasn’t yours. It wasn’t the stranger’s either. The stranger had written in looping cursive, every letter rounded and practiced. This was precise. Almost painfully neat. Each stroke looked deliberate, measured before it had ever touched skin.
Three words.
Don’t call them.
You read them once. Then again. Your eyes drifted over the sentence a third time, as though repetition alone might make it mean something different.
It didn’t. It remained exactly what it had been the first time. An instruction.
Not a greeting. Not a question. Not even an explanation. Just…
Don’t call them.
You found yourself looking around the apartment before you could stop yourself. The living room. The kitchen. The locked front door. Empty.
“…Okay.” You laughed under your breath.
Nothing about this was funny, but the alternative felt insane.
You’d spent most of your life wishing something - anything would happen. That one day there’d be a mistake. A delayed bond. An explanation.
Now, standing alone in your bathroom with unfamiliar handwriting on your arm, you wanted a perfectly rational answer more than anything.
Your fingers hovered over the words. Careful not to smudge them. The ink was dry. As though it had been there for hours.
You swallowed.
Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you walked back into the kitchen, dug through the junk drawer until you found an old biro, and returned to the bathroom.
The tip hovered over your forearm.
You stared at the empty patch of skin beneath the unfamiliar message for nearly a minute.
This was stupid.
You knew exactly how soulmate writing worked.
Or rather, you knew how it was supposed to work.
Children discovered it by accident. Teenagers filled each other’s arms with jokes. Adults stopped because texting was easier. Nobody your age stood in their bathroom writing into empty space. Not unless they’d completely lost it.
“Whatever.”
The pen touched your skin. Your handwriting hadn’t changed much since childhood.
Still print. Still slightly untidy. Still pressed a little too hard.
Who are you?
You capped the pen almost immediately afterwards.
Nothing happened.
You’d expected as much.
You were already turning away when warmth spread beneath your skin. It wasn’t painful, just unexpected.
You looked down instinctively.
The place beneath your question tingled, the sensation travelling slowly enough that you could follow it with your eyes.
And then Ink.
Not appearing all at once. Growing. One careful letter after another.
The ink surface beneath your skin one deliberate stroke at a time, each line settling into place before the next began. There was no rush to it. Whoever was writing wasn’t hesitating, but they weren’t hurrying either.
Like they knew you would wait.
By the time the sentence finished, your pulse had climbed into your throat.
Don’t accept things from strangers.
You frowned.
That wasn’t an answer.
Your eyes flicked up to the question still sitting above it.
Who are you?
They’d ignored it completely.
Another line began to appear. The warmth returned beneath your skin, travelling just ahead of the fresh ink.
Don’t let anyone else touch you like that again.
Your eyebrows slowly pulled together. “…That’s what you’re worried about?”
After everything. After years of nothing. After every specialist, every appointment, every unanswered question.. Whoever was on the other end had apparently decided that the pressing issue was a phone number.
You looked down at the biro still resting in your hand.
It felt strangely inadequate now.
Slowly, you uncapped it again. Your handwriting looked clumsy beside the careful precision of theirs.
You didn’t answer my question.
You hesitated, then added another beneath it.
Who are you?
The reply came quicker this time. Almost immediately.
The familiar warmth spread beneath your skin, and before you’d even finished reading your own words, fresh ink had begun to weave itself between them.
That doesn’t matter yet.
The sentence continued without pause.
Tell me whether you called them.
You blinked. “Seriously?”
The absurdity of it almost made you laugh. That was it? No introduction. No explanation. Not even an acknowledgement that this was impossible. Just another question about someone you’d shared fries with for twenty minutes.
Your fingers rubbed absent-mindedly at the bridge of your nose. “This is unbelievable.”
You looked back down at your arm. The neat handwriting stared back at you.
You sighed through your nose before writing again.
No.
The ink had barely dried before another reply began. Only two words this time.
Good. Don’t.
You stared at them. The corners of your mouth twitched despite yourself.
“You’re bossy.” There was no irritation behind the words. Mostly disbelief.
You’d finally found the person who was supposedly meant to answer every question you’d spent half your life asking, and apparently they preferred giving orders instead.
Damian hadn't realised how completely his priorities had shifted until he found himself standing in front of the Batcomputer, staring at an unfinished mission report he'd been pretending to read for nearly ten minutes.
He couldn't remember a single word.
His eyes kept returning to the faded writing winding around the inside of his forearm.
Nine messages. That was all.
It should have been insignificant.
He had exchanged more words with criminals before incapacitating them.
Yet somehow those nine short sentences had managed to uproot routines that had taken years to build.
He read them again.
Who are you?
Don't accept things from strangers.
Don't let anyone else touch you like that again.
You didn't answer my question.
Who are you?
That doesn't matter yet.
Tell me whether you called them.
No.
Good. Don't.
His thumb brushed unconsciously across one of the final words. Good.
It shouldn't have brought him relief.
But it did. An almost embarrassing amount.
The stranger had failed. You hadn't called them. Whatever smile you'd given that person, whatever polite conversation you'd entertained, whatever curiosity they’d mistaken for interest had ended there.
You had chosen not to continue it.
Damian hadn't realised how tightly he'd been holding himself together until that single word had loosened something inside his chest.
Not enough. Never enough. But enough that he could breathe again. For the first time since your messages appeared.
Then the relief faded. Because relief left room for thought. And thought was infinitely crueler.
Someone else had reached you first. Someone else had stood close enough to touch your wrist. Someone else had looked directly into your face. Someone else knew what colour your eyes were.
Damian didn't.
Someone else knew how tall you were. How your voice sounded. Whether you smiled with your mouth closed or laughed loudly enough to turn heads.
Someone else had information Damian should have had years ago.
The irrationality of the thought didn't make it disappear. He understood perfectly well that you hadn't betrayed him.
How could you? You didn't know him.
As far as you were concerned, your soulmate had ignored every message you'd ever written.
Every birthday. Every question. Every lonely evening. Every desperate attempt to find the person destined to answer.
He had been silent.
Not by choice. But silence looked the same from the other side.
He knew that.
If the positions had been reversed… If he had written for years.. If every answer had been met with nothing.. Would he have waited forever?
…
He wanted to say yes.
But he couldn’t.
His hand curled into a fist.
You'd lived an entire life while he wasn't there. Years of mornings. Of birthdays. Of scraped knees, illnesses, graduations, celebrations, disappointments.
Had someone hugged you when things became too much? Who comforted you when you cried? Who celebrated your successes? Who remembered your favourite food? Who knew your drink order? Who made you laugh after terrible days?
Questions multiplied faster than he could suppress them.
Did you live alone? Did you have roommates? Did you lock your doors? Did you own any means of defending yourself? Were you careful walking home at night? Had anyone ever hurt you?
Yesterday had already answered one of those questions.
Yes. Someone had.
Maybe not physically. But someone had ignored your discomfort long enough for you to write to a stranger instead.
To him.
You had reached for someone you couldn't even identify because the people around you hadn't been enough.
That thought settled somewhere deep beneath his ribs. Heavy and permanent.
He looked again at the sentence he'd written. Don't let anyone else touch you like that again.
He hadn't thought before writing it. There hadn't been time. Logic had come afterward. The wording had been possessive. Demanding. Unlike him.
No. Exactly like him. Just... stripped bare.
He closed his eyes. You must have thought he was insane. Some anonymous soulmate who vanished for decades only to return issuing orders. He would have been irritated too.
No.
He would have blocked himself.
Yet...
You hadn't.
You'd argued. Questioned him. Demanded answers. But you hadn't stopped writing.
Why?
Curiosity? Hope? Loneliness? Or had something inside you recognised the same impossible pull clawing through him?
He hated not knowing. He hated uncertainty. He hated relying on something as intangible as fate.
His entire life had been built on eliminating uncertainty. Gather information. Observe.Investigate. Prepare. Control what could be controlled. The League had taught him that. His father had refined it.
The soulbond ignored every single one of those principles.
It had expected him to wait. To trust. To believe.
He had. For years.
Where had it gotten either of you?
You alone in a shopping centre. Him halfway across the city learning about it after the fact.
No. Enough.
He opened his eyes.
The Batcomputer came alive beneath his fingertips. Monitors illuminated one after another, blue light reflecting across his face. Access permissions unfolded without resistance.
Traffic cameras. Retail security networks. Public transport footage. Cell tower data. Facial recognition databases. Search parameters. Time. Location. Shopping centre.
He could hear his father's voice in the back of his mind.
"People deserve privacy, Damian."
Normally, he would have agreed. He would have waited until you chose to reveal yourself. Normally.
Yesterday someone had approached you.
Tomorrow someone else might.
He had spent years believing fate would keep you safe until it brought you together. Yesterday had demonstrated exactly how fragile that assumption was.
For most of his life, Damian Wayne had believed his greatest weakness would be failing his mission.
He understood now that he'd been wrong.
His greatest weakness had a heartbeat.
That somewhere out there, someone was completely unaware that the heir to Batman was already searching every camera in Gotham just to catch a single glimpse of the face he'd imagined since childhood.
His finger pressed the key.
The search began.
↑←↓→
Finding you hadn’t been particularly difficult. Not once Damian started looking.
The shopping centre gave him a face. The face gave him transport records. Transport records became a place of work. A place of work became an address.
Within four days, he knew more about your routine than you did.
You bought the same energy drink from the convenience store three mornings out of five, apologised to inanimate objects whenever you bumped into them, and forgot to eat lunch often enough that the café downstairs had begun recognising the pattern.
You had a habit of reading while waiting for pedestrian lights to change. You wore headphones without turning any music on whenever you didn’t want strangers talking to you. You checked your pockets twice before locking your front door.
You laughed with your whole face. You rubbed your eyes whenever you became overwhelmed.
You were, Damian decided, catastrophically easy to lose.
And even easier to protect.
The first time he introduced himself, it was as Damian Wayne. Not your soulmate. Just the youngest Wayne.
Professionally interested in one of Wayne Enterprises’ newest projects.
Your company had recently entered into a partnership with Wayne Enterprises.
You’d smiled.
Held out your hand.
Introduced yourself with the same easy politeness you seemed to offer everyone.
He’d looked at your outstretched hand for the briefest moment before taking it.
His fingers closed around yours carefully. Almost reverently.
“So,” you’d said with an awkward laugh, “I guess we’ll be seeing each other a lot.”
“Yes.”
You’d mistaken the certainty in his voice for confidence.
It wasn’t. It was a statement of fact.
After that, he simply… remained.
Meetings that didn’t strictly require his attendance somehow did. Business lunches became routine. Coffee would already be waiting on your desk before you arrived.
When your workload became unreasonable, departments quietly shifted resources without anyone quite understanding why. When your apartment building’s security contract came up for renewal, Wayne Security acquired it. When your favourite café struggled financially, it received an anonymous investment.
You never knew.
You only noticed that life had become a little easier.
Financial inconveniences disappeared before they had the chance to reach you.
You thanked luck. Damian thanked himself.
The rest happened so gradually that even you struggled to pinpoint when it had changed.
His hand settled against the small of your back whenever crowds became too dense.
He began walking you to your car after evening meetings.
Your favourite snacks appeared in his office because “you always steal mine.”
He started calling you when you worked late.
Then expecting you to answer.
Then asking where you were if you didn’t.
“You don’t have to keep looking after me,” you’d laughed one afternoon as he wordlessly took the heavier stack of folders from your arms.
“I know.”
“You do realise I’m an adult?”
“I am aware.”
You smiled, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
Damian looked at you for a long moment.
No. He thought quietly. I’m simply making up for lost time.
You never noticed the way his eyes lingered on your forearm whenever your sleeves rode up. Or how his expression softened whenever your handwriting appeared there.
The conversations continued. Always through ink. Never in person.
You still didn’t know.
You still believed your soulmate was someone else. Someone you hadn’t met.
Damian intended to keep it that way.
Not forever.
Just until he’d repaired everything the years of silence had broken. Until you trusted him without hesitation. Until you looked for him first. Until your apartment felt less like home than Wayne Manor. Until every decision you made instinctively accounted for him. Until loving him became as natural as breathing.
Then, and only then, would he tell you the truth.
By that point, Damian no longer believed it would matter.
Because by then, there would be nowhere else in the world you would ever want to be except exactly where he’d spent the years wishing you had always been.
Beside him.
You had skipped breakfast after oversleeping, rushed through the front doors of Wayne Enterprises with your hair still damp, and spent the next four hours buried beneath spreadsheets.
Around noon, someone knocked once on your office door.
You looked up. Damian stepped inside carrying a paper bag from the café downstairs. "I noticed you didn't eat."
You smiled despite yourself. "You came all the way down here for that?"
"You become irritable when your blood sugar drops." He set the bag on your desk with the same care he used when placing files in front of Bruce during board meetings.
"I thought you would appreciate the reminder."
It was thoughtful. You thanked him.
By the second week, he stopped asking if you'd eaten. He already knew.
"I brought lunch."
"I'm actually going out with the accounting department."
"You aren't."
You frowned. "We already planned it."
Damian removed a small container from the paper bag before speaking.
"They rescheduled."
"What?"
"They've been called into an emergency budget meeting."
Your phone buzzed. Every person in the group chat was apologising.
Sorry! Something came up.
Rain check?
You stared at the messages. "...That's weird."
"It happens." Damian placed a pair of chopsticks beside your lunch. "Eat before it gets cold."
You hesitated. Then opened the container.
It kept happening.
Whenever coworkers invited you somewhere, plans somehow dissolved before they happened.
A canceled reservation. An urgent meeting. Someone suddenly calling in sick.
After a while, people simply stopped asking.
It wasn't deliberate. It was just easier to assume you were busy. So lunch became something you shared with Damian.
Every day.
Without either of you ever discussing it.
↑←↓→
It was raining when you left the office.
Not super hard, just enough to make the pavement shine beneath the streetlights. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your coat and hurried toward the subway entrance, already thinking about the leftovers waiting in your apartment.
"You'll catch a cold."
You didn't have to turn around. "I'll survive."
Damian fell into step beside you, holding a black umbrella over both of you despite the fact that he'd appeared from nowhere. You hadn't seen him leave the building.
"You've said that before."
"I've also survived before."
"That isn't the point."
You sighed. "Then what is?"
"The point is that your zipper is broken."
Instinctively, you glanced down at your coat. The zipper caught halfway, as it always did. You gave it another tug before giving up. "I know. I'll replace it eventually."
Damian's eyes lingered on the torn seam near your wrist. "No."
You frowned. "No?"
"You won't."
"I literally just said I would."
"You said 'eventually.'" His tone remained perfectly even. "That generally means you have no intention of doing it until circumstances force you to."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
Something about the certainty in his voice irritated you.
"You don't get to decide whether I'm going to buy a coat."
"I already have."
You stopped walking. "So that's it?" You laughed once, short and incredulous. "You've decided for me?"
"You require one."
"I require money more."
"You have sufficient savings for the amount you have worked."
"How would you know what my savings look like?"
For the first time since the conversation began, Damian hesitated. Only for a fraction of a second. "It isn't relevant."
"It becomes relevant when you somehow know how much money I have."
"I know enough."
The answer settled uncomfortably in your stomach. You wanted to ask another question. Instead, you started walking again.
Neither of you spoke for the rest of the trip.
←↑↓→
Three days later, the receptionist downstairs smiled as you entered your apartment building.
"A package came for you this morning."
"I wasn't expecting one."
"It didn't have a return address."
The box was surprisingly heavy.
Inside was a winter coat. Not just any coat. The exact one you'd stopped to look at in a shop window two weeks earlier.
You remembered standing outside the display for maybe thirty seconds before deciding it was too expensive.
You'd never mentioned it to anyone. Not even Damian.
There was no gift receipt.
Nothing except a small envelope tucked beneath the tissue paper.
Inside was a single card.
Your previous coat no longer provided adequate protection. Dispose of it.
No signature. There didn't need to be one.
The coat fit perfectly.
→←↑↓
"You bought me a coat."
Damian didn't look up from the documents spread across his desk. "I replaced one."
"I never asked you to."
"No."
"I told you not to spend money on me."
"I didn't." He finally looked up. "I spent money on an item."
"...Which you then gave to me."
"Correct."
"So you spent money on me."
"No." His expression remained completely serious. "I spent money maintaining an asset under my care."
You stared at him. "An asset?"
He frowned slightly, as if that wasn't the word he'd intended. "A responsibility."
"I'm not your responsibility."
"You are."
"No, Damian. I'm not."
"You arrived at work soaked twice last week because you refused to replace damaged clothing. You developed a cough yesterday."
"I would've bought one eventually."
"You were cold."
"I said I would've bought one."
"But you didn't." He spoke with the same patient tone someone might use while explaining something obvious to a child. "Intent is meaningless if the outcome remains the same."
You opened your mouth to argue but he continued before you could.
"When Titus refuses to come inside during winter, I don't leave him outside because he wishes to stay there."
"...Did you just compare me to your dog?"
"I compared your behavior."
"No. You compared me."
"I compared two living beings who consistently underestimate environmental hazards."
"One of those living beings is a German Shepherd."
"Yes."
"And the other is me."
"Yes."
He didn't understand why that distinction mattered. You could see it in his face. To Damian, the comparison wasn't insulting. It was practical.
