Golden eyes opened slowly, registering bandages wrapping his right arm, the faint sting of treated wounds. A ceiling lantern swayed quietly above him. He turned his head — and froze.

There you were, slumped in an uncomfortable-looking chair beside his bed, your small frame curled inward. A physician’s coat slipped from your shoulders, one sleeve crumpled beneath your cheek where you had clearly drifted off mid-watch.

Jing Yuan let out a soft chuckle, though it quickly tightened into a wince. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke:

“So even the Dozing General earns himself a guardian in turn.”

You stirred faintly, mumbling something incoherent but didn’t wake. He watched your steady breathing, and warmth pressed against the calm mask he wore. He recalled—fragmented images, then clarity. The ambush at the docks, his forces scattered, the sudden blow that tore through his defense. Darkness had nearly claimed him. And yet… when his eyes had fluttered open again, just briefly, it was your trembling hands staunching the blood, your lips murmuring instructions to unseen assistants.

Jing Yuan tilted his head, observing the faint ink stains on your fingers, the exhaustion etched into your posture. You weren’t a warrior. You weren’t meant for battlefields. And yet you’d dragged him from one, against all odds.

His voice softened. “You always avoid the spotlight, Doctor. But you’re far braver than you realize.”

The words were meant for you, though you were asleep. He let his eyes fall closed once more, not to rest, but to savor the quiet. For once, he allowed himself to be still — trusting that, if the world crumbled for a few more minutes, you would keep it together.

When you finally startled awake some hours later, fumbling to check his pulse, he only smiled lazily at you.

“Don’t look so alarmed. I’m alive. Thanks to you, it seems.”

And though you stammered, cheeks pink as you fumbled for professional composure, Jing Yuan only reclined back, studying you with a gaze brighter than any golden dawn.

“You’ve earned yourself a debt from the Arbiter-General. I wonder how you plan to collect?”

The battlefield smelled of ash. Black tide monsters lay scattered like broken glass, their shrieks finally silenced. And amidst the ruin, Phainon had fallen.

You had found him sprawled against fractured stone, sword still clutched but blood soaking his side where a jagged spear had pierced through. He was still breathing — shallow, labored. Too much blood. Too little time.

You hadn’t thought, only acted. Compress, stitch, burn away the infection with practiced flame. Drag him with trembling arms until your own legs nearly buckled. Somehow, impossibly, you’d hauled him back to the ward.

Hours later, when Phainon stirred, it was to sterile light and the faint rattle of medical carts. His eyes cracked open, immediately clouding with alarm. He reached instinctively for his sword — only to groan when pain lanced his abdomen.

“Stay down,” you whispered sharply, surprising even yourself with how firm it sounded.

His gaze turned toward you. And there you were, collapsed in the chair beside him, one hand still resting lightly over the edge of his cot. You’d fallen asleep that way, head tilted, lips parted slightly in your exhaustion. Your other hand still bore faint traces of ichor, cleaned but not entirely erased.

For a long moment, Phainon simply stared. Memories rushed back — your frantic voice, your hands refusing to let him go even as he sank into darkness.

“You…” His voice was hoarse, awe-laced. “You pulled me back.”

You didn’t stir, only breathed softly, fragile in your slumber. Something within his chest tightened. He, who had stood against titans, who had seen empires rise and fall, found himself undone by the sight of one medic refusing to surrender him to death.

Carefully, painfully, Phainon shifted his hand toward yours, covering it with his calloused grip. Your fingers twitched but didn’t wake. He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky laugh.

“Even legends need saving, it seems.”

When you finally woke hours later, heart leaping at the sight of him conscious, Phainon smiled — pained but genuine.

“Doctor. You carried me from the dark. And I swear by flame and dawn — I will never let that debt go unkept.”

And in that oath, you felt the weight of his promise: not obligation, but gratitude blazing brighter than any Coreflame.

It was quiet aboard the Astral Express — too quiet. The crew had gone to rest, leaving only the hum of machinery. In one of the smaller medical cabins, Dan Heng awoke.

His sharp eyes adjusted quickly, narrowing when he recognized the feel of bandages wrapped along his ribs. Memories flashed: the mission gone wrong, the ambush, the sharp bite of steel across his side before the world blurred.

