#medic!reader

Simon played that conversation over in his head more times than he cared to admit. The way she’d looked at him — at Ghost — like the worn plain black balaclava didn’t hide most of his face. The way her voice softened when she spoke about mercy and mending, as if such things could still exist in their world. And the way she looked so… innocent. Too much light in a place built for darkness.

She worked in the med tent a few clicks back from the line, patching up the ones lucky enough to crawl out alive. He’d pass by sometimes on his way to debrief, catch the faint glow of lamplight through canvas, hear her voice — calm, steady, sweet — above the chaos.

But when he was out on the front lines, Ghost kept one ear tuned to the comms from the forward operating base, the channel she would occasionally chime in on. He told himself it was just habit, just precaution, but it wasn’t. Sometimes, he’d catch her voice cutting through the static, composed even when distant shelling could be heard through in the background. There were times it made him miss a transmission from Johnny or Gaz, but his instincts always covered the lapse. They’d never know. And he’d never admit it — that in the middle of fire and fury, he was sometimes listening for her.  

Nothing of note ever came through on that channel, which was a relief for Simon. Silence meant she was safe. Until the night in Verdansk.

Rain hammered against his mask, heavy and relentless, blurring the edges of everything — sightlines, orders, reason. The line of fire collapsed faster than they could call it. Enemy positions shifted in the downpour, tracers slicing through the dark in crooked lines. Johnny was swearing in his ear, Gaz shouting coordinates that made no sense anymore. They were losing ground, slipping further into chaos.

As Ghost ducked behind cover, rifle pressed tight to his shoulder, he lined up his sights to drop a few tangos through the rain. That’s when he heard it — her voice. Not soft and sure like it always was back at base. This time it was tight. Small. Shaky. The kind of sound that cut straight through the noise of gunfire and thunder, straight through him.

“—this is Alpha Med, we’re taking fire— repeat, taking fire near FOB. We’ve got wounded— I can’t—” The rest drowned beneath the deafening burst of gunfire, louder than it should’ve been. Too close. Far too close. It filled his head, drowning out Johnny, Gaz, Price - everything.

She was armed with only a handgun. Five days of rushed training before they’d thrown her into the field. Everyone had said she’d never need it — that the SAS never let enemies close enough to touch the Forward Operating Base. It was unheard of. So, she carried the pistol out of regulation, not conviction. An accessory clipped to her belt. Never a weapon. Until tonight. The power had been cut — deliberate and clean. The tent was swallowed by darkness, the only light the erratic flicker of muzzle flashes outside. Rain hammered against the canvas, thunder rolling low across the hills like artillery. Somewhere nearby, a radio sputtered to life, then died again. Her pulse filled the silence that followed.

One wounded soldier lay on the cot beside her, unconscious. A deep, rattling breath was the only sign he was still alive. He’d been shot through the clavicle hours ago, useless to the fight, but God, she wished he were awake now. Just to say something. Anything. To tell her it would be alright.

Ghost moved like a shadow through the night — silent, invisible, deadly. Price had ordered him to hold the line, but he didn’t listen. Not this time. The man who built his life on discipline, on doing as he was told, broke formation without hesitation. It wasn’t strategy anymore. It was instinct. Something in her voice had stripped him of reason.

She was cowering in the corner, the silly handgun clutched in both hands as if holding it tighter would make it matter. Her breaths came quick and shallow, too loud in the dark. She tried to quiet them, to think like the soldiers did, measured and calm - but it was futile. Panic had already taken her.

Her thoughts slipped to her father. Retired now, confined to a wheelchair, safe at home. And here she was — the daughter he called his angel — crouched in the mud of a darkened med tent with rain bleeding through the seams. All because she thought she owed the universe a debt. Because someone once saved him, and she couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t try to return the favor.

She heard the boots first — heavy, splashing through mud and puddles outside the tent. Then came the silhouette: a man in soaked fatigues, mask on, rifle raised, flashlight cutting through the dark like a blade.

The beam swept the space, found the unconscious soldier on the cot. He limp, breathing shallow, utterly unaware of how close death had crept. The intruder moved slow, deliberate, his focus locked on the easy kill. She heard it — the click of the safety, the metallic slide of the rifle cocking as he lifted the sight to his eye. And that’s when her bleeding heart won over the panic. She lurched to her feet, hands trembling so badly the gun wobbled in her grip. A broken sound escaped her throat, part gasp, part cry, as she tried to summon the will to pull the damn trigger.

The flashlight swung, cutting across the cot, then landing squarely on her. For a heartbeat, the enemy froze - maybe startled by the sight of her, maybe weighing whether she was even a threat. And in that heartbeat, she found it. The will to fight.

Her finger tightened. The shot cracked through the storm. The bullet found its home in the side of his neck. He staggered once — just a second — before crumpling to the ground. The rain caught him, pooling beneath his body until the puddle darkened, red spreading like ink in water. But he was still breathing. Still trying to move. One trembling hand pressed to the wound as if he could hold the life in.

She stood frozen, shaking like a leaf, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. Absolute devastation flooded through her, the horror of watching a man fight for his life, when saving lives was supposed to be her job. Her purpose here.

Before she could process any more, the tent flaps were ripped open. Rain and wind rushed in — and with it, Ghost. Rifle raised, breath hard, eyes scanning for threats. He’d heard the shot and sprinted the last hundred yards, lungs burning, instincts driving every step.

His flashlight swept the scene — the fallen man gasping in the mud, the beautiful medic frozen with her weapon still trembling in her hands. For a second, neither of them moved. Only the rain, and the wet, ragged sound of a dying man between them.

“Easy,” Ghost said, lowering his rifle and stepping forward, slow and deliberate. The sight of her hit harder than he expected - shaking, eyes wide, breaths short and uneven. A wrecked, frightened little thing trying to remember how to breathe. His chest tightened. “Easy,” he said again, softer this time, as if the word itself might steady her hands.