Titus couldn't accurately judge the risk of prolonged exposure to the cold.
Neither, apparently, could you.
The fact that you could speak, hold a job, pay taxes, and argue with him didn't alter the underlying equation in his mind.
Capability wasn't measured by adulthood. It was measured by whether you could reliably keep yourself safe.
He'd already reached his conclusion months ago.
You simply hadn't realised he'd been treating you accordingly.
↑←→↓
It started with coffee.
You'd been ordering the same thing from the café in the lobby since your second week at Wayne Enterprises. Large latte. Whole milk. Two pumps of caramel. It was practically muscle memory. Every morning you'd mumble, "The usual, thanks." Tap your card against the terminal, and collect your cup without thinking.
One Tuesday, you took a sip on the way to the elevator and frowned.
Less sweet.
You glanced back toward the café, wondering if the barista had simply forgotten the syrup. It wasn't worth walking back over, so you drank it anyway.
The next morning it tasted the same.
And the morning after that.
By Friday, you assumed they'd changed the recipe.
A few weeks later, you found yourself standing in line behind two coworkers from accounting. They were chatting idly while the baristas rushed through the morning crowd.
"The usual?" the girl behind the register asked as soon as she saw you.
"Yeah, thanks."
She nodded before you'd said another word. "Oat milk latte. One pump vanilla."
You blinked.
"...Sorry?"
"Oat milk latte?" she repeated, already reaching for a cup. "One pump vanilla."
"No, I usually get caramel."
She looked genuinely confused. "You used to."
"I.." You laughed awkwardly. "No, I still do."
She glanced toward another employee behind the espresso machine. "Didn't they change it?"
"They?"
"The gentleman who usually orders for you."
Your smile faltered. "What gentleman?"
"The one who's in here all the time." She frowned, trying to remember. "Dark hair. Gorgeous. Kind of intimidating."
Your stomach sank. "...Damian?"
"That's his name!" She smiled, relieved.
"He said you'd been trying to cut back on sugar. We've been making it that way ever since."
You stared at her. "I never said that."
"Oh."
Her smile dimmed. "I just assumed.." She looked embarrassed. "I thought he was your assistant."
You didn't answer.
You took the coffee she'd already made, murmured a thank you, and walked away before she could apologise.
Halfway across the lobby, you took another sip. It wasn't even bad. In fact.. It tasted exactly the way you expected your coffee to taste.
You couldn't remember when your own preference had changed.
Or whether it ever had.
That Saturday you decided to stop at woolies on the way home.
Your fridge was nearly empty, and for once you had no plans. No meetings. No dinner at Wayne Manor. No texts from Damian reminding you that you'd skipped lunch.
You grabbed a trolley and headed toward the produce section.
Before you'd made it ten feet, someone in the green Woolworths uniform looked up from unpacking a crate of avocados.
"Oh! You're here yourself today."
You smiled politely. "I usually am."
He laughed. "No, your assistant normally collects everything."
The trolley came to a stop. "My assistant?"
"The bloke."
He pointed vaguely toward the online pickup counter.
"Tall. Black hair. Doesn't smile much."
Your grip tightened around the handle. "I... don't have an assistant."
The employee looked between you and the pickup shelves, clearly thinking he'd made some sort of mistake.
"Oh."
A pause.
"I just figured.." He rubbed the back of his neck. "He knows your order off by heart."
"My order?"
"Yeah."
He gestured toward the refrigerated section. "Every Tuesday. Same online pickup. Chicken breast, brown rice, spinach, Greek yoghurt, blueberries, eggs, almonds..."
He kept listing items one after another. Healthy. Measured. Predictable. Almost identical to what Damian packed for lunch whenever he insisted on bringing you food. Nothing like what you usually got.
"You've got one of the easiest orders to pack in the system," he continued with an easy laugh. "Never changes."
You looked down into your empty trolley. "I don't remember ordering any of that."
He blinked. "...Really?"
"I haven't done online groceries in months."
"Oh." His smile returned, uncertain now. "I guess whoever orders for you just has your account."
You wandered the aisles in a daze after that.
You picked up a box of sugary cereal, then hesitated.
Hadn't you loved this?
Or had you only bought it once?
You reached for the frozen buffalo chicken protein pizza.
No. You preferred the greasy cheesy ones.. Didn't you?
By the time you reached the checkout, your trolley contained almost nothing.
A loaf of bread. Milk. Pasta.
You couldn't remember what else belonged in your kitchen. Everything you reached for came with a second thought.
Damian doesn't buy this.
Not I don't like this. Damian doesn't buy this.
Somewhere, without noticing, you'd stopped shopping for yourself and you'd started shopping according to habits that weren't yours.
When you unlocked your apartment later that evening, you opened the pantry and simply stood there.
Brown rice. Herbal teas. Wholegrain crackers. Natural peanut butter. Every shelf was neat. Organised. Restocked.
You tried to remember buying any of it.
You couldn't.
The only thing you were certain of was that Damian liked all of it.
For the first time since you'd met him, a thought occurred to you that made your skin crawl.
You couldn't remember the last decision you'd made that had remained entirely your own.
↑→↓←
Which doors you were expected to use. Which routes you naturally took through Wayne Enterprises without thinking. Which elevators always seemed to arrive when you were alone, and which ones never did.
It wasn’t obvious enough to call it anything. That was the problem.
If someone had asked you directly whether you were being controlled, you would have said no. You still had your job. Your own apartment. Your own name on the lease. You could leave the building whenever you wanted.
Except you didn’t, not without telling Damian first.
And somehow it had become normal.
It had started as courtesy. You told him when you were heading home so he didn’t “worry about your commute.” Then it became easier to mention where you were going so he wouldn’t text. Then it became automatic, like checking the weather before leaving the house.
Now, when you didn’t say anything, things got complicated.
A car would be waiting when you stepped outside anyway. A message would arrive asking if you’d changed plans.
Once, when you’d tried to leave without telling him at all, security had stopped you at the ground floor.
“Mr Wayne requested confirmation,” the guard had said, checking a list he clearly thought you belonged on. “Just routine.”
You remembered standing there, keycard in your hand, realising you didn’t know when your movements had become something that required confirmation.
You hadn’t argued. There was nothing to argue against that didn’t make you sound paranoid.
So you went back upstairs, and sent Damian a message saying you’d “forgotten something.”
He replied almost immediately.
Good. You’re learning to check in properly.
You stared at the screen for a long time after that.
The worst part wasn’t the obvious things. It was the gaps.
Like how your phone stopped suggesting certain places because you “never went there anymore.” Or how your usual café no longer even appeared in your saved locations. Or how friends stopped inviting you out because every time they tried, schedules collapsed in ways no one could quite explain.
You told yourself it was coincidence until coincidence became too consistent to ignore.
When you asked Maya, your coworker from accounting, the one person who still occasionally tried to include you in plans, she hesitated.
“I mean… it’s always something,” she said carefully one afternoon over coffee. “You’re either busy or something comes up right after you say yes. It’s like… bad timing, constantly.”
“I don’t cancel things,” you said automatically.
She gave you a look you couldn’t quite read. “I know. That’s why it’s weird.”
She didn’t say Damian’s name. No one ever did directly when it felt like it might matter.
But it hung there anyway. Unspoken.
The moment you started to properly feel it, really feel it, was the night you tried to stay out late.
It wasn’t even rebellion. It was exhaustion. You’d been at work too long, your head aching, your phone already buzzing with reminders you hadn’t asked for. So when Maya suggested grabbing dinner nearby, you said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.
For once, nothing immediately fell apart.
No cancelled booking. No sudden emergency. No interrupted plan.
You almost relaxed.
Then your phone rang.
Damian.
You stared at the screen for a few seconds before answering.
“You’re not home,” he said without greeting.
“I’m out.”
A pause. Not surprised. Measured.
“With Maya.”
“Yes.”
Another pause, shorter this time.
“I see.”
Something in his tone made you feel sick. “I didn’t tell you because I thought it didn’t matter,” you added quickly. “It’s just dinner.”
“It matters,” he said simply.
Then, after a beat: “You’re deviating from routine again.”
“I’m allowed to have dinner with a friend.”
“You are allowed to leave the environment I’ve structured for your stability, yes.”
You closed your eyes. “There is no environment you’ve structured for me.”
Silence on the line.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “You’re tired. Your judgement will be impaired tonight.”
“That’s not your call.”
“It is when you don’t recognise your own limits.”
Something cold settled behind your ribs. Across the table, Maya was watching you now, pretending not to.
“I’m fine,” you said, quieter.
“You’re not,” Damian replied.
And then, almost gently, “I’ll send a car.”
“I don’t need one.”
“You do.”
You stood up so abruptly your chair scraped the floor.
“I said no.”
The line went cold.
“I hear you,” Damian said.
That should have been the end of it.
Instead, he added: “But you’re still not staying out late.”
You stood there holding your phone, realising slowly that he hadn’t threatened you. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even argued. He had simply stated the outcome as something already decided.
Maya said your name, cautiously, and you barely heard her..
You weren’t being managed. You were being kept track of. And you were just now realising how much of your life now required permission you didn’t remember giving.
↓↑→←
The sleek, black sedan pulled up to the curb of the restaurant with a silent, predatory grace. The driver was a man who looked like he had been trained to move without making a sound.
He simply stood by the door, waiting. He didn't look at Maya. He didn't look at the other patrons. He looked only at you, with the expectant, neutral gaze of a handler waiting for a well trained pet to finish its meal.
You felt Maya’s eyes on you, heavy with a mixture of pity and confusion. "Are you.. is everything okay?" she whispered.
"It's fine," you lied, the words tasting like ash. "Just... a long day."
As you slid into the back of the car, the scent of the interior, expensive leather, rain, and that faint, sharp undertone of mint that always seemed to cling to Damian’s presence hit you.
The seat was heated, perfectly adjusted to a temperature you hadn't chosen but always found comfortable. The door closed with a heavy, pressurized thud, sealing you into a private, silent world.
You didn't have to check your phone to know he was watching. You could feel the weight of his attention even from miles away.
When you finally reached the penthouse, the lights were dimmed to a soft, amber glow. The apartment was silent, save for the low hum of the climate control. You kicked off your shoes, feeling the sudden, overwhelming urge to just crawl into bed and disappear, but the routine wouldn't allow it.
Damian was waiting in the living area. He wasn't sitting on the sofa like you expected. He was standing by the floor to ceiling windows, a glass of dark liquid in his hand.
He didn't turn when you entered. He didn't need to. He knew the cadence of your footsteps. He knew the exact moment you crossed the threshold.
"You're late," he said. It didn’t sound like a scolding.
"The dinner ran long," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. You walked past him toward the kitchen, but he moved with a sudden, fluid grace, intercepting your path.
His tall, lean frame cast a long shadow over you. He reached out, his hand moving to your chin, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with gentle pressure.
His touch was reminiscent of how he handled the high bred hounds at the manor. Firm, possessive, and entirely devoid of the hesitation one might show a peer.
"You look disheveled," he murmured, his eyes scanning your face, searching for any sign of distress, any sign of 'damage' caused by the outside world. "The city is loud, chaotic. It's too much for you. You shouldn't be out there so late, where things are unpredictable."
"I'm not a child, Damian," you said, though the words felt weak even to your own ears.
"No," he agreed, his thumb moving to brush against your lower lip. "You are much more precious than a child. You are.. delicate. You require a specific kind of stewardship."
He leaned in closer, his scent that cool, sharp mint enveloping you. "When you wander without a leash, you get lost. You get tired. You let people like Maya fill your time with trivialities that serve no purpose for your well being."
A shiver ran down your spine. He spoke of your life as if it were a garden he had planted. He didn't see your independence as a virtue, he saw it as a vulnerability.
"I have dinner planned for you tomorrow," he said, his voice dropping to that smooth, harmonic register that usually calmed you, but now made your heart race with a strange, trapped sensation. "Something light. Something that will help you recover from today's.. exertion."
He stepped back, finally releasing you, but the space he left behind felt cold. He turned his gaze toward the window again, the conversation effectively over.
"Go wash up," he commanded softly. "I've already laid out your clothes. The silk ones. They're softer on your skin."
As you walked toward the bedroom, you realised with a sinking heart that he hadn't even asked how your night was. He hadn't asked if you enjoyed the food or if Maya had said anything interesting. He only cared that you had returned to the enclosure. He only cared that his most cherished thing was back where it belonged: within his reach, under his eyes, and entirely under his care.
You felt like a bird in a gilded cage, and the most terrifying part was how much you had started to rely on the bars to keep you upright.
You had found it tucked away in a drawer of a desk in the library at the manor. A drawer you were never supposed to touch, a space meant for his private ledgers.
It was a small, leather bound sketchbook. Looked to be as old if not older than Damian himself.
You had opened it, expecting business notes or tactical maps.
Instead, you found your own soul.
Every "Are you there?" you had scrawled on your skin as a lonely child was there, preserved in his precise, elegant ink. Every "Please answer" was captured in his beautiful, sweeping script. He hadn't ignored you. He had collected you. He had been reading your heart for years, documenting your loneliness as if it were a sacred text.
The notebook slipped from your hands, hitting the thick rug with a dull thud.
Page after page of your own handwriting stared back at you. Preserved.
Every childish question. Every lonely afternoon. Every desperate, humiliating attempt to convince yourself someone might be listening.
You remembered writing most of them.
You remembered crying after some of them.
You remembered eventually stopping.
Your entire life reduced to paper.
"You were always a curious one," a smooth, deep voice drifted from the doorway.
You bolted upright, your heart hammering hard against your ribs. Damian stood there, silhouetted by the warm light of the hallway. He didn't look angry. He didn't look caught. He looked... satisfied.
"You-you’re.." you breathed, the words trembling. "My soulmate..?"
Damian crossed the room, his movements silent and predatory. He didn't stop until he was hovering over you.
He sank to his knees in front of you, reaching out. His fingers tangled in your hair, petting you with that same, terrifyingly gentle devotion he gave to his most prized pets.
"I was observing," he corrected softly, his deep emerald eyes locked onto yours. "I was waiting until you were ready. Until the world had finished bruising you so that I could be the one to mend you."
"You've been mending me?" You let out a breathless, hysterical laugh. "Damian, you've been curating me! The cars, the security, the 'routines'.. you weren't helping me live. You were making sure I didn't wander off!"
"And why shouldn't you be kept close?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.
His scent that cool, intoxicating mint filled your senses, making your head swim. "The world is a jagged, cruel place. It doesn't know how to handle someone as precious as you. They see a person, they see a worker, a friend, a stranger. They don't see the miracle that you are."
"I'm not a miracle," you protested, trying to push his chest away, but your hands felt weak against his lean muscle. "I am a person. I have a life. I have choices."
"You have my choices," he whispered, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a rhythmic, soothing motion. "And they are all designed for your happiness. Is it so wrong to want to ensure your comfort? To ensure you are fed, rested, and loved without the interference of the mundane?"
He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. It burned. Felt nothing like the passion you’d always hoped for.
"You're sick.." you whispered, the word feeling absurd in the face of his overwhelming tenderness.
Damian pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, a small, boyish grin the one that usually looked charming but now looked devastating touching his lips. "A harsh term. I prefer... devoted."
He stood up, reaching down to take your hand. He didn't pull you, he simply offered his palm, waiting for you to take it. It was an invitation, but you knew it was also a command.
"Come," he said, his voice a warm, melodic hum. "You've had a shock. You're trembling. Let's get you settled. I've had Alfred prepare that tea you like, and the new linens are ready." His voice was calm.
If anything, faintly disappointed when you didn’t move. Like bat-cow had wandered somewhere she wasn’t meant to and now required collecting.
You looked at him. Really looked. For the first time since meeting him, pieces that had never seemed connected began slotting together with nauseating precision.
The lunches. The phone calls. The coat. Your coffee. The security downstairs who somehow always recognised you. The reception staff who smiled before you’d spoken. The meetings that always happened to include Damian, regardless of whether they had anything to do with Wayne Enterprises. The quiet, invisible way your life had bent around him until his presence no longer felt unusual.
You couldn’t remember when that had happened. Perhaps that was the point.
“…It was you.”
It came out barely above a whisper. “The whole time.”
Damian crossed the room without hurry.
He stopped close enough that you could smell the familiar scent of mint clinging to his clothes. “I had intended to tell you.”
“When?”
“When it no longer frightened you.”
You laughed. A small, broken sound that didn’t resemble amusement.
“You’ve been lying to me since the day we met.”
“I omitted information.”
“You watched me tell you about my soulmate.”
“Yes.”
“You listened while I told you I wished I’d been born normal.”
His expression changed then. Something softened around his eyes. “I know.”
“I know,” he repeated quietly. “I read every one of those thoughts long before you said them aloud.”
He reached past you, lifting the notebook from the floor with surprising care before setting it back on the desk.
“I remember every message.” His fingertips rested against the worn leather cover.
“‘Are you there?’”
Your breathing caught.
“‘Please answer.’”
You couldn’t move.
“‘I think something’s wrong with me.’”
He recited them without looking.
He already knew them. Every single one.
“I was eight,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I thought…” Your voice failed.
“I know.”
You stared at him. “You don’t understand.”
“No.”