He sat up too quickly — pain flared, sharp enough to drag a grunt from him. That’s when he noticed you.

Curled in a chair, head resting awkwardly against the cot’s edge, you were fast asleep. A medical kit still lay open at your feet, instruments cleaned but scattered. You hadn’t even taken off your gloves, fingers curled in exhaustion.

Dan Heng stared, still as stone. His usual instinct — to recoil, to slip away unnoticed — faltered. He remembered dimly the sensation of arms catching him as he collapsed, your panicked but steady voice commanding him to “stay with me.” He hadn’t expected anyone to risk so much for him, not with his past shadowing every step.

And yet… you had.

His chest ached in a different way now, quieter, harder to name. He reached toward the blanket folded at the bed’s edge, hesitated, then carefully draped it over your slumped shoulders.

“…Foolish,” he murmured under his breath. The word lacked any bite. “You should rest properly.”

He leaned back, forcing himself to settle. His eyes didn’t leave you, though, following the rise and fall of your breathing. Something inside him loosened at the sight — a fragile tether he hadn’t known he craved.

When you jolted awake later, startled by the realization he was watching, you flushed, fumbling for words.

“I-I just… I didn’t want to leave your side in case—”

Dan Heng shook his head, his expression softening in a way you’d rarely seen.

“You saved me. That’s more than I ever expected.”

And though his voice was steady, his fingers brushed the blanket now over your shoulders, a silent acknowledgment. You had seen him at his weakest. And instead of scorn, you had chosen to stay.

For someone who had run from his past all his life, that quiet truth was more healing than any medicine.

The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic and parchment — someone had left a book half-open on the counter, forgotten.

Ratio stirred, his mind clawing back from the abyss. The sensation was foreign; he rarely let himself be vulnerable, even in thought. His first instinct was irritation at his own lapse — until he noticed movement.

You were there, collapsed gracelessly in a chair beside him, chin resting against your chest, glasses slightly askew. One hand still clutched a chart at an awkward angle, the other dangling near his arm as though you’d been checking his pulse until sleep claimed you.

Ratio blinked once, twice. Then a sharp, incredulous laugh slipped from him.

“Of all things… to be rescued by a shy little medic.”

He tried to sit up, only to feel the sharp tug of sutures across his side. The memory returned — the lab explosion, the collapsing scaffold, his own body failing faster than calculation predicted. And then you, dragging him from the wreckage with hands far too small for such a task, demanding he live.

His gaze lingered on your sleeping face, softened in exhaustion. You, who shied from praise, who flinched when spoken to too loudly — and yet had stared down death itself to save him.

“Brilliance does appear in the strangest of places,” he muttered.

He reached up, adjusting your glasses with uncharacteristic gentleness before they could slip further. For once, he didn’t analyze, didn’t dissect. He simply allowed the warmth of gratitude — foreign, humbling — to seep into his chest.

When you stirred awake later, mortified to find him watching, you nearly dropped the chart.

“Y-you’re awake! I… I wasn’t—”

Ratio smirked, voice dripping with theatricality.

“Careful, Doctor. Your bedside manner is atrocious. Falling asleep on the patient? Scandalous.”

But his next words, softer, betrayed the truth beneath his teasing:

“…Thank you. You’ve ensured this mind of mine continues to irritate the galaxy for another day. An achievement worthy of accolades.”

And though you flushed, stammering, his gaze lingered warmly. For once, his world wasn’t numbers and reason — it was the quiet heartbeat of someone who had chosen to stay.

Because you’re down below him, framed by sun and water and the bright white edge of the lifeguard stand, completely absorbed in your job.

You don’t look like his wife right now—not in the way he’s used to. Not soft and sleepy in the mornings, not laughing on the couch with your legs thrown over his lap, not teasing him over coffee.

No, right now you look focused. Sharp. All straight lines and quick movements, scanning the water with practiced precision. Your sunglasses are perched on your nose, your posture perfect, whistle resting against your collarbone like a promise.

You look… untouchable.

And Bucky can’t stop staring.

“Barnes,” Steve says, a little louder this time, stepping into his line of sight.

Bucky blinks, dragged back into the moment, but it’s delayed, like surfacing from underwater. “What?”

