#never rambles

---

Your hands were shaking slightly when you put down your phone. You’d just ended a call with your mother, where she’d demanded that her and your father come and stay for a week with you and your husband while they were visiting LA. It’d been about a year since you’d seen them – probably around last Christmas. With them living in New York while you lived in California, visits were rare. An intentional fact, something you’d chosen very purposefully when you’d decided to join the LAPD instead of the NYPD. Not that you would’ve ever joined the NYPD in the first place. Partly because your parents would’ve done everything they could to lock you out, but mainly because you had no faith in the department after hearing your entire childhood about how your parents could get the police captain to do ‘anything they wanted.’

You set your phone on the sofa and took a steadying breath. Your husband, Tim Bradford, would be getting out of the shower soon, and while he knew some things about what your childhood was like, he didn’t know the full story (and never would). It’s not even that you thought he wouldn’t believe you, you knew he would, but how could you possibly complain about your upbringing when his had been… undeniably worse? So, you took a breath to steady yourself, and waiting for Tim to emerge from your bedroom.

Tim walked out, predictably, in sweatpants and a dark green shirt, his usual sleeping attire. You stole that shirt whenever he was away, because his constant wear of it meant it always smelt like him.

“Hey, baby,” you said, glancing up. You ran a hand through your hair quickly and forced another deep breath.

Tim’s eyebrows furrowed, and in an instant he was beside you on the couch, gentle grasping your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His eyes searched yours.

You shook your head quickly, answering, “Nothing, Tim. I just got off the phone with my mother.”

Tim scowled. He’d never liked your mother, not since he’d first met her and had been forced to sit silently while she criticised you for how much weight you’d put on (it was less than a pound). Still, you insisted on maintaining a relationship with her, and with your father, so he softened his expression slightly and asked, “Oh?”

“She and Father are going to come over next week. Father’s in town for business, so they thought they’d… drop in.” You swallowed.

“And you’re okay with that, right?” Tim asked hesitantly. If you ever expressed even the slightest indication that you didn’t want your parents to visit, he’d call them himself and tell them to fuck off. But you nodded, and said it was okay, so Tim relented and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Okay,” he murmured into your hair, “I love you.”

You ducked your head and whispered, “I love you too,” all while guilt and nerves settled into your stomach.

--

You were panicking. Not enough for the average person to notice, maybe, but enough for your husband to. Tim sat on your bed, putting on his fancy shoes, and watched you struggle to choose which dress to wear for dinner with your parents. It’d taken you an hour to do your makeup, a process which usually took half of one, max, and nearly another hour just to put light waves into your hair.

“Sweetheart.” Tim finally said, coming to stand behind you in the mirror. He rarely used pet names, and the sound of the word softened the tension in your shoulders. “You’re going to look beautiful whatever you wear. You always do.”

“Not beautiful enough for my mother.” You almost spat the words out, alternating between holding two nearly identical dresses in front of your body.

Tim gentled grabbed your waist and maneuverered you around so you were facing him. “What did we agree about dressing for your mother?” He asked, cupping your face so you were forced to meet his earnest, dark blue eyes.

“…Not to.” You admitted begrudgingly, a slightly flush coating your face at the intense eye contact. Even after three years of marriage and five of dating, Tim always managed to fluster you.

“Exactly. You are stunning. I promise. But if you’re worried, I would go with the darker one.” Tim carefully avoided touching your hair, knowing a single hair out of place would send you into another spiral of panic. He hated seeing you so stressed, hated it with every fibre of his being. Especially when it was caused by your parents; he knew all too well the pain a well time jab (verbal or literal) from a parent could cause.

You took a breath and nodded. “Thank you.” You got into your dress just in time for the oven timer to go off.

--

Your mother never knocked more than once. It was, she believed, completely unnecessary for someone of her and your father’s social importance to ever deign to bang on wood like deliverymen. So, when you heard the one sharp, precise rap against your front door, you knew exactly who had arrived. Your stomach dropped in preparation, and with one last fitful look at the mirror, then Tim, you opened the door.

“Hello, Mother. Father.” You said with a gracious smile, sweeping your arm to the side. “Come in, please.”

Your father embraced you in a quick, impersonal hug, but even as you hugged him back, your eyes were glued to your mother. She swept her gaze over what seemed like every inch of your house, searching for the invisible dust she would inevitably find. She glided a finger along a bookshelf, looked at it, scrunched her nose in silent judgement, before finally turning to you with a precise smile.

“Darling,” She said, quickly taking you in, “It has been too long since we’ve visited. God knows you don’t want to see your parents anymore, hmm?”

You forced a slight chuckle, refusing to take the openly dangling bait, “Yes, Mother. It’s been too long. Please, come join us for dinner.”

