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summary: what's yours is mine, except apparently when it comes to percy's blue cookies.
wc: 1.5k+
It was one cookie.
One. Single. Cookie.
You feel it's important to establish this fact before anything else, because the way Percy Jackson is currently sitting at the edge of the couch with his arms crossed, jaw set, resolutely facing the wall like he's been personally wronged by the universeâŠyou'd think you had committed some kind of federal offense. Treason, maybe. Crimes against the state. At minimum a misdemeanor.
"Perce."
Silence.
"Percy."
More silence. Pointed silence. The kind that has a whole personality attached to it.
You press your lips together to suppress a smile, because gods, he is so ridiculous. He is so spectacularly, almost artistically ridiculous, and somehow that just makes you want to kiss him more, which feels like a design flaw in your brain you should probably bring up with a professional.
Here's what happened: Annabeth came over. Annabeth was hungry. Percy had set his blue cookie (one of Sally's, obviously, wrapped in parchment and everything like it was a religious artifact) on the coffee table while he went to grab something from the kitchen. Annabeth had reached for it, looked at you, raised an eyebrow in question.
And you had done a small, casual shrug. A diplomatic shrug. A shrug that said I am not the cookie's keeper, which felt completely reasonable and civilized at the time.
The cookie was gone in four bites.
Percy came back into the room, looked at the empty parchment paper, looked at Annabeth, looked at you, and the expression that moved across his face was something you would describe only as a man watching his entire legacy dissolve before his eyes. A Renaissance painting of grief. Perseus Jackson, 2000s, oil on canvas.
Annabeth had apologized, laughed, and left twenty minutes later.
That was an hour ago.
"Okay," you say, shifting on the couch toward him. "I want to say, in my defenseâ"
"Nope." His voice is clipped, the vocal equivalent of a door closing in your face.
"I didn't give it to her, she justâ"
"You shrugged." He says it like the word itself is a wound. He still won't look at you, jaw working like he's chewing on further grievances he hasn't yet chosen to deploy. "I saw you. I came back and I watched the security footage of your face and you shrugged!"
"There's no security footageâ"
"In my mind there is." He huffs and slides a deliberate inch down the couch, away from you, because apparently physical proximity is now something you have to earn. "I had been thinking about that cookie since noon. Since noon! I told it I'd be back."
You stare at him.
You stare at the sharp, indignant line of his jaw and his magnificently crossed arms and the way his sea-green eyes are fixed on the middle distance with focused conviction.
You almost lose it. You almost completely, catastrophically lose it right there on the couch and you have to physically bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard it's going to leave a mark, because if you laugh right now Percy will simply evaporate from the indignity of it and you will never forgive yourself. This is a solemn moment. You will treat it as such. You are a good partner.
You are barely a good partner.
"Baby," you say carefully.
"Don't."
"I'm sorry."
"You're not."
"I am," you insist, and okay, you're like forty percent sorry. Maybe thirty-eight. The remaining sixty-two percent of you is absolutely, helplessly charmed by the fact that this boyâthis boy who has fought actual monsters with actual weapons and navigated actual labyrinths and held the weight of the actual sky on his actual shouldersâis currently pouting about a cookie.Â
You scoot closer to him. He scoots away a solid two inches this time.
You scoot closer again. He moves again. Another inch. He's running out of couch and you are genuinely curious whether he has considered that or whether the floor becomes an option when the armrest runs out.
"Percy Jackson."
"I'm not talking to you."
"You keep talking to me."
"I'm talking at you." He turns just enough to level you with a look so profoundly martyred it belongs in a cathedral somewhere, before snapping his face away again. "There's a difference."
"Right," you say. "Very evolved."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I know. I took it as one anyway." He turns his face away again.
You look at the way he keeps almost glancing at you and then catching himself and redirecting, like eye contact is a resource he's rationing because he knows that the moment he actually looks at you it's over.Â
"Perce?"
"No."
You lean slightly toward him. "Perce."
He turns his cheek away, a smooth, practiced motion.
"Baby."
"I'm busy."
You mutter a prayer at the ceiling. You look at it for a while. You ask it, silently, what you have done to deserve this, and the ceiling offers no answers, which is fair.
You lean in and press your lips to the side of his faceâsoft, deliberate, right at his cheekbone, just below the temple where the skin is warm.
Percy goes completely still.
His jaw unclenches by a fraction. His shoulders drop approximately one millimeter. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't turn toward you either. He's in the negotiation phase now, you can feel the internal arbitration between pride and the fact that your mouth was just on his face.
He still won't look at you. But the pout has lost some structural integrity. It's a load-bearing pout, and you've just taken out a wall. His mouth keeps twitching at the corner like it's mounting a quiet insurrection, one side pulling toward a smile that his brain is desperately trying to veto.
He clears his throat. Adjusts his crossed arms. Very professional.
"Perce," you say softly.
"Mm."
"Look at me."
"In a minute."
"It's been an hour."
"I'm on my own timeline."
"Percyâ"
He turns his cheek away again. Not away away, just at an angle. You note that he has stopped scooting, at least.
You think about being a reasonable adult who communicates through words and then you look at the deliberate angle of his jaw and the way he is absolutely, one hundred percent fighting a smile and you think: nope.
You reach out and take his face in both hands. Your palms against his jaw, fingers light on his cheeks, and you turn him toward you with the unambiguous energy of someone who has simply decided that the dramatic portion of the evening is over now, thank you, we're moving on.
He comes. He was always going to come (you both know that, it was never really in question) but he does it with his eyes still tracking sideways.
You kiss him.
And Percy, for all his sulking, for all his forensic cookie analysis and strategic couch migration and carefully rationed eye contact, kisses you back immediately. Like a reflex. Like his mouth just knows, has always known, and the rest of him was simply killing time. You feel the last of the pout dissolve into something warm and unguarded within about half a second, feel him exhale through his nose like he's been holding something he didn't realize he was holding, and he kisses you like he means it, like he's been waiting, becauseâobviouslyâhe has.
When you pull back, his eyes stay closed for a beat too long. His lashes are dark against his cheekbones. There's a faint flush along his jaw.
He opens his eyes. And says, with immense solemnity, slightly breathless:
"Fine. You're forgiven."
The grin takes over your face before you can do a single thing about it. It just happens and Percy tries not to grin back. It lasts three seconds. Maybe four, which honestly is a personal best. Then it breaks through anyway, slow and crooked and completely against his will, and his eyes are so soft when they settle on yours that it gets you every time. Every single time, like the first time, an ambush. Unfair.Â
"It was a really good cookie," he says.
"I know, baby."
"She didn't appreciate it. You could just tell. She ate it like it wasâ" he waves a hand, "âa cracker or something."
"Annabeth is a monster," you nod with full sincerity.
"Thank you." He points at you. "That's all I needed. That's literally all I needed to hear."
His hands find your waist. And then you feel the slight shift in his grip, a half-second warning before Percy flips you over with a grin that has absolutely nothing apologetic in it and his mouth is everywhereâyour cheek, your nose, the corner of your eye, your jaw, your temple. Heâs laughing and you are shrieking, actually shrieking, laughing so hard your ribs ache.
"Percy!â
"Payback," he announces cheerfully into your neck. He is completely unbothered by your protests, laughing that low, warm laugh that you feel more than hear. "Direct consequences.â
And then there's nothing but his laughter and yours twisted together, and the warm impossible weight of him, and the way he says your name between kisses like it's a word he invented specifically to like the sound of.
â Öč Ë RAFE && HIS OVERDRAMATIC GIRLFRIEND   á±ș㠀㠀  àšà±żÂ
oh, how you loved raising rafeâs water bill as you stood in the hot stream of water for hours. it made your body and muscles loosen.
calm down.
perks of having a rich boyfriend, you guess. (not that you relied on himâyou were a lady; you could handle your expenses very well, even if you would get your card robbed by rafe and your wallet replaced with his cardâand maybe, well, a good spank afterward if you spent too much of your own.)
you could hear some shuffling here and there from outside the bathroomâprobably rafe back from his golf date with his other lover.
fucking topper.
yes, thatâs how you worded it before he left this morning. might as well be topperâs boyfriend if heâd rather play golf with him than spend time with you shopping online.
before you know it, heâs inside the bathroom, grumbling about the amount of steam.
âyou like taking showers in hell in your private time?â he says with a frown on his pretty face as he starts undressing.
throwing him a glare, you open the shower door a little to see his faceâand he can see your glare.
âfuck off, raphael.â pity? yes. overdramatic? yes. but letâs not talk about that.
before you could curse him some more in your head, heâs walking over, joining you in the shower. naked. god, you were never gonna get over how fucking good he looks.
he wraps both large arms around your waist tightly, his face right into your neck, prepping it with kissesâand you meltâ
wait, no, youâre still mad.
âwrecked my wallet enough with your shopping today?â he mumbles into your neck while massaging your waist.
âextra today because you left, asshole.â you aggressively turn around, grabbing some shampoo, washing his head as he looks at you with this loving, dreamy gaze.
oh, how he loved his dramatic girl.
âi had to go, babyâtopperâs dad had to talk to me about somethinâ he sighs as you massage his head.
âawhh then i guess you didnât get to spend a lot of time with your boyfriend, huh?â you say.
âcâmon, baby, you know itâs not like that. i can barely tolerate the fucker.â he quickly gets under the water, washing his head, then positions his face back into your neck, putting your arms around his neck.
when you donât say anything, he knows the drill by now.
âiâm sorry, forgive me, my love. wonât happen again.â he pulls back, leaving tiny kisses on your chest and collarbone.
âfine. on your knees then.â you glare at him still. itâd take a whole lot of spoiling and kisses and quality time to get you to fully forgive himâand he knew that.
but for now, he just got on his knees with a shit-eating grin, putting all his loving where his mouth is, âcause his sugar-talking wasnât gonna work tonight.
young!haymitch abernathy x fem!reader
content warnings: none all fluff! (no SOTR spoilers!)
summary: midnight meetings
wc: 2.9k
masterlist.
You donât sleep much.
Not for any dramatic reason, no nightmares, no voices in the dark. Just restlessness. A kind that settles under your skin and refuses to leave. The air in District 12 feels too heavy at night, and your room is too quiet, and the clock on the wall ticks loud enough to drive you mad.
So one night, you leave.
You donât go far. Just past the broken fence behind your house, down the road where the lanterns flicker out early. The stars are the brightest thing for miles, so you walk beneath them, your arms wrapped around yourself for warmth. You donât know what youâre looking for.
You donât expect to find him.
Haymitch Abernathy.
You find him sitting on the water towerâs rusted ladder like it belongs to him. He has his jacket unbuttoned and his hairâs a mess and his expression is unreadable. His eyes flick to you when you stop a few feet away.
âWell,â he says, like itâs the most normal thing in the world, âdidnât expect you.â
You donât answer at first. Just blink at him in the darkness.
âGo ahead,â he adds, leaning back. âTell me Iâm breaking curfew.â
âIâm not your mother,â you say, surprised at your own boldness.
That earns a crooked smirk. âCouldâve fooled me.â
You should leave. You know that. But your feet stay planted. Maybe itâs curiosity. Maybe itâs the quiet. Or maybe itâs just the way heâs not telling you to go.
âWhat are you doing out here?â you ask after a moment.
He shrugs. âCould ask you the same.â
You hesitateâŠthen sit on the low steps of the tower, a safe few feet away.
Neither of you speaks for a while. The night stretches on, long and strange and still.
And then, just before you part ways he says...
âSame time tomorrow?â
You donât plan on going back.
Not really.
You tell yourself it was a one-time thing, an accident, a coincidence, a fleeting moment in a sleepless night. Youâre not someone who needs company. Least of all from someone like Haymitch Abernathy. Heâs arrogant. Heâs unpredictable. Heâs always getting into trouble.
But the next night, at exactly midnight, your feet lead you to the water tower again.
Heâs already there.
He doesnât say hello. Just lifts his chin in that lazy, wordless way, like heâs acknowledging something, but not quite you.
You settle on the steps again, arms tucked around your knees. Itâs colder tonight. He tosses you his jacket without looking at you. It smells like coal and pine.
You wear it anyway.
Neither of you talks much that night. Or the next. Or the next.
It becomes something you donât name. A rhythm. A pattern. A quiet kind of gravity that pulls you both back to the same spot, the same hour, the same silence.
Sometimes he brings an apple, and you take turns biting into it.
Sometimes you rest your head on the metal railing and count stars out loud while he hums under his breath, low and off-key.
Sometimes you sit in complete silence for an hour straightâuntil the wind picks up or someoneâs porch light flickers on in the distance and reminds you that time still exists.
But never once do you ask him why heâs there.
And he never asks you either.
Because whatever it is, whatever reason you both have for wandering the dark at midnight, itâs easier not to name it. Not to look too closely at it. Not to admit that youâre starting to look forward to something.
Not when that something might disappear.
The sixth night you find him lying on his back on top of the water tower, arms folded behind his head like he owns the place. His boots are kicked off and resting beside him. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and for once, he doesnât look like heâs trying to charm the world or argue with it. He just looksâŠstill.
âYouâre late,â he calls, not even lifting his head.
âYou donât even wear a watch,â you shoot back, hoisting yourself up the ladder.
âI donât need to. Youâre predictable.â
You try not to smile, but it slips out anyway. The windâs stronger up here tonight, brushing past your cheeks like cold fingertips, and when you sit beside him, the metal hums under your weight. You both face the sky, not each other. It feels safer that way.
Stars blanket the dark above like a stitched-on ceiling. Youâve always liked looking at themânot because you know the constellations, but because they never change. They donât belong to the Capitol or the Districts. They donât care about borders or Reapings or coal. They just shine.
âI used to think those were cracks in the sky,â Haymitch says after a long stretch of silence.
You glance over. âThe stars?â
âYeah. Like the world was broken up there, too. Just in a prettier way.â
You laugh softly, but itâs not mocking. âPoetic.â
âShut up.â
Another beat passes. Then, âMy dad used to sit up here.â
You go still. Itâs the first time heâs ever offered anything real, anything personal. Up until now, youâve only seen the version of Haymitch the rest of 12 seesâsemi-closed off but still witty and smart.
âHe used to sneak up here after late shifts. I followed him onceâthought he was running away. He laughed when I told him that.â His voice is flat, but not empty. Like heâs holding something carefully in the back of his throat. âSaid the air was cleaner up here. Said you could pretend you were anywhere else.â
You rest your chin on your knees. âWas he right?â
Haymitch shrugs. âSome nights.â
You donât say anything for a moment and he pauses. Then, in a calm voice, âDied when I was younger. Mine caught fire and collapsed.â
You turn your head, watching him in the dark. His face is unreadableâeyes locked on the sky, jaw tight, mouth soft.
âIâm sorry,â you whisper.
He doesn't look at you. But after a beat, his hand shifts slightly between you. Not reaching for yours. Not yet. JustâŠmoving closer. Like heâs thinking about it.
You inch your pinky finger toward his. Itâs a near-touch. Barely there. But itâs enough to make your breath catch.
âI come out here,â you say, voice quieter now, âbecause my house gets too quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Just⊠heavy. Like the silence has weight.â
He nods once, like he understands that exactly.
âThe clock in my room ticks too loud,â you add.
That gets a faint huff of amusement out of him. âThatâs what keeps you up at night?â
You nudge his leg lightly with your foot. âThat, and the fact that I can hear myself think. Which is rarely a good thing.â
He goes quiet again, but not in a way that pushes you out. More like⊠heâs considering something. Turning it over. Holding it.
âYouâre not what I expected,â he says after a while.
You tilt your head. âWhat does that mean?â
âI dunno.â His voice is low. Honest. âI always thought you were too⊠good. Too sweet for someone like me to be around.â
The words settle like dust in your lungs.
âYouâre not as bad as you think you are, Haymitch.â
He finally looks at you.
Itâs not a long look, but itâs fullâmore real than any glance heâs given you before. Thereâs something raw behind his eyes. Something unguarded. And maybe itâs the wind, or the height, or the fact that no one else is awake to witness this version of him, but he doesnât look away immediately.
âI could be,â he says softly. âIf I wanted.â
You donât believe him.
You think heâs more afraid of being good than bad. Because good things get taken. Get buried. Get hurt.
He shifts again. His fingers brush yours. A little closer this time.
Your breath stutters.
You stay like that for a while. Barely touching, barely speaking. Just existing beside each other in the hush of midnight.
And when itâs time to leave, he doesnât say goodbye.
He just walks you home in silence.
And right before he turns to go, he pauses. Not quite looking at you.
âIf I wasnât there tomorrow,â he says. âWould you notice?â
You blink. The question feels heavier than it should.
âYes,â you say.
And thatâs the last word either of you speaks that night, and after that? Something changes.
Not in a loud or obvious way. No declarations. No confessions.
But the air between you shifts, tilts slightly, like the world is leaning toward something. You feel it in the way he looks at you a second longer than he used to. In the way his knee brushes yours on purpose and doesnât move away. In the way you start sitting a little closer without thinking.
You still meet at midnight.
Still perch on the water tower like ghosts hiding from the world. Still eat from the same stolen apple, still trade off dumb stories and half-laughed truths and long spells of silence that somehow feel fuller than noise.
But nowâŠnow there are moments that hold their breath.
Like when you hand him a piece of bread from your pocket and your fingers touch. And stay there. Just for a second too long.
Or when he leans in to say something, and his voice gets caught between a whisper and a breath, and your eyes flick to his mouth before you can stop yourself.
Or when he tells a joke that isnât even that funny, but you laugh anyway, and he looks at you like heâs memorizing the shape of your smile just in case he forgets it later.
Heâs not the boy people whisper about behind their hands anymore.
Not here. Not at midnight. Not with you.
Here, heâs soft around the edges. Still sharp-tongued, yesâbut sometimes he quiets. Sometimes he hums a song you donât recognize. Sometimes he looks like he wants to say something he canât quite name.
And one night, he almost does.
You're both sitting close, closer than usual. The stars are blurry behind a thin mist, and your shoulders are touching, solid and sure. His hand is resting beside yours on the cool metal rooftop.
He shifts.
You feel his pinky graze yours. Not like before. This time, this time it stays. He doesnât pull away. And when your hand turns slightly, your knuckles brush.
Thatâs all it takes for the air to go still.
You can feel your pulse behind your ears. His hand is warmâwarmer than it should be, like heâs nervous. You want to look at him, but you canât bring yourself to break the moment.
Then, slowly, he turns his palm upward. Like an invitation.
You glance at it. At him.
And just when you think youâll take it, just when youâre about to let your fingers slide into his...
He pulls away.
A quiet, startled motion. Fast. Small. Almost nothing.
But itâs everything.
He shoves both hands into the pockets of his coat. Clears his throat. Says, too casually, âCold tonight, huh?â
You say nothing.
Because what would you even say?
He doesnât walk you home that night.
And though he still meets you the next evening, something about the almost of it all lingers.
It rests in your chest like a weight you canât shake.
He doesnât show.
At first, you think maybe youâve just beaten him there. You climb the water tower like always, perch on the edge with your knees tucked to your chest, and wait. The wind rustles through the trees below, and the crickets sing the same broken song they always do. You count stars. You trace shapes in the sky.
You wait twenty minutes. Then forty.
Eventually, you tell yourself heâs just late.
You leave the apple you brought on the metal ledge where he always sits. And you walk home trying not to feel stupid. Trying not to feel something worse.
The second night, he doesnât come again.
No excuses. No note. Nothing.
And you sit there longer this time, arms wrapped tight around yourself, heart prickling with something that feels suspiciously like worry.
You tell yourself itâs fine. That youâre not mad. That this was never a thing anyway. He doesnât owe you anything.
But it still aches. Quietly. Right under your ribs.
By the third night, you donât want to go.
You sit on your porch steps instead, jacket zipped, thumb brushing over the frayed stitching on your sleeve. The sky is clearer than usual, full of cold light and silence, and you feel it again, that pull.
Stupid, stubborn, steady.
You go.
You tell yourself itâs the last time.
You climb up like always. Settle in like always. But you donât look at the stars this time. You just watch the ladder. You tell yourself if he doesnât come by the time the clock chimes two, thatâs it. Youâre done.
And then, just past one-thirty, you hear the sound of boots on metal.
You donât look at him at first.
He climbs slowly, like the coldâs gotten into his bones. Heâs got dark circles under his eyes, and his jaw is clenched, and when he finally sits beside you, he doesnât say anything.