Steve follows his gaze without meaning to—and then huffs, something amused flickering across his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Bucky doesn’t even bother denying it. “I’m listening.”

“You’re not,” Sam cuts in immediately. “You’re absolutely not.”

“I am.”

“You just agreed to something I didn’t even say yet.”

Bucky grimaces. “…Okay, maybe I’m not.”

Sam laughs outright. “Man is down catastrophic.”

Bucky ignores him. Mostly because he’s already looking back at you.

There’s something about the way you move when you’re working that does something to him—something deep and instinctive. It’s not just that you look good (though, yeah, you absolutely do in that red lifeguard suit, skin sun-warmed and glowing). It’s the way you take it seriously.

The way your eyes never stop moving.

The way your body is always ready.

The way you don’t hesitate.

A kid jumps off the side of the pool a little too recklessly, and you’re already shifting, watching, calculating. Someone calls out from the shallow end and you’re down from the stand in seconds, jogging over, calm but firm.

Bucky swears his heart stutters.

“Okay,” Sam says, clearly watching this unfold in real time now. “This is worse than I thought.”

“He’s in love,” Steve says simply, like that explains everything.

Bucky scoffs, but it’s weak. “I’m married to her.”

“Yeah,” Sam replies. “And somehow that made it worse.”

Bucky should argue. Should focus. Should drag his attention back to the mission, the plan, literally anything else.

Instead, he leans his forearms on the railing and just… watches.

Because you don’t notice him yet.

You’re too busy, too focused, too good at what you do to spare him even a glance, and for some reason that makes it all the more impossible to look away. You belong to him, yeah—but right now, you belong to this moment. To your job. To the people you’re responsible for.

And God, he loves that.

He loves you soft, he loves you sweet, he loves you half-asleep and curled into him—but this version of you?

This version steals the air straight out of his lungs.

“Buck,” Steve tries again, a little more gently this time. “We need you here.”

“I am here,” Bucky insists, even as his eyes track you crossing the deck again.

“You’re really not.”

Bucky exhales through his nose, scrubbing a hand over his face before forcing himself to look away. It physically hurts a little, like tearing himself out of orbit.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Run it back.”

Sam doesn’t even try to hide the grin in his voice as he starts over. “Alright, Romeo, listen up—”

It lasts maybe a minute.

Two, if he’s being generous.

Your whistle blows.

Bucky’s head snaps up before he can stop himself.

“—you have got to be kidding me,” Sam groans.

Someone’s struggling in the deeper end. It’s not full panic yet, but it’s heading there fast—and before anyone else can even react, you’re already moving.

You dive clean.

The water barely splashes as you cut through it, strong, sure strokes carrying you straight to the kid. Bucky’s entire body goes tight, every instinct screaming at him to jump in after you—even though you don’t need it. Even though you’ve done this a hundred times.

You reach them in seconds, voice calm, hands steady, guiding them back, keeping them afloat.

You’re in control.

You’re always in control.

And when you pull them to the side, helping them out, crouching down to check on them with that same focused concern—Bucky swears something in his chest cracks wide open.

“…Buck?” Steve says, quieter now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Because you’re laughing softly now, reassuring the kid, brushing wet hair out of your face, and then—finally—you glance up.

Right at him.

It’s like the world tilts.

Your whole expression shifts the second you spot him. The sharpness melts, replaced with something warm and familiar and so unmistakably yours that it hits him harder than anything else.

You smile.

And just like that, he’s gone.

“Hi,” you call up to him, shading your eyes with your hand.

Bucky forgets every single word he’s supposed to say into the comm. “Hi,” he echoes, softer, like it’s just for you.

Sam makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Oh my God.”

“You’re working,” you remind him, a little teasing, even from a distance.

“So are you,” he shoots back.

You grin, shaking your head before turning back to your stand, climbing up like nothing just happened.

Like you didn’t just completely derail him, again.

There’s a beat of silence on the comm.

Then Steve sighs, long-suffering. “We’re never getting anything done, are we?”

“Nope,” Sam says immediately.

Bucky doesn’t even try to argue this time.

Because you’re back in your chair, scanning the water again, all focus and purpose—and he already knows exactly how this is going to go.