Tim watched the interact out of the corner of his eye as he made small talk with your father. On the surface, the two of them should’ve gotten along – both outwardly grumpy and work obsessed. But where Tim’s grumpiness and work obsession came from a desire to not get hurt, and to help people, your fathers came from a cold disinterest and casual cruelty. Tim had never managed to force himself to like your father, but he pretended to, for your sake. In Tim’s eyes, it was a miracle you’d turned out to be such a soft, kind person. One hand on the small of your back, the other gesturing as he spoke to your mother, he led your family into the dining room, where the meal you’d slaved away at for hours sat waiting.

--

“So, Timothy,” Your mother asked, setting down her cutlery, “How’s Y/n treating you as a wife?” The was a sharpness in her town that made your skin prickle – the kind of sharpness that came right before a criticism, thinly veiled in polite conversation. Your father had an ever so slight smirk on his face, but he chewed his food silently.

Tim opened his mouth to respond, to brag with great pride about how lucky he was to have married you, when your mother interrupted him.

“I mean, if this is the standard of meals she’s making you, I can’t imagine marriage is living up to everything you dreamed.” Your mother made direct eye contact with you as she said that, her eyes seeming to pierce directly into your soul.

Your cutlery clattered to the table. Luckily, you were holding it only a few centimetres from the wood, and it barely made a sound. Just enough for Tim to reach out and clutch your thigh under the table, a silent comfort.

“Actually, Mrs. Taylor, I love the food that Y/n makes for me. I’m very lucky to call her my wife.”

For a brief moment, a scowl flashed over your mother’s face. Then she laughed, the sound high and sharp, and utterly fake. “Oh, I jest, I jest, darling. I’m sure Y/n here wouldn’t dream of letting you down. Would you, dear?”

“Of course not, Mother.” You replied, the food you’d earlier thought so delicious turning to cardboard in your mouth. It was an effort to swallow.

Your father chuckled at that, adding, “Our Y/n always knows better than to let people down, hmm?”

Your smile was as weak as your response was noncommittal.

--

Things were… okay for the next few days. Not good, but not as bad as it could’ve been. Tolerable. Your parents were always nicer when Tim was around, covering their critiques with smiles and sharp laughter.

So, when Tim announced he had to run tac support for Lucy for a few days, and your parents had another five of their visit, you almost broke down in tears. You had no problem with him going undercover – he’d done it a couple of times before, as tactical support, and you knew it was relatively safe. But you hadn’t been truly alone with your parents for years, and you didn’t want to be now.

Still, you couldn’t exactly explain that to Tim, not without telling him a lot more about your past then you really wanted to, so you swallowed your fears, kissed Tim goodbye, and prayed that it would be a short assignment.

Things went downhill quickly. Your parents stopped covering their insults, and you woke up each day feeling like you were seventeen again, crumpling under the weight of their words and expectations. It wasn’t long until you were at the end of your tether, and a casual insult turned into a proper argument.

“You know, he’s probably cheating on you.” Your mother’s word were completely unprompted, the two of you sitting next to each other on the sofa, browsing Netflix.

Your blood chilled. “Excuse me?”

“Timothy, dear,” repeated your mother. “I mean, honestly, what do you expect? He’s spending all his time with this… Lucy woman, and you’ve really let yourself go since you two got married.”

You took a deep breath and tried to keep your tone steady. You ignored the insult and simply addressed the accusation. “I trust Tim, Mother. And I trust Lucy. She was at our wedding, and I work with her every day. They would never do that.” You pushed off the couch, walking around the lounge room.

Your mother hummed noncommittally, and of course your father chimed in. “Y/n, all your mother is saying, is that men… well, they have desires. And if Tim feels you aren’t satisfying him as a wife…”

“He doesn’t.”

Your mother plastered on a sharp smile, “Good, then. Because Lord knows it’s embarrassing enough for us to tell our friends back in New York that you’ve moved here to become a cop, instead of a lawyer, but to have you be divorced? It would be pathetic, even for you.”

You scoffed, the tiny bit of the patience you had left disappearing. “It’s a good thing I’m not getting divorced, then.” You winced at the snap in your tone.

The shift on your mother’s face was instant, moving from bland cruelty to cold anger, and she pushed herself off the couch You felt your head snapping to the side before you felt the sting of the slap. Your mother grabbed your collared shirt, pulling you close.

“How dare you speak to me in that tone. You are nothing. You’re lucky we didn’t cut you off when you abandoned your family and moved out here like a little shit. Do you know how embarrassing that was for us? How much of an embarrassment you are? Where did our perfect little daughter go, hmm? Why do you insist on being such a failure?”

You stared forward, tears welling in your eyes. Your cheek stung, and you could tell a red print was already forming. Before you could open your mouth to come up with a half-hearted defence, a cold voice cut through the room.

“Get your hands off my wife.”

Your mother dropped you instantly, and you turned to see Tim, a little dirty and a lot furious, glaring at your parents from the doorway.