“I-I killed him,” Her voice is cracked and low, the words barely making it past her lips as her eyes stare at the blood still pouring from the soldier on the ground, who’s now rasping for air, moving too much for Simon’s liking.

“Give me th’ gun,” Ghost said, extending a steady hand toward her. His tone was calm but firm, every movement deliberate. She didn’t look at him at first. Her wide, frantic eyes flicked between Ghost and the man dying in the mud, her fingers white around the weapon.

“Give me,” he repeated, softer this time. Her grip faltered. Then, with a trembling breath, she let it go. The small pistol slipped from her hands into his gloved ones.

“Look, look,” Ghost said, his voice low but cutting through her panic. Her eyes snapped up to meet his — wide, glassy, trembling — and for a moment, she forgot there was a mask between them.

“You didn’t kill ’im,” he murmured, tone softer than he’d ever used with that mask on. “Just shot ’im. That’s all.”

He moved before she could answer. Turned the gun in his hand, aimed down at the writhing soldier and fired twice. Two sharp cracks split the air.

She flinched so hard it jolted her whole body, hands flying to her ears as her gaze stayed fixed on the corpse now lying still in the mud.

“I killed ’im, yeah?” Ghost said quietly, lowering the weapon. “You just shot ’im.” She inhaled, shaky and uneven, chest hitching as the world tilted beneath her. Before her knees could buckle, Ghost was there - one arm catching her, pulling her close, steadying her as if he’d done it a thousand times before.

“You did good,” he murmured, almost a coo beneath the mask, guiding her out of the tent. But her feet dragged through the mud, every step reluctant, her head turning back. “No, no, no—” she breathed, voice rising, ragged. Ghost tightened his hold, kept pulling.

“He’s not dead!” she cried, twisting in his grip, her eyes locked behind them.

Ghost’s voice dropped to something impossibly soft. “He’s dead, love,” he said, calm as rain. “I promise.”

“Our operator,” she hissed, jerking against his hold.

Ghost followed her gaze — saw the shape on the gurney. One of theirs. Unconscious. Shot, but breathing. And of course she’d never leave him.

Something in his chest twisted.

Before he could stop her, she pulled away, stepping over the dead man without hesitation. Her shaking hands were already on the wounded soldier, checking vitals, pressing fingers to a pulse that barely answered back. Ghost wonders if she knew she was crying.

Ghost watched her work - quick, desperate, hopeless. The man’s skin was ashen, lips already turning blue. Ghost didn’t need to ask; he’d seen that color before. It was a lost cause. Especially in a warzone gone to hell, the front line broken, comms scrambled, the rain still coming down like punishment.

“Love,” Ghost called from the open flaps of the tent, rain streaming down his mask, his rifle still raised. Every muscle in him was wired tight, ready to strike. He wanted to drag her out of there — out of the mud, the noise, the blood — wanted it so badly it almost drowned out reason.

She ignored him, hands still moving, doing her job even as tears streaked her pretty little flushed face.

“Doc, we need to move—” Ghost barked, louder this time. Not a plea. An order.

That made her look up.

Her eyes were glassy, her breaths shallow, her shoulders rising and falling like she’d forgotten how to breathe. She shook her head, small, desperete and went right back to the dying man on the cot.

Ghost rolled his shoulders, biting out a curse under his breath before storming back into the tent. In two strides he was on her, one arm wrapping tight around her middle, hauling her back from the cot.

“Yer gonna hate me for this,” he gritted out, voice rough and close to her ear, “but I can’t let ye die here.”

She shouted, twisted in his hold, fists hitting against his chest and arms, but it was useless. He was a wall — all muscle, armor and raw determination. When Ghost made a call, nothing stopped him. Not bullets. Not shrapnel. Not her.

Ghost wasn’t sure when she stopped screaming. Not sure what gave out first, her voice or her body. She’d gone limp over his shoulder, small and still against the weight of his wet gear.

He hated how exposed she was like that. Every step felt wrong. Too open, too loud, too easy a target. So, he kept to the shadows, every turn calculated, every wall or wreck used for cover.

“Gettin’ ya to exfil, lass,” he muttered between clipped calls over comms. His voice was rough, half breath, half command. The gunfire behind them was fading now — swallowed by distance and rain — as he carried her closer to safety.

When her feet hit the ground at exfil, the site was buzzing with movement. A line of humvees idling as techs and support staff loaded gear. She finally looked at him.

Her face was flushed, streaked with rain and tears, eyes red but burning. Devastated. Haunted. Thirty minutes of hell carved into every line of her expression.

And Ghost couldn’t look away. Not from the wreckage of her, not from the proof that she’d survived it.

“Is this what it’s always like?” she asks, voice flat, exhausted. Void of the fury she was spewing on the way here.

“Aye,” Ghost mumbles after a long pause. “When you’re lucky.”

She’s bristling before she even knows it — jaw tight, shoulders squared despite the tremor still running through her. Her mouth opens, the start of something sharp on her tongue. He can see it, the spark in her eyes, the words building.

But then she stops.

Her lips press together, and the anger shifts, melting into something smaller. More human. She swallows hard, blinking away tears that cling stubbornly to her lashes.

“Thank you,” she says finally, voice hoarse but steady.

Ghost goes still. The words shouldn’t hit as hard as they do, but they do. Something eases in him - relief, maybe - knowing she’s breathing, standing, still fighting to hold herself together. But it twists, too. Because he can see the ruin in her eyes, the way she’s thanking him for surviving something she’ll never walk away from clean.

He gives a small nod, nothing more. Words feel useless here. He just keeps watching her — rain running down his mask, the sound of engines and orders fading into the background and hopes she never has to thank him again.