He looked back at you with complete certainty. “I understand perfectly.” There was no hesitation. No apology. No shame. “I know what you believed.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward your forearm before returning to your face.
“I know how often you blamed yourself.”
He lifted a hand, brushing an invisible crease from your sleeve with the same absent care he’d shown a hundred times before.
“I know you stopped buying caramel because I preferred vanilla. I know you only pretend to like herbal tea. I know you sleep better if the room is colder. I know you become overwhelmed when supermarkets are crowded. I know you forget to eat whenever work becomes stressful.”
A flicker of genuine confusion crossed his face. “I know you better than anyone.”
“You’ve been watching me.”
“Of course I have.” The answer came so naturally that, for a second, it almost sounded ridiculous that you’d asked.
“I lost so many years.” His voice remained even. “I have been correcting that.”
He looked around the room. At the books on the shelves. The chair by the window. The cup of tea growing cold beside the sofa. Your home.
Then he looked back at you. “I have spent every day since finding you making your life easier.” He smiled softly. “You call it manipulation because you insist on imagining the life you had before I arrived.” He stepped closer. “So do I.”
There was no triumph in his expression. Only something devastatingly gentle. “I remember the person who apologised for taking up space. The person who believed fate had simply… forgotten them.”
His hand settled lightly against your cheek. “I remember because I was the one reading it.”
“You keep looking at everything I’ve done and asking yourself how I could justify it.” His forehead rested lightly against yours. “You’ve misunderstood.”
His voice dropped into something almost unbearably soft. “I’ve never had to.”
There wasn’t the slightest doubt in him. Not after the notebook. Not after the messages. Not after so many years. In Damian’s mind, he’d already spent a lifetime loving you.
The only difference now was that you finally knew his name.
Please comment and reblog :)
13K+ words, 77K+ characters, 1K+ sentences, 1K+ paragraphs, 47 minute average reading time, 1 hour 11 minute average speaking time.
I lowkey really rushed this one to get it out before the end of the month, so I apologise if it’s obvious
Martina McBride didn't win Country Music Association Song of the Year for a song about how burning your house down with your abusive husband still inside it is good, noble, and an allegory for the American Revolution for people to act like the genre belongs to bootlicking fucks
how the hell did I leave Morgan Wade off this list. wrote a song about being depressed, alcoholic, and suicidal and how mental illness stigma sucks, saw how much people connected with it, wrote a Part II of that song about how she's doing better now but you're never totally free of the risk of relapse. fucking icon.
I specifically curated this list so people couldn't be like "ah yes but you see here is my simple binary of good and bad country music which always works", I made sure to add different genders, eras, subgenres, etc and y'all are still pulling that shit in the tags!
listen. Alan Jackson, the archetypal mister big hat man sitting on a tractor singing about a pickup truck, wrote a shockingly normal song about 9/11 that was like "yeah I don't know jack shit about politics but my copy of the bible says we're supposed to love everyone" and then went on the radio and explained how he specifically wanted to write a song about that day that "wasn't vengeful". Miranda Lambert took the southern leftist slogan "y'all means all" and made it the title of a corny ass pop-country song for the Queer Eye soundtrack. Kenny Chesney stole a horse from a cop and Tim McGraw put the cop in a chokehold defending him, and I know that's not about their music but it is, and this is very important, fucking sick as hell
it's fine if you only listen to female country artists or pre-1990 country artists or whatever the fuck you want but stop acting like you've cracked the secret code to dividing a whole genre of art into good pure anti-establishment folk songs vs bad corrupted right-wing sellout pulp
Luke Combs covering Fast Car and keeping the line "I work in the market as a checkout girl" and doing an interview about how he couldn't change a single word because it's not his story. king shit
Morgan Wallen doing I Had Some Help, literally the first song that spoke to me as a male survivor of domestic abuse. also shoutout to the guy for getting caught saying a racial slur and responding by specifically telling his fans not to defend him and raising a bunch of money for the Black Music Action Coalition. bro had an engraved invitation to the culture war and said "nah I'd rather be normal"
Shaboozey just absolutely obliterating the drunk roadhouse anthem glass ceiling
Maren Morris and Brothers Osborne with a song that okay, released in 2019 but I didn't hear until recently, about how good friends mind their own business and let you love whoever you want and also get high with you when you're broke
Kimberley Perry! If I Die Young Part 2!! "actually I'm glad I lived, bitch" ass song that I bet is gonna mean a LOT to kids fighting depression
Kelsea Ballerini and Noah Kahan with Cowboys Cry Too. okay it's shallow and corny but genuinely a shallow and corny song about how men shouldn't be afraid to have feelings is what a lot of men need
Reblogging from myself to also note: country music has roots in black history. It is important to note that while many stars of country music have been white, the genre has been appropriated and exploited to prop up white American nationalism. The creation of an entire “Urban Country” genre at the Grammy’s is inherently racist and denies the origins of country music as we know it today. Google is free but it’s also slop now so here are some links. Please feel free to DM me with more or add on to this. I am white and learned these things after years of growing up while my family listened to pick-up truck country music and yee-hawed about invading Iraq. I’ve relearned to love it and its roots when I became better educated on its history.
A new Ken Burns documentary explores African-American influences on country music's origins, long before the rise of Lil Nas X
Beyoncé is the latest artist to stir up conversation about country music and Blackness, but she’s not the first. Those roots go back to the
If you picture a stereotypical country music band, you might call to mind a crew of musicians playing the banjo, a mandolin, the fiddle—mayb
Artists like Beyonce and Lil Nas X are drawing mainstream attention to a tradition that is alive and well—thanks to the contributions and in
summary: you're Teddy's babysitter who Remus is absolutely not head over heels over... but what happens when his ex-wife and mother of his kid shows up one day after being gone for six years?
pairing: singledad!Remus x babysitter!reader
tags: long afk but worth it i promise, muggle!au, modern!au, single dad remus, age!gap sorta (reader is 24 and remus is 32), reader is lonely and so is remus:(, angst, happy ending & Tonks slander for the plot im so sorry i love her i swear.
The first time you babysat Teddy Lupin he bit you. He bit you hard.
You'd think a six year old would be a tiny bit more mature when trying to express big big feelings but oh well...
The first time you properly met Remus Lupin, he was leaning against the bathroom doorway while you searched his medicine cabinet for a bandage, in need of it for small little bite-sized cuts, courtesy of his son's surprisingly sharp teeth.
"I promise he doesn't have rabies." he says, looking extremely apologetic as he hands you a small box of dinosaur band-aids
You looked down at the cartoon triceratops smiling up at you.
"Sorry, we only have these and I keep them in my room because Teddy likes to put them on everything."
"Well," you said, peeling open the Band-Aid. "At least he has good taste."
"In band-aids?"
"In victims."
For the first time since you'd arrived, Remus laughed and the sound surprised both of you.
Teddy had his father's laugh, you'd come to learn. It escaped them in stages: a huff through his nose, a smile he tried and failed to suppress, and then a laugh proper, warm and low and wonderfully unguarded.
Remus thought you'd quit after Teddy bit you, instead, you taught him all afternoon how to express overwhelming joy through words and hugs. He hired you on the spot.
As it turned out, working for Remus Lupin fit surprisingly well into your schedule. He lived only fifteen minutes from campus and taught there himself, though from the other side of the lectern and thankfully not in classes corresponding your major. Getting from your classes to his house was only a fifteen-minute drive.
After the toddler had scared six nannies already, Remus the atheist thought of going to a church and say thanks to The Man Himself when his son seemed so accepting of you. None of the others had lasted more than a month after some incidents... like the one time where Teddy learned that pretending to cry guaranteed attention and subsequently produced tears on command whenever vegetables appeared on his plate, or when he convinced a nanny he had swallowed a coin.
He had not.
He simply wanted to know what happened when people thought you had.
And there came you.
A woman in her mid-twenties, almost done with college and desperately in need of cash.
Somehow, you possessed the extraordinary ability to turn Teddy Lupin into a less unhinged version of himself simply by speaking to him as though he were a thinking human being. A rather radical approach for any of the other babysitters that had had the misfortune of looking after him.
The first month, Teddy stopped biting people.
The second month, he started waiting by the living room window for your car.
By the third, he knew your class schedule better than you did.
"You're late." He accused, arms tightly around himself to show he was clearly furious.
You checked your watch. "I am four minutes early."
"You were eight minutes earlier yesterday."
"That's not how being late works, bubba."
Teddy narrowed his eyes. You narrowed yours right back. Then he broke into a fit of giggles and forced you to play hide n' seek with him for the third time that week.
One rainy afternoon, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor helping Teddy build a cardboard castle from old delivery boxes his dad had abandoned months ago.
The structure was ugly. Dangerously unstable. And somehow required seventeen rolls of tape his dad would absolutely need at some point of the apocalypse he had bought them for.
"Who lives there?" you asked, taping one of the makeshift windows to the side of the castle. You could've pursued architecture.
"A dragon."
"Only a dragon? A single one?"
"A dragon and me." He nods, like it's obvious, like it's a universal truth.
You nodded solemnly, catching one of the falling pieces from the roof. "Fair enough."
Teddy considered this. He looked at you from head to toe, still wearing the princess hat you made for yourself with cardboard and glittery pink markers. "And you." He decides
Your hands paused. "Oh."
"And Dad, I guess."
"How generous of you." You smile
Teddy shrugged. "The dragon likes you."
Remus noticed it before you did.
The way Teddy reached for you first whenever he was upset. The way he shouted your name the moment he got a good grade. The way he insisted on saving half his desserts for you. The way the house seemed fuller whenever you were in it.
Warmer. Louder. Happier.
Ever since Tonks had left not long after Teddy was born, the house had felt different. Quieter. Not in the literal sense; if anything, Teddy seemed determined to produce enough noise for three people. But there was an emptiness to it all the same. A second mug never taken down from the cabinet. A side of the bed that remained untouched. Conversations that ended before they began because there was nobody to have them with. At first, Remus had noticed it everywhere.
In the silence that greeted him after putting Teddy to sleep.
In the groceries he no longer bought.
In the absence of someone asking how his day had been.
Then life carried on, as it tended to do. Teddy grew. The laundry piled up. Bills had to be paid. Homework from both his son and his students needed checking. Somewhere between surviving and parenting, the loneliness stopped feeling like an intruder and settled into something more permanent. A piece of furniture. An old ache. The sort of thing he only noticed when it wasn't truly there.
Which was perhaps why your arrival caught him so off guard: You filled space without trying to.
Suddenly there was laughter coming from the living room when he got home from work. Someone stealing the good pens from his desk. Someone else reminding Teddy to brush his teeth. Someone sitting at the kitchen counter while he made dinner, telling him about a professor who couldn't work the projector.
The house wasn't less messy or more manageable. If anything, it was louder than ever. But it felt alive again.
One evening, after putting Teddy to bed, you found Remus standing in the kitchen nursing a mug of tea. "He's asleep?" he asks, pulling the little tea bag in and out of the water of his cup, the scent of camomile filling the room.
"Barely." You say with a groan, sitting on the kitchen island with a small thud.
This had become a ritual, of sorts. Talking with Remus about both of your days, or your lives, before he awkwardly slipped the fifty dollar bill across the counter and you slipped out the door to go home.
"He asked for three stories?"
"Four."
Remus winced. "My condolences, love."
You laughed. He smiled.
And then neither of you looked away quite as quickly as you should have. It lasted only a second. Maybe two. He should be grabbing his wallet instead of staring at you like a creep, he thought briefly. But something shifted. Not enough to name. Not enough to acknowledge. Just enough to notice. Just enough to remember.
The first school event you attended happened entirely by accident. Or at least that's what you told yourself.
"Dad can't come to my school thing." Teddy delivered the news with all the gravity of someone announcing a death in the family and the hopefulness of asking for extra candy. You glanced up from his math worksheet spread across the kitchen table. "What do you mean he can't come?"
"He has a meeting at his school." He sighs, resting his chubby cheek in his hand as he scribbles down the page instead of writing actual numbers.
"Oh."
Teddy stared. You stared back. The silence stretched.
"Okay?"
"It's my assembly." Teddy said in the whiniest of tones, spinning around in his chair without taking his eyes off of you, turning his head every time his back faced you
"I know- Bubba, you're going to get dizzy and vomit those dino nuggets, stop."
He stops himself, his little hands clawing at the kitchen island to make himself sit straight again. "You have to come!"
You blinked. "I absolutely do not."
"You do!"
"Teddy."
"You're my emergency contact." He says in an attempt to somehow tie you into a school assembly.
"Your dad is your emergency contact." Busted. Your smirk is proud, like you defeated a debate professor rather than a six year old.
"You're my second emergency contact." He looked unbearably pleased with himself. As though he'd just discovered a legal loophole.
You sighed. "That is not how this works."
"It is if I start crying." He grins.
"You wouldn't."
His eyes immediately began watering.
"Oh, for God's sake- fine, fine, fine!"
The assembly took place on a Thursday morning. You had skipped a lecture to be there. A decision you absolutely weren't regretting as you sat in an uncomfortable folding chair surrounded by parents.
Definitely not. Not even a little.
The gymnasium was packed. Children buzzed with excitement. Teachers ran around looking exhausted. A little girl dressed as a sunflower was already crying and smudging her seed makeup.
It was chaos.
"Teddy Lupin?" a woman sitting beside you asked.
You looked up. "Yeah!"
The woman smiled. "Oh, you're his mother."
The words hit you so unexpectedly that your brain short-circuited.
"No."
"No?" The woman looked awfully confused.
"No." You laughed awkwardly. "I'm not."
"Oh."
You should have corrected her.cYou should have explained. Babysitter. Family friend. Anything.
Instead, your head drifted toward the stage. Toward Teddy. Toward the little paper crown sitting crookedly on his head. Toward the seat beside you. Empty and reserved for Remus.
A faculty emergency had kept him away.
You'd watched him apologize to Teddy all morning.
Watched Teddy pretend not to care.
Watched Remus look heartbroken anyway.
"It's complicated," you decided on.
The woman nodded with a careful smile as if that explained everything.
Maybe it did.
The moment Teddy stepped onto the stage, he found you. Not his teacher. Not his classmates. You.
His entire face lit up. He waved both arms enthusiastically and showed off the crown you had made him days before.
You waved back. A teacher immediately pushed his hands down and he looked bothered but then... The performance began.
Teddy missed half his cues. Forgot two lines. Knocked over a cardboard tree. And somehow still managed to be the most amazing thing you had ever seen. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt and he laughed with you. By the end, you had nearly two hundred photos on your phone.
Half of them blurry. All of them precious.
Remus called before you even reached your car with Teddy in hand, a huge ice cream on his as you walked in the school's parking lot.
"How was it?"
You smiled. "You owe me another fifty dollars."
"What?" You can hear the smile on his voice.
"I sat through forty-five minutes of second graders singing off-key, I'm entitled to financial compensation."
A pause. Then:
"So it was good?"
You could practically hear the hope in his voice. You thought of the photograph you took earlier, now on your main wallpaper.
Teddy, grinning proudly from the stage. Paper crown crooked. Missing front tooth. The happiest, most perfect kid in the world.
"It was perfect."
The silence on the other end lasted a moment longer than it should have. "Thank you." Something in his voice made your chest ache.
"It wasn't a big deal, Remus."
"It was."
You leaned against your car as Teddy got inside. Suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. "What are you doing now?" he asked.
"Dropping Teddy at campus and then home... why?"
Another pause. Then: "Teddy wants to celebrate."
You laughed.
"Celebrate what?"
"This morning he said something about surviving elementary theatre."
"Fair."
"Would you...?" The hesitation surprised you. "Would you like to come to dinner?"
You should have said no.
You had reading to do.
Laundry.
Assignments.
A life outside of the Lupins.
Instead— "Only if Teddy picks the restaurant." Remus groaned.
"Oh no."
"What's wrong?" You frown, thinking for one terrible moment that dinner plans were cancelled.
"He likes that dinosaur-themed place."
"You say that like it's bad." You smile, getting inside the car and buckling Teddy's seatbelt.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Remus said gravely, "she's encouraging him!"
You spent dinner watching the performance's videos, laughing hysterically at Teddy making excuses for stepping on another boy's feet while dancing and how the choreography was super tough.
Much later, neither of you would be able to say exactly when you stopped feeling like Teddy's babysitter.
Only that, somehow, somewhere between dinosaur bandages, cardboard castles and bedtime stories, you had become part of the family. And nobody seemed particularly interested in giving you back.
Summer turned into autumn.
Autumn turned into winter.
And somewhere in between, you stopped knocking.
It had happened after Teddy came down with a stomach bug and Remus got stuck in traffic on the way home from campus. He'd handed you a spare key the next morning with a mumbled, "Just in case." You'd accepted it without much thought.
Months later, it still hung from your keychain.
"Technically," Remus had said once, watching Teddy color at the kitchen table, "you're only supposed to use it for emergencies."
Teddy didn't even look up from his crayons. "She lives here."
You nearly choked on your coffee. "I absolutely do not."
"You have a key."
"That doesn't mean I live here, Bubba. I got my own place-."
"You have pajamas."
"They're for sleepovers when you're too much of a baby to sleep alone when your dad's late!" You laugh
"You have a toothbrush." He doesn't take the bait. He will tolerate being called a baby if it is to prove a point.
"Teddy."