Ever defensive, your mother spat out, “What did you just say to me?”

Tim stalked forward, towering over your mother, “I said ‘get your filthy hands off my fucking wife.” His voice was a low snarl. “Get out of our home. Now. Before I arrest you for assault and harassment.”

Your fathers jaw dropped, “Excuse me-.”

“I said GET. OUT.” Tim’s voice was so full of venom, that even not directed at you, it made you flinch.

Your mother grabbed her purse with a huff, and, with one last glare at you, scurried out of your house, your father following behind her.

Instantly, Tim was in front of you, leading you to the sofa with gentle hands and warm concern.

“Are you okay?” He asked softly, eyes flickering over the palm-shaped mark on your cheek.

You shook your head numbly, unsure what to say. You’d never wanted him to see this, and a few stray tears fell down your cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tim pulled you against his chest, gently rocking forward and backwards. The soft touch was all it took for you to start sobbing, clutching his shirt in shaking fists. All the while, he rocked you and stroked your hair, whispering comforting words into your ear.

When your tears finally subsided, you pulled back and sniffled.

“Has this happened before?” Tim asked, and even though he tried to soften his voice, he couldn’t quite hide the rage that was clearly racing through him.

Still unable to speak, you just nodded.

Tim cursed under his breath, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Has this been happening all your life?”

You pulled your knees to your chest and wiped the heel of your palm against your nose. No point in hiding it now, you supposed. You took a shaky breath, and forced yourself to say, “Yes. It has.” Tim glowered. “I don’t know… I didn’t want to tell you. You… you had such an awful childhood, your father was such a monster, and I didn’t want you to think I was trying to one up you. Besides, I grew up so lucky, I mean, you know how loaded my parents are… I was worried… I…” Your voice broke. “No one ever believed me. When I was a kid. Even when I’d go to school with bruises, people would look at my parents and the circles we were in and assume I was just clumsy or deserved it. The only person I ever told laughed in my face. I guess I just… I didn’t want to be that stuck up little rich girl complaining about mommy and daddy being mean.” Your face was wet, and guilt writhed in your stomach. Guilt at lying, guilt at telling the truth, guilt over your parent’s words, but still, you continued to speak. Continued to pour your heart and soul out to your husband.

Tim’s face crumpled in time with his heart as he listened to you tell the whole sordid tale. When you finally stopped speaking, he was silent. After a moment of just staring at you, he just pulled you into another hug.

“I am so, so, sorry, my love,” he whispered, stroking a hand over your back, “I’m sorry that happened to you, I’m sorry you were born to such bastard parents, I’m sorry no one believed you, I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t tell me, I… I’m just sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And they’re wrong. You’re not pathetic. Or a failure. Or anything else they’ve ever said.”

At that, Tim pulled back slightly and looked directly into your eyes. Into your soul. “You are the most important part of my life, Y/n. I am here for anything, anything, you need, and it kills me that you were hurting in silence this whole time. But never again, okay? We’re going to deal with this together – whatever you want to do. I will never let those bastards hurt you again.”

And for maybe the first time, you believed him.

--

FIN.

--

You felt like shit. Your mind was running at a million miles an hour, yet somehow you couldn't grasp onto a single thought. Everything was painful, and slightly out of reach. You had a thousand things to do, all equally important, and no time to do any one them.

You needed a break. You'd only left work after one of your co-workers forced you too, and you'd fully intended to keep working when you got back home, until you'd gotten in the car and run 2 red lights accidently because you were so tired. You rubbed your eyes, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of your shirt. It was after 10pm by the time you got into the door.

You kicked your heels off in the doorway. Tony always hated it when you did that, but you really couldn't be fucked to fix it. You just wanted it all to be quiet and go away. You smiled when you saw the light in your bedroom was still on. Tony must still be awake.

"Sweetheart? That you?" Tony called from your bedroom.

"Yeah," you called back, "I'll be in in a sec." You paused for a moment, running a hand down your face. Your brain still wouldn't shut up, and the moment you got into your bedroom, you crawled into Tony's arms.

One hand settled on your hip instinctively, thumbing rubbing against the bone, and the other found your hair. Tony didn't say anything, letting you bury your face in his neck. It wasn't uncommon for you to greet him this way, especially not after a long day, so he let you sit quietly for a moment, pressing the occasional kiss into your hair.

It was only when you sat there for over 5 minutes that Tony finally frowned and asked, "You okay, sweetheart?"

"It hurts," you groaned, burying your face in the crook of Tony's neck. He tensed instantly, pulling you back just enough that he could scan you for injuries.

"What hurts? Are you okay? Did someone say something? Do something?" Tony's questions came out rapid fire, assessing you for any possible damage. Always the protector. He scanned your face, taking in your tired eyes and slightly smeared makeup.