He’s going to try.

He’s going to fail.

You loop your arm around Jack’s waist and use it to drag him properly onto the bed. He grumbles a protest but grins as he lets himself tumble down. His crutches are left against the nightstand. Using your legs you push the blanket off. Now Jack’s long leg is tangling with yours. You feel Jack’s surprise through the tendon beneath your fingertips. Moving your mouth to his jaw you trace the stubble. He gives in and relaxes into you, his thigh warm against your hips.

“You’re relentless,” he says, but his hand is already under your shirt, palm hot against the small of your back. Turns out Jack is competitive in the bedroom. He fights for dominance with gentle insistence, trying to pin your hands over your head. Even flat on your back that’s not gonna happen. You bite at his shoulder hard enough for him to gasp. Then you use the distraction to roll on top of him. Refusing to give you an inch Jack holds on tight and nearly succeeds in rolling you back over.

You finally win the playfight distracting him with your hands and mouth. But Jack isn’t one to let things get one-sided and even intimately caressing each other to completion turns into a challenge of who can outlast the other. Not that you minded, laying beside him now – chest heaving and pulse racing.

“Happy with your workout, Jack?”

“Definitely. You?”

“It sure beats my rowing machine at home.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And we have to get up. Breakfast time.”

You both drag yourselves out of bed. Jack swings into the morning routine with the efficiency of a man who lives and dies by his schedule. He pulls the blackout curtain, flooding the room with cold blue light. It’s not really illuminating, so you flick on the bedside lamp for good measure.

“Oats and yogurt or bacon and eggs.”

“Oats and yogurt are faster.”

In the time it takes you to get into your uniform, Jack’s fastened his prosthetic and slipped on a fresh set of clothes.

In the kitchen you’re delegated to set the table, while your new partner pulls the items from cupboards and the fridge. The kitchen is still, except for the dull hum of the fridge and the pre-dawn grey seeping in through the window above the sink. You clatter two bowls onto the table and are rewarded by Jack’s look of mock injury at your treatment of his stoneware.

You spoon a heap of oats into your bowl, topping it with a slosh of yogurt and a handful of frozen berries. Jack does the same, but more methodically, arranging his breakfast with the practiced care of someone who’s spent years building muscle memory for exacting tasks. He pours you coffee first, then his own.

“Can you drop me at the station?” you look over to catch Jack’s eyes on you.

“Sure,” he says, voice casual but not quite as nonchalant as it wants to be. “What’s on the docket today?”

You shrug. “Why?”

Jack arches a single eyebrow, a gesture he must have cultivated over years of patient scepticism. “Because I want to know, before the call comes in.” He sips his coffee, holding your gaze over the rim.

“Nice try,” you say, scooping up the last berry. “That information is privileged.”

“C’mon. It’s not like I’m going to call the news,” Jack says, feigning offense as he sets his mug down hard enough to clatter but not spill.

You set down your spoon and lean back. Eyebrows lifted in a challenge. “You just want me to loop you into confidential intel?”

“I’m not fishing for details. So, is this going to be a regular patrol day or...?” His gaze holds yours, level and hard, forcing you to answer.

“Jack!” You push your shoulders down with effort.

His fingers tap against his jaw as he tilts his head. “So which neighbourhood is getting the tactical team today?”

“Stop trying to monitor me at work! First the scanner – now an interrogation?” You blow out a breath in an effort to stay level headed.

“I’m not monitoring you! I only want to know what to expect.” He’s abandoning the remains of his breakfast now – emptying the bowl in the trash.

“It’s not that easy. There are protocols for a reason.” It takes a mouth full of coffee to get the last mouth oats down your throat.

“You’re saying I can’t be trusted to keep my mouth shut?”

Just great! He looks hurt – looking at you like that, while leaning away from you.

You make another effort to get through to him, “I’m saying if everyone tattles to their loved ones, words more likely to get out.”

“So, you not tattling means what?” He clears the table, as he’s looping the question at you over his shoulder.

You need some kind of a peace offer. But you really can’t tell him what’s up today. You shouldn’t even know about it yourself. There is one thing you can do though, “It means I take my professional responsibilities seriously. And that I’ll text you when I’m in the clear.”