"You have your own mug." You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because annoyingly enough, the little traitor was right.
The mug sat beside the coffee machine every morning; a chipped blue thing with tiny stars painted around the rim. Nobody remembered how it had become yours. One day it simply had.
Much like the cardigan hanging over the back of the couch, the spare phone charger Remus had bought for you that now rested permanently plugged into the kitchen outlet. The blanket Teddy insisted belonged to you during movie nights. Little pieces of yourself scattered throughout the house.
Evidence. Proof.
Signs of a life quietly intertwining with theirs. Not that anyone seemed particularly concerned about it. Especially not Remus.
One evening, after a particularly miserable exam, you let yourself into the house and immediately dropped your backpack onto the floor.
"I'm dropping out."
"Hi, sweetheart."
Remus looked up from where he stood at the stove.
"You didn't even ask what happened." You groan, taking off your shoes and padding inside.
"You say you're dropping out at least twice a month." Remus laughs, handing you tea that was already waiting for you in the blue starry mug.
"I mean it this time."
"You meant it last time."
"And the time before that." Teddy chimes in.
"Exactly."
You narrowed your eyes. He smiled into his tea.
Teddy looked up from the table. "I think she's... bluffing!" You had taught him that word a month ago when he heard you singing a song and asked what 'bluffing' meant.
"Thank you, Theodore." Remus hums
"You're welcome."
And for a brief, stupid moment, standing there in your socks with your backpack abandoned by the door and the smell of dinner filling the kitchen, you forgot this wasn't your home. The realization came later.
Alone in your apartment, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling.
Thinking about the way Teddy had absent-mindedly reached for your hand while telling a story. The way Remus always made enough tea for two. The way neither of them seemed surprised when you showed up anymore.
Looking back, perhaps that should have worried you.
The ease of it all.
The way you slipped into their lives and they slipped into yours.
The way none of it felt temporary anymore.
The doorbell rang on a Thursday afternoon, sunset already bleeding in the sky.
Teddy was halfway through explaining why dinosaurs would perform terribly in modern society when Remus got up to answer it. "Don't move," he told his son.
"I wasn't planning to."
"That's what you said before climbing onto the garage roof."
"I was trying to help the bird... it was one time."
"One time too many." You laughed into your mug.
Remus rolled his eyes affectionately before disappearing into the hallway. The conversation at the table continued for all of ten seconds.
Then it stopped.
Not because of anything you could hear. Because of what you couldn't.
No footsteps.
No greeting.
No door closing.
Just silence.
A strange, heavy sort of silence.
The kind that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You exchanged a glance with Teddy. He frowned.
Then, from the hallway—
"Dora" Remus said in a broken sigh.
"Hello, Remus."
A woman's voice. Soft and familiar. A tiny bit broken around the edges.
The mug slipped slightly in your hands. Something crashed to a halt in the other room. For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Teddy's chair scraped loudly against the floor. His eyes had gone impossibly wide as he ran to the hall.
"Dad?" The word hung in the air. A heartbeat later, another one followed. Small. Disbelieving. Hopeful.
"Mom?".
Remus' ex wife.
Teddy's mom.
It was hard to put an older face to the name. Remus had told you the whole story in one of your late-night kitchen conversations after a particularly harsh day at faculty, all broken and tired. A storm raged outside, and he basically forced you to stay there and use the couch. You'd found him sitting alone in the kitchen after midnight, grading papers with the thousand-yard stare of a man questioning every decision that had led him to academia.
"Bad essays?" you asked as you poured yourself some water.
"Worse."
You set your glass down beside him. "How bad?"
Remus looked up, grabbed the paper he was grading and read: "'The Industrial Revolution was important because industry was invented.'"
You winced. "That's rough."
"I nearly resigned." The laugh that followed faded quickly. He put down the pen and took off his glasses, running a hand through his sandy hair as he took a deep breath. Silence settled between you. Comfortable.
The kind that only existed after months of knowing someone.
Then, without really meaning to, your eyes drifted toward the photograph on the fridge. The same photograph you'd seen dozens of times.
A younger Remus. A baby Teddy. A woman with big eyes and pink hair.
"Was she funny?" The question escaped before you could stop it.
Remus followed your gaze. For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then... "Very."
You nodded then waited.
Eventually, he sighed. "You're curious."
"A little." you admit, the greenish water in your cup suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. God why did you have to be so nosy, the topic was clearly sensitive for the man and-
"Fair." He says before looking up "Her name's Nymphadora."
You immediately grimaced. "That's fucking criminal."
"It is." He laughs
"What kind of parent names a child Nymphadora?" I sigh
"The kind who hated her almost as much as she did."
That earned a genuine laugh. Then his expression softened. Not with longing. With memory. "She was loud."
You smiled. "Teddy had to get it from someone."
"Impossible not to notice when she entered a room." His fingers tapped absent-mindedly against the mug in front of him as he stared into the garden. "She loved Teddy."
You hesitated. Past tense. Loved.
Not loves.
Loved. The distinction settled heavily in your chest. "What happened?"
For a second, you thought he'd dodge the question like the many times Sirius made a joke about it during family dinners. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. Looking older suddenly. More tired.
"We had Teddy."
You waited. "And?"
"And she left." Just like that. No dramatic explanation. No elaborate story. Three words.
You frowned. "Just... left?"
"Pretty much." He scoffed but there was no anger in his voice. Which somehow made it worse.
"One day she told me she couldn't do it anymore." His eyes remained fixed on the table. "Couldn't do what?" You ask.
"Any of it... the house payment, the marriage, the responsibility."
You swallowed a small lump in your throat, scared to ask until you did "Teddy?"
A pause. Then: "Especially Teddy."
The words hit harder than they should have because they weren't cruel. Just honest. The honesty made them hurt.
"How old was he?"
"Six months."
You stared. Remus stared back into his tea.
"Some people aren't built for parenthood." You didn't know what to say. You were a dumb twenty something year old that could barely keep herself alive with campus meals and an awful sleep schedule. You couldn't judge the woman...
"So that's it?"
He laughed. A short, bitter thing. "No." The answer came immediately, almost still resentful. "No, that's not it."
For the first time that evening, genuine anger flashed across his face. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared. But it was there for the briefest second. "I spent years furious." The admission surprised you. Remus was a gentle man, in every sense of the word. He never yelled at Teddy even when he was in one of his moods, never cursed unless it was in good spirits and never once did you see him express anything but love and maybe, sometimes sadness. "I thought I'd done something wrong."
His jaw tightened. "I thought if I'd been a better husband she would've stayed."
The kitchen felt very quiet.
Then: "Eventually I realized it wasn't about me." A pause. "Or even about Teddy." Another. "She just didn't want this life." He says looking around at the house, his eyes fixated on Teddy's drawings hanging in the frigge.
You looked down at your tea.
Thought about the sleeping child upstairs. At the house built around you both. And for the first time, you understood why Remus looked so exhausted sometimes.
Because he'd spent years being both parents. Years picking up every piece she left behind.
"Do you hate her?" You mumble softly.
Remus was silent for a long time. Then he shook his head. "No." The answer sounded tired.
Not forgiving. Not yet. Just tired.
"I hate what happened." His eyes drifted toward the stairs. Toward Teddy's room. "I hate what it did to him."
A pause. "If she walked through that door tomorrow, I'd probably slam it in her face." You laughed softly.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
Another pause. Then: "But if Teddy wanted to see her..."
Remus closed his eyes briefly and you saw the fight leaving him all at once. "I'd figure it out."
And so that's why seeing this woman in the doorway, with Teddy clinging to her legs, surprised you so.
Remus was looking at the floor intently, breathing heavily, hand still in the door as Nymphadora walked inside and sat on the couch as Teddy hugged her. The sight makes your heart squeeze.
You remained rooted to your spot by the kitchen island as she finally acknowledged your presence. "Oh?" The single syllable nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
You weren't stupid.
You knew exactly how this looked.
You were already in your pajamas curled up on a kitchen stool. A mug of tea cooling beside your phone as it charged from the wall outlet, your college bag rested carelessly beside the couch. The blanket draped over your lap belonged to the house. The blue, chipped mug in your hand did too. Slowly, painfully, you became aware of every trace of yourself scattered throughout the room.
The cardigan hanging over the back of a chair. The charger plugged into the kitchen wall. The half-finished crossword you'd abandoned on the coffee table.
Evidence.
Evidence everywhere.
The realization hit all at once. This wasn't your home. But God, it looked and felt like it was. Nymphadora's gaze swept across the room. Taking everything in. The tea. The blanket. The bag. You.
Something flickered across her face. Surprise. Confusion. Perhaps even understanding. You couldn't tell.
Suddenly you felt eighteen again. Awkward. Out of place. Caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing and feeling incredibly embarassed about it.
"Teddy's babysitter." The words escaped before anyone could ask. You hated how quickly you'd said them. As though trying to justify your own existence. As though trying to explain why you were here.
Nymphadora blinked. Then smiled, a small one. Polite and distant. "Oh." The same thing she'd said before. Only this time it sounded different. You couldn't explain how, just that it did.
You looked at Teddy.
Then at Remus.
Remus still hadn't moved, and had barely spoken. The silence surrounding him felt strange. Heavy. Like a storm cloud sitting in the middle of the living room.
Nymphadora noticed too. Her smile faded slightly. "Hi, Remus."
Finally, his eyes lifted meeting hers for the first time. The room seemed to hold its breath. "Tonks."
Not Dora.
Not Nymphadora.
Not love.
Not anything affectionate.
Just Tonks.
The distance in a single syllable was almost impressive. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Years stretched silently between them. Then Teddy squeezed himself tighter against his mother's side. And whatever Remus had been about to say disappeared.
Because there it was.
The reason she was standing in his living room.
The reason he hadn't slammed the door.
The reason he probably never would.
Their son.
Of course you sleep in your place that night.
You stood, reached for your keys and your overnight bag. For the cardigan you'd left hanging over the couch weeks ago. For some reason, collecting your things felt different tonight. Like you were cleaning up after yourself. Like you were erasing evidence.
"Drive safe." Remus' voice caught you by surprise. You looked up and he was already holding the front door open.
The autumn air slipped inside. Cold against your skin.
"You too." The corner of his mouth twitched.
"I'm not driving anywhere."
"You never know." For a moment neither of you moved. The silence stretched. Not awkward.
You drove home in your pijamas and in spite of Teddy's pleas for you to stay to "meet his mommy together". The sentence made your blood boil and heart break at the same time. The sweet boy hadn't grown up with her, he didn't know her. He was just meeting her and it was the most heartbreakingly sad thing you had ever seen. How could he know her? And yet he loved her already.
The realization sat heavily in your chest during the drive home, not because Teddy was wrong but because he wasn't. She was his mother. Of course he wanted her. Of course he looked at her like she'd hung the moon. Of course he forgave her before she had even apologized. He was a child.
The next morning, you still went. Of course you did. Teddy had asked if you'd come back. You'd promised.
So you found yourself standing on the Lupins' doorstep shortly after ten in the morning with a bag of groceries balanced on your hip and a spare key in your pocket. The key felt heavier than usual. You knocked anyway out of habit.
The door swung open before you could use it. Teddy practically launched himself at you. "You came!"
You laughed as he nearly knocked you over. "I said I would."
"I know but sometimes adults lie."
"That's a concerning thing to say at eight in the morning."
"It's ten."
"Still concerning."
Teddy grinned then grabbed your hand and dragged you inside. The smile slipped from your face almost immediately. The kitchen smelled like pancakes, fresh ones. The dishes had already been washed. His favorite dinosaur cup had already been filled with juice.
And standing in the middle of it all was Nymphadora Tonks. As though she'd always belonged there. As though she'd never left.
"Oh!" she said brightly.
"Hi." You smiled automatically.
"Hi."
Teddy was already halfway through explaining something about velociraptors. Neither of you listened. For a moment, you simply stood there. Watching Nymphadora tying Teddy's shoelaces. Nymphadora reminding him to finish his breakfast. Nymphadora wiping syrup off his cheek.
Things you had done a hundred times. Things she should have been doing. The realization settled slowly.
Painfully like a bruise.
Nobody had asked you to leave. Nobody had told you that you weren't needed. And yet the space you'd occupied for years suddenly had an owner again.
You stayed for an hour. Maybe two.
Long enough to help Teddy build a blanket fort.
Long enough to laugh at one of his terrible jokes.
Long enough to realize you didn't know what you were supposed to do anymore.
When you finally stood to leave, Teddy frowned. "Where are you going?"
Home.
Nowhere.
Anywhere.
"I've got things to do."
"Like what?"
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out. Because the truth was that college was out for winter break. You didn't have classes. You didn't have assignments. You didn't have work. You had planned on spending most of your vacation here. Movie nights and board games and helping Teddy build increasingly dangerous engineering projects. You hadn't realized how much of your life had quietly rearranged itself around theirs until now.
"Oh."
Teddy seemed unsatisfied by the answer. But Nymphadora smiled. "Let her go be a grown-up."
You laughed politely. Then left.
The drive home felt longer than it should have. The apartment felt smaller. Quieter. You spent three hours wandering aimlessly between rooms.
Started a book. Put it down.
Turned on the television. Turned it off.
Made tea and accidentally made enough for two. Forgot to drink both cups.
By two in the afternoon, you were considering taking a nap simply out of boredom when your phone rang. Remus.
You answered immediately.
"Hey."
A pause.
Then: "Please tell me you're free."
You sat upright. Something in his voice made your stomach drop.
"What happened?"
Another pause, longer this time.
When he finally spoke, he sounded exhausted.
"Teddy and Tonks had a fight."
You blinked. "A fight?" He's six years old how does he manage to-
"A spectacular one."
"What happened?"
Remus sighed heavily. "I think she tried to parent him."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
You winced. That explained everything. Teddy had never loved being told what to do from anyone who wasn't Remus. Or you. That aditional thought bothered you.
"Teddy yelled that she wasn't his mother." The words landed heavily. Painfully. You closed your eyes.
"Oh fuck."
Another silence.
Then: "He locked himself in his room." You were already reaching for your shoes. "And?"
"And apparently I'm raising a tiny dictator because he says he'll only come out if you talk to him." Your heart broke instantly somewhere between the front door and your car keys. Remus let out a tired breath. "He keeps asking for you."
And suddenly, for the first time all day, you knew exactly where you were supposed to be.
The drive to the Lupins' house took twelve minutes and you spent eleven of them trying not to imagine Teddy crying. The twelfth was worse. The house was quiet when you arrived.
Wrongly quiet.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that follows shouting.
Remus opened the door before you could knock. He looked exhausted.
"Where is he?"
"Upstairs."
You were already moving.
"Hey—" You paused halfway up the stairs. Remus rubbed a hand over his face.
"He won't talk to me." The admission sounded almost defeated. You softened immediately. "I'll try."
He nodded. The door to Teddy's room was closed. A small dinosaur sticker stared at you from eye level. You knocked once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing.
"Teddy?"
Silence.
Then: "Go away."
You exhaled slowly. "No."
"Please." The word was so small and pleading it nearly broke your heart.
You rested your forehead against the door. "Teddy."
Nothing.
Then, after a moment: "...is it you?". Your throat tightened.
"Yeah, bubba s'me, open the door for me."
The lock clicked immediately. The door opened just enough for you to see one watery hazel eye. Then he launched himself at you.
Hard and nearly knocking the air from your lungs.
You caught him automatically. His face buried itself against your shoulder. And just like that, you knew.
Not because of what he said. Because of how tightly he was holding on. You had known fear like this before: the quiet kind.
The kind that settled in your chest after someone raised their voice. The kind that made you study every expression, every footstep, every slammed door. Trying to determine whether you were safe yet. You recognized it the moment Teddy looked up at you. "Hey."
His eyes were red, his chubby cheeks blotchy. A child trying very hard not to cry anymore. "Hey."
You sat down on the floor beside his bed and he immediately curled into your side. Neither of you spoke.
Sometimes there wasn't much to say.
A few minutes passed before he finally whispered "I was bad."
Your heart sank. "No bubba-" His fingers tightened in your sweatshirt.
"I was."
"Teddy."
"Mom said so."
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Not enough to knock you over. Enough. You chose your next words carefully. "What happened?" Teddy stared at the carpet. For a long time, you thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "I spilled juice."
You blinked. "That's it?"
He shrugged. Small. Miserable. Ashamed.
"There was already juice on the floor."
"Okay."
"And then I dropped the cup."
You waited.
"And then she yelled." The words came out in a rush, as though saying them quickly would make them hurt less. You felt something twist painfully inside your chest.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Recognition. Children remembered yelling differently. Adults forgot that. Adults remembered the reason. Children remembered the sinking feeling.
"I think..." Teddy swallowed. "I think she hates me."
"Oh, sweetheart, no..." The words escaped immediately, before you could stop them. His eyes filled again. And there it was.
The thing he'd been carrying around all afternoon.
Not anger. Not even sadness. Fear. The awful certainty only children could have. The belief that one mistake could make someone stop loving them. You knew that feeling far too well. You gently brushed a hand through his hair.
"Listen to me." Teddy looked up. "If somebody gets frustrated, that doesn't mean they hate you."
He said nothing. "So what if she yelled?"
You smiled softly. "Then she shouldn't have yelled."