A red "above average" was next to his testosterone count and you could see the panic in the man's eyes but you didn't know what caused it. You decided to let him speak up about it.

"Hey, doc?" You could see the stress manifest into a physical form the way you saw his thumbs clutch the packet of paper tighter, causing the paper to crease upwards in submission at his grip.

"Yeah, Ghost?" You turn around, your body language evident that you are all ears for what he has to say next.

Ghost had to collect himself before bringing this up. He knows this hormone is a normal thing in males, but why is his so abnormally high? He clears his throat before speaking up, "My testosterone," he pans the packet to face you now, "the lab says it's quite high. That's not normal."

"For you, it is."

The man's eyes squinted behind the mask.

"What? It says 'above normal' right..." he points to the row with a gloved finger, "there. What do you mean for me it's normal?"

You walk closer to him, gently taking the packet out of his tight grip. You turn around and sit next to him, and because of the height difference, Ghost noticed the way your shoulder grazed his bicep.

"It's normal for you because of your muscle mass, sir." You point to his muscle mass percentage. "More muscle means more testosterone in the body. Testosterone helps to support your body in maintaining the amount of muscle you have. If you had a man's average amount of testosterone, you wouldn't be built like a tank."

Ghost snickers at the last remark. "I'm a tank now, Doc?"

"Have you seen yourself, sir?" You scoff. You point to his weight on the paper, "Your muscle mass is also why you're technically obese. You're 6'4 and 250 pounds. But nothing to be worried about. You have more muscle than fat, and muscle weighs more. So I can assure you, you're perfectly healthy."

Ghost at the moment thought the way you nerded out on all of these medical technicalities was quite hot. You were smart, he always knew that. But it was something about the way you were talking in person about all this health and medical stuff that got to him. It didn't help either that you looked even more professional with a white lab coat and scrubs on. You adjusted the glasses on your nose while you looked down at his labs and Ghost swore he felt six inches of some of his muscle and fat twitch.

"Perfectly healthy, Doc?" He repeats your words.

"Perfectly." You skim over the paper once more. "If anything, you have the highest muscle mass and testosterone in the task force."

Ghost felt his pride swell at that statement. Not only did you say he was perfectly healthy, but you basically just called him the most ripped out of all the guys?

"I'm trying to be modest abou' this whole thing you know. You're not helping." He replies sarcastically and you giggled, throwing your head back a little. "I'm serious."

"Well you can thank your hard work on missions and the extra hours at the gym." You nudged his arm with your shoulder, causing Ghost to tense at the sudden contact but he surely didn't mind. The cute little medic that works for the task force just touched him, how could he possibly complain about that?

After that encounter, Simon took no time in bragging about his "abnormally high" testosterone and "obese" weight to the group chat that consisted of him, Price, Gaz, and Johnny.

He sent a picture of his labs with the message: "Not only did Ms. Medic tell me I'm built like a tank but told me I'm more of a man than you all can ever be ;)."

Johnny replied with, "You mean "the missus"?"

Gaz replied with, "You better snag her before I do, Simon. I didn't see a ring on her finger last visit."

Price replied with, "It's only because of my age, you know. If I were in my prime I would have more testosterone and muscle mass than all of you combined."

(lol i love these men)

You had a sensitive nose.

It was a weird, seemingly innocuous fact, but one that became clear after five minutes of working with you. It wasn’t easy to work in a place so often disgusting as the ED when smells hit you with the force of a brick wall. You could tell if tissue was dying before the bandage was removed. You could smell an infection on a sample a mile away. Your ability to suss out C. diff allowed you to go running in the opposite direction at a whiff.

You had learned to hide your reactions well in front of patients, but to those well known, the slight scrunch of your nares, or flinch of your face away from the source, was very telling, and very common. After all, the ER was filled with strong smells, the majority of which would send anyone reeling. Who could blame you?

It wasn’t as though you allowed it to impact your job. Medicine wasn’t easy for anyone; it was hard on your body, your mind, your patience. You found a way to cope and you moved on. For you? You controlled what you could to make up for what you couldn’t.

It was this philosophy that got you through the war, as a field medic, through med school, through each day as an attending, carrying the weight of memories. It shows up in different ways, as simple as choosing hours, choosing clothes, keeping a clean apartment. Picking perfume was a favorite of yours, for obvious reasons.

Body wash, body scrubs, deodorant, perfume, body mist, moisturizer, they all complimented each other. Your cabinets were stacked with products, each set picked strategically based on the day's activity. Lazy days got fresh tones of citrus, cucumber, and white rose. If you were going out, it was sandalwood and vetiver. Your classic scent, however, was an easy, floral, lily of the valley, amber. You wore it to work each day, carried the lotion with you, had a backup spray in your locker. 

If you couldn’t avoid the pungent stench of emergency medicine, you could at least surround yourself in a sphere of sweet heaven.

It was the first thing Robby ever noticed about you when you met.

You were an old war buddy of Jack’s from Afghanistan. After an honorable discharge, you had been working as chief attending in Boston. When PTMC had an opening they desperately needed filled, Jack reached out to you. You, who coincidentally enough, had been looking for a reason to follow your sister and her family down to Pennsylvania. So you agreed.

And Robby would be forever thankful to the stars for making it work that way.

He had been reluctant to the idea of a new team member in the first place, then to find out they’d be on the day shift, competing for control? He was less than excited the day marked for your arrival. He came in that morning with a permanent frown pulling his face down, speaking in single syllables and hunched over his coffee.

“Oh, Jesus, look at you,” Dana said, peering at him over her glasses as he groaned into the steaming mug. “What the hell is this? Is it that hard to play nice?”

“Yes,” he said, taking a hefty sip.

Dana rolled her eyes.

“Well, we need her, so put on your big boy pants and fix your face,” said Dana through clenched teeth. “Here they come.”