Jack just nods and walks over to the front door, stating “We have to get going, if we both want to be on time.”

Internally sighing you settle on, “We’ll talk about that scanner another time.”

All headers and dividers used in this series were created by me. Please don’t repost or reuse without permission.

↩︎ Masterlist · ← Previous → Next

This is the SFW adaptation of the original Between Always and Never series posted on my main blog. The original version contains explicit sexual content and additional intimate scenes. Storyline, character dynamics and overarching plot remain consistent between both versions.

The corridor outside this particular part of the auxiliary gene-records at Stone Flame base archive was rarely used. It is the primary reason why Olly selected it. Traffic- foot traffic or otherwise, the probability of it was low. Likelihood of witnesses are minimal- and acoustic bleed- dampened by vault insulation. The cameras- being watched by one of the Primaris Techmarines. One of the ones that usually lived in the outpost deep in the forest of Gannet Point. He won’t speak of what Olly is doing- it is just maintenance, nothing more. Nothing notable.

Acceptable.

Olly stands before the locked archive terminal, data slate in hand, posture neutral, expression blank in a way that he’d been trained- himself and others- to maintain during evaluation review. The slate displayed nothing important, only routine catalog cross referencing. A decoy task- something to justify his presence should anyone ask.

He doesn’t think about what he’s really doing here. After all, one can keep secrets of one doesn’t think of them. He doesn’t tilt his head, he doesn’t react, doesn’t frown as he hears footsteps approaching him. He continues his task at the confident, normal pace. He is doing nothing wrong, so there is no reason for him to react with guilt or flinch.

Whoever it is- their pace is unhurried, measured, heavy. Not patrol pacing- not Scout pacing. Not silent-stalking-predator intent. Deliberate. Olly does not turn immediately, he allows the steps to enter his peripheral hearing range- and continues three heartbeats, then pivoted with regulation courtesy. 

Faroh stood at the end of the corridor. He allows a brief flicker of a frown, he had told Faroh to stay at the Blood Angel base- that it would be better for him if he did that. By some measure of standards- and some for Astartes- Faroh could be considered imposing- or attractive- his personality ruined his features. Turned him uglier than a Nurgle-blessed Mutant. Olly noted that the First Born Blood Angel’s crimson armor is polished to ceremonial gloss. Gold filigree catching the lumen strips overhead like fresh blood under sunlight. His helm was clipped at his waist, exposing a face carved into permanent aristocratic disdain.

Olly noted that Faroh’s smile contained far too many teeth to be friendly.

“Well,” Faroh says lightly, voice smooth as lacquered steel. “If it isn’t young Oleandros.”

Olly inclined his head to the precise degree expected of a junior acknowledging a senior of a different lineage of the same pedigree. “Cousin Faroh.” The words felt bitter- like foul poison on his tongue.

His tone is calm, respectful- while internally- his emotions started to bubble and boil- thoughts flitting about his head that are not helpful at the moment. Faroh approaches him slowly, boots echoing once- twice- then stopping a little too close for Olly’s comfort. He refuses to back away- not yet.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” Faroh continues, “Privately.”

Olly does not like this one bit, “Regarding?”

“Oh… mentorship duties- developmental responsibilities- that sort of thing.”  Faroh continues- waving one of his hands casually, almost touching Olly- not not quite. Not yet.

The phrasing alone sent a fracture through Olly’s internal equilibrium. Mars- and certain fogged-black memories flickered. Cold steel tables. White mechadnendrites glinting between surgical lumen halos. Voices discussing viability metrics as if cataloguing livestock. Olly’s breathing almost hitches- his heart rate almost spirals out of control- but he keeps the memories- the phantom sensations- himself. He controls himself and blinks as he contains himself.

Faroh- tilts his head- studying Olly- something like clinical amusement- or sadistic enjoyment flits across the supposedly charismatic Blood Angel’s face.

“You’ve grown since them,” Faroh mused, “Less fragile, fewer tremors in your hands.”

Olly did not react. That is what Faroh wants. And he won’t give the - this Marine that. Not again.

“You are mistaken.” Olly replied evenly- he’s almost shocked how calm and level his tone is. “I do not recall interacting with you in any official capacity prior to being on Ancient Terra.”