His eyes widened as though he hadn't considered that possibility. As though adults existed in a category where they were automatically right.
"No one gets to yell at you just because they're upset." The words surprised even you. They sounded older than you remembered being. Older than you felt. You swallowed. Then nudged his shoulder gently.
"But." Teddy sniffled. "But sometimes adults mess up just like kids do."
The room fell quiet. Downstairs, a floorboard creaked, someone moving around the kitchen. Probably Remus. Probably Tonks. Probably both.
Teddy leaned into your side. "You really came." The words were barely above a whisper. You closed your eyes briefly. Then pressed a kiss against the top of his head. "Always."
And somewhere downstairs, a chair scraped across the floor. As though someone had just sat down very suddenly.
You saw less and less of the Lupins after that.
At first, you told yourself it was temporary, an adjustment period.
Tonks and Teddy needed time.
Remus and Tonks needed time.
You were being mature about it. Reasonable.
Normal.
Then one week became two, two became three, and suddenly the absence had settled into something real. The strange thing was that nobody had asked you to leave. Not once.
Teddy still asked about you.
Tonks still invited you over.
Remus still texted occasionally: A photograph of a disastrous science project, a reminder to send him the name of a book you'd recommended, a complaint about faculty meetings. Small things. Ordinary things.
Which somehow made them worse, because every message reminded you that life was continuing without you. One evening, your phone buzzed while you were making dinner for one.
remus:): Do you remember how you got Teddy to eat broccoli?
You stared at the message.
Then laughed despite yourself, replying 'Blackmail'.
His reply arrived immediately.
remus:): I knew it.
You smiled, then stared at the screen long after the conversation ended because three months ago, you wouldn't have received that question through a phone. You would've been standing in his kitchen. Stealing vegetables from Teddy's plate. Listening to Remus complain about grading.
The distance hurt in ways you hadn't expected, not because you missed the house.
Because you missed him. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.
And apparently, he missed you too. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.
Then you realized it gradually, in the way his messages lingered or in the way he found increasingly ridiculous reasons to contact you... in the way conversations that should've lasted three minutes somehow stretched into forty.
One night he called. You answered without thinking.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Silence. Comfortable. Dangerous. You sat down on your couch.
"What happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"You only call when something happened."
A low, familiar laugh.
God. You missed that laugh.
"That's offensive."
"It's true."
Another laugh, then silence again. You waited.
Eventually: "I just wanted to hear your voice."
The room stopped. Not completely. Just enough. Long enough for your heart to stumble over itself. On the other end of the line, Remus went quiet too. As though he'd only realized what he'd said after saying it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you were brave enough. So instead he asked about your classes. And you let him. Because some things were easier to survive when they remained unnamed.
Later that night, long after the call ended, Remus sat alone in the kitchen. The house was asleep. Tonks upstairs. Teddy dreaming. A mug of tea cooling between his hands. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to admit it.
The house felt full again.
It should have been enough.
For a while, he thought it might be but every time something funny happened, he still reached for his phone. Every time Teddy did something ridiculous, he wanted to tell you. Every time he saw an article about your major's studies, he thought of you. And every time he opened the front door after work, a small part of him still expected to find you sitting on the kitchen island.
Waiting. The realization terrified him. Because Tonks had come home. And somehow, impossibly, he still missed you.
At first, Remus thought time would fix it because time fixed most things. Grief dulled. Anger softened. Old wounds scarred over. That was what people said, anyway. So he tried.
God, he tried.
He took Tonks to dinner and sat beside her during movie nights and listened when she talked about the years she'd spent away. About the jobs she'd worked, about the places she'd lived, about the mistakes she'd made.
He listened because she deserved that much. Because Teddy deserved that much. Because families weren't things you abandoned the moment they became difficult. Some evenings, he would look across the dinner table and see exactly what he had wanted for years.
Tonks laughing.
Teddy talking with his mouth full.
Three plates instead of two.
A family.
A complete one.
It should have made him happy.
Instead, there was always something missing. A fourth laugh. A familiar voice from the kitchen. Someone stealing fries from Teddy's plate. Someone sitting cross-legged on the counter while he cooked. The absence followed him everywhere.
One night, Tonks reached across the couch and took his hand. Remus nearly jumped not because he didn't expect affection but because he hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd wanted it. Tonks noticed immediately. Of course she did. She'd always been good at reading people.The smile she gave him afterward broke his heart. Not because it was sad. Because it was understanding.
Weeks passed. Then months. And somehow things became worse. Not better. He found himself dreading evenings. Dreading the moments when the house finally became quiet. Because that was when pretending became hardest.
Tonks would sit beside him... close enough for him to smell her shampoo, close enough that, years ago, he would have reached for her without thinking. Now he found himself staring at the television. Or his tea. Or literally anything else.
Anything but her.
One evening, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. A simple thing. Affectionate. Normal. Remus froze. The reaction lasted less than a second. Long enough. Tonks pulled away first.
The silence afterward felt endless.
"I'm sorry."
The words escaped before he could stop them. Tonks stared at him. Then laughed softly not because it was funny, because the alternative was crying.
"You don't have to apologize." The lie hung between them. Neither of them challenged it.
That night, long after she'd fallen asleep, Remus lay awake staring at the ceiling. The room was dark. The house silent. Beside him, Tonks shifted in her sleep. For a moment, he remembered being twenty-five.
Remembered loving her.
Remembered believing that was enough.
Then his mind drifted somewhere else. To a girl sitting on a kitchen island. To laughter. To dinosaur bandages. To someone who always stole his good pens. Remus closed his eyes. The guilt was immediate.
Crushing.
Because Tonks wasn't doing anything wrong. She was trying. Trying harder than she ever had before. And somehow he still found himself reaching for memories that weren't hers.
Two months later, he woke to an empty bed. At first, he didn't think anything of it. Tonks got up early sometimes. So did Teddy. The house remained silent. Strangely silent.
Remus frowned.
Sat up.
The other side of the mattress was cold. Not recently vacated. Cold. A knot formed immediately in his stomach. He stood. Pulled on a sweater. Walked downstairs. Nobody in the kitchen. Nobody in the living room. Then he saw it.
A folded piece of paper sitting beside the coffee machine.
His name.
Written in familiar handwriting. For one terrible moment, he already knew. His hands shook as he unfolded it.
Remus,
I'm sorry.
The words blurred almost instantly. Not because he was crying. Not yet. Because he couldn't stop staring at them.
I'm sorry.
Again.
Always sorry.
Never staying.
He read the rest anyway: About not belonging here anymore. About how hard she'd tried. About how Teddy deserved better than a mother who had to force herself to stay. About how he deserved better too.
By the time he reached the end, his hands were trembling. The kitchen felt very far away. Very quiet. Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
"Teddy?" he called automatically. No answer.
Then: "Dad?"
The note slipped from his fingers.
Teddy appeared in the doorway wearing dinosaur pajamas. Still half asleep. Still smiling.
"Mom said we'd make pancakes today."
Remus forgot how to breathe. The smile disappeared immediately. Children always knew. Some instinct science was yet to figure out. Some horrible little instinct.
"Dad?" Remus swallowed. Hard. "Teddy."
The boy's face changed. Confusion. Then fear. Then understanding.
"No." The word came instantly. Before Remus had said anything. "No."
"Teddy—"
"No."
His voice cracked.
Small.
Desperate.
"No."
Remus crossed the room in two strides and caught him before he could run. Before he could fall apart. Before they both did. Teddy fought him for exactly three seconds with all his might. Then collapsed. The sob that left him sounded too big for a seven year old.
Remus held him tighter.
His own vision blurring. His own chest splitting open. Not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief felt known. Ancient. A wound reopened too many times to surprise him anymore. No.
The unbearable part was watching Teddy lose her again. And knowing he had no idea how to make it hurt less.
James takes Teddy for the afternoon. It isn't a difficult decision.
Harry adores Teddy.
Teddy adores Harry.
And James takes one look at Remus' face before saying, gently "I've got him."
Remus doesn't argue, doesn't have the energy. The house is silent after they leave and silence had never bothered him before but now it feels unbearable; Every room is full of ghosts. Tonks' coffee mug. Tonks' handwriting on the fridge. The blanket she'd used on the couch.
The things left after she left. Again.
By three in the afternoon, Remus is sitting on the kitchen floor not because he fell but because he couldn't make himself stand anymore. The note lies crumpled beside him. His tea has gone cold. The house won't stop being empty. And for the first time all day, he lets himself cry.
Not quietly.
Not dignified.
The ugly kind. The exhausted kind. The kind that comes after years.
Years of trying.
Of hoping.
Of being angry.
Then forgiving.
Then hoping again.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
James. He ignores it. It buzzes again.
And again.
Finally, he answers.
"She's gone." The words come out broken. James goes quiet immediately. "Remus—"
"She's gone."
A laugh escapes him, a horrible one.
"Again."
Silence.
"Do you want me to come over?"
"No."
"Okay."
Another pause. "Who do you want?" The question catches him off guard because the answer arrives instantly, without thinking.
Without hesitation. Without permission.
You.
The realization hits like a punch, James hears the silence and understands immediately. Of course he does. Remus presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. Humiliating. Pathetic. True.
"Oh, mate." And somehow that's worse. James sounds sad, not surprised. Like he'd been waiting for Remus to figure it out.
The call ends ten minutes later. Remus doesn't remember how. The house remains silent, he stares at his phone, at your name for a long time. Then presses call. You answer on the second ring.
"Hello?"
And that nearly does him in. Just your voice. Familiar. Warm. Normal.
"Remus?"
Nothing. His throat closes completely.
"Remus?"
More urgent now, concerned. He then tries to speak. Fails. A horrible sound leaves him instead.
Not quite a sob.
Close enough.
The silence on your end lasts half a second.
"I'm coming over."
No questions. No hesitation. No explanation. Just certainty. The line goes dead and twenty-seven minutes later, you're standing on his front porch.
Remus opens the door before you can knock, one look at him and your heart breaks.
He looks awful.
Eyes red.
Face pale.
Exhaustion carved into every line.
For a second neither of you move.
Then you step forward and Remus folds. Not dramatically. Not romantically.
Just... Falls apart.
Like something inside him finally gave way. You wrap your arms around him automatically the same way you've done with Teddy, the same way you've done with frightened children and grieving friends and exhausted classmates.
And Remus lets you, for the first time, really lets you.
His forehead presses against your shoulder, his hands clutch the back of your sweater and suddenly he's crying again.
You don't say anything. You just hold him. The way he's held everyone else for years.
Eventually the storm passes. Not completely. Enough.
You end up sitting on the kitchen floor side by side.
The evening sun creeping through the windows, neither of you looking at each other.
"I tried." His voice is rough. Raw. "I really tried."
"I know." A laugh. Broken around the edges.
"God." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I wanted it to work."
You stare at the floor.
Unable to think of anything that doesn't hurt.
Then: "I know."
Silence settles between you, the way it always has been, comfortable.
The way it probably always will be.
And suddenly Remus is so tired of pretending. So tired of carrying it. So tired of saying everything except the truth.
"I missed you."
The words slip out quietly, honestly.
Your breath catches. Neither of you move. The kitchen feels very small suddenly. Very still. Remus laughs weakly.
"I know."
Another silence.
Then: "I know I shouldn't have."
Your eyes close. Because that's the problem. Because you've missed him too. Every day. Every fucking day.
"I know." His head finally turns, meeting your gaze.
Years of affection sitting quietly between you.
Years of almosts.
Years of choosing not to look too closely.
And suddenly neither of you have the energy for denial anymore.
Not after today.
Not after everything.
"I love you."
Exhausted.
Certain.
Like admitting the sky is blue. Like admitting something everyone already knows. For a moment, you simply stare at him.
Then your eyes fill. Because of course.
Of course.
The stupid, wonderful, impossible man.
"I know."
A laugh escapes him, wet and broken. "That wasn't the response I was hoping for."
You laugh too. The first real laugh all day. Then reach for his hand. Squeeze. And finally say the thing that's been true for a very long time.
"I love you too."
Years later, Teddy would remember two things about the day his mother left.
The first was the note.
The second was that you came the way you always had.
You came with groceries because Remus had forgotten to eat, you came with ice cream because Teddy had stopped talking.
You came because nobody asked you not to.
And because, despite everything, this was still the first place you thought of when someone said home. The months that followed were difficult. Teddy was angry. Then sad. Then angry again.
Remus spent a long time pretending he wasn't heartbroken, not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief had happened years ago. No. What broke him was watching Teddy wait. Watching him glance toward the door whenever the bell rang. Watching him check his phone on birthdays. Watching hope slowly become disappointment.
There were no grand speeches, no magical solutions. Just ordinary days. Homework at the kitchen table. Movie nights. School assemblies. Burnt pancakes. Life.
Life, stubborn and relentless, carrying all three of you forward whether you were ready or not.
One day, almost a year later, Teddy stopped waiting by the window. Neither of you mentioned it. The absence hurt enough, the next year, he forgot to ask if she would call on his birthday. That hurt too.
But less.
Healing often did.
The first time Remus told you he loved you, he was crying on the kitchen floor, the second time happened six months later while you were arguing over whether dinosaurs would survive modern society, the third happened while folding laundry, the fourth happened half asleep.
By the fifth, neither of you were counting anymore.
Love, it turned out, was rarely grand.
Mostly it was repetitive.
Choosing the same person over and over again. On purpose. Years later, you found an old photograph while cleaning.
Remus and Teddy and you. A cardboard castle. The roof half collapsed. Tape everywhere.
You smiled immediately.
Teddy, now significantly taller than either of you liked to admit, glanced over your shoulder. "God."
You laughed. "What?"
"I was so weird." He sighs.
"You built a dragon fortress out of Amazon boxes."
"I know." He cringes.
"You made me wear a cardboard princess hat."
"I know." He groans.
"You bit me."
Teddy looked thoughtful. Then nodded. "Yeah." The lack of remorse after all these years was astonishing. You showed him the photograph anyway. Teddy stared at it for a long moment.
At himself.
At his father.
At you.
The smile that crossed his face was soft. Almost nostalgic.
"You know..."
"What?"
He pointed at the picture, at the three people squeezed together inside that ridiculous cardboard castle. And said, with complete certainty:
"This was always my family."
The room went quiet. Across the kitchen, Remus looked up from his book. You felt your throat tighten. Teddy didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was why he'd said it.
He grinned suddenly. Then ruined the moment completely.
"Also, I still think biting you was a good idea."
You threw a dish towel at his head.
Remus laughed. Teddy laughed harder.
And surrounded by the noise of the life you had built together, you found yourself laughing too.
The first time Teddy Lupin bit you, he left a mark on your hand.
Years later, neither of you had any idea he'd leave one on your life.
author's note: holy fucking shit this is so long im so so sorry i had a dream and had to write it out!!!! hope u enjoyed my lovelies! thanks for reading. ASKS ARE OPEN!!! I write for pretty much any fandom so feel free to ask over there <3
being a pr assistant is hard enough without superheros, soulmates and red carpets being involved. now you're the pr assistant to james barnes, the former winter soldier who is desperate to make your job harder, whether he means to or not.
alternate universe, soulmates, red string soulmates, reader-insert (no y/n,) pr assistant! reader, client! bucky, civil war bucky, fluff, angst, found family dyanmics, age gap, a kiss in the back of a limo, possession, no smut, tooth-aching story, steve is an emotional man, feral cat bucky.
18+ only — minors dni
13k words
steve rogers brings him in on a tuesday, which is already suspicious because nothing good has ever happened to you on a tuesday, and he introduces him the way you imagine you'd introduce a feral cat you'd found and were hoping someone else would take responsibility for. with a kind of cautious optimism that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"this is bucky. he needs someone."
bucky barnes is standing in the middle of your office looking at the framed new yorker cover on your wall like it has personally offended him. he's in a dark henley with the sleeves pushed up and he is, your brain notes before your professionalism can stop it, enormous. not in a way that reads as threatening exactly, though you clock that it could, but in the way of someone built by something other than a gym, broad through the shoulder and solid in a way that takes up space without trying to. his hair is long, pushed back from his face, and his jaw has the set of someone who has already decided this meeting is going to be a waste of his time.
he doesn't look at you when steve says his name.
"mr. barnes," you say.
he looks at you then. the full weight of it, direct and assessing in a way that most people aren't, the kind of look that takes actual inventory. his eyes move over your face like he's filing information and you feel it more than you'd like to.
"hi," he says. low and flat, not unfriendly, just stripped of any performance of friendliness.
not hello. not nice to meet you. hi, like he's been dragged here against his will and has decided to be minimally polite about it.
you look at steve. steve looks at you with the expression of a man who is about to leave you alone with a problem he created and knows it. "he's been doing some public appearances," he says carefully. "it's not going great."
"it's going fine." bucky doesn't turn around when he says it, still looking at the new yorker cover with the focused displeasure of a man with a genuine grievance against editorial photography.
"the senator's press team called it a diplomatic incident," steve says to you, in the tone of someone choosing their words with care.
"the senator said something stupid." flat. matter of fact.
"you told him that."