Robby opted to glower at his tablet rather than turn and be faced with whatever hell he’d be forced to grapple with for the foreseeable future. A Type A control freak, maybe, or a sarcastic asshole like Abbot, interested in nothing but swapping war stories. Or even a PR dream, Robinavitch nightmare with a TV news smile and toxic positivity. He shuddered to think.

“And this is Dana, the charge nurse,” he heard Abbot say, followed by Dana’s greeting. “She’s the boss.”

“Good to meet you,” said your voice, friendly, but calm. “And who’s this? The famous Robby?”

He was steeling himself to plaster on a halfway acceptable grimace and army crawl through some polite smalltalk. He took a deep breath, but before he could so much as turn an eye in your direction, he was overtaken by a sudden wave of… what could he call it. Peace? It seemed a bit dramatic for some perfume, but something about it settled in his chest, delicate and calm, like your voice.

It was like stepping into a meadow, on a breezy summer night, with a clear creek and just a hint of milkweed on the wind.

“That’s the man,” said Abbot, when Robby had been silent for a bit too long. “Second in command, bit of a bitch, but you’ll warm up.”

“Hey,” said Robby eventually, taking your outstretched hand. Soft. “I’m Robby.”

When he finally looked into your face, it was just as sweet as the air around you. You were smirking, eyes alight, one brow slightly arched like you were amused. He suddenly realized he’d been shaking your hand for about a minute, and dropped it like it burned.

“Right, we’d established that,” you said with a chuckle. “You can call me Halo, everyone does. Jack’s told me about you.”

Robby’s eyes slid to Jack, who was watching him shrewdly.

“Has he?” Robby’s heart suddenly seemed very loud.

“Oh, sure,” you said, smirking. “But you know how he likes to dramatize things. I’ll see for myself how much of it is true.”

Robby couldn’t seem to muster a response, so Abbot ushered you away to continue the tour. As you turned to follow, your hair swished and coated him in another wash of flowery aroma.

Robby wished he could say that that was that. He asked you out, you said yes, and you’d been madly in love ever since. But it didn’t quite work out that way.

For the first couple shifts, Robby really struggled around you. It was hard to keep his mind straight, taken up in your dreamy aura. More than once, Dana had to verbally snap him back into things. Once, it was you who brought him back down to earth. The memory of that always helped him regain his bearings.

It wasn’t hard to get along with you. You reminded him a bit of Santos, or what he hoped she’d be in the future. Less of the bite, but all of the wry, good natured wit. The more he got to know you and your story, the more sense your quirks made. Why wouldn’t you want to feel clean, having spent so many years bogged down in the field, under a tonne of equipment, festering in camps with teams of people just as sweaty and dirty as you. Why wouldn’t you want something nice under your nose, after living in the hot, metallic, rotting malodor of death and fear.

Your experience under pressure was clear in the way you practiced, quick on your feet, undeterred and creative. Thinking outside the box was second nature to you, it had to be, with unimaginable constraints placed on you in the throes of battle.

The first night you, Robby, and Abbot all had off, you found yourselves at JJ’s, a go to spot for drinks. Abbot treated you to a couple beers and you caught up. Robby stayed quiet most of the night, watching you interact, and trying to tame the ugly feeling bubbling in his stomach each time you touched Jack like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“So then cheater here used my glasses to see my hand —”

“I did not!” said Abbot indignantly. “You are such a sore loser!”

“How else could you possibly have known?” you sassed.

“Maybe because I can read you like a book,” sniped Abbot with a grin. “You have a tell.”

You turned to Robby, who was still trying to get over the image of you with reading glasses, and pointed a thumb at Jack like can you believe this guy?

“Jack and this tell, everybody,” you scoffed. “If I have such an obvious one, tell me what it is.”

“No, then you’ll stop doing it!” he laughed.

“Oh, because you know that if you can’t cheat, you’d never beat me in poker,” you sing-songed.

“Knowing your opponent is not cheating, it is skill,” he said. “I know you too well.”

Robby tended to agree. He cleared his throat to get you to break eye contact, deep, emotional eye contact, he thought. He cast his mind about for anything he could use to interject.

“So, Halo,” he said. “Why? What’s the story?”

“Saving grace,” said Abbot like it was obvious.

“Because when you're half dead on a battlefield? Anyone besides the enemy looks like an angel,” you said, taking a hefty swig from your bottle. “It could have been worse. A guy in my crew was dubbed ‘Dyson’ after a particularly… intimate scene was discovered with one.”

You and Jack both snickered like school children. Robby couldn’t help but join, and he also couldn’t help it if maybe his gaze lingered on your laugh lines by your shining eyes. He had to clear his throat again, looking anywhere but at you.

“So did Abbot have a nickname?”

Immediately, your lips curled into a devilish grin, and Jack’s eyes turned pleading as they snapped to you. You placed your finger tips together and brought them to your mouth, eyes narrowing and full of mirth. Jack shook his head.

“Don’t do it,” he said. “Halo, please. Don’t do it.”

Robby straightened in his chair, staring eagerly between the two of you.

“What is it?” he asked. “Oh my god, what? Is it worse than Dyson?”

You didn’t say anything, just kept your eye contact with Jack as you finished off your beer. You stood, expression smug, and picked up your purse.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” you said evenly. “If there’s a finger of Pappy Van Winkle on the table when I get back, then I might keep your secret. At least fifteen year, Jackie Boy.”

You sauntered off to the bathroom. Robby only watched your hips sway in your jeans for a second before he turned back to his friend. Your earthy, out of work scent lingered in the air and made his heart feel fuzzy.

“Fifteen years,” Jack was muttering. “Bougie ass…”

Robby waited for a faux-disgruntled Jack to order the drink before taking a deep breath. He glanced once more around the bar to make sure you weren’t on your way back, then forced some words out.