"My brain won't shut up." You said, frustration dripping from your words. "I've got so much to do, and the time and energy to do none of it."

Tony tsk'd. "Ah, honey." He pulled you closer, hand pressing soothing pressure onto the back of your neck. "What do you need?"

You looked up at him, lips pouted, and kissed him. It was a little forceful, and messy, but Tony took it in stride, returning the kiss until you pulled back and said, "I need you to make it stop."

Tony frowned for a second, about to tell you why he couldn't, before meaning clicked. His eyes darkened, and when he spoke, his tone was hard and low.

"FRIDAY, lock the door."

"Yes, Mr. Stark."

You grinned. You were about to thank Tony, but you didn't get the chance before his lips were on you. He slid the hand on your neck up and into your hair, tugging not-so-gently at the strands at the base of your neck. His kissed you, mouth open and hot, tongue darting to flick against your lips. You opened your mouth in response, sinking into this kiss, and moaned when you felt Tony's tongue against yours. His free hand wandered over your body, skirting between your hip and pulling you closer. You couldn't help but grind down slightly, perfectly positioned from where you straddled him.

"My girl need to turn her brain off for a bit, hmm?" Tony said, pulling back. He slid both hands to your hips, forcing them to keep moving.

"Y-yeah," you stuttered as Tony positioned you so your clit pressed hard against his thigh.

"Look at you, already stumbling over your words." Tony chuckled as he watched your cheeks heat. "My dumb girl. Can't think 'bout anything once she starts getting wet, can she?" Again, he chuckled, not expecting an answer. He stayed like that for a moment, gently grinding you against his thigh as your pants started to fill the room. He could feel himself beneath his pants, aching and hard.

"Alright, this, off." He pulled your shirt up and over your head without much fuss, everything else following quickly. Tony leaned in and kissed your neck, his lips open and leaving saliva and little red marks smeared across your skin. His tongue darted out to ease the pain of one of the marks, and you moaned. At some point in his attack on your neck, you'd stopped grinding against his thigh, and he tutted.

"Did I say you could stop?" He asked, hands snaking up your body to fondle your breasts.

You gasped when he pinched a nipple. "N-no.."

"No, what?" Tony asked, biting just above your collarbone for emphasis.

"No, daddy." You just forced the words out, your rational thought already slipping away from you.

"Atta girl." Tony hummed. "You know the rules, babygirl. You don't do anything, or stop doin' anything, unless daddy says so. Right?"

"Uh-huh..." you whimpered.

"And why's that, baby?" Tony asked, sucking just above your right nipple. You could barely think through the pleasure, but, you supposed, that had been the point.

"Cause- cause..." you struggled to get the words out.

"Cause... cause..." Tony repeated, his tone mocking, "Cause why, baby?"

"Cause 'm too dumb," You finally got the words out, rutting against Tony's clothed thigh. Your soaked cunt was leaving wet marks on his pajamas.

"That's right, sweetheart. You're my dumb girl, yeah."

You nodded, too focused on the feeling of your clit gliding against Tony's muscled thigh. You started moving your hips faster, vaguely aware of the high, pathetic whines that where leaving your mouth. Tony watched for a moment, guiding you listlessly with your hips, before reaching up and wrapping on hand around your throat, and bringing you into another sloppy kiss.

He moaned into your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip. The combination of the friction against your pussy and his hand around your throat had your orgasm building rapidly.

"Gonna- gonna-," That was all you managed to get out, but it was all you needed.

"Aw," Tony hummed, "Do you wanna cum?" He asked.

You nodded desperately, "Please, daddy."

"Not yet, babygirl."

Tony pushed you off him, roughly pulling you towards the edge of the bed. With one hand on each thigh, he forced your legs apart and sunk down to his knees. "You're not gonna cum unless it's with my mouth on you, yeah?"

"Yeah- yeah."

"Look at you," Tony cooed, swiping a finger through your soaked folds, "So fuckin' wet. All desperate and whiny, too. D'you like it when I call you out for being fucking stupid?" Tony asked, teasing his thumb around your clit. You struggled to get a word out, and Tony quickly retracted his touch. "Uh-uh. Answer me, baby."

"Yes! Yes! I like it," you answered quickly, desperate for Tony to keep touching you.

"There ya go," he said, resuming his feather-light touches on your cunt. They weren't enough. "I haven't fucked you completely speechless yet. Don't worry, sweetheart, there's still time."

With that, Tony pressed a quick kiss against your mound, before sucking your clit into his mouth. He ate you out like a man starved, alternating between licking long strokes up your folds, probing at your hole with his tongue, and grazing his teeth or nose against your clit. You were pretty sure you blacked out at one point, all your stresses and thoughts floating away into a void of pleasure. You reached on hand up and toyed with your tits, until you were a writhing mess on the bed.