Neither do you.
For a while, all you hear is wind. And breath.
And then, quietly, cautiously, he says,
âI didnât think youâd still be coming.â
You glance at him. His eyes are fixed on his hands. He looksâŠtired. Not physically. Something deeper.
âWhy didnât you come?â you ask.
He shrugs, but itâs hollow. âThought maybe it was getting stupid. Us doing this. Thought maybe you were bored of it.â
You scoff, but itâs soft. âThatâs not your call to make.â
He nods, like he agrees. Or maybe like heâs punishing himself.
You look down at the apple core still sitting in the corner, untouched. The one you left for him two nights ago. The skinâs started to brown.
âYou didnât answer my question,â you say.
He doesnât pretend not to know which one.
âI donât know,â he murmurs. âGuess I just wanted to see if it would matter.â
You blink. The words settle heavy in your chest.
âWould it have?â he asks, quieter now. âIf Iâd stopped showing up. Would you have noticed?â
You want to be angry. You want to ask how he could doubt itâhow he could think youâd be here night after night if none of it meant anything.
But heâs looking at you like he already knows the answer.
And heâs scared of it anyway.
âYes,â you say simply. âI wouldâve.â
Something flickers across his face, relief, maybe. Guilt. Or maybe something even softer.
He nods. Doesnât say thank you. Doesnât say sorry.
But he shifts a little closer.
Not much. Just enough that your knees bump.
Just enough that this timeâŠhe doesnât pull away.
The next night, heâs already waiting when you get there.
He doesnât say anything when you arrive. He just offers you the spot beside him like itâs always been yours. The metal rooftop is cool beneath your legs, and the wind brushes your hair into your face, and the sky above is so clear it almost hurts to look at.
He tosses you an apple without a word.
You take a bite. Pass it back. Itâs quiet like it always is, but something about the silence tonight feels different. Not heavy. Not full of unsaid things.
Just waiting.
âI almost didnât come,â you admit after a while.
Haymitch shifts beside you. âTonight?â
âNo,â you say. âBack then. The first night. I didnât plan to keep coming.â
âWhy did you?â
You glance at him. His face is turned toward the sky, but his eyes flick to you the moment you look. Like heâs been waiting for this. Like heâs been asking himself the same question all along.
You think about lying. About saying it was just boredom or insomnia or curiosity.
But you donât want to lie tonight.
âI liked being with you,â you say. âIt felt like breathing again.â
He swallows. His jaw flexes. His gaze drops to your lips for just a secondâand you feel it like a current, sharp and electric.
He leans in first.
Itâs not fast. Itâs not desperate.
Itâs slow. Careful. Like heâs giving you time to change your mind. Like he doesnât fully believe you wonât.
But you donât move. You donât pull away.
And when his lips finally touch yours, itâs soft. Just a brush, at first. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours, tentative and trembling. His hand comes up, fingertips brushing your cheek, your jaw, like heâs afraid you might disappear.
He kisses you like heâs memorizing the feeling. Like heâs starving and terrified all at once.
You kiss him back like youâve been waiting your whole life.
When he finally pulls away, he doesnât go far.
His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing shallow. The night presses in around you, and for once, it doesnât feel lonely.
âYouâre not what I expected,â he whispers again.
âYou already said that.â
He huffs a small laugh, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. âStill true.â
You lean into his touch.
And for a little while longer, you both pretend this moment is safe. That morning isnât coming. That the world doesnât ask for too much.
You sit with your shoulders touching, your hands intertwined, and your lips still tasting of each other.
And for once, midnight feels like the beginning of somethingârather than the end.
Nervous was an understatement. Haymitch was practically quivering where he stood at the end of what felt like the longest aisle in the world. Heâd wanted something simpler but those who knew both you and him had other ideas. He supposed a part of him was grateful they wanted it to be special, but that part was silenced in the wake of his fear.
If only his mother was here. Her presence may have offered something resembling comfort, at least familiarity. Or even Sid; goofy, lovable, with that unseriousness that resided in young boys. With a pang he began to miss them, not bothering to shoo the feeling away. It distracted him from the eyes prying into him from the rows of seats he was facing.
Burdock was at his side, but he was moon-eyed staring at Asterid sitting in the front row. No help at all. Maybe it didnât occur to his friend that he would be nervous. At Burdockâs wedding heâd not shown the slightest hint of it. Haymitch remembered the event fondly, a night spent tipsy and swaying under the stars with you between his arms.
Shifting, he stared down at his tight shoes, a loose curl falling onto his forehead. His clothes were new and he felt like a stranger in them. That didnât help the tightness in his chest. Taking in a breath, he turned his head to look at the wildflowers carefully twined over the arch he was standing under. Pink. Your favorite. Thinking of you helped him calm, and so he shut his eyes, imagining what you might be doing at this very moment.
Maybe you were hugging your sister or smacking your brotherâs arm because heâd made a snarky comment about your choice of groom. Haymitchâs lips twitched up. He couldnât blame him, really. Had he a younger sister heâd have likely done the same.
He hadnât seen your dress yet due to your insistence. He also hadnât seen you since yesterday even though heâd protested the tradition. What, a man couldnât wake up on the day of his own wedding with his girl in his arms? A flawed practice in his opinion.
There was a long day ahead of him, what with the toast and the reception, but at least youâd be with him for that part. This would be the worst of it, waiting and trying not to think about everyone staring at him. It was a sunny day, thankfully perfect. Birds twittered nearby, and he relaxed his shoulders. They reminded him of you, the way youâd hum moving around his house.
If it werenât for you he didnât know how heâd stand living in the shiny lodgings provided by the Capitol. It was too new, too much of a reminder of all heâd been through. This was the prize. If his old house was still standing heâd have opted to live there.
For the first few days after everything heâd been slumped over a table dead to the world. Youâd arrived swiftly and pried the glass of white liquor from his hand, forcing him into the shower and setting up the beginnings of a meal at his brand new stove.
Heâd been toweling off when you entered the bathroom quietly, brushing off the fact that he was naked and wrapping your arms around his middle, face pressed to his chest. With the scent of you filling his nose, he began to sober up.
âBaby,â he breathed, mouth sinking into your hair.
You shook your head, fingers spread wide across his back. âIâm sorry.â
Haymitch shook his head back. The thought poked its head from the inner parts of his mind. Marrying you. But he didnât dare utter it aloud until years later.
Youâd seen him like this and you still wanted him. Still loved him. You were a miracle, and he didnât believe in miracles anymore.
Every nightmare, every bad day and youâd stuck around. He found comfort in spoiling you with the Capitol-stamped checks that came for you every month, making sure you had all the pretty things you could want. You decorated his house and made it feel more like a home than a lifeless shell. The smell of your cooking filled the kitchen every night and he lingered in your shadow to âhelpâ (clumsily chopping vegetables, pressing kisses to the back of your neck, cleaning dishes, threading his arms around your waist from behind while you stirred).
Haymitch didnât know why heâd been shocked when you said yes. In his head you were practically married already but still he had found himself trembling pulling out the pretty ring heâd acquired for you.
Now here he was at the end of the aisle, folding his hands in front of him and hoping he wouldnât faint before you appeared. Was it a common ailment for grooms? Maybe the new Mrs. Everdeen had a tonic on her. Heâd been sober since yesterday but maybe a drink this morning would have calmed his nerves.
Burdock finally tore his eyes away from his wife and faced him, giving him a not-subtle-at-all thumbs up. Haymitch found the energy to lean over and shoulder him lightly, earning a grin in return.
The man whoâd be marrying the two of you arrived (Haymitch could never quite remember his title) and took his place in the center of the arch. They were getting closer. He wondered where you were, if you were as nervous as him.
Burdock elbowed him, nodding toward the back of the aisle. When Haymitch looked, his breath was stolen. He could only see a glimpse, but what a sight. You, hair loose, wildflowers threaded through it, holding more bunched in your hands and tied with a pink ribbon. Your motherâs necklace sat at your collarbone- he could see the familiar pendent heâd twisted between his fingers on so many late nights from here. Your white dress was simple- half of its beauty came from the wearer. It was all of this that overwhelmed him: your ethereal glow, the context, you. You looked so happy. It was hard to believe he was the cause.
When you began to walk closer, his breath fled him again. All of this just for him. His wife. You clung to your brotherâs arm as you made your way down the aisle, smiling at the guests on both sides. Your bare feet occasionally peeked from under your hem- you loved the feel of warm grass on your heels.
When you finally looked at him he realized he was smiling, so much that it might hurt later. Your brother caught his eye, giving him a knowing look that he nodded ever so slightly at. It was clear: take care of her or else. There was nothing else in the world heâd rather do.
Your brother was supposed to put your hand into Haymitchâs and then he was supposed to lead you under the arch to stand in front of him. When your brother gave him your hand, Haymitch instead pulled you forward, crushing you to his chest. He heard a sigh from somewhere in the audience, likely your sister whoâd been up since dawn primping you for today. You didnât seem to care one bit, wrapping your arms around his middle and tilting your bouquet against his back. Surely you could feel his rapidly beating heart but you didnât let on. He kissed your hair, your flowery scent filling him. When he pulled back, he noticed a loose flower and fixed it back where it had been tucked behind your ear.
âHi,â you whispered, and his face split into a grin again.
âHi, angel,â he breathed, watching your eyes light up. Stepping back, he adjusted your dress as you stared at him adoringly, not bothering to straighten his own clothes.
Standing up straight, he held out his hand, melting when you placed your soft one in his palm. Your sister stepped forward to take your bouquet, giving Haymitch a pointed look, but he didnât care.
His girl was here, about to be his wife.
For once, the drink wasnât the reason he didnât remember something. Haymitchâs eyes were glued to you all through the ceremony, his lips moving when they needed to. Heâd already pledged everything he was to you. This was just a formality.
When the man declared you husband and wife, he seized you around the waist, lifting you up so you were level with him. He waited until you leaned forward to kiss you back. Your first kiss married. One out of infinity.
Sweeping you up, he secured an arm under your legs to carry you down the aisle much to the crowdâs delight. You wrapped your arms around his neck happily and leaned your head on his shoulder.
He went through the motions of the toast, the reception all while keeping his eyes on you, a hand on your waist. Maybe it was possessive but he had rights. You were his wife. It felt so good on his tongue. You were just as clingy, hand practically glued to his chest.
Haymitch held you as it grew dark, the stars the only light. The music was slow and smooth, and he swayed back and forth with you, brushing a strand of hair from your face every now and then.
You pressed a kiss over his heart. âDid I tell you yet how handsome you look?â
âCouple times.â He watched you fondly straighten the handkerchief around his neck. âDid I-?â
âYes,â you laughed, and he grinned, picking you up to spin around once.
âDidnât let me finish,â he teased, reaching his thumb up to brush your cheek. âDid I tell you thereâs a bug in your hair?â
âFunny.â
âNo, really.â He used his hand to lift it from one of your flowers. A ladybug. Maybe itâd been there the whole time. âMake a wish.â It was something youâd taught him, that they were good luck. He used the little sentiment to drown out what theyâd come to mean in the arena.
âI wishâŠâ you trailed off, meeting his eyes. Standing on tiptoes, you whispered in his ear as he clasped your hand with his other. ââŠthat weâll be this happy forever.â Both of you turned to watch just in time to see the ladybug unsheath its wings and fly away.
His eyes inevitably turned back to you as you watched the bug take flight with wonder in your face. Special things like you werenât meant to happen to people like him. But here you were, glowing under the gaze of the moon and stars, choosing to be with him. Heâd choose you right back every single time.
Lifting your hands to his lips, he planted a kiss on your knuckles, right by your ring. âYour wish is my command.â
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summary: when Sirius and Remus travel back in time for an Order mission, they come face to face with you: their girlfriend who died during the first Wizarding War
ÖŽ àŁȘđ€.á content warning: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, grief, smoking, death, gore, blood, graphic descriptions, age gap due to time-turning magic, swearing, dark themes, older sirius black, young sirius black, older remus lupin, young remus lupin, morally grey wolfstar and there is nothing they wouldn't do for you
word count: 9.3k
author's note: unfortunately not proofread. sorry!
áŻâ ËËË navigation
Remus sat with his back to Sirius, running his hand across the windowsill, his gaze flickering over the snowy scene of a December Hogsmeade afternoon. It was only four oâclock, but the sky was already dark, and the street was nearly deserted. A few people headed into the Hogâs Head across the street, their laughs carrying all the way up and becoming muffled in Remusâ ears. He heard Siriusâ heavy sigh for the hundredth time that night.
âStop,â Remus said sternly, though his voice wavered, his eyes clenching. âYou know that youâre lucky they even let you come with me. If we do it, youâll never see the sky again, Sirius. Theyâll keep you locked at Grimmauld Place.â
âThey canât do that to me.â
âThey very well can, Sirius! And you know they can! Itâs either that or back to Azkaban. Please, feel free to choose,â Remusâ voice dripped with sarcasm, so stabbing it was painful.Â
âMaybe itâs worth it,â Sirius said, and his voice broke. With it, Remusâ heart. He turned to face the darker-haired man, taking in the way his mouth curled, and his silver eyes shone. Remus had to look away. âMaybe Iâd die for one last moment with her, Remus. Just one more time where the three of us areâ where we are whole: where sheâs with us! Donât you want that? You canât say you donât think about itâabout herâall of the time, too!â
âOf course I do!â Remus suddenly exploded, standing from the chair and holding his palms to his temples. âDonât evenâdonât you dare for a minute insinuate that I donât miss her with every fibre of my fucking being! You have no idea what it was like when you were in Azkabanâwhen I thought Iâd lost both of you! How much I wished you both were here!â
Sirius scowled. âImagine how I felt from my cell!â
Remusâ hands trembled as he shook his head, turning from Sirius. âSave the story, Sirius. Iâve heard it a hundred times before.â
âYouâre such a dick.â
âYou want me to break the law, Sirius! Youâd like for us to go against the Orderâs wishes to seeâto go and see her, and fuck, Sirius, Merlin knows how much Iâd kill to see her again, but we canât! Horrible, terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time! We were given strict ordersâto retrieve Jamesâ cloak. We canât let anyone see us, Sirius!â
Sirius felt like he could rip his hair from his head. Instead, he bit his knuckles. âBut horrible things happened to us anyway, Remus! How the fuck could it get any worse than itâs ended up? Thereâs another war raging on. I went to Azkaban, you spent thirteen years alone, and Y/N is fucking dead! Sheâs gone, and you canât even say her fucking name!â He watched Remusâ face go completely white. âGo on, say it, Remus! Because I havenât heard you say her name since she wasâsince she was here with us!â
Remusâ fists curled. âFuck off, will you?â
âI said your names every single day when I was in Azkaban! I refused to forget any of it. Any of what we had! Just say it, Remus!â Siriusâ voice rose to yelling, and he stood from the bed. âGo on. Itâs Y/Nâin case you fucking forgot. Say Y/Nâs naââ
Remus caught Siriusâ wrists when Sirius went to shove him, his large hands gripping him hard. âYouâll be back in Azkaban if we were caught! And Iâd be in the cell next to yours! Is that what you want?â
âI donât careââ
âOf course you donât, but one of us needs to think rationally. You said youâd be fine doing this when Moody asked! You saidââ
Sirius jerked away from Remus, his face stony and his glare cold. âFuck off, Remus.â
Remus rolled his eyes and quickly shuffled for the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He watched Sirius stalk back over to the bed and chuck himself in it, yanking the duvet up to his shoulders. He felt the strain in his chest and his throat, his eyes growing incredibly hot as he propped open the innâs window. He lit his cigarette and hung his head out into the cold air, and only then did he let the tears drip down his face.
He glared at the snowy pavement, seething with rageâfurious that Sirius had put him in such an awful position, angry at you for no longer being here, and absolutely sickened at the fact that he had the time turner around his neck. He couldnât use it for the one thing in the world that he wanted.Â
He glanced over at the vibrant pink and green sweet shop. Honeydukes was always the first place you went to, every Hogsmeade trip, and you always used to get the same thingâtoffees and a chocolate frog. Across from Honeydukes was the bench where the three of you had drunkenly admitted your feelings for one another back in your sixth year. He stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill hard and then lit a second one.Â
 When he finished and shut the window, he turned, and the room was cold and smelled of nicotine. He pulled off his clothes and got into the bed next to Sirius, careful not to touch himâapprehensive that the feeling of their skin touching would only fuel their furies.Â
Siriusâ voice was thick with clogged tears when he spoke a few minutes later, filling the heavy silence. âWe donât work without her, Remus. You know that.â
He bit the inside of his cheek and didnât say anything for a long while. He thought Sirius might have fallen asleep, and perhaps that was how he gained the courage to speak.Â
âI miss Y/N all of the time,â he whispered, barely audible. âI miss her first thing in the morning, and the last thing at night. I think about what the three of us had back then. It was the last time I was actually happy. And we all took it for granted.â
âWe were idiots,â Sirius whispered back croakily. âYoung, and we all thought that made us fucking invincible or something.â
âIt should have woken us up when Marlene died.â
âTheyââ Siriusâ voice cracked. âPeter was always going to have to kill Y/N if he wanted to frame me and make you go away. There was nothing we could have done.â
Remusâ fists clenched. He scrunched his eyes shut. âShe loved Peter.â
Sirius choked. âWhat he did to herââ He felt physical pain shudder through his system. âThe state he left her inâHe was fucking brutal, Remus.â
âI know,â Remus whispered, his eyes growing fuzzy, his brain numb.Â
âShe didnât deserve that. She was stillâshe was alive when Iââ
Sirius lifted his shaky hands as if he could still see the blood on them, even in the dark. Remus reached over to encase one of them, and he tugged his hand against his chest. Sirius shook as he cried, wriggling closer to Remus, sobbing into his chest. Remus felt himself begin to crumble, too.Â
âShe was only twenty-one.â
And that was enough for Remus to really sob. They were in their late thirties now. Remus was aware they were never supposed to get this old without you. You had always spoken of your future together, every word as optimistic as the last. You were supposed to be here. He would let you take his place any day. Heâd let you and Sirius have this at the drop of a hatâyou deserved to see the world beyond the first war.Â
âJust one more time,â Remus whispered, and he grasped Siriusâ hand tighter in both of his, moving them upward from his chest to the time turner sitting around his neck, engulfing the cool metal.Â
Siriusâ eyes were wide and wet with shock. âRemus?â
Remus spun the time turner back and back and backâall the way to 1978, before they had become soldiers for the Order.
ââ .âŠ
Remus inhaled the familiar smell of the Hogwarts corridors. Heâd been here only a few years ago at his temporary position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, but somehow, this felt different. Perhaps it was because Sirius was by his side, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had gone back to the 1970s. He swallowed as he glanced around at the empty halls, his expression nearly matching Siriusâ.Â
âMerlin,â Sirius muttered. âThis is fucking insane.â
Remus nodded in agreement. âThis was a bad idea.â
Sirius swatted him hard. âAre you fucking kidding me, Remus? Sheâs here! Sheâs in this building right now!â
âAnd weâre nearly forty yearsââ
â-Iâm thirty-six, actuallyââ
âWe will not blend in with everybody else here! Weâre going to be noticed immediately,â Remus worried. âAnd Dumbledore will quickly realise weâre from the future, and weâll be hurled off toââ
Sirius grabbed Remusâ wrist and yanked him closer to an alcove despite the lack of anybody around them. âOkay, so weâll sneak into Slughornâs classroom. Heâs bound to have some sort of de-ageing potion.â
Remus scratched the back of his neck anxiously. âThis is so wrong, Sirius.â
âIâm not leaving here without seeing her, Remus,â he told him firmly, and Sirius took off in the direction of the dungeons, as if it hadnât been twenty years since they were last students here.Â
It was rather easy for Remus and Sirius to find the correct potion in Slughornâs storage cupboard. Sirius and James used to have their fair share of fun experimenting and swapping things over to cause chaos for early-morning potion lessons. Remus watched Sirius throw his head back and down the potion as if it were a shot at the bar, his face scrunching at the taste.