“Halo’s great,” he said, watching Jack closely.

“Isn’t she?” said Jack, still smiling a bit. “Riot. Could run circles around either of us any day.”

“Yeah, I’m figuring that out pretty quick,” said Robby, huffing a half laugh.

Abbot eyed him.

“Is that why you’ve been all quiet and weird tonight?” he asked. “You’re letting your ego get in the way of things?”

Robby jolted up.

“No, no! God, no,” he said urgently. “I’m honored to be working alongside her. And I haven’t been quiet and weird all night!”

“Oh, Brother, yes you have,” said Abbot bluntly.

Fuck, thought Robby.

“It wasn’t my intention to come off that way,” he said earnestly. “I just didn’t want to get in the way of your guys’... bonding. Reconnecting.”

He tried not to sound too bitter about it. Jack shrugged.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, nodding as a waitress handed him your drink. “She lives here now. We’ll get plenty of time to reminisce. I’d like you two to get along.”

He sent Robby a patronizing look, and Robby bristled slightly.

“I do like her,” he said. “I like her a lot. She’s probably one of the most competent people I’ve ever worked with. Certainly makes better company than you, but I guess the bar is pretty low there.”

Jack clucked his tongue at his old friend’s jab. Robby swallowed, trying to get back on track. There was something he needed an answer for, something that had been eating at him since you started the week prior.

“But you two,” he said, gesturing between Abbot and your empty chair. “You… you’re close, huh?”

“Of course,” he said. “She’s my oldest friend in the world. Served with her when we were both rookies. I owe her my life ten times over. She introduced me to the love of my life.”

Robby nodded, fiddling with his watch. Would that make you the most or least likely person for Jack to move on with? Surely, if you were close with Jack’s late wife, you’d have been grieving along with him? Seeking comfort, late nights together…

“So, you two…” he trailed off. “You don’t… you never —”

Jack’s brow fell into an exasperated expression.

“Are you trying to ask if we’ve ever hooked up?” he said dryly.

Robby just shrugged, taking a long sip. Jack rolled his eyes.

“No, never,” he said solidly. “Not even when we were stranded alone in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.”

The tight feeling in Robby’s chest loosened, but didn’t release. Ignoring the fact that Jack was very obviously over and done with this conversation, he pushed further.

“But like… in the future…?”

Jack let out a long suffering sigh, rubbing a hand over his eyes, and fixed Robby with a hard stare.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “She’s a great woman, and I think we could have been great together, in another life, but it wasn’t in the cards for us. It never will be. If you want to make a move, don’t let me get in the way, but can I give you some advice?”

Deciding it would be useless to deny, Robby nodded.

“Sure.”

“Don’t. Do it,” said Abbot resolutely. “It would not end well, and I need you guys to have a good working relationship.”

“Oh, I —” Robby started awkwardly. “I wouldn’t want to hurt her, or anything, I mean I know I can be —”

He was cut off by Jack’s hearty cackling, tongue in cheek.

“I know you wouldn’t hurt her,” he said. “You could try, but I don’t think you’d be successful. But Brother? She would chew you up and spit you out.”

Robby placed his now empty glass on the table and crossed his arms. He wanted to ask what exactly Jack was insinuating, but he never got the chance — you arrived back at the table that moment and indulged in your bourbon, none the wiser.

Robby spent the whole rest of the night thinking over Jack’s words, and you. Just you, all of you. He figured it would be creepy to ask where you bought your shampoo, but he longed to be near you. And as time went on and you became friends, he had to realize that he didn’t just like bergamot or peonies; no, he liked what followed. Those tones in the aseptic hospital air meant you were near, and you were causing feelings he hadn’t felt in quite some time.

So he told himself that Jack’s warnings didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be scared off by some mysteriously vague cautionary advice.

But the weeks turned into months, turned into almost a whole year, and he still didn’t say anything. Perhaps it was Jack’s words, his own commitment issues, or even the nagging feeling of something between you, regardless of reassurances. He let himself rest in some odd limbo, between respectful colleague, close friend, and hopelessly, pathetically in love with you loser. You wrapped yourself around his heart in a tight little ball, dormant, for the most part, but never gone.

If someone walked by with a fresh bouquet of flowers, he was whipping around looking for you, and sinking in disappointment when he realized you were nowhere to be found. If he went on a date, he found anyone’s laugh sounded cold and shrill compared to your familiar pitch. 

Eventually, he stopped dating altogether, didn’t even go out to find warm bodies on tough nights. He wasn’t lovesick, didn’t go all starry eyed around you anymore, but he’d settled into you. The thought of you, indelible.

And your sweet, sweet aroma, a welcome break from the puke, shit, guts, and betadine that normally made up the air. So comforting, he could have picked out all the tones of you in his sleep.

So when your normal was suddenly different, it was no surprise he was quick to notice.

He walked into the breakroom one early morning, saw you standing by the coffee pot, and expected your usual greeting. He got the tired smile, got the scratchy “morning”, but… it was too sweet. Too woody. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it wasn’t lily of the valley.

He stopped short, cocked his head, and couldn’t seem to stop the question from tumbling off his lips. Nevermind that it was weird, inappropriate, and again, pathetic. What kind of creep had smelled a person so much, they could tell the second they changed perfumes?

Alas, Robby seemed to have temporarily converted back to early days: acting a complete fool when it came to you.

“You got a new perfume?”

You looked up from your phone, brows furrowed. Robby flushed instantly, and attempted lame damage control. He turned away from you to pour himself a cup of cold coffee, loathing himself.

“I mean, did — did you? I thought maybe… you had mentioned…” he trailed off, unable to conjure a single plausible excuse.