Tony looked up at you for a moment, your slick coating his goatee, and grinned. "Listen to you, mewling like a desperate slut," he mocked. You tried to answer, but he plunged two fingers into you and your words were cut off by a choked moan.

"No, no, baby girl, you know the rules. Stupid girls like you can't speak, can they?" There was a harsh edge to Tony's voice. "That's why you've got me, right? To do all the speaking and thinking for you? It's too much for your dumb little brain to comprehend."

You nodded, babbling out a string of incoherent yesses.

"Thought so." Tony lowered his head again then, pumping two fingers inside you as he licked and sucked at your clit. You felt your orgasm rapidly approaching, and you hips flew off the bed as you arched into Tony's touch.

"Gonna cum-!" You cried. Tony was relentless, only pausing for a second to nod his permission. You screamed as you came, and Tony didn't stop, working you through to the ends of your orgasm. When he pulled back, his fingers were slippery and coated in you.

"Sound so pretty when you scream like that, baby," He whispered, pushing himself up on top of the bed. You didn't know when, to braindead to pay attention, but he'd somehow managed to rid himself of his clothes. He crawled forward till he lay on top of you and kissed you. You could taste yourself on his tongue.

When he pulled back, he brought his fingers up for you to inspect. "Look at the mess you made," he hummed, pressing those two fingers against your lips. "Better clean it up for me."

You sucked his fingers eagerly into your mouth, tongue swirling around the digits as you sucked your self off them. As you sucked, Tony lined his now-aching cock up with your entrance.

"God," he muttered, "You look so perfect like this. All braindead and stupid. Why can't you just stay like this all the time?" He asked, stroking his head between your sensitive folds. You twitched, over stimulated.

"Daddy- can't..." You whimpered, shaking your head slightly. Your legs were still shaking, your brain blissfully empty. Finally.

"Uh-uh," Tony said, fondly brushing the hair from your face, "I thought we'd established you were too stupid to make decisions for yourself, hmm? Isn't that right?"

"I-... I..." He was right. You could barely speak.

"I said, 'isn't that right?'" Tony repeated, pushing just slightly into you for good measure.

"Yes," you moaned, "'M too stupid..."

"And you need daddy to think for you, right?" Tony pushed into you slowly, sinking into your cunt to the hilt. You moaned loudly, too focused on the feeling of his cock inside you to think properly. He thrusted slowly and languidly, not in any real rush.

"Yeah, need... need daddy to think for me." You babbled obediently, clawing at Tony's back to get him to move faster. He didn't, continuing to thrust painfully slowly.

"I mean, how can you be trusted to think for yourself?" Tony mocked, watching you gasp and writhe beneath him, "One orgasm and you turn into a braindead cock whore."

You nodded your agreement, moaning loudly as one of Tony's thrusts hit just the right spot inside you. Something in the moan must've made him snap, because suddenly he was thrusting into you quickly and ruthlessly, each snap of his hits forcing his cock against your g-spot.

"Ah!" You cried out, eyes drifting shut for a moment before you focused back in on Tony's face. He was smirking down at you, one hand on your hips to steady himself, and the other rubbing gently against your clit. You mouth hung open, whimpers and moans falling out. You could feel saliva pooling and starting to drip down onto your chest. You must've looked completely fucked out.

"That's it, babygirl," Tony grinned, "Good girl. Give in to it, you know you love it. My perfect dumb girl."

You clenched around Tony at that, the combination of his degrading words and perfect touch bringing you right to the edge of a second orgasm. Tony's orgasm was approaching as fast as yours, you could tell from the way his thrusts got sloppier and his teasing words started to drop out.

"Cum with me, sweetheart," he managed, before he spilled inside of you. You came with a cry, walls fluttering around Tony's cock. His thrusts stuttered, then slow, but he didn't stop fucking his cum back inside of you for another few minutes.

You blinked blearily, only slightly more aware than before, as Tony, sweaty and smelling like sex, collapsed on top of you. He pulled out slowly, tugging you against him. Your brain still moved slowly, only half registering what was going on. After a moment, you registered Tony walking back towards you with a damp towel. When had he left the room? He cleaned between your legs gently, murmuring affirming words about how good you were under his breath. at some point, he wrestled you into one of his AC/DC shirts.

You didn't fuck again till much later, but he didn't let you think again for the rest of the night.

fin.

---

“For the last time, ma’am, we don’t serve frappucinos here. If you want one of those, you’ll have to go to the Starbucks across the street.” You repressed the urge to roll your eyes as the woman across the counter from you started a tirade about how you really should be selling ‘basic drinks’ like Frappucinos and Strawberry Cobblers – whatever the hell that was. She ended her speech by storming out of the store and declaring you’d lost a costumer, to which you mouthed ‘good’ to yourself.

You took a moment, pinched the bridge of your nose, before plastering a smile across your face and looking up to the new costumer in front of you.