Sirius wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ridding the purple residue, and he blinked at Remus strangely. âWell? Do I look any different?â
Remus shook his head. âNo, youââ
Sirius suddenly jerked forward with a violent cough, one of his hands grabbing onto Remus. Remusâ hands gripped him, trying to keep him upright, his dark eyes wide.Â
âPads!â Remus panicked. âShit, are youââ
He watched the silvers that had been starting to appear on the back of Siriusâ head turn black again. His shoulders seemed to broaden ever so slightly, his body rejuvenating after the thirteen years spent malnourished in prison. Remus gawked, helping Sirius back up when heâd stopped trembling.
âSirius?â He whispered. âAre you alright?â
Sirius groaned and touched his forehead. âYeah, I think so.â
His voice. Remus felt his heart skip a beat. He grasped Siriusâ head, forcing him to look at him, and Remus felt everything inside him freeze over and then promptly ignite. Gone were the first signs of wrinkles around his eyes and the bits of silver that had started to make an appearance on his head. Siriusâ stubble was gone, replaced with smooth, clear skinâhis eyes youthful, his face a little fuller.
âDid it work?â
Remus couldnât help but laugh. âIt fucking worked, Pads. It actually worked.â
âItâs your turn, Remus. Itâs your turn. Hurry!â
Sirius spent the next ten minutes looking at himself in the reflection in one of Slughornâs cauldrons, while the effects of Remusâ took place. The coat he was wearing suddenly felt looser, his back and hip far less stiff. Remus moved Sirius out of the way to look, touching his scarred face in awe at the youthful man looking back at him.Â
âHow long does this last?â He whispered in awe.
Sirius reached over to touch Remusâ face. âA few hours. Merlin, Rem. You look so young, itâs terrifying. We were so young when all of this was happening.â
Remus swallowed and touched Siriusâ hands. They were smooth. âIâm scared,â he suddenly admitted out loudâhe didnât even realise he was going to blurt it, and hadnât a clue that he was really feeling so anxious. âPart of me isnât sure I can handle seeing her, Sirius.â
Sirius exhaled and splayed his fingers broader on Remusâ face, as if to cup as much of him as he could in his palm. âYou can do it, Remus.â
âWhat if she asks questions, Sirius?â Remus whispered painfully. âI canât spend these moments lying to her. I canâtâI donât know if I can do this knowing itâs the last time Iâll see her. I accepted years ago that I never got to say goodbye. I canât say goodbye to her tonight, Sirius. I caââ
He was cut off by a pair of lips pressing against his own. Remus hesitated for a moment before he kissed back, and he was startled by the familiarity of kissing a much younger Sirius. It almost felt wrong, and yet it felt like no time had passed, as if he was back home. He pressed his hands to Siriusâ arms as if to physically force himself off of him.Â
âShall we find her?â Sirius pleaded breathlessly.
Remus nodded, his chest tightening.Â
ââ .âŠ
âItâs only eleven at night, so chances are, everybodyâs in the common room,â Sirius said as they headed up one of the staircases.Â
Remus pulled a face. âYes, including us, Sirius. How are we going to get past that one, hm?â
Sirius chewed on his bottom lip. âErrrââ
âMr Lupin!â Madame Pomfrey exclaimed, and both men jumped as they turned to face the older woman. âDid I or did I not tell you to stay put exactly where you were? You shouldnât be moving with your leg the way it is!â
Remus exchanged a panicked glance with Sirius. âEr, Iâm sorry, Madame Pomfrey. Itâs only, Iâve been feeling better, you see, and Sirius was just walking me back up the dorms. Iâd like to sleep in my own bed tonight.â
âMr Black, you should also be in bed!â Madame Pomfrey scowled. âYouâre in no position to be helping Mr Lupin yourself! Where on earth is your splint?â
It dawned on Remus very quickly which full moon had just occurred. He remembered it all too well, with a sick feeling in his stomach still to this day. He had badly hurt Sirius in his Animagus form, and Sirius had ended up with a snapped arm and a broken nose. It was the Christmas break, and you had stayed to not only keep Remus company over the full moon but also because you would rather be with them than back home.
 If Remus was remembering correctly, you were one of the only students to stay that year. The war was raging on, and people didnât feel as safe at Hogwarts anymore. Jamesâ father was starting to get sick, and he wanted to take Lily back to them for their first Christmas as a couple.Â
âMiss Y/L/N will come and see you boys first thing in the morning, she told you herself,â Madame Pomfrey scolded. Remus flinched, and Sirius nearly swayed in his spot. âSo get back down to the infirmary right now. Iâm heading back in ten minutesâI expect to see you back in your beds, and you with that splint on, Mr Black!â She turned away from them, marching down the corridor. âFor Merlinâs sake, these childrenâŠâ
âFuck,â Sirius said, holding his hand against his pounding heart as soon as they were out of sight of the school nurse. âThat was so fucking close. How lucky was that?â
âLucky,â Remus said, though he was hardly as amused as Sirius. âCome on, before I make us turn around.â
They hurried up the stairs even quicker than they had been going before. Remus took three steps at a time easily, though his legs felt like lead, as if they wanted to plant to the ground and stay there. When they reached the portrait of the fat lady, Sirius groaned.
âItâs you,â he said distastefully.Â
âNot the password!â She sang to him.Â
âWe donât have time for this. If youâd be so kind as to let us in,â Sirius said with a forced smile, his teeth practically gritted. âYou know who we are.â
âYou could be anybody!â The Fat Lady argued.Â
âDo I look like anybody to you?â Sirius huffed. âI am Sirius Black, you know exactly whoââ
The portrait swung open, causing the Fat Lady to scream unexpectedly. Her shrieks dimmed in both their ears, and their mouths dropped open. Remus swallowed thickly, his heart nearly coming out of his throat. Sirius was as silent as Remus had ever seen him.Â
You stood there, wearing one of Remusâ old knitted jumpersâone he still had at his home to this day, and the plaid bed shorts you swore matched it. You looked just as beautiful as they both remembered you, though your face was yanked down with the heavy weight of concern. Remus felt like he had been sliced open.Â
âI thought I heard you two bickering out here,â you said uncertainly, your furrowed brows scanning them both over. âOh, Merlin, I am so glad youâre both okay.â
You hopped from the small stair and landed with your arms thrown around both their shoulders. Your touch was all to familiar, like hearing a song you had completely forgotten about, and fuck, you smelled of the oils you ran through the ends of your hair each evening, and the moisturiser you always used to âbribeâ him or Sirius to slather on your skin (they were more than happy to do it for you, they just liked when you asked).Â
Remus thought he might be sick as he wrapped his arms around you, too. Sirius was as stiff as a board, his eyes startled as if somebody had just murdered his entire family in front of him.Â
âSirius,â you murmured as you pulled away, and your hand touched his face. He flinched back to life. âAre you okay, darling?â
Sirius choked a laugh and then began to laugh harder.Â
Remus anxiously grasped the back of Siriusâ neck, squeezing it gently. âI-I think maybe heâs still in shock. From last night.â
You nodded and traced your hand down so that it met with his. You squeezed his fingers. âCome on then. I didnât know Madame Pomfrey was going to let you both out tonight; otherwise, I might have asked the House Elves to prepare us all a nice dinner. I already ate something, but I could maybeââ
âWeâre fine, thank you, Y/N,â Remus murmured and followed you into the common room. It was easier to talk to you when he was covering for Sirius. If heâd had to speak purely for himself, he was sure he might be in the same boat.Â
Remus had visited your grave for more years than he had known you alive, and yet there you stood, walking around, smiling and doting over them as if nothing was wrong. He couldnât believe his eyes. He was sure heâd wake up, and it would be a dream.Â
âY/N,â Sirius suddenly rasped from where he sat on the sofa. You quickly turned to him. âY/N.â
He touched your face and then stroked your hair behind your ear. His eyes were darting all over you, as if he was looking for any sign of injury. He looked down at his hands after he had touched you, and he found no blood this time. Last time, his skin had been stained with it. Heâd woken up in his cell covered in the crimson that used to keep you alive, and they did not let him scrub it off of himself for weeks.Â
âSirius,â you repeated, and cocked your hide to the side with a small smile. âDo you want a cup of tea or something?â You reached up and touched his forehead. âYou are quite warm,â you told him.Â
âHeâs fine,â Remus said pointedly. âHow are you?â
You thought for a moment and then sighed, your face contorting into a pinched smile. âIâm okay. Better now that you two are here. It was awful without you last nightâitâs really scary in the tower alone.â
Remus felt the guilt start to eat him. Youâd been alone when it had happened. You had most likely been the most terrified you had ever been in your entire life.Â
âI missed you both,â you said, and ran a hand through Siriusâ hair.Â
He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch.Â
âI missed you, too,â Sirius whispered, and his hand reached up to cup yours over his face.
You furrowed your brows at him. âWhy are you being so solemn, hm? Youâre concerning me a little bit, love. And youâre being awfully standoffish over there, too, Rem.â
Sirius shook his head quickly. âNo, no. I thinkâI think the full moon just reminded us that itâs scary when weâre all apart. And thatâand that anything could happen. Weâre just glad nothing happened to you.â
âBecause I wasnât stupid enough to chase after Rem when he clearly wanted to be alone,â you chuckled at Sirius and leaned forward to kiss him. âAlways have to insert yourself into places you donât belong, donât you?â
Sirius frowned. Remus nearly chuckled at the irony. She was right, and Sirius never grew out of it.Â
âItâs not a bad thing, sweetheart,â you told him affectionately. âJust donât like seeing you get hurt because of it. Itâs bad enough when Remus has torn himself apart every month. Donât need both of you in there.â
Both of them were in awe at your kindness. They had forgotten that people like you existed. Someone who was so understanding of themâsomeone who saw all of their flaws and loved them for them. You were so young, and yet so emotionally intelligent. Neither had met anybody like you before.Â
âIt wonât happen again,â Sirius whispered.Â
âIâll believe that when I see it!â You called with a laugh as you headed over to the staircase. âCome on then, we should head to bed. Itâs Christmas Eve tomorrow! Itâd be nice to take a walk through Hogsmeade if youâre both feeling up to it. Weâll need to check your hip first, Rem.â
Remus felt his heart lurch. He grasped Sirius when he stood to follow you eagerly.Â
âWe might stay down here for a little bit, baby,â Remus said as softly as he could, his brown eyes nearly melting in the warm lights of the Gryffindor common room. âWeâre not tired yet, but weâll follow you up.â
Sirius pulled away as you frowned. âButâbut I donât want to sleep without you again,â you said. âPlease, Rem. I donât mind youâre awake. You can read orâor do whatever youâd like, but I just want to sleep with you next to me.â
âOf course weâll come up with you, sweetheart,â Sirius said, and turned back to give Remus a wicked grin. âCome on, Remus. Donât be so ridiculous.â
Remus could have smacked Sirius. The look on your face was enough to make his heart burst in his chest. His logic was battling with his feelings, and he knew the right thing to do for all of you was to leave now, but he couldnât force himself. He found his long legs carrying him up the familiar staircase that led to their old dormitory. You pushed open the door like it was yours, and quickly rushed to jump into Siriusâ bed, which had been transfigured into a king-size at some point.Â
You wriggled under the covers. Remus glanced at Sirius and saw him staring at the bed at the end of the room. Jamesâ bed. His Quidditch kit was chucked over his chair, a pair of red Converse by the end of the bed as if he had been there only the other dayâbecause he had been. He bit down on his bottom lip and gently pulled Sirius over to you, who hadnât noticed the strange behaviour from the boys.Â
Sirius felt his face melt, and he was quick to head over, kneeling onto the bed and climbing into your side.Â
âYou need to put your pyjamas on!â You told him. âBoth of you, hurry.â
He laughed as your hands half-heartedly pushed him away. He opened the drawer at his bedside and then the one beneath. He couldnât quite remember where he put them untilâ
âIdiot,â you muttered and threw a pair of plaid trousers at his head. âUnder your pillow, remember?â
âRight,â Sirius said, and ripped his shirt from his body, then his trousers.Â
He pulled on the pyjamas and glanced over at Remus, who was doing the same. They were both moving like teenagers again, slightly more effortlessly than men in their late thirties. His gaze flickered to his own chest and his arms. He had the start of a couple of tattoos, but nowhere near as many as he got as soon as he had left Hogwarts. He felt naked.
âJames sent an owl asking how you both were, by the way,â you said, and it was so casual to you, and yet so horrific for them to hear as they got dressed. âHe said he feels bad for leaving while you were asleep, but I reminded him itâs not his fault. Oh, and Lily asked about you both, too.â
âWeâll owl them,â Remus said, his chest hollow, his smile fragile as he turned back to you and climbed into the bed.Â
You were in the middle tonight, it seemed, and neither of them was complaining. It was where you often ended up, if Sirius wasnât in a mood and desperately after the most attention.Â
âPete asked too,â you said, and all the blood left both their faces immediately. âHeâs such a sweetheart, honestly, you twoâhe sent in a box of chocolates for you both. Itâs got some of your favourites in it, Rem, but from the looks of it, he chose which ones went in himself. Itâs got a note and everything, bless him.â
âBless him?â Sirius retorted, his fists clenching the bedsheets.
He suddenly felt as sick as he did that day. He could see you lying on the kitchen floor of the house, which the three of you shared. Remus and Sirius werenât talking to each otherâthey were arguing for the hundredth time that week, and you were being a fucking saint putting up with them. It had ended particularly awful that morning, with both of them accusing the other of being the traitor that the Order was searching for. Remus was off doing werewolf-related tasks for the Order, and Sirius went out for a ride on his motorbike. It was better than having to listen to you and your excuses for Remus.
He walked slowly up the path, dreading your kindness, but the sight of your front door knocked open enough to make him feel nauseous. He was lightheaded all the way through to the kitchen, where your record player had stopped singing and instead rested on a static pause. The sink was full of cold, soapy water, dishes half done, and you had baked somethingâhe remembered the air was so sickly sweet that night. Cinnamon. He couldnât stand that smell anymore.Â
It had mixed with the scent of iron. He had nearly slipped on all of the blood. It was thick. It pooled over the tiles you used to dance on, it caked the hair he used to run his fingers through. Your dress was ripped, a slice down your arm that was obvious to him in seconds. Your chest was home to a massacre, and the kitchen knife you always used, because it was the sharpest, lay discarded feet away, painted crimson with your blood. Your wand had rolled beneath the table, your fingers still open like you were reaching for it.
You musnât have gone down without a fight. The kitchen was a mess.Â
He lay there for an hour next to you. He kept thinking about how this would be the last time heâd ever get to do it. Eventually, his howls dimmed, and he lay staring at the kitchen ceiling as lifelessly as you. Sirius dragged himself up from the floor. He needed to find Jamesâsee if James knew where Remus was. He needed Remus. Remus needed to know about you. Remus had no idea.Â
Sirius had continued to sob when he leaned over and gently grasped your wrists. He settled for leaving them on top of your stomach, and his fingers shakily reached to close your eyelids. He hovered over you for a few more minutes, and gripping the skirt of your dress, bunching the material as silent sobs racked through his body.Â
It took him another hour to get up. His legs felt like lead as he left you there. He wasnât sure he was fully alive as he Apparated to the back of the Potterâs cottage, where they often snuck in and out to avoid being noticed. Sirius startled when he found the air had shifted, a dark green cloud smoking over Jamesâ home, a snake coming from a skull.Â
He knew it was Peter immediately. The Secret-Keeper. Of course it was. He had been the traitor the entire time. Whilst Remus and Sirius had been pointing fingers at each other, Peter had been sitting there, often next to you, and he had probably been plotting all of your deaths. Sirius thought of James. Lily. Harry. You. He thought of you, and he knew what he had to do.Â
The rest of the night was such a blur to Sirius now. He remembered hunting down Peter in his Animagus form, using his sense of smell to realise he wasnât too far. He found him down a Muggle street in London, trembling and shaking down an alleyway. He remembered having Peter pinned, he remembered seeing blood down Peterâs arms, and a splatter across his face.Â
Peter himself was missing a couple of his fingers. You must have gotten him. Sirius remembered how furious he had been: that Peter had gotten away, and you were gone.Â
He was so furious that he wasnât thinking straight. He could only imagine your confusion, your hurt, and the agony you must have been in. He hurt Peter the Muggle way. He wanted him to hurt as much as he hurt you. Only, Peter seemed to be thinking more rationallyâ he drew his wand, and he created an explosion.Â
It was so large that Sirius had dropped him, and by the time heâd looked back, Peter was in his rat formâgone.Â
The Aurors arrested him near enough on the spot. He screamed and protested. He yanked at his chains and gritted his teeth as they told him he was going to be imprisoned for all of his crimes. He begged for Remus over and over again. His screams turned to laughter when he realised how easily he had been tricked by Peter Pettigrew. Everybody had underestimated him. Sirius himself had seen Peter as meek and underpowered. Sirius had lost absolutely everything in a matter of hours, and he had woken up that morning thinking the day would be no different from every other.Â
He went manic. He screamed and screamed all night. He rattled the bars of his cage until somebody Crucioâd him. He wondered if he was in as much pain as you had been when Peter had stabbed you over and over and over again. He told himself he deserved it for not being there for you. He deserved to rot behind bars just for that.Â
âDid Pete do something?â You asked, and Sirius nearly leaned over the side of the bed to be sick.Â
His eyes flickered over to Remus, who was watching you with such a haunted look that Sirius couldnât take it. Sirius thought to himself that if he were to ignore hindsight and the future, then he would be sending you off to your death. Youâd die again. It really would be his fault. He could have saved you. He should have saved you. He should haveâ
âI just donât really like him very much anymore,â Sirius murmured. âIâve⊠Iâve seen something in these tea leaves, okay? I saw something, and I didnât like it.â
You snorted and tapped Siriusâ chest. âYouâre rubbish at Divination! Last month, you thought you were going to end up riding a Hippogriff back to London!â
Sirius and Remus cast a look at each other, Siriusâ mouth slightly agape. âActually, I think I have a knack for it. Maybe my timingâs just a bit off.â
âSirius,â Remus warned.Â
âHe wonât freak me out, donât worry,â you reassured Remus, and patted his leg over the duvet. âWhy, Siri? What did you see that Peter did?â
Sirius swallowed and shut his eyes. âI have to go to the bathroom,â he panicked once he reopened them, and he was quick to dart away.Â
You worriedly watched him go and looked back at Remus. âWhatâs wrong with him, Rem? Seriously. Iâm worried about him. Heâs not acting like normal.â
Remus sighed heavily. âLet me go and check on him.â
He climbed carefully from the bed, walking over to the bathroom. Just as he touched the handle of the door, he glanced back at you. You were watching him, your head tilted curiously.Â
âWhat?â You asked.Â
He shook his head. âJust stay right there, okay? Iâll only be a few minutes.â
âI donât plan on going anywhere any time soon, donât you worry,â you told him innocently enough.Â
Remus shook his head and pulled open the door. He shut it behind him immediately when light poured through, and he found Sirius bent over the toilet, trembling.