He couldn’t bear to meet your eyes just yet. He took extra time to add a mountain of cream and sugar, despite his strong preference and habit for straight black. It didn’t matter. He barely tasted it.

“I did,” you said simply. You didn’t sound disgusted, or scared, so he allowed himself to relax just a smidgen. “Fleurs de cerisier.”

Cherry blossoms.

“Nice,” he said.

“Yeah,” you nodded, still tapping away on your phone. “Jack got it for me.”

Robby’s hand jerked, sending the remainder of a sugar packet scattered across the counter. He hastily wiped the grains into the sink before you could see.

Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he liked you too much and it was clouding his judgement. But what kind of a friend — what kind of male friend, in a deep, emotionally rich friendship — got their female friends perfume? That’s a boyfriend gift. That’s a husband gift. That’s not a friend gift.

He coughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Huh,” he choked out. “Birthday?”

“Nah, just a thank you,” you said. “Remember last week when Milo got onto the counter and ate an entire Costco rotisserie chicken, and Jack had to take him to the vet and stay with him while he puked up all the bones?” Robby nodded. “Well, I pulled a double to cover him. I cancelled plans with Dana and Cassie to cover a night shift. So he was pretty much obligated to get me a present.”

Robby chuckled weakly.

Later that day, he snuck into the bathroom between patients, locked himself in a stall, and googled the perfume. It wasn’t a crazy price, but it wasn’t anything to scoff at, either. Especially if it really was just a “thank you” gift from a friend.

As per his style, Robby agonized over his invented woes and worries for the rest of the shift. Did you tell Abbot specifically what you wanted? Or did Abbot surprise you? Had he done this before?

He watched you closely as you worked, forming a plan. If Jack was lying to him, maybe you would tell the truth. You were unfailingly honest, blunt, really, and he doubted you’d spare him if he asked you up front. So, when the clock struck seven, and then about an hour of charting went by and you were finally packing up, he approached you.

“Hey,” he said, as you closed your locker.

“Hi,” you said back, swinging your bag over your shoulder. “Finally ready to talk about whatever had you staring at me all day?”

He opened his mouth, all words shot from his brain. You stared at him, expectant but utterly unworried, while he jibbered like a fish out of water. He was supposed to ask you about Jack. About your relationship. He had thought the words over. But when he finally forced sound from his throat, it wasn’t at all what he intended.

“Do you wanna grab dinner with me sometime?”

Finally, a flicker of surprise flashed across your face. Whatever you had expected, it wasn’t that. To be fair, he hadn’t either. He waited with baited breath as you looked deep in thought.

He tried to reassure you, as the seconds ticked on, backpedal or downplay. He opened his mouth again, but said, “As a date.”

Yeah, dipshit, I think she got that.

You squinted at him for a while, like you were x-raying him. Honestly, he wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if you had picked up that skill somewhere along your career.

“Okay,” you said eventually.

He faltered.

“Okay,” he parroted. “Okay. Alright. Dinner.”

“Dinner,” you said, getting that practiced, mirthful glint, tug of the lips. “I’ll call you.”

“Yup, good,” he said, feeling a little dazed. How did a conversation about another guy turn into a dinner date? “Can I walk you to your car?”

He fell into step beside you for the short distance from the heavy door to your jeep. You unlocked it, dropped your things on the passenger side, and then turned back to Robby. Robby, who’d been watching your easy motions in a trance, snapped back into focus. You were definitely smirking now, as you leaned up close to his face. He did his best not to break eye contact.

“You noticed my perfume,” you said, and he flushed deep magenta for the second time that day. “You were jealous, huh?”

You laughed at his flustered silence.

“Jack told me you thought we were dating.”

“Did he?” said Robby through gritted teeth, already planning the ass beating Abbot was about to receive.

You hummed. Abbot was again wiped from Robby’s mind, as you raised your hands and slowly stroked the sides of his face, running a thumb over his chin. As you pressed yourself closer to him, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to pick Abbot’s face out of a lineup. The scent of cherry blossom enveloped him as you did, and it occurred to him that he really didn’t give a shit who gave it to you, or why, or if you ever wore it again, as long as you stayed in his arms.

“He mentioned something about you asking me out, but I figured I’d wait,” you said quietly. “Let the chips fall where they may. I can’t believe fucking perfume broke you, and not the dress I wore to Princess’s birthday.”

God, that dress. The curves, the leg, the exposed skin. He’d spent the whole night in the corner, boiling, and avoiding you. He’d needed a long shower after that.

You let your arms fall around his shoulders. He shivered as you toyed with his hair, gazing up at him like you knew all his secrets, and he didn’t mind one bit.

“That — that dress was…” he stammered, eyes flicking between your eyes and your lips. “I can’t even begin to describe what that dress was.”

“I’ll wear it on our date,” you whispered, inching ever closer. “And maybe you could describe what it did to you.”

His hands spasmed over your hips, pulling you even tighter against his. Even if you did chew him up and spit him out, as he was warned, he’d let you. A million times over, he’d let you.

Your lips had barely brushed his, when a voice spoke up from behind.

“You know this is hospital property,” said Jack, watching, unimpressed, with his arms crossed. “And I’m pretty sure HR would have a field day if they saw this.”

Robby quickly pulled away from you, but you locked onto his arms and held him tight, merely smirking at Jack’s words.

“What, are you gonna rat us out?” you dared.

“Only if I have to see much more of this,” said Jack, shaking his head and turning towards the double doors. “Get a room, for Christ's sake.”

“Oh, we’re planning on it,” you said, smirking. “I’ll give you all the details, Firecrotch.”

Jack had never been so red.

---

“I know how to follow orders, Sergeant,” you’d shot back, rolling your eyes, but your pulse had fluttered anyway at the intensity in his gaze.

You follow him now through the shattered hallway of the warehouse, boots crunching over broken glass. Gunfire echoes. Your heart is pounding so loud you barely hear the shout before it happens.