"he needed to hear it." a pause, and then, almost as an afterthought: "i said it quietly."
you look between them. you pick up your pen. "okay," you say. "let's start from the beginning."
the beginning takes forty minutes and two cups of coffee and at one point bucky gets up without explanation and walks to your window and stands there looking down at the street with his arms crossed over his chest, the muscle of his forearm catching the afternoon light, and you look at your notepad instead.
"i don't see why any of this is necessary," he says, to the window. the afternoon light catches the line of his jaw and the fall of his hair against his neck and you write something that is not a word on your notepad and then scratch it out.
"because you told a sitting senator he said something stupid."
"he did say something stupid." he says it the way people state facts. the sky is blue. water is wet. the senator said something stupid.
"bucky." it comes out before you've decided to use his name and he turns from the window when you do, which you weren't expecting. "i'm not here to manage what you think. i'm not here to tell you to agree with people you don't agree with. i'm here to manage how it lands when you say what you think out loud in front of cameras. that's a different problem."
he looks at you for a moment. really looks, in that inventory way he has that you are going to have to get used to because it is already apparent it's not going anywhere. "is it different," he says, not combative, actually asking.
"what you think and what you say and how you say it are three separate things," you say. "i only get paid to handle the last one. the rest of it is yours."
something shifts at the corner of his mouth. not a smile but the suggestion that one exists somewhere in his vicinity. he comes back and sits down in the chair across from you, picks up the coffee cup he'd abandoned, and looks at you over the rim of it with an expression that has reclassified from closed off to something more like considering.
"fine," he says. "what do you need."
"everything," you say, and flip to a new page
the first month is the hardest.
not because he's hostile, he isn't, not exactly, but because the kind of difficult he is doesn't fit any category you've worked with before. you've handled entitled and you've handled fragile and you've handled the specific nightmare of both at once. what bucky barnes is is quieter than any of those and more structural, the kind of difficult that comes from a person who has very precise ideas about what he owes the world and is in the process of deciding whether that number needs adjusting.
he shows up on time. he does what you ask. he wears the tote bag.
the first time you hand it to him he holds it at arm's length for a moment, looks at it, looks at you, and then puts it on his shoulder with the expression of a man adding something to a list he's keeping somewhere you can't access. you make a note to revisit the tote bag conversation when you have better standing to have it.
what he doesn't do is make things easy. not in a hostile way. in the way of someone who has learned to be careful about what he gives people and has not yet decided where you fall in that system. he answers your questions with the minimum words technically required to constitute answers. he reads the talking points you send and then delivers them stripped of anything that sounds like it was written by someone else, which should be a problem and somehow never is, because the things he says in his own words are usually better, and you find this professionally irritating and personally you're not examining that right now.
he's got a way of listening, too, that you notice early and keep noticing. most people, when they listen, are doing something else underneath it, preparing their response or getting bored or cataloguing the room. bucky goes still when he listens. his eyes stay on your face and the full weight of his attention settles on whatever you're saying like it's the only thing happening, and it is, you come to understand, the same quality that makes him unsettling in press situations. he's too present. people aren't used to it.
you try not to notice how it feels when it's aimed at you.
you are not always successful.
your first week with him you sit in on a public appearance at a veterans' foundation fundraiser in midtown, stationed near the back of the room with your phone and your notepad and a clear sightline to both him and the nearest exit, which you have learned to identify at every event you attend because it is professionally useful and in this particular case feels especially relevant.
the event is fine. he shakes hands. he says the right things in the right order. he has, you note with professional satisfaction, actually read the briefing document you sent him, which not every client does, and the ones who don't tend to generate incidents. he is wearing the blue henley you'd suggested because it reads as approachable without trying too hard and his hair is pushed back and he is, standing in a room full of people, still the thing everyone's eyes go to first, not because he's performing anything but because there is a quality to him that rooms respond to involuntarily, some combination of the size of him and the stillness and the fact that when he talks to someone he talks to them like they're the only person in the building.
you're watching him talk to an elderly man in a navy blazer near the drinks table when the woman next to you leans over to her companion and says, in the quiet voice of someone not quite trying to be overheard: "no string though. interesting."
her companion makes a considering sound. "maybe he just hasn't been close enough to them yet."
"or maybe they're not—"
"don't."
"i'm just saying what everyone's thinking."
you write something in your notepad that is not relevant to the event and shoot them both a nasty look for the insinuation.
on the car ride back he's quiet, looking out the window, and you're going over your notes when he says, without turning from the glass: "they were talking about it."
"yes," you say.
"they're always talking about it."
"yes," you say again, because there isn't a better answer and you have learned that he doesn't need you to have better answers, he needs you to not pretend that the worse ones aren't true.
he nods once, slowly, like he's filing this away next to everything else he files away, and you look back at your notes and don't ask the question that is sitting at the back of your throat, which is: does it bother you, and which you don't ask because you already know the answer and knowing the answer is not the same as being entitled to hear him say it.
the email came in at 7:43 in the morning, before you had finished your coffee, before you had fully accepted that this was your life now.
subject: incident at whole foods (columbus circle)
you put your mug down.
the body of the email was from suki in media response, who had been working at the firm for eleven years and had the tired, slightly faraway look of someone who had witnessed a great many things that could not be unseen. she had a habit of prefacing genuinely bad news with a single period, like a warning shot, so when you opened the email and saw the period sitting alone on its own line before the main body of text, you already knew you were going to need more coffee.
.
hi,
so the columbus circle whole foods has a new instagram account. they started it last month to post pictures of their prepared foods section. as of approximately twenty minutes ago, 47,000 people follow it.
footage attached.
best, suki
the footage was twelve seconds long. it had been captured by someone standing near the olive bar, phone at chest height, capturing the unmistakable blue-and-white striped tote bag that the office had specifically sourced for bucky barnes on the basis that it made him look approachable and domestic, because the internet had decided two months ago that the former winter soldier going grocery shopping was a form of national healing and your firm had leaned into this extremely hard.
in the twelve seconds of footage, he could be seen holding a paper number from the deli counter. he was looking at it with the focused stillness of a man who had survived more than one war and was currently deciding whether this small rectangle of paper had personally wronged him. then he looked up at the deli counter employee with an expression that was not quite threatening but was definitely in the general neighborhood of threatening, the way that certain weather systems were in the general neighborhood of catastrophic, and he said, clearly and calmly, into a whole foods that had gone somewhat quiet: "i've been waiting for seventeen minutes. i watched three people who came in after me get served. i want you to look me in the eye and tell me that the number system is working as intended."
the employee looked at him.
he waited.
"i can get a manager," the employee said.
"i would appreciate that," he nodded.
then the video ended.
you picked up your phone and called him. he picked up on the second ring, which was already a bad sign because when he was in a good mood he let it ring four or five times on principle, something about not being at anyone's beck and call, a policy you had tried to explain was inconvenient for your professional relationship and he had listened to with polite, focused attention before continuing to do it anyway.
"good morning," he said.
"good morning," you said. "i'm looking at a video."
"mm."
"of you."
"i know which one you mean."
"do you want to talk about it?"
there was a pause. in the background you could hear what sounded like eggs being cracked, which meant he was home and calm and had already filed this particular incident away into whatever internal architecture he used to categorize things that had not gone the way he planned. this was, you had learned, both a relief and a source of ongoing professional anxiety, because his equanimity about these situations was directly proportional to how little he felt he had done anything wrong.
"the number system," he said, "was not working as intended."
"bucky."
"i'm not saying the video misrepresents me. i'm saying it lacks context."
"the context being."
"that i had been waiting for seventeen minutes."
you set down your coffee mug with a small, careful click and opened your laptop. you had a google alert on his name. you had seven of them, actually, each with slightly different keyword combinations, because the internet had a great many creative ways to discuss james buchanan barnes and you needed to be ahead of at least some of them. the first one had already surfaced a reddit thread titled bucky barnes vs. whole foods: a reckoning with fourteen hundred upvotes and a comment section that was divided roughly sixty-forty between people who found this deeply humanizing and people who were concerned about the deli employee's wellbeing. buried somewhere in the middle of the thread, under a subthread that had gone sideways in the way reddit subthreads did, someone had posted a link to a quora quiz titled which avenger is your soulmate? with a caption that said touched grass once, still got bucky. it had forty-seven upvotes. you did not click it. you had a professional policy about clicking those.
"the comment section on reddit," you said, "is currently arguing about whether you were scary or whether you were in the right."
"both can be true."
"bucky, you can't say both can be true, that's not the answer."
"why not?"
"because i need to issue a statement and the statement can't be 'both can be true.'"
he was quiet for a moment. you could hear the eggs going into the pan, the sound of butter in a skillet, and you thought about how twelve months ago you had been managing the communications rollout for a mid-sized pharmaceutical company's rebranding and your biggest problem had been that the new logo looked slightly too much like a competitor's and how that problem, in retrospect, had the clean simple contours of a problem that could be solved by a graphic designer and a mildly strongly worded letter. you had been recruited for this position by a woman named linda who had the energy of someone who had survived multiple pr crises at a governmental level and who had explained the role to you over lunch in a way that made it sound like a fascinating challenge, and you had said yes because you had been twenty-five and ambitious and had believed that your skillset was transferable.
"the statement," he said, "could be that i was politely advocating for fair service."
"you made a whole foods go quiet."
"i spoke in a normal tone of voice."
"your normal tone of voice has a particular quality."
a beat of silence. "what quality."
you looked at the comment section. someone had written: he didn't even raise his voice and i am terrified. someone else had written: this is literally just a man asking a reasonable question, leave him alone. someone else had written: i need him to be patient at me next. you elected not to read that one aloud. there was a fourth comment, further down, that had been upvoted enough to sit near the top: whoever his soulmate is has the most chaotic life possible and i am so jealous. you elected not to read that one aloud either, and not only for professional reasons.
"a quality," you said carefully, "that reads as intimidating on video even when you're saying completely reasonable things."
"that's not my fault."
"it's not a matter of fault. it's a matter of optics."
"i don't like the word optics."
"i know you don't."
"it implies that what things look like matters more than what they are."
"in communications work, what things look like is literally the entire job."
there was a long pause. the eggs sounded like they were being moved around the pan with some deliberateness.
"i'll call the store," you said. "we can do a thing where you bring something. flowers or something. for the employee."
"i wasn't rude to the employee."
"i know you weren't rude. we're not correcting rudeness, we're doing gesture of goodwill, context-adding public action. we can photograph it. the tote bag reads well."
another pause. "the tote bag.." he said, in the tone of a man who had many thoughts about the tote bag and was choosing not to share them at this moment.
"the tote bag," you confirmed, "is doing a lot of heavy lifting for both of us and i need you to keep carrying it."
he made a sound that was not quite agreement and not quite disagreement, which you had learned was as close to cooperative as you were going to get on short notice. you told him you'd send logistics by noon, you told him to stay off social media until you'd drafted something, and he said "i'm not on social media.”
you made a note to check what he'd looked at.
the whole foods thing was resolved with a photograph that got picked up by three separate media outlets under headlines like bucky barnes brings flowers to whole foods: a timeline and america's redemption arc continues, apparently and, most usefully, former assassin: just like us, turns out. the employee, whose name was devon and who turned out to be a twenty-three-year-old studying film at hunter college, ended up with twenty thousand new followers and a viral clip of himself accepting the sunflowers while saying "it's all good, man" to a slightly stiff nod of acknowledgment, and the ratio on the original video shifted decisively toward deeply humanizing and away from concerning.
you had been in the job for eight months at this point. you were, by some metrics, very good at it.
the harder part was not the incidents. the incidents were, if not predictable, at least finite. something would happen, you would learn about it, you would manage the fallout, the news cycle would move on. you had a system. you had talking points. you had a laminated sheet in your desk drawer, which you had made in a moment of dark humor three months in, titled standard barnes incident response framework with categories including physical altercation (minor), physical altercation (property damage), unsolicited commentary on current events, interaction with other enhanced individuals (friendly), interaction with other enhanced individuals (unclear), and the category you revisited most often, which was simply staring.
you had also, in a small section at the bottom of the laminated sheet that you had added after the first stark foundation gala, a category called red carpet (walking out), which had its own sub-columns for time elapsed before exit, documented reason if any, and public response (scale 1-10, 10 = full crisis). you had used it four times.
the briefing for the times interview happens on a wednesday afternoon in month four, in your office, rain coming down the windows, and you've been through the likely questions and the deflections and the things to stay away from and he's been listening the way he always listens, that full and present attention that you have stopped trying to get used to and started simply accounting for, when you get to the last item on your list.
"the soulmate question," you say, keeping your voice completely even, "is going to come up. it comes up in everything."
the quality of the air in the room changes. you feel it before you can see it, the way he goes a different kind of still. not the resting stillness but the other kind, the one that costs something.
"i know," he says.
"i need to know how you want to handle it. we can prepare a deflection, something short that doesn't invite follow-up. or you can decline and we frame it as a private matter, which most outlets will respect. or we address it briefly and on your terms, which takes more preparation but gives us more control. it's your call." you keep your pen on the notepad and your eyes on him and you don't soften it or over-explain it because he doesn't need that, he needs you to treat him like a person who can look at a hard thing straight on.
he's quiet for long enough that the rain on the window becomes audible.
"i went into the ice in forty-three," he says, finally, not looking at you, looking at his own hands. "no string. came back, still no string." a pause. "you know what the logical explanations for that are."
you do know. you have worked in this industry for three years and you have absorbed the mechanics of it the way you absorb everything, thoroughly and at a professional distance, but you know. the string appears in proximity. if it hasn't appeared, either you haven't been close enough to your person yet, or your person is gone. or, and this is the one that sits in your chest in a way that the others don't, there's a third explanation, one that gets posted in reddit comments and deleted by moderators and reposted again because people can't stop pulling at it. that during seventy years of work in god knows how many countries and god knows how many rooms, he might have been close enough. might have crossed paths with his person without knowing it. might have been sent after them on a mission he didnt remember.
he's never said this out loud in front of you. he says it now with the flatness of someone who has had to make peace with a thought by saying it enough times that it stops having edges.
"the most likely explanation," he says, "is that they were born in the twenties. that they died decades ago. that it just never happened in time." he looks up at you then, and his eyes have the quality they get when he is being precise because imprecision would cost him something. "the other explanation is that it did happen in time. that i was in the right room. and i—" the muscle in his jaw moves. "i made sure they never came out.”
the rain comes down the window.
"i'm not going to talk about it in the interview," he says. the flatness is back. "i'm not going to talk about it because there is nothing to say about it that doesn't—" he stops. starts again. "it doesn't have an ending that i can give people. it's not something i've worked through and come out the other side of. it's just a thing that's true and that i live next to."
"okay," you say again. and then: "we'll keep it off the table."
he nods once. he picks up the briefing document and looks at it and the conversation moves on, and you make a note that says no soulmate questions and underline it and don't look up for a while because you are a communications professional and your face is doing something that isn't professional and you need a moment.
you have a sticky note on the inside of your desk drawer that says if red string: do not speak to press. that night you open the drawer and look at it for a long time before you close it again.
the times interview is in june, in a rented room at a hotel in midtown, the journalist across the table with her recorder and her water glass and her careful professional warmth. you're in the corner with your notepad. you've been through the likely questions. you've gone over what to sidestep and how. he'd listened to all of it and said sure at the end, which you took as agreement.
forty minutes in she asks whether there are aspects of the past seventy years he hasn't made peace with.
he looks at her.
"most of them," he says.
she waits.
"the thing about peace is that people use it to mean you've stopped being affected by something. i don't think that's what it is. i think it's more like you've stopped letting it make your decisions for you. i'm working on that. i'm not done."
your hand is on your notepad. you are not writing anything down.
"are there specific things you feel you haven't processed?" she asks, carefully.
"sure. i was used as a weapon. not metaphorically. i hurt people because someone else had control of what i did. i live with that. i don't think i'll stop living with it. i just try to do something with it that isn't destructive."
"and do you feel like you're succeeding?"
he thinks about it. gives it the full weight of himself, the way he does. "on good days," he says.
the journalist shifts in her chair, the small professional movement of someone arriving at the question they've been holding. "i have to ask," she says, with the careful casualness of someone who has been building toward this for forty minutes. "the soulmate question comes up in nearly every piece written about you. you've never addressed it directly. your file with us goes back to your reintroduction to public life and there's not a single comment on record. is there anything you want people to understand about it?"
across the room, you go very still.
he doesn't answer immediately. the silence stretches in a way that a less experienced journalist would fill and she doesn't fill it, she's good, she lets it sit, and you watch him look at the table in front of him and you watch something happen behind his eyes that you recognise from your office four weeks ago on a wednesday afternoon with rain on the windows and you put your pen down.
"the assumption," he says, slowly, "is that i haven't found them yet. that it's a waiting game. that i just need to be in the right place at the right time and the string is going to show up and that'll be it." a pause. his voice has gone to a place that is very quiet and very level, the tone of someone managing the distance between themselves and what they're saying. "but i was in a lot of places. over a lot of years. in a lot of rooms with a lot of people and the string never came, and at some point the more hone–" he stops.
the journalist is very still.
his jaw moves. his hands on the table are very still. "i'm not going to talk about it in an interview."
the last sentence comes out differently from the ones before it. the ones before it were him thinking out loud, following a thought somewhere he hadn't planned to go, and the last one is the door closing.
"i appreciate you sharing—" the journalist starts.