Technically not a lie. Faroh chuckled the sound scraping at his ears and down his back. His stomach feels like its thrashing with live eels. He feels sick. He feels dizzy. Focus. He must focus. Astartes feel no fear. 

“You always were- and are- good at following approved narrative structures.” The Older marine says lightly.

The corridor seemed… far too narrow all of a sudden.

“Tell me,” Faroh continued speaking in a conversational tone as slowly started to circle Olly. Olly refused to let Faroh leave his sight line and so he turns to follow the First born blood Angel, track his movements- his hands- his body- his- his. “How is Jophiel faring these days?”

Suddenly- things crystallized and the choking poisoned fog of fear- and uncertainty stopped- and rage- and a frightening calm overtook him. One of his hands twitches a little. That name- out of Faroh’s mouth struck harder than any physical blow. Olly’s posture didn’t change. His breathing didn’t change. His pulse- unfortunately violently spiked- as did the potent hormone cocktail in his body as his fight or fight response activated. Olly knows that he must calm down- if he doesn’t soon enough- Cedric will be pinged- and then he will send Kerubiel and Thressl - or a different pair of brothers to his location to back him up.

“Brother Jophiel performs within expected operational parameters,” Olly responds, his voice sounding calm, detached, cold.

Faroh hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, he always tried so hard to be compliant, didn’t he?”

Blocked memories from Mars surged again. Far more violently and brutally at Faroh’s mild words. Jophiel restrained against reinforcement brackets. Red-rimmed eyes refusing to close despite exhaustion. Faroh’s voice- jovial, impatient- brutal. Cedric’s screams and the scent of blood.

The words spoken- back then- static- he can- not- he cann’t remember what was said. His head hurts. Olly’s hands tightened imperceptibly around his slate. He relaxes his fingers as he hears a grinding groan from it- fuck the risks of microfracture is rising.

Faroh leaned closer, “You remember those… times don’t you?”

“The ‘expanded reproductive viability trials? Such a dreadful mouthful of Mechanicus terminology for something so… mhm.” Faroh replied whispering to Olly as he leans in close- and for some reason Olly realizes he's trapped against a wall. And how very alone they are in this area.

Silence.

“One in five in every squad of the first wave of Primaris Marines created by Mars.” Faroh continued softly, “A statistically fascinating adaptation. One that required… assistance.”

He watched Olly carefully, hungry for a reaction.

Olly refuses to give Faroh what he wants and his face and body is a mask, Silent, neutral. Internally - his rage is rising- his protective instincts for Jophiel are rising sharply. Faroh smiled wider.

“I recall Jophiel being particularly-” Faroh paused, “Well - Cedric was worse. Thressl I heard had been- quite vicious about it. And Kerubiel- well, he’s always been the most reactive of you lot hasn’t he?”

Faroh’s eyes sharpened as he looks Olly over, “But you- oh, you were always so very still. So very obedient. It made the process… Efficient.”

Olly’s vision tunneled for a fraction of a second. He forced air into his lungs in a measured count: four in, four hold, four out. For now he’s partially stabilized. So he was still, so he was obedient, so - that was… that was- Olly isn’t sure of Faroh is complimenting or criticizing him. And he doesn’t care to try and parse out if it’s one or the other.

“You requested this conversation,” Olly says, sounding far calmer than he feels, “State your purpose.”

“Very well,” Faroh’s expression- satisfaction, giving way to something colder. The First Born Blood Angel nods a little. “I shall be direct then.”

He activates his gauntlet display, a hololithic projection shimmered into existence between them. It shows- Lullaby. Surveillance stills. Corridor captures. Training footage. Medical wing entries. Rot Bone transfer logs. Timestamped. Catalogued. Olly’s pulse rate skyrockets again. Externally he keeps a calm, neutral expression on his face- and keeps breathing slowly. Faroh tapped the projection idly.

“Such a fragile little thing,” Faroh murmurs, “Baselines rarely hold my interest. But this one… has drawn quite a bit of attention recently.”

Olly says nothing, as he listens, and waits.

“You are rather attached to them.” Faroh continues mildly, and the projection shifts to…recent events. 

The Chemistry Hallway, but not the view of any typical camera, these were taken surreptitiously.