âI canât do it, I canât do it,â he kept muttering.Â
Remus felt the rage ignite inside his chest, hot and raw. âSirius, this was your idea.â
âI thought I could handle a peaceful evening with her,â Sirius heaved. âBut I canât, Remus. How can we leave her here, knowing whatâs going to happen to her? Weâre essentially sentencing her to her death!â
Remusâ face curled, but his eyes were hot with tears. âItâs difficult. Itâs howâŠâ his voice broke. âItâs how itâs supposed to go.â
âYou donât even believe that!â Sirius shot back. âI can tell in your voice! You want to save her, too! Didnât we always promise her that weâd keep her safe, Remus? Didnât we? Look at her! Sheâs eighteen years old, and she only has three years left! Thatâs not fucking fair, Remus! Why did we get to live for so long, and she didnât?â
Theyâd had this conversation a hundred times since Azkaban. Sirius held a particular amount of survivorâs guilt and PTSD. Remus was slightly better at burying his grief and self-loathing, just about content enough to survive until he saw Voldemort and Peter dead. He always thought heâd see how he felt after that.Â
âSirius, I know,â Remus hushed him, smoothing his face with his hands. âI know. I know.â
âWe could save James and Lily, too,â Sirius said desperately. âAnd Marlene. Harryâd never have to go to the Dursleys. The second war would never have broken out. We just have to kill that fucking rat! Right now, Remus! I can gut him as he did to her!â
Remus closed his eyes, grounding himself by gripping Siriusâ shoulders. âCalm down, okay?â
âCalm downâ?â
âIf Harry and Lily didnât defeat Voldemort, who would have, Sirius? We were losing the war back then. If it had never happened, the Dark Lord most likely would have become even more powerful. Eventually, he would have taken over. Youâd have been used as an example of blood treason. James, too. Lily and the other Muggleborns would have probably been rounded up to be slaughtered. Iâd be carted off to the werewolf packs. Y/NâŠâ His face went green. âFuck, Sirius, Y/N would have probably been married off for her blood statusâused to repopulate the Purebloods.â
âYou donât know that!â Sirius seethed, but his face was crestfallen, his breathing rapid.Â
âYou donât know that wouldnât happen either, though, Sirius! Everything has a knock-on effect.â
âThenâŠâ He hesitated, a strangled expression over his face. âThen perhaps we can just try to save Y/N.â
He mentally apologised to James over and over and over again. Heâd make it up to him through Harry.Â
Remus covered his face with his hand. âYouâre not listening.â
âI donât care!â Sirius cried. âIs that what youâd like me to say, Remus? In all honesty, I will take whatever risk it is to give Y/N the chance of living! So we donât kill Peter then. Fine. But maybe we can make sure that Y/N is not in the house that night. That nothing bad happens to her that night. I wonâtâI wonât go to Azkaban, she wonât die, you wonât have to spend years alone, and Harry can have a family! The three of us can raise him, Remus. Weâll stop the second war from breaking out. Weâll let Peter go to Azkaban for what heâs done! Thatâs worse than death!â
Remus blinked, and for a few moments, it looked as though he was truly considering what Sirius was saying. Sirius could feel the hope blossoming and blooming in his chest. He grasped onto Remus and shook him impatiently, as if that would make him hurry up with his decision.Â
âWell? You look like you like my idea.â
âOf course I do,â Remus melted. âOf course I want all of that to happen.â He tugged his lip between his teeth. âI have always said I would do anything to have her back.â
Sirius could have burst into tears. âRemus, donât say all of this to take it back. Please.â
âSirius, if we get caught, weâll be arrested at the very minimum.â
âIâd go back to Azkaban for a hundred years for her, Remus,â Sirius said so determinedly that the air knocked from Remusâ lungs, and it was as if Siriusâ words had burst Remusâ morality bubble for the first time that evening.
His body sagged, his eyes sinking. âYeah, me too, Pads.â
âThen letâs risk it. Or give me the time turner, Rem. Iâll do it myself. We can send you back, and Iâll come and get her. Iâll make it right. Youâll never know the difference,â Sirius pleaded.
Remusâ trembling hand took Siriusâ, and he shook his head. âYou wonât have to do this alone, Sirius. Weâll do it together.â
There was a knock at the bathroom door, gentle and quiet. They both glanced at each other with softened eyes, and for the first time, their chests deflated. There was a feeling of ease knowing they were going to rewrite their story, that they would get to spend the rest of their lives together after all.Â
Remus moved forward and opened the door, letting it swing open. Your eyes squinted blearily at the bright light of the bathroom.Â
âSirius, are you okay?â You asked softly. âIâm sorry if I made you feel silly about your⊠vision of Peter. Itâs just⊠itâs Pete. Heâs our best friend.â
âY/N, I think we should all sit down and have a talk,â Remus suggested as calmly as he could muster, placing a hand on her arm, gently guiding her back into the roomâback to Siriusâ bed. âItâs probably best we come clean to you.â
You peer at them even more anxiously. âDid something happen? Oh Merlin, Sirius, is your arm actually okay?â
âMy arm is perfectly fine, baby,â Sirius couldnât help but laugh, and he wanted to lean in and peck your hairline, but he was scared youâd want him nowhere near you in the next few minutes, so he refrained. âItâs something else entirely.â
âAnd youâre clever,â Remus said. âSo weâre going to try not to sugar coat things. Itâs going to be⊠hard to listen to. But weâre here for you the whole time, alright, sweetheart? Okay?â
You hesitated, staring them both over for a few more moments. Then you nodded, and Remus took a deep breath.Â
âGood girl. Do you know what this is?â He reached under his shirt and pulled out a golden chain with a circular pendant.
You shook your head. âI donât think so, Rem.â
âThis is a time turner,â Remus explained. âDo you want to see how it works?â
âYeah,â you agreed, and Remus was positive you didnât fully understand the meaning behind his words from how nonchalantly you were reacting to the information he was giving you.Â
âGive me your hands, sweet,â he instructed, and when you did so, he cupped your hand beneath his and gave the time turner one small spin.Â
Suddenly, the two of you were standing up in the exact place you had been moments ago, right before you sat on the bed. The past versions of you disappeared, and Siriusâ gaze flickered between you both, his lips quirking up.Â
Your eyes were nearly bulging out of your sockets. âWhat just happened?â
âWe went back in time,â Remus explained. âOnly by a few seconds. Itâs not always good to go back too far.â
âWhen did you two get that?â You gaped and pinched your brows together at Sirius. âDid you steal it? Potter heirloom?â
âNo,â Sirius laughed. âNo stealing, not an heirloom. The Order gave it to us.â
You cocked a brow. âThe Order of the Phoenix?â
âYes.â
You nearly howled with laughter. âWell, thatâs absurd! Why would the Order of the Phoenix trust you two with a time turner? Youâre only eighteen years old, for goodness sake! Weâre still at school!â
The silence that followed quickly made your amused smile evaporate. It started to settle in that this was not a joking matter, and that they were being very serious. Your gaze flickered between them, and your eyes widened as you seemed to put two and two together.Â
âYou're not from this time, are you?â You whispered to them both.Â
âNo,â Sirius admitted quietly.Â
âBut how is that possible?â You demanded, standing from your seat and pacing, running a hand through your hair. âAre you from the future? By what? A couple of years? You both look exactly the same as you did when I saw you a few hours ago.â
âY/N,â Remus swallowed. âSit down.â
You did as you were told, but you felt incredibly lightheaded, the dizziness starting to make you sway a little. Sirius supported you with a large hand.Â
âWeâre from the future, yes,â Sirius said. âWeâre from, well, 1996.â
You paused. Your stomach flipped and your hands grew clammy. You stared at them both, unsurely.Â
âThis is a prank?â You asked, but you had a feeling even these two werenât such good actors. There was no way they would do this to you so close after a full moon. Even if Sirius had come up with the sick idea, you donât believe heâd ever be able to do it to you, and Remus would never agree to it anyway.
âNot a prank,â Remus assured her.Â
You were silent for a few moments. âWell, that would make you each thirty-six years old. Thatâs not possible, is it? You look so young. Do your appearances change with the time you go to?â
âWe took a de-ageing potion,â Remus admitted shamefully. âTo blend in.â
You stare for longer. âRem, I donât like this. Itâs not funny.â
âItâs not a joke, I swear on your life, sweetheart,â Remus said. âLook, I can prove it.â
He moved over to the coat heâd thrown over the chair and went into the pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes and a few crumpled bits of paper. âEr, receipts with the year on them.â He dug in the other one and found his wallet, taking his seat next to her again. âThatâs you. In the future.â
Sure enough, Remus opened his wallet and in the plastic covering was a small Polaroid of you. Your breath hitched and you took it from him. You looked hardly any different to the way you looked now, except your hair was cut differently, in a way you had never had it before, and this was your first time seeing the image.Â
âThatâs me?â
âThatâs you,â Sirius said thickly. âIn 1980.â
You shook your head. âWow. Well, this is only a couple of years away, then.â You handed it back to Remus. âWhy⊠Why are you showing me this? Why are you two here? Are my Remus and Sirius okay?â
âTheyâre fine, darling,â Remus said. âTheyâre still in the hospital wing healing, and if I remember correctly, theyâre anxious to come and see youâbut theyâre fine.â
You smile waveringly. âIs this to do with Peter, then? Like you said before? You donât like him?â
There was a long silence.
âWhat did the Order send you here to do?â
âThe Order didnât exactly send us here,â Sirius said. âThis was more of my idea, really. I justâŠâ
Your breath hitched at the look on his face. Suddenly, their strange behaviour made so much more sense. Sirius getting emotional, Remus becoming shut off.Â
âThatâs the last photo you have of me, isnât it?â Your voice came out deadpan, dread icing your insides as you watch their faces for confirmation. âThatâs why you donât have a newer one, hm?â
Their expressions crumbled. Remus looked positively ashamed, avoiding your eyes. Disgust crept over Siriusâ features.
You tried hard not to let the panic swallow you. âCan youâŠwhat happens to me?â
Remus hesitated. âYou die during the war.â
You donât say anything for a moment, but hot tears flood your eyes. âWhen Iâm twenty-one? In 1980?â
Sirius nodded, and you dumped your face into your hands. âOh, Merlin. Oh no.â Your mutterings broke their hearts, and then they heard you begin to cry, your frame shaking with each sob. âI donât get any older?â
Sirius felt sick. Remus couldnât open his mouth as he watched you cry, but Sirius had been itching to comfort you since the second he saw you on the kitchen floor eighteen years ago. All heâd wanted was for you to wake up and cry, so he could reassure you, wrap his arms around you, and reassure you that you were going to be fine.Â
âOh, baby, Iâm so sorry,â Sirius cried. âWe werenât⊠We werenât there the day it happened. Iâm so fucking sorry.â
âWhat happened?â You whimpered. âWhat happened to me?â It dawns on you. âPete?âÂ
When neither said anything, you became more frantic. âNo! Did I die saving him? It must have beenâit must have been some freak accident, surely!â
Sirius shook his head, fists clenched. âIt was not an accident, Y/N,â
You rubbed your eyes. âButâbutâPeter isââ
âNot at all what any of us thought,â Remus finished for her sternly.Â
âOh Gods. Is it painless at least?âÂ
âIt doesnât matter,â Remus cut in before Sirius could. âBecause itâs not going to happen again.â
âWhaâwhat do you mean?â
Remus lifted the time turner. âWeâre not going back to a world youâre not in, Y/N. Not ever.â
Your breath hitched. âWhat?â
âI know this is overwhelming,â Sirius said. âIâm sorry. We justâwe want to be sure that you want to be saved, Y/N. That you want to live. We donât want to force you to do anything you donât want to do.â
You thought for a few seconds. âOf course I want to live,â you croaked. âI want to grow old with you both. But I donât want to change the future for the worse. What if bad things happen?â
âBad things happen anyway,â Sirius mumbled.
âSirius is blamed for your death,â Remus said, and purposefully left out the news of James and Lily. âHe goes to Azkaban for thirteen years, until he breaks out.â
You look over at him, agony nearly shredding you apart. âSirius,â you breathed, and your sniffling nose and flushed eyes were enough to make him coo and bring you into his warm chest. âMerlin, Sirius, I am so, so sorry.â
âItâs not your fault,â he murmured into your hair. âNever your fault, honey.â
You stayed like that for minutes. Your eyes began to feel tired from the emotion and weight of the day. Sirius couldnât take his eyes off of you, curled up in his arms, finally safe.
âLet us save you,â Remus pleaded with her quietly, brushing her hair from her face. âPlease.â
âBut what if it makes everything worse in the long run? I donât want you two to get into more trouble.â
âWeâd Obliviate you after this, sweetheart,â Remus said, and Sirius was nearly surprised that heâd come up with a plan so soon, but also not really because it was Remus. âYou wonât remember this, and youâll go on like normal. Sirius and I will jump to the day you pass. Weâll make sure Pete doesnât get to hurt you.â
âWhy canât we stop Peter now?âÂ
âWe canât change too much of the timeline, baby,â Sirius swallowed thickly. âNo matter how much we want to. Some things have to stay the same.â
There was a long silence. Minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly.
âWhat do you think?â Remus asked quietly.Â
âLet me sleep on it, Rem,â you said, furrowing your brows, but not opening your eyes as you rested against Siriusâ chest. âI canâtâI canât think straight right now. Too much.â
âOkay,â Remus whispered, though his fingers twitched and his lips pursed. âYeah, darling. Go to sleep. Weâll still be here in the morning.â
It took you a very long time to finally lose consciousness. You lay there, dwelling and agonising for hours, until the steady beat of Siriusâ heart lulled you to sleep.Â
ââ .âŠ
The next morning, you were the first to wake. You studied the men on either side of you, unsure if you were freaked out by their aged faces or calmed by them. A part of you was relieved that they got to see this age, and they survived a war you hadnât managed to. The other part of you couldnât stop thinking about the fact that there was no other version of you that got to wake up to this.Â
They both mostly looked the same. Both had a few silvers running through their hair, and the slightest of wrinkles around their eyes. It was obvious they were older in a handsome way, tattoos adorning every inch of Siriusâ skin in a way that had you almost breathless.Â
You traced them until he stirred slightly, and then you froze, a nervousness washing over you that you usually didnât get with the boys. You supposed that was because these werenât boys, but men. You didnât know this version of Sirius and Remus; these were around eighteen years older than you and had lived lives youâd never know about.Â
You hesitated for a few moments, your thoughts drifting to the version of Sirius and Remus who were downstairs in the medical wing. You suddenly yearned for them more than ever, even if their elder selves were with you. Very carefully, you chose the one who used to always sleep like a log and prayed that was still true. Climbing over Siriusâ sleeping figure was a sport you had become extremely skilled at, especially because he liked to lie flat on his stomach.Â
Pulling on Remusâ jumper, you hesitated, watching them both sleep peacefully in the bed. Remusâ nose twitched, just like it always did. His hand splayed out across the mattress, as if looking for you or Sirius. You decided to leave before they woke up.Â
You stalked down all of the staircases, not a soul in sight, until you made it to the infirmary. You pushed the door open and headed straight for the two occupied beds at the end of the hall. Remus was already awake, a book in his hands and his eyes bleary from, knowing him, lack of sleep.Â
âHi,â you breathed, and dropped into the chair next to him.Â
He looked pleased to see you, his face melting into a smile. âY/N. Itâs so early. Why are you here?â
âI just needed to come and see you both,â you whispered, but your voice cracked at his gentle face, and your eyes welled with hot tears, much to your horror.Â
Remus quickly placed the book down, concerned, and he pulled his blankets off his legs.Â
âNo, no, no,â you attempted to usher him back in. âRest, Rem. Stop. Donât worry about me, I just⊠I had a nightmare last night. Iâm being silly.â
He looked dramatically less concerned, his face easing into a look of sympathy as he made a soft sound in the back of his throat. âOh, sweetheart. You had a nightmare, did you? What was it about?â
You hesitated and gulped down the lump in your throat. It felt like all of the air was stuck there, and something was squeezing your chest unrelentingly.Â
âI died,â you blurted. âA couple of years into the war. I got murdered. You and Siriusâyou both were really sad afterwards.â
Remusâ brows tugged together, and he opened his arms out to you. You climbed into them, careful of all of his wounds, resting your head on his chest. You felt better nearly instantly, but dread sank in your stomach like an anchorâa constant, aching reminder that you would only have this for the next couple of years. You looked over at a sleeping Sirius. In a couple of years, he would be in Azkaban. Remus would be alone, a shell of the person he was before.Â
âThat wonât happen,â Remus whispered, stroking your hair. You almost believed him from the softness and sincerity in his tone. âYouâre safe with us, baby. Iâve got you.â
The tears streamed even more easily down your face.
âY/N?â Siriusâ groggy voice came from the bed over. âIs she okay, Rem?â
âPoor thingâs had a nightmare,â Remus said, and it wasnât long before you heard the duvet shuffle and the padding of feet over to you.Â
âDarling,â Sirius whined dotingly, and stole you from Remusâ arms, dotting kisses throughout your hair. âYouâre alright. Was it that bad?â
âI justâit felt really, really real,â you sniffled. âAnd IâmâIâmâ I was thinking what would happen to the two of you if something really did happen to me.â
Remusâ face contorted. âDonât ask questions like that, love.â
âYeah, it wonât ever happen,â Sirius said forcefully. âNever, Y/N.â
You grasped his jumper tighter.Â
âGods, your hands are shaking, sweetheart,â Sirius muttered.Â
âSorry,â you murmured, and dragged yourself away from him.Â
They both watched you with such soft, kind eyes. Your heart ached, pulsating and dying all at once. You itched to grab them again.Â
You wanted this forever. You wanted to know the two boys in the tower above you, tooâyou wanted to watch this Sirius and Remus grow into the men upstairs. Hopefully, happier, less traumatised versions.Â
Youâd felt a weird sense of nausea when youâd woken up earlier, looking at the familiar faces of your boyfriends and realising you didnât know them, and would never know them.Â
You needed to know them. Â
âIâm going to get ready for the day,â you breathed out. âIâll shower and put some clean clothes on, and then Iâm going to come down here with some games or something for us to play. Itâs Christmas Eve, you know.â
Remus frowned. âLet us come with you.â
âNo, no. Iâm going to get the house elves to make us something really nice, okay?â You said, and your encouraging smile lifted their spirits slightly. âYouâre right. Both of you. It was just a dream.â
You had your answer for the Sirius and Remus upstairs.
summary: you told clark not to watch marley & me, but of course the man didn't listen. (warning: spoilers for marley & me!)
wc: 594
You take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the sight you are confident is going to greet you when you swing the door open.Â
âDonât you dare cry right now.â
Your boyfriend stands there, clutching a pillow to his chest (you almost snort at the football pattern stitched across the fabric). His lips are turned downward in a pout and his brows furrow up together pitifully. You have to resist the urge to immediately gather his broad frame up into your arms.Â
âIâm not going to cry.â The wobble of his lip tells you otherwise.Â
âClark, I told you not to watch Marley & Me!â
He sniffles, dragging the back of his hand across his face in a way that totally gives him away. âI didnât mean to. It justâŠcame on.â
You narrow your eyes. âClark.â
âIt auto-played!â
âYou rented it on Amazon.â
He looks momentarily betrayed. âBut it was only $3.99 and I thought I was strong and prepared!â
You lean around him to see the wreckage on the couch: wads of crumpled up tissues and a melting tub of the cookie-dough ice cream you thought you had successfully hid from your tank of a boyfriend.Â
âYeah,â you deadpan. âYou look super prepared.â
âHe just loved them so much,â Clark whispers, like the pain is fresh and personal. âHe was a good dog.â
âOh my god,â you mutter, rubbing your temples.
He takes a tentative step closer, clutching the pillow tighter. âAnd they didnât even know how much he meant to them until the end, and he was just thereâold, and tired, and still wagging his tailââ
âI swear to god, if you start quoting the monologue againââ
Clark breaks. A real sniffle escapes him, sharp and squeaky. âHe was their best friend!â
You press your lips together tightly, fighting a smile, but itâs hopeless. He looks so ridiculous and so sincere. This big, overpowered man reduced to a puddle over a golden retriever. You want to sit on his lap and cover every inch of his sad, beautiful face with kisses.
You sigh. âCome here, you big baby.â
He launches himself at you instantly, tucking himself into your chest like itâs the only place heâs safe. You laugh as you stumble in your attempt to maneuver your arms up and over him. His weight on you feels like a weighted blanket and you sigh as you pull your fingers through his hair. Heâs half wrapped around you when you finally plop onto the edge of the bed, his little pillow now squished between you both.Â
âI told you that movie would wreck you,â you say into his hair, gently detangling the curls at the base of his neck.Â
âYou were right,â he mumbles miserably into your neck.
âIâm always right.â
âNext time Iâll listen.â
âNo you wonât.â
You feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin, nose brushing your collarbone. âI might.â
You pull back just enough to look at him. His red-rimmed eyes, the little quiver in his bottom lip, the way his face has already started to relax now that heâs in your arms.
âYouâre impossible,â you huff, even as you pull the blanket tighter around him.
Clark pushes into your body and you fall back with a gentle plop. His head is now on your stomach and your back is nestled gently on the duvet.Â
He hums contentedly, eyes already fluttering shut. âBut Iâm your problem.â
You kiss his temple. âUnfortunately.â
He grins.
You roll your eyes.
God, youâre so stupidly in love you could scream.
summary: clark insists heâs fine. you insist heâs bleeding through your favorite dishtowel. one of you is right. (spoiler: itâs not him.)
wc: 1.6k+
Youâre mid-pace when you see your boyfriend. He trudges in like a guilty child, wincing as he takes in the tight lines of your appalled face. You quickly note heâs covered in blood. You exhale aggressively through your nose. Of course, heâs covered in blood.Â
âYou promised youâd call me the second anything got sketchy!â You exclaim, tossing your phone onto the couch as Clark haphazardly kicks his boots off. He beelines for the kitchen where he quickly downs a glass of water. And then another. When he plods back into the living room, he has your green dishtowel (the one with little cartoon tomatoes all over it) held to his side.