"no." he says, and it's not rude, it's not even sharp, it's just the end of something. he looks at you.
you are already standing up.
you don't think about it, you don't make a professional calculation, you cross the room in the time it takes the journalist to register what's happening and he's pushing back his chair and you put your hand out and he takes it. his hand is large and warm and closes around yours with the certainty of someone who knew you were going to be there, and he stands up and you walk out of the hotel room with your hand in his and the journalist's recorder running on the table behind you and you don't look back.
in the hallway he stops. he drops his chin and he breathes and you stand next to him holding his hand in a hallway in a midtown hotel and you don't say anything because there is nothing to say that would be better than just being there.
after a while he says, without looking up: "sorry about the interview."
"don't be," you say.
"you're going to have to—"
"i'll handle it," you say. "it's fine. she'll frame it right."
he's quiet for another moment. then he looks at you. his eyes have come back from wherever they were in that room and they're on your face now, doing the inventory thing, and his hand is still around yours and neither of you has moved to change that.
"thank you," he says. low and even and meaning it completely.
"that's the job," you say, which is true, and also not entirely what you mean, and the slight shift in his expression suggests he knows the difference.
you take the car back in a quiet that is different from other quiets. his hand rests on his thigh and the space between you in the backseat is smaller than it usually is and you watch the city go past the window and you think about his hand around yours in the hallway and the certainty of it and you don't examine it. you file it in the folder you haven't named and you look at the city and you think about what you're going to say to the journalist and none of the professional thoughts stick because underneath all of them is the feeling of his hand and the way he'd looked at you in the hallway, like you were the thing in the room that was solid.
the piece comes out two weeks later and it is the best pr you have ever been involved with because it isn't pr, it's just him telling the truth and the truth being, without any help from you, something that moves people. the section about the soulmate question is three careful paragraphs that the journalist has handled with more generosity than you had any right to expect, framed around the idea of a man who has chosen not to speculate publicly about private pain, which is accurate and which generates its own news cycle for four days, and a slate piece calls it the most honest thing a public figure has done in years, and you read it with the face of someone who is not having feelings about it and is succeeding at a rate of maybe fifty percent.
you text him: the piece is good.
after a while: you sound surprised. - b
you send: you were honest.
he leaves you on read.
the stark foundation gala is a thursday in september, the fifth major red carpet you've managed for him, and you have data. two completions, one walkout at twenty minutes, one near-walkout that you'd managed by standing at the end of the carpet and looking at him in a way that communicated, without words, that you would prefer he didn't, and which had worked in a way that you had written up in your notes afterward as unclear why and had been thinking about since.
in the week before the gala you call him three times about nothing in particular. his schedule. the coffee place on ninth you'd mentioned in july, which he'd tried, and he'd had opinions about it that were more detailed than you'd expected and the conversation had gone over twenty minutes and you'd had to manufacture a reason to end it, which you had done and then sat with the phone in your hand for a while afterward. you do this, the calling about nothing, because you've learned that the best way to get a red carpet to go smoothly is to make sure he doesn't arrive at it feeling like something being deployed. he needs to feel like a person who decided to go somewhere. the distinction matters and you can't manufacture it, which means your job in the days before a major event is less about logistics and more about being someone he has actually talked to recently. this is not in the framework document. you haven't decided what to do with the fact that it doesn't feel like work when you do it.
the gala is at the met. you're stationed at the edge of the carpet just past the arrival point, where you can see the full length of it and where he has a direct sightline to you, a logistical choice you made after the third event and which he has never commented on but which you've noticed he uses. he finds you in the first twenty seconds every single time now. some quality of his posture changes when he does. you have noticed this and you have not written it in any document.
he arrives at 7:12 in a dark suit that fits him and he stands on the pavement doing his version of gathering himself, which looks like stillness from the outside and feels, you have come to understand, like something considerably more effortful from within. the crowd notices him a beat after the press pit does and the noise goes up and he walks onto the carpet.
he is good for eleven minutes. personal best. he does the photographs. he nods at the press pit. he says three things you didn't script that are better than anything you did, consistent enough a pattern that you've stopped scripting things for him entirely and started having conversations with him in the days before that surface what he actually thinks, which he then sometimes says in public when asked variations of the same questions, and this works better than anything else you've tried and you are not going to examine why talking to him is the most effective pr tool you have. he stops to speak to someone from the foundation board and the photograph of that exchange is going to be excellent and you know it from forty feet away.
then something shifts.
you see it before you can name it, the change in the quality of his stillness. he's looking at the press pit, not at any one person in it but at the whole of it, all cameras and lights and controlled professional noise, and his jaw sets.
he turns.
the exit is to your left, which means he is walking toward you, which means you have approximately four seconds before he reaches the edge of the carpet and then he is in a car and you are managing a walkout and the night is over. you have done this before. you have the framework for it. you know the headlines it generates and the spin cycle that follows and the three days of careful repositioning it costs you both and the specific expression he gets when you debrief him afterward, not apologetic exactly, just tired in the way he gets when he has reached the end of himself and had nothing left to give the room.
you are not doing that tonight.
you step directly into his path.
not to the side of it. not near it. into it, planting yourself between him and the exit with your arm extended and your finger pointed back down the carpet, back toward the lights and the cameras and the press pit, and the look on your face says what your voice can't say across forty feet of noise, which is: turn around. right now. you are not done.
he stops walking.
he stumbles.
not a trip. not a misstep. his body lurches toward you like something has grabbed him by the sternum, one long step forward that his legs didn't decide to take, and then his knees hit the red carpet and the sound of it cuts through the noise of the press pit like a frequency change and for one suspended second the entire stark foundation gala goes quiet.
he is on one knee in front of you.
his head is down.
and then the light catches it.
thin and luminous, running from his wrist to yours, red and impossible and unmistakable, crossing the distance between you like it has always been there, like it has been waiting patiently for the two of you to end up in the same place at the same time and stop moving long enough for it to show up. the string. the thing that means one specific thing and only one specific thing and that you have had a sticky note about in your desk drawer for eight months that says if red string: do not speak to press and which, you now understand with a clarity that feels almost funny, was a note you wrote about yourself without knowing it.
the quiet lasts approximately one second.
and then the press pit explodes.
not in the professional sense, not the managed swell of cameras and questions that you have learned to navigate, but in the way that things explode when something genuinely unprecedented has just happened in front of people whose entire job is to document unprecedented things. it is a wall of sound, a wave of it, the camera shutters going off so fast they become a single continuous noise like static, like rain, like something electrical, and underneath it the crowd behind the barriers which has been politely attentive for the past eleven minutes is suddenly not politely anything, it is screaming, actually screaming, the sound of several hundred people watching something they are going to talk about for the rest of their lives and knowing it in real time.
you look at the string.
he raises his head.
he is still on one knee on the red carpet of the stark foundation gala and the cameras are going and the crowd is going and the press pit is going and he is looking up at you with an expression that you have never seen on his face before, not once in eight months of watching his face for a living, not the closed off look and not the considering look and not the look from the hotel hallway and not the careful flat look from the wednesday with rain on the windows. it is something underneath all of those. something that was there before he learned to put the other ones on top of it.
he looks, you think, like a man who just found out that the worst version of the thing was not the true version.
"hi." your voice is completely steady. this is the single greatest professional achievement of your career.
the corner of his mouth moves, just barely, and his eyes are still doing the thing that has no category, and the cameras are still going, and the crowd is still going, and the string between your wrists is thin and luminous and entirely unbothered by all of it. "hi," he says. low. a little rough. like he's had to come back from somewhere to say it.
"you were going to leave."
"i was course correcting," he says. from one knee. on the stark foundation gala red carpet. with the full gravity and composure of a man who has decided this is the version of events he's committed to.
"toward you," he says. like this is a complete and sufficient answer. like it explains something rather than being the thing that requires explaining.
the string sits between you, luminous and patient, catching the gala lights. from somewhere in the press pit someone is saying something into a phone that you can't hear over the noise. the crowd behind the barriers is a living thing, pressing forward, held back by nothing except the barriers themselves and possibly the collective understanding that something is happening that they don't want to interrupt. you are aware, in the peripheral way that you are always aware of everything, that there are somewhere between forty and sixty cameras currently on the two of you and that this is going to be on every front page in the country by morning and that the stringwatch tumblr is probably already loading a new draft and that you have no prepared statement for this, none, not one word of prepared language for the thing that is happening right now, and that this is the first time in three years of professional communications work that you have been completely without a prepared statement and it feels, strangely, like putting something down that you didn't know you were carrying.
"get up, please.” its almost a beg.
he gets up.
he unfolds to his full height right in front of you and you have to tilt your chin up to look at him properly and he is close, closer than the three feet of professional air that you have maintained for eight months, close enough that you can see the exact expression on his face without having to read it across a room, and the expression on his face is the one without a category that you are going to spend a considerable amount of time developing a category for.
he looks at the string.
then at you.
the string.
you.
"okay," he says. quiet enough that only you can hear it under the noise. not to the string and not to the situation and not to the press pit or the crowd or the forty-odd cameras. to you. just to you. like the rest of it isn't there at all.
the crowd screams again, a fresh wave of it, because one of the photographers has gotten the angle that captures both of your faces and the string between your wrists in a single frame and the image is already moving, you can feel it moving the way you can always feel the news cycle shift, except that this time you are inside it instead of standing at the edge of it with your notepad and your talking points and your professional remove.
"we need to walk back down the carpet," you say.
"okay."
"thirty seconds. you're going to be fine. i'm going to be right next to you. then we're getting in a car and dealing with the rest of this somewhere that isn't—" you gesture, slightly, at the entirety of it.
"okay," he says. and then: "you're always serious."
"yes," you say.
"it's one of the things," he says, for the second time in your acquaintance, with the same weight as the first time, and you still don't ask what it means because you are storing it in the folder that now very urgently needs a name.
you turn toward the carpet.
he falls into step beside you and the cameras go absolutely, completely, historically insane, and somewhere in the press pit someone is shouting a question about the string that you are not going to answer tonight or possibly ever, and the crowd behind the barriers sounds like a physical force, and the string between your wrists catches every light on the carpet and throws it back, and you walk, and he walks, and the string walks with you both, and the night air is warm and the cameras don't stop and none of it matters as much as the fact that his arm is against yours as you move and that where eight months of a working relationship and three feet of professional air used to be, there is now just the small luminous fact of the string.
the car is quiet.
you're next to each other in the back of the suv and the string is still there, running between your wrists in the dark, and your phone has forty-seven notifications and you are not looking at any of them. he hasn't moved away from the string. every time you've been near him there's been a distance to it, professional and maintained without either of you having to think about it. three feet of air that existed because it was correct. the string makes that distance theoretical. it runs between you with the ease of something that has been waiting for someone to stop pretending it isn't there, and he keeps not moving away from it and you keep noticing that he keeps not moving away from it.
"the stringwatch tumblr," you say, to the window.
"the what."
"there's a woman. she's been running a blog for eleven years documenting celebrity soulmate bonds. methodology section and everything." a pause. "she's going to have a methodology section about this by morning."
he takes this in. "what's a tumblr?"
you look at him. in the dark of the car his eyes catch the light from outside and he is looking at you the way he always looks at you, like you are the only thing in the room that requires his attention, and your professionalism is doing its level best. "it doesn't matter what it is. the point is the internet is going to be a lot for a while."
"okay."
"a real lot. there are quora quizzes. there are ao3 fics. there's a podcast, two journalists, ninety minutes on the probable emotional profile of whoever was bonded to you." a pause that you feel in your chest before you hear yourself fill it. "i listened to it on the train to dc."
a beat. "for work.." he says. not quite a question.
"for work," you say, with slightly less conviction than intended, and you feel him looking at you from the side.
"what did they say?" he asks, quietly.
you look at the city moving past the window. "that whoever it was would need a high tolerance for difficulty."
"that's not wrong."
"they said it was probably someone who didn't need you to be easy. just someone who needed you to be honest."
the car moves through an intersection. a taxi honks at something that isn't you.
"also not wrong," he says quieter.
you look at him. he's looking at you with the expression that doesn't have a category, the one from the carpet, the one from the hallway, and it is doing things to the filing system you've spent eight months constructing.
"i have one thousand and forty-seven notifications," you say.
"you can look at them." easy. unhurried.
"i know i can look at them."
"so look at them."
"i don't want to look at them," you huff, which is true, and he seems to understand that it is also not the point, because he doesn't push it.
the string catches light from a passing streetlamp and for a second it's the brightest thing in the car.
"you pointed at me like i was a dog." his voice is a low grumble, not threatening, more like a rottweiler.
"i was indicating the area of the carpet where i needed you to remain."
"you pointed at me." the warmth in it, wondering and quiet. "and i fell toward you." a pause. "didn't even mean to."
you look at his hand on his thigh. at yours in your lap. at the five or so inches between them that are the last professionally defensible distance you have.
"bucky," you hum.
"yeah."
you think about his hand around yours in the hotel hallway and the certainty of it. you think about a wednesday afternoon with rain on the windows and his voice saying the word maybe in the flat tone of someone putting distance between themselves and a thing so they can say it. you think about the sticky note and the folder without a name and forty-seven notifications and the string sitting between your wrists like it has been there longer than an hour, patient and luminous and entirely unbothered.
"the statement is going to be a nightmare," you say.
"okay."
"the internet is going to be—"
"i know."
"for a long time," you say. "a really long time. and there are going to be—" you stop. you start again. "it's going to change things. for the job. for—" you stop again.
he shifts beside you, just slightly, and his hand moves from his thigh to the seat between you and he turns it over, open, not reaching, not demanding, just offering it the same way he'd taken yours in the hallway. the same certainty. the same ease. like he'd known you were going to be there and is now returning the thing you gave him.
you look at it for a moment.
then you put your hand in his.
"okay," he says. soft. like it means something underneath it. like it has been meaning something for a while and he has been waiting for the right moment to let it.
you look at the city going past and his hand is around yours and the string runs between your wrists and somewhere across the city the stringwatch tumblr is probably already loading the first draft of a methodology section, and you think: okay.
the stringwatch tumblr publishes at 2:14 in the morning.
six thousand words. methodology section. the title is bucky barnes and his pr assistant: a documentation (ongoing) and the subheading is he walked toward her.
she has footage from six angles. a breakdown of the stumble and the knee and the moment the string appears. she has a timeline of every known public interaction between the two of you going back eight months, pulled from red carpet footage and event photographs and the whole foods video, in which, she notes with what appears to be genuine excitement, you can be seen in the background near the olive bar with your phone in your hand and an expression she has labelled professionally resigned but present.
you werent there.
she has the photograph from the moment of the string. sourced from three photographers, different angles all resolving on the same image: him on one knee and you standing still and the string between you catching the gala lights, and both of your faces doing something uncontrolled and undeniable.
she has a subsection called prior evidence, unconfirmed.
it has more in it than you were ready for. a paparazzi photograph from four months ago outside the firm after a late meeting. you are looking at your phone. he is looking at you. just you, with an expression aimed at the back of your head that you have never personally seen, that the stringwatch tumblr has tagged with two words.
oh no.
underneath it, in her analysis, she has written: he has been looking at her like this in every piece of available footage since month two. there is a hotel hallway clip from june, thirty seconds of security camera footage that has been on youtube with four thousand views and no notes until tonight, in which she walks out first and he follows and in the hallway he stops and she stops with him and they stand there and you cannot see his face but you can see hers, and whoever is watching this for the first time tonight can see what she apparently could not, which is that she is looking at him the way people look at things they are trying very hard not to look at that way.
the comments on the stringwatch post number in the thousands before you stop reading them. someone near the top has written: she pointed at him and he fell toward her and now i need to lie down. someone else has written: the hotel hallway footage has been sitting there for six months and none of us noticed. someone else has written: he took her hand at the senator's thing. it's in the background of the c-span footage. seventeen seconds. nobody noticed because nobody was looking at the background. we were all looking at him.
you had not known that that was on camera.
you had not known that anyone had seen that.
you sit in your apartment at 2:47 in the morning with your phone in your hand and your left wrist resting in your lap and the string going through your walls and across the city to wherever he is, and you read six thousand words about yourself and about him and about the eight months between the first tuesday and tonight, and at some point you stop reading and just sit in the quiet with it.
your phone buzzes.
there's a website - b
it has a methodology section. - b
it has the hotel hallway. - b
you look at your left wrist. at the string. at the middle distance that contains, across some number of city blocks, the other end of it and the person attached to it who has apparently been looking at you since month two in a way that is now documented and timestamped and being discussed by several thousand people.
the three dots appear. disappear. appear again.
i've been looking at you for longer than four months. - b
before you can respond, before you can even work out what your hands are doing.
i used to think there wasn't going to be a string. i'd made a kind of peace with it.- b
that's not what i was thinking about when i was looking at you.- b
you leave him on read for the night.
he knocks on your door at 7 in the morning.
you know it's him before you open it because nobody else knocks like that, three times, evenly spaced, like he's considered the appropriate volume and committed to it. you are in your pyjamas with your hair doing something that is not professional and your left wrist still glowing faintly with the string and you have had approximately four hours of sleep and you open the door anyway because it is him and you have, at 2:47 in the morning with your phone in your hand, stopped pretending that you wouldn't.
he's in a dark henley and his hair is pushed back and he has two coffees from the place on ninth and he holds one out to you with the expression of a man who has made a decision and is not going to explain the decision but is also not going to pretend he hasn't made it.
you take the coffee.
he looks at you. at your pyjamas and your hair and your left wrist and your face, which is doing things you are too tired to manage.