“Buck!”

You don’t think.

You just see it.

The muzzle flash. The line of sight. The way his focus is elsewhere—on the man charging from the left.

And you step.

The impact is a violent punch to your side. It knocks the air from your lungs, white-hot pain blooming through your ribs. You hit the ground hard, ears ringing.

For a second there’s nothing.

Then there’s Bucky.

“NO!”

The roar tears out of him, primal and furious. He’s on you in an instant, metal hand clamping over your wound to stem the blood while his flesh hand cups your face.

“Stay with me. Stay with me, doll.” His voice is wrecked, shaking. “What the hell did you do?”

You try to laugh. It comes out wet and weak. “Just… doing my job.”

His eyes flash with something wild.

He finishes the fight in under thirty seconds.

You’re dimly aware of being lifted, of the familiar rhythm of his breathing as he carries you. Of the frantic pressure of his palm against your side.

---

When you wake up, it’s in the med bay.

The lights are softer. Your side aches in a dull, throbbing way instead of the sharp agony from before. You glance down and see fresh bandaging, clean and neat.

You’re alive.

There’s a heavy presence in the room.

Bucky.

He’s sitting in the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He hasn’t shaved. His jaw is tight, eyes shadowed.

He looks up the second you move.

Relief floods his face so fast it almost hurts to see it. He’s at your side in a heartbeat.

“Hey,” he breathes, fingers brushing your cheek. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“I’ve had worse,” you mumble, trying to lighten it.

His jaw clenches.

“Don’t.”

There’s a warning in his tone that makes your stomach flip.

“You stepped into a bullet,” he says quietly. Too quietly. “For me.”

You swallow. “It was a clean shot. Through and through. I knew—”

“You knew?” His metal hand slams down on the bed rail with a clang. Not hard enough to hurt you. Just enough to make the point. “You knew?”

His eyes are blazing now. Not anger at you—fear. Rage at the idea of losing you.

“I turned around and you were on the floor,” he grits out. “You don’t get to do that to me.”

Your breath catches.

“I couldn’t let you get hit.”

“I can take it,” he snaps. “I heal fast. I’ve taken worse than that. You don’t throw yourself in front of a gun for me.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then softer, hoarse: “You scared me.”

That does it. That’s what breaks you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

His expression shifts. The fury doesn’t vanish—it just changes shape. Darkens.

He stands slowly, looming over you. Even careful of your injury, he’s imposing. Intimidating.

“You think being sorry is enough?” he murmurs.

Your pulse stutters.

“You disobeyed a direct order.”

Your mouth opens to argue—then shuts when he leans in, bracing his hands on either side of your hips. Careful not to touch your bandages. His face is inches from yours.

“I watched you bleed,” he says. “I thought—” He swallows hard. “I thought I was losing you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I couldn’t lose you either,” you whisper back.

His gaze darkens further.

“That’s not how this works.”

Before you can process it, he slides one arm beneath your thighs, the other around your back—mindful of the wound—and lifts you from the bed.

“Bucky—”

“You’re cleared for light movement,” he says evenly. “So you’re coming with me.”

He carries you to your shared quarters.

The door shuts with a decisive click.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you instead of towering now. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate.

“I am grateful,” he says, voice low and controlled. “You saved my life.”

His thumb brushes the inside of your knee, making you shiver.

“But you don’t get to decide your life is worth less than mine.”

Your breath goes shallow.

“I don’t think that.”

“You acted like it.”

He stands again, pulling his shirt off in one smooth motion. Tossing it aside. His body is all tension and muscle and barely contained emotion.

“You’re going to learn something,” he continues, stepping between your legs. “You are not expendable.”

His fingers tip your chin up.

“You belong to me. And I protect what’s mine.”

Heat coils low in your stomach despite the ache in your side.

“Buck…”

He kisses you then.

The feel of his lips is desperate. Fierce. His hand tangles in your hair while the other braces carefully at your waist, avoiding the bandages but holding you firm. Like he needs to feel you solid beneath him.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“I should be thanking you,” he murmurs.

“You are,” you breathe.

His lips curve faintly.

“Oh, I am.”

He guides you back onto the mattress slowly. His touch is careful around your injury—but everywhere else, it’s deliberate.

“You don’t get to scare me like that and walk away unpunished,” he whispers against your neck.

A shiver runs through you.

“And you don’t get to forget how much you mean to me.”

His mouth trails lower, teeth grazing your collarbone, his metal hand sliding up to pin your wrists gently above your head—not restraining you harshly, just enough to remind you of his strength.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your skin, “you stay behind me.”

His lips brush yours again, slower now. Possessive. Controlled.

“And if you ever put yourself in front of a bullet for me again,” he adds softly, voice thick with promise, “I’ll make sure you can’t walk for a week.”

Your breath hitches.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He groans low at that.

Unfortunately, it was often made your business. And further, it was sometimes made your business when you were trying to close the business.

“Son of a bloody-” You hissed in surprise; shoving your hand into your work bag as your fingers quickly circled the pepper spray you kept in an easily accessible pocket, already on high alert on your closing shifts as you locked up alone. 

There was a man leaning against the bricks of the building beside the back door of the clinic, looking like he was trying to smile at you though the blood in his teeth and the obvious pain he was in had you grimacing in response. 

“You guys are like…quiet, right?”

“I beg your pardon?” You asked warily.

“Like-” The man continued, pausing to hiss as he tried to straighten up. “You don’t ask questions?”

Your eyes flit down to where the man’s hand is fisting a black shirt underneath his jacket, holding the fabric tight against his side.

“I don’t ask questions that don’t pertain to your health, sir.”

“Give me an example.” He carried on, seemingly ignoring the fact that he looked like he might pass out at any given moment.