âI told you if you ghosted me during another mission, Iâdââ Your words cut off. Your breath does too.
âClark.â His name tumbles out of your mouth like a wound.Â
Clark pauses in the doorway, cape singed at the edges, hair windblown, one eyebrow raised like heâs expecting more lecturing and bracing for it. He is not, however, braced for your sudden change in tone.
âIâm fine,â he says immediately, raising his free hand up in surrender as if youâre pointing a weapon at him.
âSure,â you deadpan. âYouâre totally fine. Thatâs why youâre bleeding through a dishtowel. My favorite dishtowel, I might add.â
His suit is now half undone, the fabric around his ribs peeled back in a makeshift bandage thatâs already soaked through. Crimson bleeds into blue, spreads through the green cotton in slow, lazy spirals.Â
You cross the room fast, bare feet slapping against cool tile, chest tight.
âLet me see it, honey,â you demand gently.Â
Clark had been trying to uphold a brave face, not wanting to worry you any more than he already had. But the second you touch his arm with your eyes so soft he might have cried, he melts into your touch. He groans as your fingers gingerly touch the gash.
âItâs just a graze, barely even hurts.â Heâs clearly hoping youâll drop it if he sounds casual enough. Both of you are well aware you wonât, though. He tries to shift away, but youâre already probing with shaky fingers.
âClark.â
He finally sighs, long-suffering, like youâre the difficult one here, and lowers his arms.
The heat of him hits you first. He always runs warm after flightâbody buzzing faintly with residual energy, skin radiating fire and violence. You peel the towel back slowly, cautious not to tug at dried blood or catch the jagged edge of scorched fabric.
The gash is deeper than he let on. Not life-threatening, no. But fresh and raw and ugly, jagged with debris. Bloodâs still pooling, shallow and slow, but steady enough to sting your gut with worry.
You suck in a breath.
âJesus, Clark.â
He shrugs. âIt looks worse than it is.â
You would have believed that if he wasnât now hunched into your body in pain.Â
âIt looks like a horror movie.â
âYouâre being dramatic.â
You shoot him a flat look, then turn and start pulling open drawers.
The kitchenâs half-lit, soft under golden overheads. Your fingers rattle through a mess of bandages, ointments, alcohol wipes. Third drawer, left sideâyour unspoken trauma cabinet. Stocked for exactly this kind of thing.
âSit on the counter.â
âI donât needââ
âSit. On the counter.â
He hesitates. You donât blink. He sighs again. Then obeys.
The counter creaks beneath Clarkâs weight as he hops up. The movement flexes his abdomen, muscles shifting under bruised skin. Thereâs soot smudged down his collarbone, crusted ash near the corner of his jaw. His curls are still damp with sweat and wind, matted against his forehead in loose, dark strands.
You grab the first aid kit and return to him. Heâs sitting there shirtless, legs spread slightly, shoulders too broad for the narrow counter space. His cape droops off one side like a slumped curtain. He watches you quietly as you snap on gloves.
And god, if this werenât such a disaster of a nightâif he werenât bleeding through your dishtowel and looking at you like thatâyouâd be shamelessly climbing into his lap. Heâs all bare skin and ridiculous muscle and tousled hair, and the way heâs sitting there, calm and wide-eyed, like he has no idea what he looks likeâŠitâs unfair. Your face is warm before you even start touching him.
âYou know,â you say as you unpack gauze and disinfectant, âfor someone who can catch bullets, you get banged up a lot.â
He smiles, wry and crooked. âYou should see the other guy.â
âIâm more worried about seeing you like this every week.â
His smile fades a little.
You donât mean to make it heavier. But your touch is careful as you clean the wound, dabbing gently with saline. Every swipe lifts fresh streaks of red. He barely reacts, save for the occasional breath caught in his throat.
âYou shouldnât have to do this,â he murmurs softly.
âI know.â
You press gauze against the wound. He doesnât move, just looks at you.
Thereâs a pulse jumping in his neck. His eyes trace your movements, patient but tracking, like heâs trying to memorize your hand placement. His hands rest beside his thighs, one brushing against your hip now and then. You know the way he tenses his fingers means heâs resisting the urge to touch your face.
âBut I want to,â you add, glancing up.
His teeth dig into the inside of his cheek.Â
âI hate that you come home looking like this,â you admit. âBut if youâre gonna bleed through my linens, Iâd rather be the one wrapping you up.â
He huffs a small laugh through his nose. âSorry about the towel.â
âThat was the cutest one.â
He grins. âIâll buy you a new one.â
You lean in, inspecting your work. âYou will.â
His eyes drop to your face, watching the set of your mouth as you press down more tape. Watching the way your hands skim just shy of his skin before they return to work.Â
âYouâre good at this,â he remarks, voice low.
âIâve had a lot of practice.â
âStill.â
You roll your eyes, but your thumb brushes his cheek gently, wiping a smudge of dirt from under his eye. You feel the slightest lean into your touch.Â
âYou gonna let me patch the rest of you up?â
âOnly if you kiss me first.â
You raise a brow. âBribing your medic?â
He shrugs, grin mischievous. âItâs been a long day.â
You lean in. âYeah,â you murmur against his mouth, âit has.â
You kiss him once, soft and unhurried, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel the warmth of his skin and the way his breath stutters slightly against your mouth. His hand flexes on your hip. He doesnât chase you when you pull back (just watches you like you hung the stars) or stop beaming when you flick his forehead.
âOw,â he complains.
âYouâre lucky that didnât hit your other wound.â
âYouâre so mean to me,â he says, pouting as you rummage through the kit again.
âAnd yet here you are. Bleeding in my kitchen.â
He watches you fondly as you finish patching him up, and you pretend your hands arenât still shaking a little with the relief of having him home, alive, and mostly in one piece.
You press down the last edge of gauze and exhale slowly, your fingers hovering over his skin even after the job is done. For a second, you just take him in.Â
Clarkâs quiet now, watching you with steady eyes so blue you could fall right into them and forget the world ever burned. His lip is split at the corner, a smudge of dried blood stubborn near his temple. And still, heâs so stupidly beautiful you could scream. Shirtless, flushed, cape half-fallen behind him, warm and still and yours.
Your hands drift up to his face before you even realize youâre moving. You cup his jaw with both palms, thumbs brushing lightly over the apples of his cheeks. His stubble scrapes against your skin addictingly. You can feel the tension in his jaw beginning to ease as he gives into your touch.
You canât speak. You canât do anything but surge forward and push your lips against his.Â
And then again.
And again.
And again.
Heâs smiling by the third one, a little dazed, lips curving against yours as you kiss him sillyâslow, fluttering kisses over the corners of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, the bruised edge of his cheekbone. Like youâre trying to make up for every second he was out there and you werenât with him. Like you could hold him here with your mouth alone.
âI missed you,â you finally whisper between kisses, the words slipping out before you can swallow them down.
He breathes out a shaky laugh against your cheek. âI was gone two hours, baby.â
âI know.â You kiss the dip of his clavicle, press your forehead to his. âThatâs two hours too long.â
His arms come around you instinctively, drawing you into his lap like he needs the weight of you. Your knees rest on either side of his thighs now, and you donât care that your jeans are getting stained by whatever mud and bloodâs still on him. All you can think about is getting closer than skin allows. You want to memorize the shape of him beneath your hands, the heat of him under your palms, the way he holds you like he doesnât know where he ends and you begin. You want to swallow him whole just to keep him safe.
You pull away from him with a heavy breath. Your boyfriend frowns instantly at the loss of contact, swollen lips parted like heâs about to protest. Â
âAnd tomorrow, weâre going to Williams Sonoma so you can buy me a new dishtowel.â
summary: you and clark get into a fight, and then the city explodes.
wc: 2.5k+
The slam of the door is deafening. Not because of the sound, but because of what it means. You donât even flinch. Just march across the room, jaw set, fists clenched so tight your nails dig crescent moons into your palms. You donât want to see his face right now. Not when you know itâll be full of that infuriatingly particular mix of fury and worry that heâs so good at disguising as concern.
âYou couldâve died,â Clark mutters quietly.Â
You exhale through your nose, sharp and hot. âWeâre doing this already?â
âYou walked into a weapons drop, alone,â he bites out, voice rising like a slow tide. âYou had no protection, no plan, and no backup.â
âI had my plan,â you snap, spinning to face him. âIt just didnât involve checking in with my overbearing alien bodyguard first.â
He flinches. Just slightly. But itâs enough.
âDonât,â he warns. His voice is so low youâre surprised your ears process the decibel.Â
Your laugh is dry. âWhat? You donât like being talked down to? Imagine how I felt when you showed up halfway through and practically ripped the comm out of my ear in front of everyone like Iâm some stupid kid who canât tie her own shoes.â
âYou were going to get killed.â
âI was doing my job.â Your voice cracks, but you donât let it stop you. âI was doing what Iâm good at. What you know Iâm good at. But you donât care about that, do you? You just care that I didnât stay in the safe little box you always want me in. I canât spend my whole life waiting for you, Clark!â
His gaze is calm as he stares at you but you donât miss the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. âThatâs not true. Donât twist this.â
âOh, Iâm twisting things?â you spit. âReally? Because from where Iâm standing, it sure as hell sounds like you think Iâm too weak to be trusted with anything real.â
âI didnât say that,â he growls, stepping closer.
âYou didnât have to,â you exclaim. âYou donât ever have to. You swoop in, rip the roof off, throw some trucks across the parking lot, and suddenly itâs your operation. Your city. Your rules.â
âI was trying to protect you!â
âAnd I never asked you to!â
That stops him. His face falters for half a second, and he blinks like you just struck him with your ring-clad hand.
âI didnât ask for a superhero boyfriend,â you thunder on, voice shaking now, unable to stop yourself. âI asked for you. And maybe I was an idiot for thinking I could have both.â
His chest rises and falls fast, and his voice comes out quiet and hard. âDonât do that. Donât stand there and act like Iâm some stranger in a cape. You know me.â
âDo I?â you whisper. âBecause lately, it feels like all I see is Superman. Not Clark. Not the man I fell in love with. Just the guy who shows up after the explosions and tells me I shouldâve waited for him.â
Heâs silent for too long. His mouth opens, then closes. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft. Broken, almost.
âI canât bear the thought of losing you.â
It takes everything in you not to smooth your hands over his chest and soothe that ache in his tone that twists your stomach into knots, but your throat is tight and you take a step back. Your eyes begin to burn and you look down, unwilling to let him see.
âThatâs not love, Clark. Thatâs fear.â
His brow furrows. âNo, itâs notâitâsââ
âYes, it is. You want to love someone who stays behind. Who stays safe. Who doesnât scare you.â
âOf course you scare me!â he retorts, arms flailing. âBecause youâre the one thing in this world I canât live without. And I canât make sure youâre okay. Not all the time. I donâtâI don't know how to live with that.â
You open your mouth to answer. To hurl something sharp and hurtful back at him because youâre angry and exhausted and you donât know what else to do, but you donât get the chance.
Because everything shakes.
The floor ripples beneath your feet. A massive rumble splits the air like the earth is groaning. You both freeze.Â
Then comes the blast. A thunderous, bone-rattling sound from blocks away, light flashing through the apartment window like a silent scream.
Clark turns instinctively, eyes already glowing faintly with panic and focus. Heâs halfway to the window before you the words tumble through your lips.Â
âDonât you dare leave right now.â
He stops in his tracks.
Youâre standing there, arms crossed tightly over your chest, shoulders trembling. You know youâre being irrational. You know he has a duty to fulfill and you would never usually stand between him and his job. But your heartbeat is pounding in your ears and the edges of your vision blur with frustration and adrenaline.Â
âDonât you leave in the middle of this,â you say, each word weighted. âDonât fly away from this like it doesnât matter.â
He turns, slowly, and his faceâgod, his face.
Youâve seen him wear pain before. Seen it when he lost people, seen it when the world turned to ash in his hands. But this time itâs different because you know youâre the reason he looks like that.Â
His brows are drawn tight, a deep crease forming between them. His mouth is slightly open, like he wants to say something but doesnât know how. His eyes are so full of agony you wish your ego would melt away just so you could apologize and kiss his face until they light up again.Â
He doesnât want to leave. Of course he doesn't. You can see it in every inch of him.Â
âPlease,â you plead, even though you know itâs futile.Â
âI donât want to,â he whispers. âYou have to believe meâI donât want to. I want to stay and fix this. I want to take it all back.â
Your breath catches.
âBut I canât.â Clarkâs voice shakes. âPeople are in danger. If I donât go, they die.â
You stay silent, blinking fast and shaking your head. He steps forward, just enough to cup your cheek in one hand. His palm is warm, trembling.
âI swear to you,â he says, eyes locked on yours, desperate, âIâll come back. Iâll come home.â
You close your eyes.
By the time you open them again, heâs gone. Your heart lurches so violently you actually stumble back a step.
The space he just vacated is still vibrating with the gust of his departure, curtains whipping like theyâre trying to follow him, like they know how badly you want to. You move on instinct, half numb and half breathless, dragging your feet toward the window.
Your apartmentâs on the thirty-second floor. It gives you a perfect view of the cityâand of the nightmare unfolding within it.
A fireball licks at the sky just a few blocks down, the explosion now a thick pillar of smoke and ash curling into the air like a monsterâs shadow. Windows are shattered. Rubble covers the streets. People are running, screamingâsome limping, some carrying others, some not moving at all. A gaping wound has torn itself into the heart of the city.
Your hand flies to your mouth in shock.Â
And there he is.
A blue-and-red blur streaks through the sky like a bullet of mercy, and your chest caves in at the sight of him. Superman. Clark. Your Clark.
Heâs scooping people from rooftops, using his heat vision to weld a collapsing structure into temporary stability, shielding a group of civilians with his own body as an ambulance drives through the chaos. He looks like a god.
But you know that face. You know the pinch in his brow, the tremble in his jaw when heâs scared out of his mind but has to act like he isnât. You can feel it in your bones: heâs holding on by a thread.
And youâre still up here.
Youâre moving before youâve fully processed it. You throw on the first shoes you find, tear open the stairwell door, and sprint downward two steps at a time. No time for the elevator. No time for hesitation.
By the time you burst into the street, the world is smoke and screams.
You donât know where to start.Â
Thereâs a woman with a deep gash in her leg leaning against a crumpled bus. You rush to her, toss her arm over your shoulder, and guide her over broken glass toward a triage area forming near a still-standing corner store. You grab bandages from a supply crate and press them to bleeding skin. You haul debris off a manâs chest with a stranger whose name you never ask. You press a hand to a childâs hair as she sobs in your lap. You hand out water bottles. Every time you look up, you search for blue and red. And every time, there he isâlifting, flying, catching, saving.Â
And then you spot him. A boy. Eight years old, maybe. Trapped halfway up a twisted steel staircase, the only way up to him a makeshift scaffold of what used to be part of a fire escape. The steel beam leading up to him is bent and definitely unstable. Your feet are sprinting towards him before your brain even has a chance to catch up.Â
You climb fast, heart in your throat. The beam groans wearily beneath you as you inch out, crawling on hands and knees.
The boy is whimpering, clutching a stuffed bear to his chest. âI canât move,â he sobs. âIâm stuckââ
âYouâre okay,â you breathe, trying to sound soothing despite the fact that the metal beneath your palms just shifted. âHey, look at me. Whatâs your name?â
âJ-Jordan.â
âOkay, Jordan. Iâm gonna get you down, alright, sweetie? Weâre gonna do this together. Hold my shoulders and donât let go.â
You lift him up, slide him carefully behind you, and begin to scoot backward, inch by inch.
The beam wobbles.
Shit.
You shove the kid toward the edge, where someoneâs waiting to catch him. âTake him!â you yell, and they do, pulling him off just in time.
But youâre not so lucky.
The beam snaps, and suddenly youâre falling. A scream violently rips out of your throat as the world turns sideways and the wind rushes past your ears. You flail. Panic claws at your chest, your limbs, your lungs.
And thenâ
Arms.
Strong, unshakable arms wrap around you like a vice mid-air, halting your fall with an aggressive jolt. You crash into something solid. No, someone. You know that chest. That heat. That scent of ozone and something impossibly Clark.
He sets you down in the middle of the street gentlyâalmost too gently for how hard your bodyâs shaking. But when your legs stumble, heâs already gripping your waist, steadying you, holding on like he might lose you again if he doesnât.
âWhat the hell are you doing here?â His voice is frantic. Rough. Heâs running his big hands over your arms, down your ribs, checking for breaks or blood or anything that might explain why you just fell from the goddamn sky.
âI couldnât just sit there,â you rasp.
He freezes. Hands still on your waist. His eyes are so wild and so blue you feel like youâre drowning on dry land.Â
And then he kisses you.
Itâs sudden. Desperate. Messy.
His lips crash into yours like an aftershock, all teeth and heat and breathless fear. His hands frame your face now, thumbs trembling where they press against your jaw.
âPlease,â he gasps against your mouth like a man starved. âPlease just donât get hurt. I canâtâI need you to be okay. Okay?â
You nod, not trusting yourself to sleep. Clark hesitates for one more beat, eyes locked on yours like heâs trying to memorize the moment, then disappears back into the chaos with a gust of wind and a rush of air.
You exhale, chest heaving, and then jump right back in.
You help the EMTs. You tear cloth into bandages. You cradle heads, squeeze hands, speak softly to people bleeding and terrified. You give them what you can.
When the smoke finally begins to clear, you lean against a battered light pole, wiping sweat and grime from your face.
You feel him before you see him. The gust of wind. The heat at your back. The familiar crackle of power in the air. You turn.
Clark is already landing in front of you.
He says nothing. Just wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tight against him. Then he shoots into the sky with you in his arms.
He doesnât speak again until youâre back in the apartment.
He sets you down like youâre made of something clear and breakable, but you donât even make it more than two steps. Heâs already reaching for you, already sinking onto the couch and pulling you into his lap, holding you so tightly against his chest you can feel the unsteady rhythm of his heart under your palm.
Your knees fall on either side of his thighs. His arms wrap around your back, slipping under your shirt, one hand weaving up into your hair.
He kisses you again. But this one is slow. Careful. Mouth moving against yours like a prayer. Like an apology. Like heâs trying to pour every unsaid word into your skin through his lips. You swear you feel him sigh into you.Â
âIâm sorry,â he whispers when he finally pulls away.
Youâre out of focus as you blink up at him.Â
âIâm sorry I yelled,â Clark murmurs. âI was scared. I got scared and I didnât know how to handle it. And I took it out on you.â
âClarkâŠâ
âI was wrong to be upset at you for being you. For being brave. For trying to help people.â He rests his forehead against yours. Your lips curve into half a smile when his curls brush your skin. âDo you have any idea how proud I am of you? Watching you out thereâI didnât know my heart could break and swell at the same time.â
You swallow the lump in your throat. âIâm sorry too. For what I said. I was angry, and it came out ugly. I know you were just trying to protect me.â
His hand moves down to your cheek. âNext time, Iâll try protecting you without treating you like something to hide away.â
Your smile grows gentler. âAnd Iâll try to remember that loving you means sometimes watching you fly away.â
Clark kisses your forehead. It tingles where his lips meet your skin. âYou are the bravest person I know.â
âAnd you,â you murmur, curling deeper into his chest, âare the softest tank Iâve ever met.â
He huffs a laugh against your hair and your butterflies erupt in your gut at the sound. His arms tighten around you and you feel like you can barely breathe, but you donât fight his hold. You stay like that, curled together on the couch in the dim light of a quiet apartment.
Outside, the city is still flashing with sirens and scattered lights. But you donât look.
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summary: youâre just trying to finish inspection rounds without losing your mind, but percy jackson has to go and be asleep and soft and ridiculously cute about it. and now youâre tucking him in? gods, youâre never living this down.
wc: 1.5k+
Youâre already annoyed before you even reach the Poseidon cabin.
Your inspection sheet is wilting slightly in your sweaty grip, the ink smudged from your thumb. The sun is high and cruel today, hanging over Camp Half-Blood like itâs got a personal vendetta. Your shirt clings damply to your back, and your shoes are coated in a thin film of dust from marching between cabins all afternoon. Youâve done twelve inspections already, and youâve had to argue with at least eight campers about what counts as "clean." One of them actually tried to convince you that throwing a blanket over a pile of weapons made it decorative.