“Hi, sir,” you started, “I’m sorry about her.” Your eyes flicked over the man’s face, taking in his dark hair, shorn short, and icy blue eyes. He was… wow. And in a leather jacket too? It seemed like God was making up for your shitty previous customer.

“It’s fine,” the man said, a dull smile tugging at his lips. “You probably weren’t mad to see her go, huh?”

You bit back a smile, trying to maintain some professionalism. “It wasn’t the worst part of my day, no,” you admitted. The man in front of you hummed, shifting slightly to pull down the sleeve of his jacket. You caught a glimpse of something dark and shiny beneath the leather but didn’t pay it much attention. “What can I get started for you?”

“A medium flat white, please,” He answered, and you almost sighed in relief at his normal order. You had too many bizarre, impossible ones already and you might’ve thrown him out if he’d tried to order something too crazy.

“No problem. What sort of milk?”

The customer frowned. “Are there… different types?”

“Of course,” you chuckled gently, “We can do full cream, skim, lactose free, oat, almond, s-.”

“Just milk from a cow, please.” He cut you off, but it wasn’t aggressive, more… confused. Not that you minded, of course. Though you could’ve sworn you heard him mutter to himself about there only being one type of milk in the forties.

“Perfect!” You smiled, “That’ll be $5.40. Can I grab a name for that one?” You looked up at the man in front of you, meeting his eyes over the till. God, they really were the most startling, icy blue.

“Uh, Bucky,” replied the costumer. Where had you heard that name before? Bucky… holy shit. You glanced back down and realised that the black shiny thing you’d seen was a hand. A metal hand.

Your jaw dropped. “As in Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed, if metal could really tense, and his jaw set into a hard line like he was expecting confrontation. “Yes, that Bucky,” he said dully, waiting for the fight. What he wasn’t expecting you to say was:

“Holy shit, you’re a hero!”

“I, uh,…” Bucky floundered, thrown off by your words. When was the last time someone, let alone a beautiful woman, had called him a hero? Never, surely. But the tension slowly released from his shoulders and, slightly unsure what to say in response, he stuttered out, “Um. Where- where do I pay?”

“Oh, no, please,” You waved away his hand, clicking a button to push through his order, “It’s on the house.”

The frown was back, a perfect crease between two blue eyes, “I can pay, miss, it’s-.”

“I insist.” You cut him off. “Your coffee will be out soon.”

“I-.” Bucky paused, nodded, swallowed. “Thank you.”  

As he walked away, coffee in hand, Bucky couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to you. The way your eyes had sparkled as you handed him his coffee, the way your smile lit up your whole face. The awe in your eyes when you realised who he was. Awe, not fear. Admiration, even.

He started going to the café every day, just for the chance to talk to you. To feel like- like something other than a monster. You started having actual conversations with him. You learnt that he had a tiny white kitten one day when you accidentally saw his phone lockscreen. He learnt that you were the eldest of three children, and that you grew up in Chicago before you moved out to Brooklyn. He quickly became your favourite costumer, though your hero worship of him dissolved quickly as he became less Avenger and more human to you. Once, you asked him if he’d ever met Frank Sinatra.

He laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Is it heavy?” You asked once, nodding at Bucky’s arm. You were sitting with him on your break, drinking a coffee of your own across the table from him. “It looks heavy.”

Bucky always got awkward when you talked about the arm. You didn’t get it, really. The black vibranium was, frankly, gorgeous, and he’d only ever used it to help people. This one, anyway.

“Um… not really. I’m used to it, and vibranium’s a pretty light metal, so…” Bucky looked down, focusing intently on the sandwich you’d dropped in front of him.

“Hmm,” you hummed in consideration, “Does it make fighting easier? Saving people? Surely, right? Cause you can do all this extra stuff.”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably as you rattled off questions, and when you looked back at him, your smile dropped instantly.

“I- I’m sorry, I’m pushing. You don’t have to tell me-.” You scrambled for an apology, hating the way tension sat in Bucky’s whole frame at your questions.

“No, it’s fine, doll. It’s, uh, not the easiest thing to talk about.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. But the real, full truth was that Bucky simply couldn’t comprehend you talking about the arm like it was- it was a power of something. Something he used for good. Not all the things he didn’t that he could barely speak about but revisited him every night in his dreams.

You didn’t ask Bucky about the arm again after that. But you didn’t understand his shame around it. Not really, anyway. Sure, he’d done bad things with the one Hydra had given him, but that wasn’t him, not in any way that mattered. And it wasn’t the arm he wore – wore? – anymore. Still, you dropped it. In fact, you dropped anything even related to Bucky-the-soldier, instead focusing on Bucky-the-person that you were quickly falling for.

That was, until, someone else brought it up for you.