“An example, being, I will ask you if you’ve been shot or stabbed and expect an honest answer in response, but why you were shot or stabbed or who did the shooting or stabbing is really not of my concern.” You explained sternly. 

“Brilliant.” The bloke let out with a breath. “Fancy stitching me up, doc?” 

And that night, unbeknownst to you, you had accidentally created a peculiar relationship with a notorious mafia group.

You reprimanded him for how close the stab wound was to his ribs, explaining that if it had been mere centimetres higher it could have punctured the lung and he would have had to go to A&E.

“I’ll make sure to tell the fucker to aim lower next time.” The man who told you to call him Junior grunted as you injected a local anaesthetic to the area. 

You hummed thoughtfully as you continued your work. “Any lower and you could have punctured your kidney or spleen.”

“So this was the perfect place to get stabbed, then?”

You bobbed your head side to side as if to say sort of. “I think it would’ve been better not to get stabbed at all.” 

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers, doc.” 

“I s’pose not.” 

“I’ll get a tattoo of an X right there, tell them that X marks the spot.” He explained breezily, and you couldn’t help but laugh at that.

Between the exhaustion seeping into your bones, still feeling rather off-kilter at having found a bloke bleeding against your building, and the fact that you were supposed to have gone home 85 minutes ago, you couldn’t stop yourself from falling into a fit of unrelenting giggles.

“What?” Junior asked around a chuckle of his own. “Oi, come now. This is so unprofessional.” 

“I’m sorry.” You laughed.

“You should be. I’m bleeding out here.” He laughed along. 

“It’s practically a scratch.” You lied as you readied your suturing supplied; eyes crinkled in the corners in delight as the two of you fell into a comfortable silence.

You were so absorbed in tying off the last of his stitches that you nearly ripped them all out when the sound of the back door being broken into startled you. 

“S’okay, it’s just my friends.” Junior murmured as if he was simply waking up from a nap. “We’ll pay to have the door fixed.”

”What the fuc-”

”Fuck sakes, Junior.” A blond, tattooed bloke sighed as he rubbed a hand down his face, a familiar head of black curls appearing behind him.

”Regulus?” You asked as he stepped further into the room, looking very different with a loaded gun in his hand than he did at your book club last week. 

“Oh…hello.” Regulus offered awkwardly as both Junior and blond bloke looked at him bemusedly. “What? You both told me to find a hobby, so I joined a book club.” 

“We told you to socialise,” the Blond man offered nonplussed as Junior snorted a laugh, “attending a book club is not socialising.” 

“Yes it is.” You and Regulus chorused indignantly before the two of you found it very difficult to make eye contact with anyone in the room. 

“Swots.” Junior chuckled as he tried - and failed - to sit up. 

“Have you lost your bloody mind?” You hissed; officially throwing professionalism to the wayside. “If you rip those stitches out after keeping me late at work I'll have your bollocks.”

“What kind of book club did you find this swotty, profane doctor?” The other man asked Regulus, earning him a snort from Regulus. 

“And what are you two going to do about my back door?” You spat instead, thinking you might have noticed a look of surprise crossing the face of your book club buddy. 

“Oh we know a guy for that; I’ll give him a call.” The guy whose name you still hadn’t caught said before leaving the room to make said phone call. 

“Reg, guess what.” Junior actually giggled like an excitable nursery school student. “You and Evan are never gonna believe it.”

“What?” Regulus drawled boredly. 

“I found the sweet spot,” he bragged, pulling his shirt back up to expose his freshly bandaged wound, “this is the best place to get stabbed!”

“Would you stop calling it that?” 

“Oi,” ‘Evan’ called as he poked his head back in, nodding his head when you finally looked over at the lack of response from either of his friends; he was talking to you. “What else do you need done?”

Your head reared back in surprise. “I- what?”

“‘Round here.” He explained as he gestured vaguely at the clinic.

“New security system? Light fixtures? Updated computer systems?” Regulus continued.

“Art work? Private security details? A handsome boyfriend?” Junior carried on with a flirty smile.

“What? No, no. None of that. We-”

“You sure? Because an alarm didn’t even go off when we smashed through your back door.” Evan explained as if you might not have realised that yourself.

“And this computer system is shite, Doc.” Regulus added as he started hacking into your files.

“Hey! Get off of that!”

“I’m just saying.” He explained, backing away from the computer with his hands up in surrender. 

“Would- just…just fix the door.” You finally managed, feeling somehow breathless from the whole ordeal.

“You’re the boss.” Evan offered with a salute before he disappeared again. 

“Can I trust you to stay there, please?” You finally asked, turning back to your actual patient as you gave him what you hoped to be a no-nonsense look. 

“I’m not sure I can live without you, doc.” He replied solemnly; green eyes flashing with mischief. 

“Yeah well, I’ll be quick.” You teased. “I’m going to get my prescription pad. I’ll need your name, by the way - the whole thing.”

“Barty Crouch the Second.” He offered quickly. “Or Barty Crouch Junior. But you can call me whatever you want, doc.”

“For Christ’s sake.” You sighed under your breath, sharing a look with Regulus before heading across the hall to grab your prescription pad from your office. 

“Guess this means I can’t go to book club anymore.” You heard Regulus sigh in faux disappointment.

“Nice try.” Evan said as he returned to the exam room, causing Regulus to groan.

“You didn’t tell us you made a cute new friend.”

“Sod off, Junior.” Regulus grumbled. “It’s too bad, I rather liked her too.”

“She’s mine now.” Barty interrupted quickly, and you could hear the paper he’d been sitting on rip as he - no doubt - sat up quickly. “Got my blood all over her and everything.” 

“I told you not to move!” You hollered, laughing to yourself when you heard a surprised yelp in response.

There was no telling then just how much trouble you’d inadvertently signed up for.