So, yeah. Youâre not in the mood.
You drag your feet up the short set of steps to Cabin Three, muttering under your breath as you flip your clipboard to the right page. Of course Poseidon's cabin is last. Of course.
You knock once. Sharp. Clear.
Nothing.
You frown, tilt your head slightly, and knock again, louder this time. âInspection,â you call, voice clipped.
Still nothing.
You lean in slightly, squinting at the door. âPercy,â you add, tapping the heel of your palm against the frame, âI swear, if youâre pretending not to be here so you can avoid cleaning again, Iâm going to dock you so hard youâll wish you lived in the Hermes cabin.â
Still no answer. Not even a grunt.
You huff exaggeratedly, hand tightening around your pen. âIâm coming in. If youâre naked or half-dressed or whatever, itâs your own fault,â you warn, already twisting the handle.
The door creaks open slowly, hinges groaning, and you step inside with every intention of telling Percy Jackson exactly what you think of his lazy, irresponsible, impossible self.
But thenâyou stop.
The air inside is still and dim, and the musty scent of ocean salt and boy sweat lingers in the room like it's soaked into the walls. Itâs cooler in here than outside, shaded by thick stone walls and sea breeze charmwork. And there, in the center of the room, sprawled across a half-made bed with one leg dangling off the mattress and the other crooked awkwardly beneath him, is Percy.
Asleep.
Your mouth parts slightly, irritation forgotten for a second as you just... stare.
He looks like he collapsed the moment he walked in. His armorâs still strapped across his chest, albeit a little askew, like he barely had the energy to fasten it. His shoes are still on, untied and slightly caked with dried mud. His fingers are curled loosely into the blanket, and his hairâgods, his hairâis a dark mess of salt-swept curls, sticking up in every direction like heâd run his hands through it a dozen times before giving up.
And his face...you think he looks so soft like this. The sunlight spills across his skin in slow, honeyed ribbons, catching in his hair and turning it the color of sand at golden hour. His lashes fan out against his cheeks, delicate and still, and his lips are parted just barely, caught somewhere between a dream and waking. Even his jaw, usually tight with some impossible sense of responsibility or sharpened by a grin that dares the world to challenge him, is relaxed now. Unclenched. Peaceful. Like this is the version of him no one else gets to see.
You blink, still frozen in the doorway. Against your better judgment, something in your chest tugs. You exhale quietly through your nose, eyes dragging slowly around the rest of the room. Itâs a mess (predictably). Socks poking out from under the bed, a towel draped over the desk chair, half a granola bar squashed onto the floor next to a pair of damp swim trunks. There's a trident doodled into the wooden headboardâbadly, you might add. Someone left a shield propped against the nightstand like they got halfway through organizing and gave up.
You sigh. Still staring. Still not moving. And maybe you're just tired. Or maybe thereâs something about the way his fingers twitch in his sleep that makes him look smaller. Younger. Human.
You shake your head once and force your eyes back to your clipboard. âLucky youâre cute when you sleep,â you mutter under your breath, lips tugging in a reluctant smile. You circle off a surprisingly generous score and glance back at him. Still out cold.
You should leave.
But instead, you step closer. Your movements are instinctive. Careful.
Percy looks like he might fall off the bed at any second, one leg half-hanging. You bite your lip, crouch beside him, and gently finish untying his shoes. The laces come undone easily, and you slip each one off slowly.
He doesnât stir.
You glance at his legs, still draped haphazardly. You reach for his ankle first, then his knee, easing his legs the rest of the way onto the mattress with a care that surprises even you.
Then you move to the armor, leaning in close, holding your breath as your fingers ghost over the leather straps. You unbuckle the chest plate slowly, working each clasp with practiced hands, the metal cool against your fingertips. The buckle near his shoulder is tangled in his shirt, and you have to lean closer, exhaling softly as you pry it free.
You set the armor carefully on the chair.
Then, finally, you reach for the blanket at the edge of the bed, shaking it out to clear off a few crumbs (gross), and drape it over him. Tuck it in lightly at his side.
And thatâs when he twitches.
At first, itâs just the furrow of his brow. Then a scrunch of his nose, a jerk of his fingers. His lips press together like heâs trying to speak through sleep, and then suddenly, he violently jerks upright with a gasp, eyes wide and startled.
You yelp and stumble backward, crashing into the chair behind you with a loud thunk.
âWhat theââ His voice is rough with sleep and confusion. He looks around wildly, dazed. âWhat are youâwhy are you in my cabin?â
You lift your hands like heâs just accused you of theft. âInspection!â you shoot back, as if that explains everything. âI knocked, you didnât answer! I thought you were ignoring me again!â
He squints at you, still clearly half-asleep, his shoulders rising and falling with slow, confused breaths. His hair is even worse now, sticking up in every direction, and the blanket is twisted around his torso.
âYouââ he blinks. âYou undressed me?â
âOh my gods,â you groan, rubbing your hands over your face. âI took your armor off, Jackson. You looked like you were going to fall off the bed and crack your head open. I was being nice. Which, by the way, is a mistake I wonât be repeating.â
You turn sharply toward the door, the heat of embarrassment prickling at your ears. âWhatever. Iâll mark you down for being messy. Happy?â
But before your hand can reach the knob, his voice stops you again.Â
âWait.â
You turn your head. Heâs sitting upright now, feet flat on the floor, blanket around his shoulders like a cape. He looks like a child in the aftermath of a nightmare.
âI justâŠâ He exhales. âI havenât been sleeping well.â
You frown, footsteps halting. âBad dreams?â
He nods, once. Small. âYeah. For a while now.â
Something in you softens. Just a little. âI get them, too,â you say after a moment. âSometimes they stick to your ribs for days.â
He glances up at you, searching. âHow do you make them stop?â
You shrug. âI donât know if you can. But it helps to think about something that makes you feel calm. Happy. I picture myself eating strawberries on the beach. Sounds stupid, I know, but it works.â
He gives a short, breathy laugh. âThat doesnât sound stupid.â
You donât say anything. Just nod.
Youâre halfway out the door when he says your name again. This time, quieter. More hesitant.
âCould you maybe stay?â
You pause, blinking. âStay?â
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. âJust for a bit. It might help me sleep. Youâre⊠I dunno. Youâre calm.â
You stare at him. Youâre pretty sure your brain short-circuits for a second.
But then youâre walking back toward him before you can think better of it, easing yourself onto the bed with cautious grace. âNot the whole night,â you say, âjust for a bit.â
He scoots over wordlessly, and you sit beside him, the blanket rustling under your weight. His shoulder brushes yours when he turns onto his side, curling slightly to face you. His eyes are soft now, ocean-deep and quiet. Thereâs a kind of rawness there that steals the breath from your lungs.
âWhat?â you whisper, self-conscious.
He shakes his head slowly. âNothing,â he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his mouth. âI just feel calm.â
And for once, you donât have a snarky reply. You just sit there, letting the silence settle around you like sea foam. And when his eyes flutter shut, lashes casting long shadows over his cheeks, you find yourself watching him all over again with something dangerously close to fondness.
You stay. Longer than you mean to.
And when you finally leave, your inspection sheet still smells faintly of saltwater.
Summary : Bucky feels guilty for missing three months of his babyâs life while on a mission.
Pairing : Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!reader (she/her), You have a baby named Jamie.
Warnings/tags : little bit of angst, Hurt/Comfort, domestic!Bucky, Baby Jamie, Tower fic! Lots and lots and lots of fluff!!!!
Word count : 5.4k
Note : This could be read as a sequel to Elevator, Baby! Or on its own as a one shot. Enjoy!
You stood at the base of the jet ramp, your heart in your throat and Jamie in your arms, bundled in a little blue jacket with bear ears on the hood. Bucky had been holding it together all morningâpacking, checking gear, getting briefedâbut the second he turned around and saw the two of you standing there, it all fell apart.
His eyebrows relaxed, lips parting just slightly as he took you inâyour tired eyes, your little smile, the way Jamie was chewing on his tiny mitten.
âC'mere,â Bucky said, voice already threatening to break.
He pulled you both into his arms in one sweeping motion, pressing you against his chest, his metal hand cradling the back of Jamieâs head. He kissed your forehead, then Jamieâs cheek, then your lips, then Jamieâs noseâover and over, like he was trying to memorise the feeling.
This mission was unavoidable.
A Hydra remnant had resurfacedâ and the team decided on a stealth op, one man in, one man out. No comms except for daily status checks. It had to be someone with experience, someone who knew Hydra, someone who could disappear without a trace and still come home.
It had to be Bucky.
But it killed him to go.
âI love you,â he whispered into your hair. âSo much. You take care of Mama, alright?â he said quietly to Jamie, who blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. âIâll be back before you know it.â
You tried to smile, even as your eyes blurred. âWeâll be right here, Buck.â
Bucky kissed your lips again and lingered there, forehead to forehead afterward. âYouâre my whole world,â he said quietly. Then he pulled back, crouched to Jamieâs level, and pressed a hundred tiny kisses to his sonâs chubby cheeks.
âLove you, Jamie,â he cooed. âIâm so proud of you already,â he whispered, his voice cracking just a little. âDonât grow up too fast while Iâm gone, okay?â
Jamie laughed, squeezing his fatherâs vibranium fingers with his mittened hands.
Bucky kissed him one more time. Then you.
Then he stepped awayâ like if he turned around too quickly, he wouldn't want to go.
â
You and Bucky had a cosy little house in the suburbs just outside the city on a quiet street with a fenced-in backyard and a nursery Bucky had painted himself in. It was your dream place to raise Jamie. But when Bucky got called in for the mission, he insisted that you and the baby stay in the Watchtower while he was gone.Â
âItâs safer,â he had said with his hand on your back. âSecurityâs tighter. Youâll have people around if anything happens. Please, honey,â he had puzzled into your neck, placing gentle kisses there, âItâll help me sleep at night.âÂ
You couldnât argue. With Yelena and John both on recovery, Bob always nearby, and even with Ava and Alexei in and out on missions, you wouldnât be alone. There was always someone to lend a hand, and the reinforced security systems at the Tower made your alarm system look like a toy. So, for Buckyâs peace of mindâand maybe yours, tooâyou agreed.
But you were only supposed to be here for four weeks.
Thatâs what Bucky saidââJust a month, sweets. They wonât even know I was there.â He had smiled when he said it, trying to hide how hard it was to leave you. âIt'll go so fast.â
It didnât.
The days passed like honey, slow and sticky. Jamie was teething, waking every couple of hours with red cheeks and a heartbreaking whimper. Every time you soothed him back to sleep, you whispered stories about his daddyâhow brave he was, how much he loved him, how every mission he ever went on was just so he could protect you both.
The New Avengers had your back. Bob made you meals, even when you werenât hungry. John insisted on installing baby gates. Yelena would hold Jamie when your arms got tired. Alexei insisted he remembered how to swaddle (he didnât), and Ava had access to the baby monitorâ because realistically, if there was an emergency, she would get there the fastest by phasing through walls.
And every night, at exactly 2200 hours, the comms come to life with a single message from the field.Â
âAlive.â
That was all you got. Nothing more. You werenât allowed to respond, couldnât ask if he was warm, if heâd eaten, if he missed youâthough you knew the answer.
Then, at the 30-day mark, a second message came.
âNeed more time. One month.â
You had to sit down. Your heart beat so loud and quick it muffled the silence that followed.
John placed a hand on your shoulder. âYouâre doing great,â he said. âAnd heâs gonna be okay.â
But you didnât feel great, though.Â
â
Around week six, it happened.
Youâd just finished changing Jamie into his footie pajamasâthe yellow ones with little moons and starsâand were placing him on the playmat in the middle of the living room when he surprised you. Heâd been trying for days, wobbling like a baby penguin with a mission, always toppling sideways or collapsing onto his belly with a frustrated huff.
But this time⊠he did it.
With a determined little grunt and a proud scrunch of his brow, Jamie pushed himself uprightâhis pudgy hands planted firmly on the mat, his legs bent in just the right wayâand he satâŠ. unassisted.
You froze, blinking in disbelief for a full second before the joy hit you like a wave.
âYou sat up on your own, Jamie!â you squealed, your voice high and overwhelmed with pride. You rushed forward, scooping him into your arms and covering his chubby cheeks with rapid-fire kisses. âYouâre so clever!â
Jamie laughed a delighted giggle that made your heart explodeâand you clapped for him like heâd just graduated from college. You kissed him again and again, whispering praises, brushing his hair back, watching how his eyes lit up from your joy.
But then you looked upâ just for a second.
Your eyes flicked instinctively toward the doorway, half-expecting to see Bucky there leaning against the frame. You could practically picture itâthe way heâd whisper "Atta boy..."Â
But the doorway was empty.
Oh, right. He wasnât here.
Still, you held Jamie close to your chest, rocking him gently as his small hands gripped your shirt. âDaddy wouldâve loved that,â you whispered into his hair, kissing the top of his head. âHe wouldâve clapped louder than me.â
â
It was around week seven when it happenedâ a quiet afternoon in the nursery, rain pattering against the Watchtowerâs windows, and you were in the other room folding laundry while Yelena played with Jamie on the floor. You heard her voice, delighted. âWaitâwait, wait! bozhe moyâheâs doing it!â
You dropped the stack of baby onesies and rushed in just in time to see Jamie, your seven-month-old bundle of determination, wiggling forward on his hands and knees, his little face scrunched in focus as he crawled for the first timeâ straight toward his favourite stacking rings.
Yelena already had her phone out, camera rolling, grinning like a proud aunt. âLook at this strong little soldier,â she said, laughing. âHe has places to be!â
You dropped to your knees beside them, your hand over your mouth as laughter and tears bubbled up all at once. âOh my God. Oh my God, Jamie,â you whispered, scooping him into your arms as he squealed, triumphant. âYou did it, baby. You did it!â
Later that night, after Jamie had drifted off in his crib, you sat in the Watchtower kitchen surrounded by avengers and half-drunk mugs. You played the video again (complete with Yelenaâs commentary, Jamieâs babbling giggles, the sound of his tiny palms slapping the play mat) as everyone gathered aroundâAva and Bob peering over your shoulder, John and Alexei leaning against the fridge.
âHe did this today?â Ava said, visibly impressed.
You nodded. âHe just⊠took off.â
âBucky would lose his mind,â you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else. âHeâs been waiting for this.â You wiped your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, glanced toward the nursery monitor on the table.
âHeâs growing up so fast,â you said softly. âToo fast.â
And though no one said it aloud, you could feel it in the way Ava gently touched your shoulder, in the way Yelena squeezed your hand, in the way even John stayed silent for onceâ Bucky was missing moments he would never get back.
â
Around week eight, the daily message finally came through on the Tower comms, blinking with the same buzz it always did. You dropped what you were doing and hurried over, hoping that today would be the day he said he was on his way home.
But the screen displayed:
âNeed more time.â
That was it.
No follow-up and no time estimate.Â
You stood there in the dimmed hallway light, heart sinking into your stomach. You pressed a hand to the monitor screen like it might somehow pass through, like it might reach himâ like it might let him know how much you needed him now.
You hadnât realised just how much hope youâd pinned on hearing something different today.
After you got Jamie down for the night, you sat in the rocking chair by the window in the nursery. You clutched one of his worn t-shirts to your chestâwashed too many times but still faintly smelling like himâand glanced at the small framed photo on your nightstand.
It was a candid shot of Bucky holding Jamie the day after he was born. His metal hand was cradling Jamieâs head so delicately, his human hand around his little body.
You looked at it every nightâ and lately, youâd started talking to it.
âI swear, Buck, heâs got your attitude,â you murmured with a smile. âFights nap time like heâs trying to break out of a prison transport. Heâs teething now, tooâtwo little teeth on the bottom. He bit my shoulder today and then laughed.â
You laughed to yourself, but it was tired. âAnd he crawled up two stairs today. Alexei nearly had a heart attack. Iâm fine. Totally fine. Totally not freaking out.â
You rested your head against the back of the chair, tears burning your eyes as you looked over at the crib.
Jamie was sound asleep, arms spread, a tiny fist curled around the edge of his blanket. You got up and tiptoed over.
âWanna say goodnight to Daddy, sweetheart?â
As part of your nightly routine, youâd started showing Jamie a few photos of Buckyâhis favorite was the one of Bucky grinning with sunglasses on and Jamie strapped to his chest in a carrier.. Youâd hold it up and say, âThatâs your daddy. He loves you so much.â
Then youâd pull up the recording Bucky had made weeks before the mission of him reading Jamieâs favourite bedtime storyâ Goodnight Moon. It had been his idea, something he insisted on recording âjust in case.â
As his voice filled the roomââGoodnight comb and goodnight brushâŠââJamie stirred, but only to sigh and snuggle deeper into the mattress, soothed by the sound of the man he hadnât seen in more than three months.
â
By the time week twelve rolled around, the days had started to blur into each other. You werenât sure if it was Tuesday or Saturday, or if youâd eaten lunch or just forgotten again. Your life was just Jamieâs routine and the single nightly message from Bucky.
âAlive.â
That was all he was allowed to say. It wasnât much, but it was everything to you.
But then came the night the comms didnât crackle at all.
Youâd finished Jamieâs bedtime routineâbath, bottle, storyâand sat in the control room with the monitor nearby, watching the clock tick past the usual transmission window. You waited one minute. Then ten. Then twenty.
Just as your chest began to tighten, Ava appeared in the doorway, still in half of her mission gear.
âDelay in transmission,â she reassured. âThereâs been some disruption on the line. It doesnât mean anything bad. Happens sometimes.â
You nodded, even though your stomach had already sunk halfway through the floor. âThanks.â
But sleep didnât come that night. You tried to lie down, tried to close your eyes, but your body was on high alert.
So instead, you padded barefoot to the nursery and lifted Jamie from his crib. He stirred in your arms, but didnât fully wakeâ just tucked his head against your shoulder the way BUcky often did when you cuddled, tiny fingers curling into your sleeve like he knew you needed him as much as he needed you.
You curled up in the rocking chair with him, forehead pressed against the fuzz of his hair.
âDaddyâs okay,â you whispered, rocking slowly,âHeâs coming home soon. Any day now, sweetheart. He promised.â
â
One night, while you rocked Jamie through the tail end of another teething fuss, the Towerâs main comm crackled to life.
You werenât expecting muchâ maybe the usual âAliveâ, maybe nothing at all. But then you saw it.
âOn my way back. ETA: 2 hours.â
You stared at the words for a second, blinking once they sank in.
Oh.
Oh. Oh my God.
Your heart started racing, hands trembling around Jamieâs warm little body. You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes filling with tears. âHeâs coming home, baby,â you whispered to him.
Two hours later, almost to the minute, the Watchtowerâs hangar doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh. The team had decided to give you privacy, so you were the only one there.Â
Still, your lungs had forgotten how to work the second you saw him.
Bucky.
He stood at the top of the ramp, his tactical gear scraped and worn, smeared with dust and bloodHis hair was tied back, a little longer than when heâd left. His face was gaunt with fatigueâlike heâd lived a lifetime in the past three monthsâbut none of that mattered.
Because his eyes were on you.
And then he ran.
You barely had time to react before he barreled into you, boots slamming against the floor, arms wrapping around you in a grip so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. His body collided with yours and you stumbled back a step, arms coming up around his shoulders like muscle memory.
âIâve got you, Iâve got you, Iâve got youââ he whispered into your neck, his voice cracking. His hands were everywhereâyour waist, your back, your hairâfrantic and tender.
You curled your fingers into the rough fabric of his jacket, fisting the front of it. He smelled like dirt and ash, but beneath it, he still smelled like home. You closed your eyes and breathed him in like oxygen.
âI made sure Jamie was napping,â you murmured, âWanted to have you all to myself first.â
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. He cupped your face in both hands, gently brushing your cheekbones with his thumbs, as if you were something precious and fragile.
âYou did?â he chuckled playfully.
You nodded, eyes wet.Â
âSweetheartâŠâ His breath hitched. âGod, I missed you. So much.â
You pressed your lips to his in a kissâ and there was no rush, no frantic edgeâ just pure love, poured from the cracks in your heart into hisYou melted into him, every part of you screaming finally.