It was September 27th when it happened. Bucky had been visiting you for months, and you’d started spending nearly all your breaks with him. If he didn’t hurry up and ask you out soon, you’d do it for him.

Anyway. It was the middle of a rush, and Bucky was waiting patiently for you to be free in the table he always sat in. He’d pulled off his glove to better turn the pages of his newspaper (he’s such an old man, you thought to yourself whenever you saw him flicking through the pages), and his metal hand sat visible on the edge of the table. His dog tags had slipped out from under his shirt.

You hadn’t even noticed it happen, not until you heard him curse. Someone had walked straight over to him and poured their freshly ordered espresso onto his chest while giving him a dirty look.  You didn’t hear what he said, too busy trying to drown out the ringing in your ears that had suddenly started, but from the way Bucky’s face flickered then shut down, you could guess.

You excused yourself from serving your customer, called over a coworker and raced to Bucky, grabbing a handful of napkins on your way. In an instant, you were seated beside him and patting at his chest.

“Hi,” you said, concern lacing your words, “Are you okay? What the fuck was that about?” You pat Bucky’s chest gently, sopping up the remaining coffee.

Bucky shook his head, “’S nothing, doll. Don’t worry about it.”

You pulled back, “The fuck do you mean ‘it’s nothing?’ He just assaulted you!”

“It’s okay. Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Bucky murmured.

“Bucky.” You deadpanned, “Are you kidding? What could you possibly have done to deserve that? What did he say to you?”

A dull shrug, “The usual. Called me ‘Soldier,’ said I should’ve been, uh, ‘put down.’”

Called him Soldier? If you weren’t focused on comforting Bucky – though he seemed insistent on denying you – you would’ve chased down his attacker and punched him. Instead, you focused on “’The usual?’ What do you mean – Buck, does this happen often?”

He nodded slowly, unable to meet your eyes. “There’s a lotta people angry at me, doll.”

You frowned, confused, “What on Earth for?”

Bucky looked at you then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I am- was the Winter Soldier.” He forced the name out like it was glass in his throat, like he deserved every bit of coffee spilt on him and anything else anyone wanted to give him.

It didn’t help.

“So what? You’re not the Winter Soldier anymore, right? Right. So why does it matter?”

Bucky continued to stare. “I’m a murderer.”

You chuckled, “Bucky, don’t be ridiculous.” You swiped at his chest again before setting down the napkin.

And then he frowned. And a fear overwhelmed him as he realised that you didn’t know. You didn’t know what he’d done, that’s why you’d never been scared of him. He considered lying – of course he considered it. But, God, he was falling for you, and he couldn’t be with someone who didn’t… who didn’t know. So he took your hand, with his flesh hand and held it. “What do you think I did, as the Winter Soldier?” He asked slowly.

You shrugged, “I didn’t really think about it. Spy shit, I assumed.”

Something shattered in Bucky. God, he was really going to have to do this, huh? He said your name gently. “I was an assassin. I killed- God, I killed hundreds of people. That’s why that man – why so many people – hate me. Why I deserve their hatred. It wasn’t me who did it, Hydra brainwashed me, but I still did it. I was the Winter Soldier, even if I’m… not now.”

You paused, digesting the information. What did you say to that? Eventually, you settled on, “So?”

Bucky did a visible double take. “What do you mean ‘so?’ I killed people, doll.”

You shook your head. “No, the Winter Soldier killed people. Bucky, you aren’t… who you are is not what you did back then. What they made you do.” You frowned, “People shouldn’t hate you for something you couldn’t control. That’s dumb.”

Bucky just stared at you like you were something holy. “You don’t care?” He asked softly, reverently.

“Why would I care? I care about you, Buck. The real you. No one should hate you; you don’t deserve it. Anyone who does is an idiot.” With a soft smile on his face, Bucky squeezed your hand. He opened his mouth to thank you, but nothing came out. He couldn’t find the words to express the relief he felt at your forgiveness, if he could even call it that. You smiled back, squeezed his hand in return, and despite his coffee-stained shirt and his attacker’s words still ringing in his ears, on that Wednesday afternoon in a softly lit coffee shop, he felt safe. And more to than safe, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he was good.

fin

--

"You okay, sweetheart?" Tim asked, looking at you with concern. You’re sitting at opposite ends of your couch, Tim ‘scrolling’ (watching you), and you reading.

You looked up from your book, frowning. “Yeah, why?”

“That’s the fourth time you’ve rubbed your chest and grimaced in the last hour,” deadpanned your husband, though you didn’t miss the subtle concern in his eyes.

“Oh. Yeah. My boobs’ve just been sore the last few days.” You shrugged. It wasn’t particularly uncommon, at least for you. You did giggle slightly at the fact that Tim had noticed though. “You payin’ particular attention to my breasts, Bradford?” You teased, lips quirking.