"hi," he says.
“hello barnes.”
and he comes in.
he sits on your sofa the way he sits in the chair in your office, the chair that has become his chair, like his body knows where it belongs in a room and takes it without making a production of it. he wraps both hands around his coffee cup and looks at your apartment with the quiet attention he gives everything and you sit in the chair across from him with your legs tucked under you and you drink your coffee and outside the city is waking up and somewhere across that city the stringwatch tumblr has seven thousand comments and climbing and neither of you mentions it.
"i didn't sleep." you say, eventually.
"i know. me either."
"my notifications are at four thousand and something."
"i know." he looks at you over his coffee cup. "i wasn't looking at the notifications."
you look at your wrist. the string runs from it across your living room to his, thin and luminous in the morning light coming through the window, and it is, you think, the most surreal thing you have ever seen in your own home, which is a high bar given that bucky barnes is also in your home, sitting on your sofa at 7 in the morning, and you have been in this industry long enough to know that surreal is a relative category.
"the statement–" you breathe out a heavy sigh before he cuts u off.
"later." he says.
"bucky, the statement needs to—"
"later," he says again, not sharply, just with the quiet certainty of a man who has decided what is and isn't happening right now. "drink your coffee."
you drink your coffee.
it's good. it is, objectively, the best coffee you have had in months, from the place on ninth that you mentioned in july and that he tried and had twenty minutes of opinions about, and you think about that phone call and about manufacturing a reason to end it and about the photograph on the stringwatch tumblr of his face looking at the back of your head, and you say: "how long."
he looks at you.
"how long were you looking at me like that," you say. "the photograph. the one from four months ago."
he is quiet for a moment. his thumb moves around the rim of the coffee cup, a slow deliberate circle. "longer than four months," he says, which is what he texted, which is not an answer, and he seems to know it's not an answer because he takes a breath and tries again. "i noticed you," he says, carefully, "in the first meeting. not like—" he stops. "i noticed you because you were direct. you didn't make your face do anything when i was difficult. most people's faces do something."
"i have a professional face."
"i know. i noticed that it was professional. and then i noticed—" he stops again, the way he stops when he's being precise, choosing. "i noticed that it was also something else. underneath."
you look at your coffee.
"i told myself it was because you were good at the job," he says. "and you are good at the job. but that's not why i was looking."
the morning light comes through the window and falls across the string between your wrists and you think about eight months of three feet of professional air and the folder without a name and the podcast on the train and all the manufactured reasons to end phone calls, and you think: okay. okay. we are doing this.
"i listened to the podcast," you say, "in october. on the train. i told myself it was research."
something in his expression shifts, warm and quiet. "was it?"
"no," you huff. "not really."
he looks at you for a long moment. then he puts his coffee cup down on your table and he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his eyes on your face and the string between your wrists and he says: "i used to think there was something wrong with me. that the string didn't come. every room i walked into, for months after i got back, i was—" a breath. "i was checking. without meaning to. just looking at my wrist. and it was never there, and i made a story about why, the ones i told you on the wednesday, and i believed the story because it was the most logical thing and because believing it meant i could stop waiting." he looks at the string. "i wasn't thinking about the string when i was looking at you. i want you to know that. i wasn't looking at you because i was hoping. i was looking at you because you were—" he looks up. "you're the most interesting person in any room you're in and you don't seem to know it and that's part of it. and you're—" the corner of his mouth. "you pointed at me. in front of about fifty cameras and the entire assembled press of the stark foundation gala. you just pointed at me and expected it to work."
"it did work." you say.
"yeah," he says, soft. "it did."
you look at him. at the distance between you, which is less than three feet, which is less than you have allowed it to be for eight months, which is close enough that you can see exactly what his expression is doing and what it is doing is something that reorganises things.
"this is going to be very complicated," you say, "professionally."
"i know."
"there are protocols. conflict of interest considerations. i'm going to have to talk to the firm."
"i know."
"and the press isn't going to leave this alone. you understand that. this is going to be the story for months and every event, every appearance, everything we do is going to—"
"i know all of that," he says, steadily. "i'm not asking you to figure all of that out right now. i'm asking you to drink your coffee."
you look at him.
"and maybe," he says, with the careful casualness of a man who is not being casual at all, "sit over here."
you look at the sofa. at the space next to him, which is not professionally defensible and which you have been not looking at since he sat down. you look at the string between your wrists. you look at his face, which is doing the thing without a category, patient and intent and warm in a way that you have been filing under other headings for longer than you should have.
you get up from the chair.
you sit next to him on the sofa.
his arm moves, just slightly, and then you are against his side, and he is warm and solid in the way that he takes up space in every room, and his hand finds yours in your lap with the same certainty he had in the hotel hallway, easy and inevitable, and you sit in the morning light with your coffee going cold and the string between your wrists and the city outside and four hundred and something notifications that are going to have to wait.
the logistics of it unfold the way logistics unfold when bucky barnes is involved, which is to say: slowly, on his terms, and not without incident.
the firm meeting happens on a monday. your supervisor, a woman named claire who has been in this industry for twenty years and has the particular equanimity of someone who has managed crises at a level that makes yours look like scheduling conflicts, looks at you across her desk and then looks at the string going from your wrist through the wall in the approximate direction of brooklyn and says, with great professionalism: "well."
"i know," you say.
"the conflict of interest—"
"i know."
"we'll need to restructure the arrangement. you can stay on as lead but we bring in a secondary, someone who handles the pieces you can't be objective about." she pauses. "you haven't been objective about him for some time, based on the stringwatch analysis, but that's a separate conversation."
you look at the wall. "the stringwatch tumblr," your voice is an annoyed grumble, "is not a professional source."
"it has a methodology section," claire says, and moves on.
the restructure happens. the secondary is a man named joel who is competent and professional and who bucky takes one look at in the first joint meeting and then looks at you with an expression that says, clearly and without words: i don't like this. and joel, to his credit, pretends not to notice any of this and asks a question about the upcoming schedule and the meeting continues.
afterward, in the hallway, bucky falls into step beside you and says: "i don't like him."
"you don't have to like him."
"he kept looking at you."
"he was looking at both of us. it was a meeting."
"he was looking at you," he says, with the flat certainty of a man who has been making assessments of rooms and the people in them since 1930 and has not once been wrong, "specifically."
you look at him. he looks back, untroubled, steady, like this is a completely reasonable position to hold. "bucky."
"i'm not going to do anything," he says. "i'm just telling you what i saw."
"what you observed," you say, "was a professional colleague conducting a professional meeting."
"what i observed," he says, "was a professional colleague who was very interested in your opinion on the q4 calendar."
"he was being thorough!”.
bucky says nothing. he holds the elevator door open for you and you get in and he gets in and the elevator closes and he says, at the wall: "i'm just saying."
"i know you're just saying," you say. "stop just saying."
the corner of his mouth. not quite a smile. "okay," he says.
it changes in increments, the way most things change with him, not in declarations but in accumulations, small decisions that add up to something larger without announcing themselves.
the first time he takes your hand in public that isn't a crisis or a hallway or a car in the dark, it's outside the firm on a tuesday afternoon, no cameras, just the street, and he reaches down and takes your hand the way he does everything, without making a production of it, and you look at your joined hands and then up at him and he is looking ahead, at the street, perfectly calm.
you walk to the coffee place on ninth and he orders without asking what you want and gets it right, which shouldn't be a thing but is, because you didn't know he'd been paying that much attention and you don't know what to do with the fact that he has, so you put it in the folder that now has a label, the label being something you haven't said out loud yet but which is becoming increasingly difficult not to.
the first time he touches your face it's not romantic, exactly, it's practical, you have something on your cheek from lunch, a meeting that ran long and you'd eaten at your desk, and he reaches over without asking and brushes it away with his thumb and it is a three second interaction that your nervous system treats as considerably longer. he doesn't comment on it. he goes back to looking at the briefing document in his other hand.
you look at the middle distance.
"okay?" he says, without looking up.
"fine," you say. "totally fine."
the corner of his mouth.
the first time he kisses you is after a press event in october, a small thing, a foundation announcement, nothing that required the full apparatus, and it had gone well, and you're in the car afterward going over what worked and what didn't and he is listening to you the way he always listens, that full and present attention, and at some point you stop talking because he is looking at you and the way he is looking at you is not the way someone looks at a person they are listening to about press event logistics.
"what?”
he reaches over and tucks a piece of your hair back, slow and deliberate, his fingers brushing your jaw, and then his hand stays there, his thumb at your cheekbone, and he looks at you for a moment with the expression that still doesn't have a complete category but that you are building one for, brick by brick, day by day.
"i've been thinking about doing that," he says, meaning the hair, meaning the hand, meaning the looking, meaning all of it, "for a long time."
"how long," you ask, and he just tilts your chin up and kisses you, soft and certain and unhurried, like it's something he has thought through and decided and is not going to do halfway, and your hand finds the front of his henley and you think: this is what the folder was for.
when he pulls back he is still close, his forehead almost against yours, and he is looking at you with something that is warm and certain and a little wondering, the look he had on the carpet on one knee, the look that you are beginning to understand is the look he saves for things that have surprised him in a way he's glad about.
"is this okay?" he almost sounds insecure, and you answer him with another soft kiss..
the driver, who has been professionally pretending to be interested in the middle lane for the past forty seconds, says nothing.
the interviews start some time after. not the solo ones, those have been happening since the times piece, but the joint ones, the ones where you are both in the frame, where the string between your wrists is visible and the journalist across the table has questions for both of you and the world has decided that bucky barnes and his pr assistant is a story it wants to keep telling.
the first one is with a woman from the atlantic, who is sharp and warm and asks good questions, and she sits across from both of you and looks between you with the professional assessment of a journalist who has been told to get the definitive interview and has shown up prepared to get it.
"i want to ask about the nature of the working relationship," she says, "before and after. because you were working together for eight months before the gala, and from the outside looking in, that's a significant amount of time to be—" she chooses her word carefully. "in proximity."
you open your mouth.
"it was significant," bucky says, before you get there, and you close your mouth. "i don't think either of us would say it wasn't."
the journalist looks at him. "can you say more about that?"
he looks at you, just for a second, and then he looks back at the journalist and says: "she's very good at her job. she doesn't tell me what to think. she argues with me when i'm wrong and she doesn't pretend i'm right when i'm not and she—" a pause. "she shows up. that's the thing. whatever room i'm in, she's thought about how i'm going to be in it. not in a managing way. in a—" he stops. finds it. "in the way that you think about someone when you're paying attention to them."
the journalist is writing something down. you are looking at the table in humiliation.
"and from your side," the journalist says to you, with the precision of someone who knows she's got something and is handling it carefully, "what does it look like, managing someone's public image when the relationship has become—"
"the job didn't change," you say. and then, because it's him and because the journalist is good and because the string is there on the table between your wrists and there's no version of this where you are fully professional about it: "not until the gala, anyway.”
the journalist smiles. writes something down. bucky, next to you, doesn't say anything, but his hand finds yours under the table and his thumb moves once across your knuckles, slow and deliberate, and you think: the folder has a name now. you've known the name for a while. you've just been waiting until it wasn't terrifying to say it, and it is still a little terrifying, and that's okay, because some things are supposed to feel like something when they arrive.
the museum updates their exhibit in december.
you find out from an alert, except this time the alert is from the smithsonian's press office and it reads: update to the captain america permanent exhibition: new panel added to the james buchanan barnes section, and you click the link and there is the panel, installed between the one about the howling commandos and the one about the fall from the train, and it has his photograph and a paragraph of new text, and at the bottom of the paragraph, in the careful neutral language of institutional documentation, it says: barnes returned to public life in 2024 and has been an active participant in veteran advocacy work. he currently resides in brooklyn. and then, in the last sentence, which someone at the smithsonian has either added with great intentionality or with no understanding of what it would do to the internet: the string connecting him to his soulmate appeared publicly in september 2025, at a foundation event in new york.
that's all it says. the string connecting him to his soulmate.
you read it three times.
you send him the link.
he texts back after a while: they spelled my name right. - b
you roll your eyes at his play at stupidity, bucky read often and he was almost as annoying as steve when it came to reading the fine print.
does it feel weird seeing it in there?
a longer pause than usual.
no, its about my history, you’re apart of that now - b
you sit with that.
why, do you mind? if you do, i'll remove it myself. - b
you smile down at your phone, huffing as you try and smother your smile and type back.
you’re apart of my history now too, james.
steve comes to find you in january, at a team event at the compound, directly and with the expression of a man who has something to say and has decided to say it.
"can i tell you something?" he says.
"you're going to tell me something either way," you say into your wine glass.
the corner of his mouth quirks up and he nods towards you, "fair."
he looks across the room, where bucky is standing with a cup of coffee talking to sam, and there is something in the way steve looks at him that is not complicated at all, just straightforward and glad. "i grew up with him," steve says. "i've known him since we were kids too small to get into a fight without getting flattened, and i watched him—" he stops. "i watched what happened to him. all of it. before and after. and i've been watching him since he came back, every day, trying to find his way back to himself." he looks at you. "i want you to know that he's getting there. he laughs now. not often, but he laughs. he has opinions about coffee and he argues about things that don't matter and last week he told sam he was wrong about something for twenty minutes and didn't apologise once." a pause. "he's getting back to himself. and i think," he says, carefully, "that you're part of why."
you look at bucky across the room. he says something to sam and sam throws his head back laughing and bucky's mouth does the thing, the not quite smile that is better than most people's full ones, and he glances over and finds you the way he always finds you in a room, in the first twenty seconds, and the look he gives you is the one without a complete category that you are still building, brick by brick, and which is getting easier to look at without having to file it somewhere else first.
"he's doing the work," you say to steve. "i just handle the press."
"you do more than that," steve says. not pushing. just accurate.
you look at the string on your wrist.
"yeah," you say. "i know."
steve is quiet for a moment. then: "he used to think there wasn't going to be one. the string. he never said it outright but i knew. i'd watch him in rooms sometimes, not looking for anything, just—" he shakes his head. "he'd made peace with it. put it away somewhere. and i'd think, god, bucky, you of all people." he sniffs before he holds his knuckle to his nose for a moment to collect himself, "it's like having my best friend back," he smiles. "i don't know how else to put it. it's like having him back."
you look at bucky across the room. he is arguing with sam about something, his coffee cup in one hand and his other hand doing the thing where he makes a point with it, and sam is shaking his head and grinning and bucky looks, you think, like someone who has returned from somewhere very far away and is still learning what it feels like to be back, and is learning it, day by day, in a brooklyn apartment and a coffee place on ninth and a car on the way home from events and a sofa in the morning with the string between their wrists and the city outside, and is not, you think, learning it alone.
"yeah," you say, to steve. "i think i'm getting him back too."
bucky looks over again. finds you and he tips his head slightly, the smallest possible gesture, and it says: come here.
you cross the room in an instant.
he moves his arm and you fit against his side the way you've learned you fit there, and he doesn't make a thing of it, he just keeps talking to sam, his arm settling around you with the ease of something practiced, something decided, and sam looks at you and then at the string and then at bucky with the expression of a man who is choosing not to say the many things he could say and settling for a grin.
"anyway," bucky says, to sam, as if nothing has happened, "i'm telling you, you're wrong about the coffee."
"i'm not wrong about the coffee," sam says.
"you're catastrophically wrong about the coffee," bucky says. "ask her." he means you. he says it with the casual certainty of a man who has already decided you are going to agree with him, which you are, because he is right about the coffee, and also because it is december and the string is there and steve rogers is across the room looking at his best friend like he got something back he'd stopped expecting to get back, and you are against bucky's side with his arm around you and he is arguing about coffee like it is the most important thing in the room and maybe, you think, for right now, it is. maybe that's the point. maybe that's what getting back to yourself looks like. the small things. the coffee. the arguing. the twenty minutes with sam and the not apologising and the finding someone in the first twenty seconds of every room and the hand offered open on the seat of a car in the dark.
"she's going to say you're wrong," you tell him.
"she's going to say i'm right," he says, without looking at you, to sam, and his arm tightens slightly around you, just briefly, just enough.
"i'm going to say," you say, "that you're both wrong and the place on ninth is better than either of you deserve."
sam laughs. bucky looks down at you with the expression, the warm and wondering one, and his mouth does the thing that is better than most people's full smiles.
"whatever, i’m definitely right, doll.”
and across the room steve rogers watches his best friend and says nothing, and looks, for the first time in a very long time, like a man who is not worried anymore.
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I wanted to share some more of these, specifically trans women of color. The images I'm posting are from a project called To Survive On This Shore and it's an interview project. I am only posting a handful so it's so worth checking out!
This is Linda, 60
Alexis, 64
Helena, 63
Kendrah, 72 (!!)
Tasha, 65
It was deeply healing to me to discover this project. The site has selected photos and attached interviews and it's definitely worth your time. I didn't include any because the focus of this post imo is transfems but there are a lot of beautiful interviews with transmasc people too if you're interested! But that'll have to be another post 💖