âI donât care what Val says,â he whispered against your lips. âNo more long missions. I donât care if I have to clean the Tower bathrooms with a toothbrushâ the longest Iâll ever go without you is a weekend. Thatâs it.â
You smiled through your tears, resting your forehead against his.
â
Later, once the team greeted him for a debrief and he got checked up in the medical bay, Bucky walked through the corridor to the nursery, your hand in his. You stopped just outside the door, letting him step in first.
The glow of the nightlight spilled across the room like moonlight, Jamie was fast asleep in his crib, one tiny hand curled near his cheek.
Bucky stood in the doorway.
For a long time, he didnât speak. He just stared, glassy-eyed.
âHeâs so bigâŠâ Bucky whispered, voice breaking. His metal hand tightened around yours just slightly. âI mean, I knew he would growâbutâŠâ
âHe did,â you said, wrapping your arms around his waist. âHe grew up so much.â
Bucky leaned down, resting his chin atop your head, eyes never leaving his son.
You nodded, pressing your cheek against his jacket. âHe looks more like you now.â
Bucky gave a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, still watching Jamieâs chest rise and fall. âI wanna hold him so bad,â Bucky said. âBut I should shower. Get the dirt off me before I touch either of my babies.â
âHeâll be up in the morning. Heâs become a morning person, like his dad,â you whispered, âBut I donât mind the dirt.â
Bucky finally turned, pulling you into his arms again, a bit more relaxed now. âDonât you, now?â he chuckled, dropping a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw.
You grinned, fingers curling into his jacket as he leaned in closer.
âI missed this,â he said, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. âMissed you in our bed. Missed the sounds you make. Missed waking up with you. Missed touching youâloving you.â
Your breath caught as his hands traced your sides. âBuckyââ you whispered, heart racing.
âLet me love my girl,â he said, eyes burning into yours. âLet me come home to you properly.â
You nodded.
He took your hand in his, and with one last glance toward the crib before closing the door as he led you to your shared tower bedroom.
â
The hum of the baby monitor filled the bedroom â until it didnât. You heard a faint rustle, the scrunch of fabric, and a sleepy little sigh followed by the unmistakable pat-pat of tiny hands against the crib mattress.
You stirred beneath the blanket, blinking awake. âHeâs up,â you whispered, barely a breath.
But Bucky, excited to finally see his son, was already halfway across the room.
You sat up as he disappeared into the hallway as you followed behind watching him pause outside the nursery door.
He reached for the handle and then he opened the door.
The morning light spilled across the floor, filtering in through the curtains, and thereâright where you'd left himâwas Jamie. Blinking drowsily, legs kicking beneath, his cheeks still warm.
âHey, buddy,â he said gently, crouching down beside the crib. His voice was rough, quietâlike reverence wrapped in gravel. âThereâs my boy.â
Jamie blinked once before a high-pitched squeal erupted from his little body, his whole face scrunching into a gummy, delighted grin. He kicked hard, flailing his arms like he might fly right out of the crib.
Bucky let out a laugh that sounded half a choke, half a sob. âYou remember me, huh?â he whispered, almost amazed.
He scooped Jamie up with both arms, holding him against his chest like he was made of spun sugar.
You leaned against the doorframe, a smile tugging at your lips. âOf course he did.âÂ
Bucky pressed a kiss to Jamieâs hair and shut his eyes. âGod, heâs heavier,â he said.
Jamie babbled something unintelligible, tugging at Buckyâs collar like he had a lot to catch up on and no words to say it. Â
The three of you curled up on the couch not long afterâJamie nestled in Buckyâs lap, clutching his bottle with sleepy fingers while Bucky held him close, murmuring nonsense. Jamie giggled, tugged gently at his hair, and babbled like they were resuming a conversation that had never ended.
You sat beside them, then you pulled out your phone.
âHere,â you said, shifting closer until your thigh brushed his. âYou missed a few things. I saved everything.â
Bucky glanced at the screen as you pulled up the first video.
It was Jamie crawling. Wobbly and determined, launching himself forward from the rug to the couch as you cheered and Yelena laughed in the background.
Buckyâs breath caught. âLook at him go,â he whispered, brushing Jamieâs hair back. He kissed his sonâs temple.
You smiled and swiped to the next.
This one was Jamie sitting up all by himself, beaming proudly, clearly so proud of himself.
Buckyâs smile was gentler this time.
Clip after clip, moment after momentâJamie waving at Bob for the first time, babbling nonsense as Alexei tried to teach him the Russian word for âbananaâ â These were three months worth of milestones, one after another.
You were too busy watching the screen to see the way Buckyâs teeth clenched, the way his metal hand flexed against his thigh.
âAnd here,â you said, âthis was last week. He figured out how to hold the bottle himself.â
You tapped the video: Jamie lying on a blanket, gripping his little bottle with both hands, gurgling contentedly between sips. It was three days ago.
âThatâs⊠thatâs great,â he whispered, barely audible.
You turned your head to look at him, resting your hand on his thigh. âYou okay?â
He met your eyes with a sad smile. âYeah,â he said. âIâm good, sweetheart. Just⊠taking it all in.â
You nodded, comforted by the answer, and turned back to the next video..
You didnât see the way his eyes lingered on the screen long afterwards, the way his hands tightened around Jamieâs.Â
He kissed Jamieâs cheek again.
Because while you saw memories, Bucky only saw his absence from an entire chapter of his sonâs life that he could never get back. And even as Jamie cooed against him, Bucky couldnât help but thinkâ
I shouldâve been there.
â
That night, sometime past 2 a.m., the baby monitor crackled to lifeâa fizz of static followed by the most heartbreaking cry.
You stirred beneath the covers, still half-asleep, but before you could even lift your head, Bucky was already sitting up, one hand brushing your thigh.
âI got this, honey,â he reassured, pressing a kiss to your temple. âGo back to sleep.â
You gave a groggy hum of thank you and rolled over, already sinking back into the mattress.
Bucky moved down the hallway and into the nursery, easing the door open.Â
Jamie was wriggling in his crib, face red and scrunched, little fists clenched tight as he let out another frustrated cryâ the particular pitch that could only mean one thing.
âHey, hey, alright, buddy,â Bucky soothed, already reaching in. âYou mad about the diaper again? I get it. Nobody likes soggy pants.â
He changed him on the tableâ hesitant at first, but it came back to him like muscle memory. Tape, wipe, fresh diaper, blanket with the faded cartoon starsâ he one Jamie always settled best in.
âThere we go,â Bucky whispered, swaddling him up with care. âBetter?â
Jamie hiccupped, then let out a sleepy little sigh. His eyes drooped.
But neither Jamie nor Bucky headed straight back to bedâ it was as if they were both awake and in this together now..
So, he drifted into the Watchtowerâs common room, where the city lights bled in through the windows and walked around the kitchen tower. He reached and pointed to the fridge, most likely for a bottle.
âYou hungry, too, huh?â he asked. He quickly warmed up the bottle before slipping it gently into Jamieâs hands.
And Jamie⊠gripped it. He adjusted it and found the rubber nipple on his own like it was second nature.
Bucky didnât help anymore, he didnât have to. Jamie had it handled.
Tears pricked his eyes as he sank into the couch.
âYouâre so good at that now,â he whispered, voice cracking as he brushed a hand over Jamieâs brown curls. âYou donât even need me to help.â
Jamie drank peacefully, his little hand patting absently at Buckyâs chest.
âI shouldâve been here for that,â Bucky continued. âShouldâve helped you figure it out. And now I come back, and youâve already moved past it.â
He looked away, wiping at his face, âWhat kind of dad misses that?â
âSomeone who is trying,â came a gravelly voice behind him.
Bucky twisted to look behind him.
Alexei stood in the doorway, travel-worn, duffel bag still slung over his shoulder, just coming home from a mission. He smelled like pavement and engine grease, and he was careful not to get too close to little Jamie.
âHey there, malenâkiy medvezhonok,â he greeted Jamie. Then, with a smirk, he said, âAnd bolâshoy medved,â he added, nodding to Bucky with dry amusementâ his long-standing nickname for Buckyâs bear-like devotion to fatherhood.
Jamie made a sleepy gurgle and blinked up at him, unimpressed.
Bucky sighed. âHe figured out the bottle on his own.â
Alexei nodded, stepping inside and collapsing into the nearby armchair with a grunt. âBabies do that.â he said, dropping his bag, âBut I think my girls skipped it and went straight for knives.â
Bucky huffed a chuckle, but it faded quickly.
âBe honest with me, Alexei.â
Alexei raised a brow. âAlways.â
âAm I a failure of a father?â
Alexei blinked, frowning like Bucky had asked whether water was optional for survival.
âWhat? No.â
âI missed him crawling, sitting up. All the big firsts. I keep telling her Iâm fine, that Iâm proud, but Iâm already behind and heâs not even one. How do I even begin to catch up?â
Alexei sat on an armchair. Then he leaned back, stretching his legs with a groan. âYou want truth?â
Bucky nodded.
âYou are not failure. You are a man who had to leave but came back.â He gestured vaguely. âThat alone makes you better than ninety-nine percent of men Iâve knownâincluding my own father. It makes you better than me for most of Natasha and Yelenaâs lives.â
Bucky frowned. âButââ
âListen to me.â Alexei held up a hand, interrupting him. âI used to think I could fix everything with fists. I thought if I hit enough bad guys, it made me good by default. But then.... I stayâ and Yelena likes me better now. We need to keep coming back, even when you feel like you donât deserve it.â
He paused, then added, âJohn âhe is not perfect. He missed much of his childâs early life. Now he gets weekend and playground visits. But he shows up. He tries. Do you think he is bad father?â
âNo,â Bucky admitted, remembering when Johnâs kid got a tour of the tower, giggly and happy, âNot anymore.â
âExactly,â Alexei said, âAnd John left for a year. You? You are holding your son and feeling bad about a bottle.â
Bucky looked down. Jamie was dozing now, the bottle half-full, his hand curled in the fabric of his shirt.
âYou think heâll forgive me?â Bucky asked.
Alexei snorted. âHe is baby. He will forgive you before breakfast.â
That drew a real laugh from Bucky. He buried his nose in Jamieâs hair and closed his eyes.
âThanks,â he said.
Alexei stood with a stretch. âI go find food. Or shower. Or both. In whatever order I hit first.â He gave Jamie a parting glance. âGood baby. Sleeps better than little Yelena.â
And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bucky and Jamie alone again.
â
The light of morning spilled across the Watchtowerâs windows. The city below hummedâcars drifting like whispers on distant roads, the sound of turbines blending into birdsong. Inside, the common room was warm and quiet.
You sat curled on the long couch, a travel bag at your feet and Jamie balanced in your lap, his tiny body still warm from sleep. He wore his little bear-print onesie, his cheeks smudged pink, fingers lazily wrapped around the last bit of his morning bottle. He blinked sleepily up at you, eyelashes fluttering like they were too heavy.
It was your last morning at the Tower, Bucky had just finished debriefing everyone he needed to and doing all the official paperwork. Youâd be back often, of courseâvisits, Buckyâs (hopefully shorter) missions, and dinners with the teamâbut today, you were finally going home. Back to your own kitchen, your backyard, to your birdfeeder. Back to your quiet street and your swing and the scent of fresh coffee in your own kitchen. Back to your bed that no longer felt too big, because Bucky was coming with you.
Heâd slipped out earlier, promising to pack up your things while you focused on Jamie. âLet me do something useful, sweets,â heâd said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He was still carrying this guilt in small waysâ over-packing the diaper bag, refolding clothes youâd already folded, checking three times that Jamie had socks on.
And you let him.
Because this was how he stitched himself back into your life.
Jamie finished the bottle and gave a small, sleepy grunt. Then he kicked around, accidentally knocking your empty breakfast plate from the coffee table.Â
CLACK!
It clattered to the ground with an echo that felt so much louder than it should have been.
Jamie flinched.
His whole body jolted as his eyes went wide, mouth pulling down hard. And thenâ like a dam cracking openâ the cries beganâ the kind that came with a startled fear only babies felt, when they didnât understand the world enough to explain it.
âOh, babyâno, no, itâs okay,â you whispered, immediately rocking him. âJust a sound, itâs alright. Just a noise. Mamaâs got youâshhhâŠâ
But he was inconsolable. His tiny fists curled tight against your collarbone, whole face turning red as he wailed.
That was the moment the door slid open.
Bucky stepped into the room, a suitcase in one hand and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, brow furrowed from some conversation heâd just had with John on the comms. âHey, I found the monitor and that book you alwaysâohââ
He froze, watching you frantically try to calm little Jamie down
âWhat happened?â he asked quickly, dropping the bag before you could answer.
âHe scared himself,â you explained. âHe knocked the plate off the table and made a loud noise.â
You didnât need to explain more. He was already reaching.
âCome here,â Bucky said, his voice a particular tenderness he reserved only for you and Jamie. âCome to Daddy. Daddyâs got you now.â
You passed Jamie over, and Bucky drew him in tightâ one hand cradling the back of Jamieâs head, the other rubbing soothing circles across his little spine. His voice dropped to a hush. âShhh⊠Itâs alright now. Just a dumb plate, huh? Didnât mean to scare you. Weâll kick its ass later, huh?â he said, and you playfully slapped his shoulder for saying a bad word. âPlates are overrated anyway.â
Jamieâs cries had quieted into little hiccups, no longer frantic. He clung to Buckyâs shirt, burrowed in under his chin like.
And then it came in his small, raspy voice â...Dada.â
Bucky stopped moving. You blinked.
And then, slowly, Bucky pulled back just enough to look at Jamieâs face. âWhat⊠What did you say?â he whispered in disbelief.
Jamie blinked up at him as a chubby hand reached up and curled into Buckyâs beard.
âDada,â he said again, clearer now. Â
Buckyâs knees almost buckled.
His mouth opened, but no words came out at first.
âIs thisâhas he...?â he asked, barely turning his head toward you.
You were already nodding, tears burning in your own eyes. âIt is,â you whispered, kissing Jamieâs forehead. âThatâs his first word.â
Bucky let out a stunned laugh, his voice cracking. âThatâs me. Thatâs me, Jamie. Iâm your Dada.â
He kissed the top of Jamieâs head over and over again, before kissing youâ gentle and sweet.Â
Jamie giggled at the sight of his parents showing affection to each other, delighted with himself, babbling nonsense now and again, but punctuating it with another firm, proud âDada.â
You smiled, burying your face in Buckyâs shoulder.
All those nights youâd shown Jamie picture after picture of his fatherâtelling him over and over, âThatâs your Daddy. Heâs coming home.â All those times youâd held your breath hoping Jamie wouldnât forget him⊠It had all paid off.
Bucky kissed your forehead without even looking, still half in shock, like he couldnât believe this little boyâthis squishy miracleâwas his. And yours.
And that his very first word had been Dada.
Jamie wiggled and tucked his head beneath Buckyâs chin, pressing close with a little hum of contentment. âDada,â Jamie said again, sleepily this time.Â
Bucky leaned down and whispered, âThatâs me, buddy.â
hello love! i know you probably a dumpster load of requests so i apologize for taking your time. but i just had a thought.; james potter is totally the kind of guy to tell his girlfriend he's taken when drunk. like that man is to loyal for his own good. even when his own gf is trying to bring to home, he's just like "no. i've got a girlfriend that I love DEARLY. leave me alone" and when she keeps trying he'd call for sirius for backupđ. don't feel guilty if you don't do this!! i just wanted to share my thought, with or without you writing it! have an AMAZING day or night, and keep being YOU!! you inspire many people whether you believe that or not, it stays true!!!
Thanks sweetheart, love you!
cw: alcohol
modern au
James Potter x fem!reader ⥠844 words
You find your boyfriend in a corner booth, hanging onto Siriusâ arm and waxing poetic about their school days.Â
âThey never figured out how we always avoided Minnie whenever she wanted to find us,â he snickers, eyes glimmering. âWe were soooo slippery.âÂ
âI think she knew everything,â says Remus, taking a sip of his drink. You notice thereâs not one in front of James; it must have been confiscated. âShe just liked usâsome of us, that isââ He hides a smirk behind his glass. ââwell enough to let us get away with it all.â He spots you and, with a nod, turns his attention to Sirius to give you and James space.Â
James humphs noncommittally, confused as to why Remus no longer seems to be entertaining him.Â
You come up on his other side, touching his muscled shoulder lightly. âHey.âÂ
James turns swiftly, clearing not having noticed you walking over. Youâre expecting a smile and a hug and expectant, puckered lipsâhis usual greeting for youâbut instead his eyes narrow behind his glasses, brows twitching together almost imperceptibly.
âHello,â he says, somewhat stiffly.Â
You feel your lips curve into a bemused sort of smile. âHi, handsome. Ready to go home?âÂ
He guffaws. Actually guffaws, like youâve just suggested he go jump in the Thames. âI think not,â he says. âI have a girlfriend.âÂ
A tiny laugh startles out of you. âYeah, Iâm aware. You alright?âÂ
Now he gives you a smile. Or his best attempt at one, but James has always been a terrible actor, and the false grin manifests as a grimace. âMâgood, thanks.âÂ
He starts to turn back towards his friends, but you pull on his sleeve.Â
âCâmon, Jamie,â you urge. âItâs time to go, yeah?â James turns around, looking truly scandalized now. You give his arm a tug. âLetâs go home.âÂ
âNo,â he insists, firmer than you knew could be managed with a slur. âI told you, I have a girlfriend. Sheâs waiting at my home, ând I love her very much. Leave me alone.âÂ
âJames,â you laugh. âHoney, itâs me.âÂ
âPads.â He turns around, wrapping his arm around Siriusâ shoulders like he needs to hold onto something lest you try and haul him away. âPads, this woman is trying to take me home. Tell âer I have a girlfriend.âÂ
Your mouth drops open. âJames!âÂ
Sirius turns slowly, raking his gaze over you. He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. âGet lost, babe. This oneâs taken.âÂ
Then he jolts and cuts a glare towards Remus, who sips from his drink innocently. âBe nice,â he reminds his boyfriend, foot moving back under his own chair.Â
Sirius sighs, rolling his eyes. âProngs,â he says with great reluctance, âthis is your girlfriend.âÂ
Even drunk, James knows enough to be suspicious of his friend when heâs in a mischief-making mood. He squints at Sirius. âMy girlfriend sâat home,â he reasons.Â
âYour girlfriend is here,â Sirius says evenly, and you canât blame James for his skepticism; if you werenât fully aware that you are here, you wouldnât trust Siriusâ deadpan stare either.Â
âI texted her, James,â Remus says helpfully. âSheâs here because I told her where we were.âÂ
Your boyfriendâs lips part, and he turns to you with something between joy and heartacheâbut the shock of bothâwritten all over his face. âSweetheart,â he cries, âitâs you!âÂ
âYeah,â you laugh, letting him tug you forward by the hips into an awkward hug. You set a consoling hand on top of his head. âThatâs what I was trying to tell you.âÂ
âMy sweetheart,â he mumbles into your stomach. âI didnât know it was you, angel. Of course Iâll go home with you.âÂ
âGlad to hear it.â You pat his back, heat rising to your cheeks at the display.Â
James turns his head, still gripping you tightly so the side of his face is pressed to your front. âYou texted her for me?â he asks Remus, maudlin.
âWell, I texted her because I didnât feel like walking in the opposite direction of our flat to carry you home,â Remus says, then shrugs. âBut for you too, sure.âÂ
âThank you, Moony,â James croons.Â
Remus turns to hide a smile, and you take Jamesâ head in your hands, angling his face back up towards you. âHi, handsome,â you try again. âReady to go home?âÂ
He bobs his head happily, clambering out of his seat and whistling rowdily when you slip an arm around his waist to help support him. You wonder if the heat from your face could be harvested to power a hospital or something. You wave goodbye to his friends as James calls over your shoulder how much heâll miss them until he sees them tomorrow.Â
âMâso excited to go home, baby.â He leans into your side as you maneuver the both of you out the door of the pub. âIâve been dying to get home to you. You shouldâa heard, earlier, I was talking to this other girl ând I told her, âIâm just dying to get home to my girlfriendâ.âÂ
âYeah, I remember,â you say. âThat was me.âÂ
Could i request a ravenclaw!reader who's a little volatile (i suppose like dark acadameia) that the slytherins have kind of adopted (because shes volatile not violent and they think its cute). But shes been in a relationship with Remus on the down low and they realise at a halloween party?