“No more than usual.” Tim grinned, that special smile he reserved just for you, before adding, “You want a massage? If they’re sore, that is.”

You responded by throwing a pillow at him and going back to reading. He just laughed.

---

“Dinner is served.” Tim smiled softly at you as he put down a plate. He’d made one of his best meals, a roast chicken slathered in gravy with veggies on the side. Usually, you loved it. In that moment, though…

The smell hit your nose and your stomach churned. You swallowed thickly, trying to force down the wave of nausea that had suddenly arrived. Just slightly, you pushed the plate away from your body, gagging in your mouth a little.

Tim, of course, noticed. “Sweetheart?” He asked, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just… feel sick, suddenly.” You poked the side of the plate again, chewing on your inner cheek. Part of you felt bad for not wanting the meal Tim had made. The other part of you just felt sick.

“Oh. Okay, well, why don’t we eat later?” Tim said, grabbing the plate away from you. The movement just brought the scent of gravy closer to your nose.

You nodded, then ran to throw up.

---

Your underwear was clean. Now, that wasn't a particularly unusual experience, but your period was two days late. You were never late. Your breasts throbbed with a dull ache, and you lent your head back against the toilet. God. Everything had felt off the last few days. You’d barely been able to stomach any sort of food, your body was aching and…

Oh, shit.

---

You didn’t tell Tim. You waited two more days, in fact. Still, your period didn’t come. Still, your breasts ached. Tim was getting worried, you could tell. Every time you pushed away a plate of food, he frowned, but he never said anything.

But that silence wasn’t going to last long. You could tell by the way his eyes narrowed each time you excused yourself to the bathroom during a meal, or absentmindedly massaged your chest. He was catching on.

You yourself were starting to worry. You’d only been married a year, and you’d agreed to wait before trying for kids. You were always careful, too. What if you were pregnant, and Tim freaked out because he didn’t want kids yet? Worse, what if you weren’t ready for kids?

Were you? Ready for kids?

---

Tim realises, before you even tell him. It’s subtle, but he’d clearly figured it out. Still, ever the gentleman, he waited for you to bring it up first. That didn’t stop him hinting at it, though. No, not at all. The bi-weekly flowers he got you? Blue and pink. You look over his shoulder once and saw him googling ‘How to prepare for your first child.’ It was adorable. And it eased the concern that’d been bubbling in the pit of your stomach. You should probably talk to him.

“Tim…”

“Yeah, y/n/n?”

You were about to utter the fateful words – “We should talk” – when you almost doubled over from a surprise cramp rippling through your stomach.

“Nevermind!” You bolted to the bathroom, and when you dropped your panties down, they were stained red. Huh… you couldn’t stop the disappointment that bubbled up.

---

“Tim?” You were about to call for him again, but he rounded a corner just in time to stumble into your husband’s chest.

“Woah, sweetheart,” he chuckled, steadying you with his hands on each of your arms. “You good?”

You nodded, “Yeah. ‘M good.” A pang shot through your stomach, but you hid it under a neutral face. Bloody cramps…

“Good.” Tim hesitated for a moment, “So… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, I mean, I certainly haven’t… noticed, but you’ve been a bit off the past few days…”

You raised an eyebrow. Tim panicked, rush on.

“And I don’t want to make any assumptions, but are you… do you think maybe, you’re pregnant?” Tim looked up at you, eyes positively glowing. There was hope in them. How could you crush that?

You sighed. “Tim..”

“I know, I know,” he rushed on, “Maybe it’s pre-emptive, but…”

You couldn’t listen to this. “Tim!” You cut him off quickly, and he looked up at you with furrowed brows. “I just got my period.”

“Oh.” Tim looked down, trying to mask his disappointment. He wasn’t doing a very good job.

“Yeah… oh. The symptoms are just really similar, sometimes.”

“So… you’re not pregnant?”

You shook your head. “No. Not pregnant. But we wanted to wait, right..?” You bit your lip. You’d started to believe you might’ve been too… You hated crushing Tim like this.

“I mean. Yeah. We did. Of course.” Tim nodded quickly, before almost pulling back. “I just… when I thought you might be pregnant, I started thinking… well, maybe I want you to be pregnant.”

You looked up from where you’d been staring at your lap. “Really?”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. I know we said we’d wait, but how good would it be? I mean, we could have a little mini you and me running around. They’d be the best baby in the world.”

You chuckled quietly, clutching one of Tim’s hands. “Yeah. They would be.” You paused for a moment. “Do you think… maybe we’ve waited enough?”

“Yeah?” Tim’s eyes widened, and a grin broke out across his face.

“Yeah.” You nodded quickly, excitement fluttering in your stomach. “Let’s make a baby, Bradford.”

Tim’s grin turned slightly feral then, and he picked you up and flung you over his shoulder. You squealed. “Oh, sweetheart, you don’t know what you started…”