I imagine Remus as an angel while reader is a devil and the slytherins were already concerned by the costume but then they notice you and Remus and just loose their marbles. Barty's having a meltdown, evans im shock and Sirius is cackling because Regulus is trying to stand tall but Remus is so much bigger than him its just impossible.
Anyway, tysm for your wonderful self and feel free to twist this however fits you, love!!
Hi lovely, thank you so much! I'm assuming you meant this to be for the Fade Into You part of the celebration since it's a specific reader, and also I don't know the Slytherin boys very well so I feel like my characterization could be wayyyyy off but I hope this is alright!
join the party
Remus Lupin x Ravenclaw!reader ⥠930 words
Youâre dancing with your friends when your drink is plucked suddenly from your hand.Â
âHey!â You spin around to find the thief, and then your tone changes completely. âHey, Remus, you came!â You crash into him, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck. Remus hugs you back the best heâs able, a drink in each hand. âAnd you wore your costume!â You grin as you pull away, resting a hand on either side of his face to admire how soft and sweet he looks in seraphim white. âIs that glitter on your cheeks?â
Said cheeks grow warm under your hands. âThatâs Siriusâ touch.âÂ
âYou look very pretty.â He grins, and you stand on tiptoe to whisper sweetly in his ear, âNow give me back my drink, pretty boy.âÂ
Remusâ smile doesnât waver, but he becomes a tad more serious about the eyes. âHow many have you had?â
âOh, donât be such a drag, Lupin,â Barty pipes up, coming up behind you to sling an arm around your shoulder. âSheâs fine, and not that itâs any business of yours, but we wonât let anything happen to her.âÂ
âShe just seems like maybe sheâs had enough,â Remus replies, and his tone is far from unkind, but thereâs an edge of admonishment to it that has Barty bristling noticeably. He turns back to you, voice softening. âWhat do you say, lovely, want to go sit down for a little while?â
You look at Barty, who raises an eyebrow at you. Behind him, Reggie stands with his arms crossed, looking bored with the whole thing. Â
âI wonât be gone long,â you say in apology, and Barty scoffs disgustedly, but releases you.Â
âFine, go play with your costume buddy,â he says. âWeâll be here when you get sick of him.âÂ
You take Remusâ hand in one of yours, flipping Barty off with the other.Â
âAre we really going to sit down?â you whisper hopefully, and Remus chuckles.Â
âYeah, we are. Sorry, sweetheart, but youâre not exactly walking in a straight line right now.âÂ
You grin, tugging at his hand playfully. âThatâs just âcause Iâm a rebel. The boys would never let me hang out with them if I walked the straight and narrow.âÂ
âThat so?â Remus hums, pulling you down onto a couch beside him. âHave I mentioned how nice you look yet? You really do.âÂ
âIâm not supposed to look nice.â You roll your eyes, shuffling closer to him. âIâm a devil, Rem. Iâm supposed to look hot and salacious.âÂ
Remus graces you with a smile, brushing a piece of hair from in front of your eye. âYou do look hot, but you look nice too. I donât think you can help that one, dovey.âÂ
âYeah?â You bat your eyelashes, moving into his lap. Remusâ eyebrow quirks up slightly, cheeks glittering with the movement, but he doesnât stop you. âIs it just that I radiate sweetness?â You kiss his jaw. âAnd patience?â Remusâ cheek is faintly pink where you press your lips. âInnocence, certainly,â you tease, breath hot on his ear, âbut what else?âÂ
âDove,â he whispers, âI think your friends are watching.âÂ
âHm?â You look up, and sure enough, Regulus, Barty, and Evan are standing just a few feet away by the punch bowl, expressions ranging from bewilderment to abject horror. âOh. Oops.âÂ
âIâI canât,â Barty sputters. âI canât be seeing this. Are you plastered? Get off him.âÂ
You donât, but Remus does it for you, standing and setting you on your feet as Regulus stalks forward. He stops with his arms crossed in front of the two of you.Â
âIs this who youâve been ditching us for lately?â he asks you.Â
You start to reply, but Barty talks over you. âNo.â He shakes his head. âNo, thereâs no way. Thereâs no way.âÂ
Others have started migrating toward you to watch the show, among them Remusâ friends. Normally you wouldn't care, but Remus is beginning to squirm, so you try to calm things down for his benefit.Â
âYou guys are overreacting,â you say, as peaceably as youâre capable of. âAs if it really matters what house my boyfriend is in.âÂ
âBoyfriend?â Barty despairs, and you should have known better than to think anything could quell his dramatics once theyâve begun. âGod, as if the costumes werenât bad enough, you have to throw lovey-dovey terms like boyfriend around.âÂ
A peal of laughter sounds from somewhere nearby, and you look around to find Sirius, eyes already wet with mirth as he watches his younger brother. âReggie,â he manages between giggles, âare you trying to look taller than him?â
Reg raises an unimpressed brow, and anyone who didnât know him well might not notice the flicker of embarrassment in his gaze. âDonât be stupid,â he says, but his posture is better than youâve ever seen it, his neck elongated in an attempt to look Remus in the eyes without having to tilt his head.Â
âReg.â Sirius swipes under his eyes. âYou may be taller than me, but youâre never gonna get all the way up there.âÂ
âAlright,â you say decisively, taking Remusâ hand and proceeding to push past Regulusâ stiff form. You shoot Evan a half-apologetic look as you go by, still standing frozen like heâs been stupefied, and Barty follows your movement with eyes blown wide. âJust for that, weâre going back to you guysâ dorm, Black. And weâre going to fuck, loudly, all night.â You shoot your most winning smile in his direction, even as Remusâ face takes on a fiery hue beneath the white glitter. âI wouldnât recommend coming home. Goodnight!â
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summary: you and bucky were planning to keep the engagement quiet (for like, five minutes), but none of the thunderbolts believe in knocking.
wc: 1.9k+
Bucky woke before the city did. Which was saying something, considering the Avengers Tower usually never slept. But for once, it was quiet. In fact, it was almost suspiciously quiet, and he found himself blinking into soft sunlight instead of being jolted awake by fire alarms, Bobâs screaming, or Walker bench-pressing in the hallway.
You were still pressed against him, warm and soft and exactly where he wanted you. Your hand was splayed over his chest, resting right over where his heart beat steady and unbothered beneath his skin. And nestled on that hand, catching the morning light like it was born to, was the diamond ring.
His diamond ring.
Bucky just stared for a moment, letting his brain play catch-up.
Youâd said yes.
The same you who tucked herself into his side each night without fail. The same you who stole his hoodies and slept with your ice-cold feet wedged between his calves like you owned the space. The same you who laughed at his grumpiest grumbles and brushed his hair and told him he was good, even when he didnât believe it. Especially when he didnât believe it.
And now you were wearing his ring like it had always belonged there.
He had the gall to smile. A real one. A crooked little thing that crinkled at the corner of his eyes and pulled warmth from somewhere deep in his chest. He reached up to push a wayward strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
âGood morning, Mrs. Barnes,â he murmured, voice low and still scratchy with sleep. âKinda.â
You made a faint noise in response, something halfway between a groan and a chuckle, and blinked up at him.
âThatâs not how names work, baby,â you rasped, stretching like a cat against him.
Your laugh puffed warm against his hair, and Bucky felt you smile even before he heard it. The kind of smile that settled into your whole body, that made you shift closer like you could crawl into his chest and stay there forever.Â
âYouâre lucky I love you,â you mumbled. âEven after last nightâs disaster.â
He peeked up, face scrunched up. âIt wasnât a disaster.â
âYou dropped the ring.â
âI dropped my phone. And then the ring. But that was because you gasped. You made that sound like something exploded.â
âI thought the table was on fire.â
âIt wasnât. Just⊠lightly smoking.â
âAnd then you read your speech off your Notes app.â
âIt was formatted.â
You giggled, sickeningly in love and thoroughly unimpressed. âYou had bullet points.â
Bucky grunted and flopped back onto the pillow, hand dragging down his face. âRomance is dead.â
âYou set the kitchen on fire with scented candles. You brought romance back and then killed it again. Very poetic.â
Still, your hand found his under the blankets, fingers curling into his palm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Which, for the record, it was.
The quiet stretched between you again, not awkward, not emptyâjust full. Like your bodies had gone still but your hearts were still talking.
And thenâBANG!
The door slammed open with such force, Bucky genuinely thought it had come off the hinges.
âOkay so who short-circuited the kitchen this time?!â Bobâs voice rang out, frantic, toaster in hand, wild-eyed. âWalkerâs eyebrows are HALF GONEâOH MY GOD.â
It took Bucky exactly one second to react.
âHEY!â he barked, grabbing the comforter like his life depended on it and yanking it up to cover you so fast it mightâve broken the sound barrier. You squealed under the sheets as the motion sent the actual toaster flying out of Bobâs hands and clattering to the floor like an offended robot.
âBuckââ you gasped, breathless with laughter. âYou are so dramaticââ
âI will kill him,â Bucky muttered, already halfway up in bed, hair a mess and eyes full murder. His arm reached around your front, desperately grasping the edges of the blanket to make sure it didnât slip down your chest.Â
Bob, still planted at the foot of the bed like a poorly programmed Roomba, blinked. Then blinked again. And then he saw it.
Your hand, peeking from beneath the duvet. The ring. His eyes locked on it like a sniper scope.
âWait. Is thatâare youâIS THAT A RING?!â
There was a beat. One, long, painful second where the information processed behind his eyes.
And thenâ âBUCKYâS ENGAGED!! HE DID IT! HE LOCKED IT DOWN!â Bob shrieked, honest-to-God shrieked, and then turned and sprinted out the door, toaster smoke still trailing behind him like a tail.Â
You groaned and dropped your head into Buckyâs shoulder, laughing so hard you wheezed. Bucky just stared at the door, eyes wide.
âHeâs telling everyone, isnât he.â
âYup,â you gasped.
âI liked it better when it was our secret.â
âMmhm. But admit it, you kinda like the chaos.â
A long pause.
âI hate how well you know me.â
And there it was two minutes later: absolute chaos.
Bucky had barely finished muttering a threat to murder Bob âin his goddamn sleepâ when the sound of rapid footsteps, multiple footsteps, thundered down the hallway like a pack of wild horses. You barely had time to register the incoming stampede before the bedroom door slammed open again, and this time it didnât stop at just one uninvited idiot. No, this time the entire squad came charging in like it was a scheduled morning briefing and not your private just-got-engaged-still-in-bed moment.
Yelena entered first, unapologetic and smug as ever. Her face was slick with a green clay mask, blonde hair piled in a messy bun, and fuzzy pink bunny slippers smacking against the hardwood with aggression. She looked like a Pinterest board threw up on her and she was proud of it.
Ava didnât bother with the door. You shrieked as she just phased in directly onto the end of the bed, landing cross-legged with the grace of someone who did not fear death or your privacy. âMorning,â she said flatly, already regretting being awake.
Walker swaggered in shirtless, the faint scent of burnt hair trailing behind him. His right eyebrow was missing, and his protein shake was dripping down the side of the cup like it, too, was having a rough morning. âWhatâs all this fuss?â he asked, clearly having no idea and still deeply eager to insert himself into it.
Alexei was lastâif you didnât count Bob, who had re-entered like a returning sitcom character. The Red Guardian stomped in still fully suited up like heâd been waiting for an excuse to wear the damn thing again. He was chewing a bagel with zero urgency and looked utterly delighted.
You didnât even have time to react before Yelena pointed accusingly.
âI KNEW IT,â she crowed, face mask cracking with the sheer force of her grin. âI knew you two were disgustingly in love. Pay up, Ava.â
Ava, without breaking eye contact or moving a muscle, reached into her hoodie pocket and tossed a crumpled ten-dollar bill at Yelenaâs feet like she was making an offering to the chaos gods. âThis is stupid,â she deadpanned. âI wanted drama. Not a rom-com with a six-zero war criminal lead.â
Bucky made a strangled sound, equal parts offended and deeply betrayed.Â
Walker squinted at you both, then at the bed, then at your left hand, and finally let out a low whistle. âSo how long were you gonna hide it, huh?â he asked, tipping his protein shake toward the ring like it was a toast. âYou think we wouldnât notice the rock the size of a mini frisbee?â
You groaned softly (for the umpteenth time) from beneath the blanket and elbowed Bucky in the ribs. âI need your sweatshirt.â
With a muttered curse and some careful one-armed maneuvering, he reached blindly toward the edge of the bed where his hoodie had landed the night before. It took him a full fifteen seconds to find it while still holding the blanket up with a white-knuckled grip like a man defending a fort. You snatched the hoodie the second it was within reach and, under the comforter, managed to shove it over your head in a tangled, slightly humiliating flurry of limbs and curses.
You sat up, dragged your fingers through your hair, and tried to salvage at least one ounce of dignity as you held up your left hand.
âYeah,â you finally said, voice hoarse but good-natured. âHe asked last night.â
A beat.
âAfter nearly setting the kitchen on fire with candles.â
Yelena turned to Bucky with a smirk like a knife. âYou cooked? No wonder she said yes. She probably thought she was gonna die.â
âFalse,â Bucky muttered, burying his burning face into your shoulder like he could disappear into his your hoodie. âEverything was under control.â
âYou burned pasta, Buck,â you said, gently patting his thigh.
He groaned louder.
That was when Walker, always the menace, decided to start playing âSingle Ladiesâ off his phone at full volume.Â
Yelena immediately joined in, throwing her clay-covered hands into the air and doing a half-committed version of the dance. Bob screamed and jumped in beside her like it was Broadway. Alexei started filming with his tablet and narrating like it was a National Geographic special: âAnd here, we see the modern American bachelor ritual in full displayâŠâ
Ava, still seated at the foot of the bed, stared into the middle distance and muttered, âThis is hell.â But she was smiling a little despite herself.
You glanced at Bucky, who was still clinging to you like he might actually combust if he let go, and whispered through your laughter, âWish we kept it a secret?â
His only response was a long, suffering moan muffled into your neck.
The answer was no. He wouldnât trade this chaos for the world. Not if it meant getting to love you out loud. But Bucky had his limits, especially when said chaos was standing three feet from your half-naked form and singing (moreso squawking) at full volume.
âOut,â Bucky commanded flatly.
No one moved.
âIâm serious. Out. Now. Before I start naming weaknesses.â
That got them scrambling. Walker tripped over Yelenaâs bunny slipper. Ava phased directly through Bob, who screamed. Alexei took his sweet time: bagel first, dignity second. But within thirty seconds, the room was empty.Â
Silence.
Bucky exhaled, long and slow, then let the blanket fall from his death grip.
You flopped back onto the bed with a thud, eyes wide and disbelieving, one arm tossed dramatically over your face. âThat did not just happen.â
Bucky collapsed right on top of you and stuck his nose into the curve of your left collarbone. âIt did. And I want to move.â
âTo where?â
âSomewhere quiet. Unmapped. No cell signal.â
You laughed and ran your hands through his dark hair. His hand came up to find yours, fingers lacing gently together. âSo⊠guess everyone knows now.â
âGood.â
Then he leaned up and kissed you. Slow, certain, and smiling against your mouth.
When he pulled back, he smirked. âThink itâs too early to elope?â
You raised a brow. âYou trying to skip the party?â
His grin widened. âJust trying to skip Bobâs speech.
Sirius Black x fwb!reader who wants more [966 words]
CW: fem!reader, reader tries to call it off with Sirius when she realizes she wants more, some slight angst for a minute, inspired by this great fic that came across my feed based off of a scene from Gilmore Girls
âOkay, one more time?â Sirius asks again, the heels of his palms pressing into his eyes that youâre sure have him seeing a kaleidoscope of colours.
You think you mightâve been tempted to laugh, were it not for the lump in your throat; were it not for the words heâs asking you to repeat again that took you nearly three weeks to build the courage up to say at all to begin with.Â
âIâŠI need this to stop.â You manage, mouth dry as you stare at the heather grey t-shirt heâs wearing instead of his face.Â
âThis,â he starts, hands falling to his hips as he tries and fails to make eye contact with you, âbeingâŠâ
âYou and me.â
âRight,â he agrees slowly, âyou and me beingâŠâ
You let out a breath and look to your left, chewing on your lip as you try to find a delicate way of saying âthe sex, Sirius.âÂ
âBut why?â He finally manages, letting his weight fall back into the back of the sofa in a half-seated, half-standing position. You really picked a horrid place to have this conversation; you asked to come over, and Sirius - none the wiser - was likely excited for a romp, but then you were taking your shoes off to be polite but not allowing him to take your jacket, slapping him with the âI canât do this anymoreâ before you were even five whole steps into his flat.Â
âItâsâŠI donât know, Sirius. Itâs not enough for me.â
âIâm not enough for you.â He parrots in monotone; not a question.
âNo, Sirius, thatâs not what Iâm saying.â You moan. âBut, just, this arrangement - it isnât enough for me anymore. I want more.â
âYou want more. More, what?â
âSirius, come on.â You groan, finally looking at him in exhaustion and hoping he can hear the desperation in your tone. âAre you really going to make me say it out loud?â
âI just donât understand whatâs changed!â He pleads, standing again and holding his hands out helplessly.Â
âI have!â You shout back, immediately feeling guilty because this wasnât meant to be a fight, and this was probably exactly why he insisted on this kind of arrangement with you.Â
âI have,â you try again, softer this time, âI justâŠI want more. I want a boyfriend. And I canât have that ifâŠâ
âIf youâre sleeping with me.â He surmises, earning him a nod as you go back to studying the soft grey of his shirt. âButâŠwe agreed, yeah? We agreed that thatâs all weâd be.â
âI know.â You admit. âI know, and Iâm sorry, I justâŠâ Your shoulders raise helplessly, causing him to sigh.
âWas itâŠsomething I did?â He asks carefully, joining you in looking to the left of the room instead of at each other.Â
âNo, Sirius. And I donât hold anything against you.â You insist delicately. âIâm not asking you for anything youâre not able to give me, either. Thatâs why Iâm-â
â-leaving.â He finishes for you. The word apparently sour in his mouth, the aftertaste leaving his lips puckered somewhere between disgust and hurt.Â
âThis was just temporary, yeah?â You try, nudging your socked toe against a scuff in the hardwood floor beneath you. âThis was never meant to be forever; not exclusive, no commitment.â
He turns to look at you at that, face pained as if you hadnât just repeated his own rules verbatim.Â
âThose were your rules.â You remind him gently.Â
âBut you want more.â He offers, again, not a question.Â
âIâm sorry, Sirius.â Is all you can think to say.Â
You try not to shrink under his gaze, your own eyes flitting between his - that look suspiciously red rimmed - and his t-shirt; apparently the thin fabric covering his heart safer territory than his eyes as they search your face for, what, you arenât sure.Â
âAlright.â He says simply, apparently having come to some decision.
âAlright?â You ask carefully, watching him as he stands and shakes out his hands, rolling his shoulders as if stepping away from a fist fight.Â
âAlright,â he repeats, âyou want a boyfriend? Iâll be your boyfriend.â
âWha- wait, Sirius-â
âWhat? Thatâs what you said, right? You want more?â Heâs gaining on you as he asks, and this time you do shrink under his gaze; feeling about two feet tall as he makes it to you, his chest centimetres from your own. âIâll give you more, then.âÂ
âYou- no, IâŠthatâs-â
âYou want a boyfriend, Iâll be your boyfriend.â He says again, softer as he slips his fingers into the belt loops of your jeans; not touching you, exactly, but enough to make him feel like an anchor for your fluttering heart.
âI donât want you to be something you donât want to be. I donât want to force you.â
âYouâre not forcing me.â He says, grey eyes mapping out points of your face. âI said this wouldnât be exclusive butâŠit sort of already was for me. Might as well just call it what it is, then.â
You shake your head, not in disagreement, but in disbelief. âYou said you donât do relationships.âÂ
His eyes narrow slightly as if wanting to wince, but they stay open in favour of watching the way you pull your bottom lip between your teeth.Â
âNo, I donât.â He admits, and the little flicker of hope in your chest is almost snuffed at his admission. âBut Iâve never really wanted to do a relationship before. But I want you.âÂ
âYou want me?â
He must notice the tentative, hopeful smile on your lips, because a matching one grows on his own before his eyes flicker up to yours. âI want you.â
âButâŠI want a boyfriend?â
His smile softens but doesnât shrink as he lowers his forehead to yours. âThen I guess I have myself a girlfriend, donât I?â