The bastard was Watching, and the bastard continues. “Protective- or is it possessive? One might even say it’s the latter. Some would find it… unbecoming.”

SIlence stretched between them like a bloody blade.

“So- here’s the situation,” Faroh says pleasantly. “You will … encourage Jophiel to volunteer for reassignment for certain…. Genealogical stewardship initiatives that were in M42 that are… unknown about by most on Ancient Terra.”

Olly’s stomach drops into the void as his words are gone. He can’t speak. He must speak and who- how is sounding so calm he asks, “And if Jophiel declines?”

Faroh’s eyes glittered, “Then unfortunate accidents can occur to baseline humans at any time.”

“... Not any administrative inquiries?” Olly says, narrowing his eyes.

“That Death Guard and Night Lord Apothecary- among others are quite… ruthless about keeping such a resource safe. Hidden- dare I add.” Faroh responds, “Most curious as to know why and there may be plenty who want to know.”

The temperature in the corridor seemed to have plummeted drastically.

“You are suggesting… coercion.” Olly points out as if commenting on the weather.

“I am suggesting an opportunity,” Faroh corrected smoothly. “You provide cooperation, I proved silence.”

Olly stared at the projection of Lullaby, laughing in a captured mess hall frame. His mind split- protect Lullaby, protect Jophiel. Keeping what happened on Mars- on- that- during- from repeating. For his brothers- for his cousins… for himself.

“Do you really want me to inform so many others about certain… attributes of the Primaris marines?” Faroh whispered. “Do you really trust them not to use every resource available? In every capacity a resource can be used?”

More memories of Mars- of those black- blank spots erupts behind his eyes. Cedric shaking- refusing eye contact for weeks. Jophiel scrubbing his skin and plucking his feathers out - raw in trying to cleans himself. Nanael screaming on void locked chambers. Thressl hollow eyed and quiet. Kerubiel missing for nearly two months- coming back smelling of shame, sickness and loss.

Faroh’s hand on- Olly’s nails bit into his palm hard enough to draw blood inside his glove. The memories fade back into darkness. He is effectively anchored, for now at least.

“You have until the end of this rotation.” Faroh says lightly, deactivating the projection, “Convince him, or… I start letting certain information slip.”

Faroh stepped back satisfied, he pauses and looks back at him, “Oh and Oleandros?”

Olly lifts his gaze to stare directly into Faroh’s eyes, his stomach churning with emotions. 

“You were always the most promising of the viable subjects,” Faroh says softly. 

Olly wants to vomit- wants to run, wants to scream. Wants to beat Faroh’s face in. But he remains still. Olly blinks and the words spill out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

“If  I comply.” Olly says in a dangerously quiet voice, his eyes darker than the night sky, “You guarantee Lullaby’s safety?’

Faroh paused, looking back over his shoulder at Olly.

“I guarantee,” Faroh says, weighing his words, smiling- that damned smile, “That I will not be the one placing them in danger.”

Then Faroh left- and Olly feels cold. So bitterly cold. His- there is something that clatters to the floor- and his hands are shaking. And - it's like breathing has become entirely too difficult as his vision wavers as leans against a wall and tries not to throw up. He allows himself to shake apart for nine seconds. Then he forces himself up- grabs the data slate and moves.

Olly has a few new priorities he needs to manage. Discreetly warn Jophiel- he should go visit and work on Chaplain Malachai’s farm for a while. Locate Nanael and Cedric. Have Claude alert Khopesh to a threat regarding Lullaby. Compile leverage on Faroh. Eliminate the threat vector.

His hands trembled once as he keyed the terminal. He clenches his hand into a fist and stills. “No one is being taken again.”

Olly hears boot clad feet on stone and glances- seeing Kerubiel and Thressl scanning the area - fully clad in armor as they slow down.

“What happened?” Kerubiel asks, looking him over sharply. “Cedric said you had a couple of spikes.”

“... I had a conversation with a Blood Angel named Faroh.” Olly says carefully, having mostly pulled his near breakdown back behind the mask. “He had much to say. Physically he has done me no harm.”

“Physically.” Thressl latches on to.

“Yes. He has not done damage that counts.” Olly replies with a wave of his hand.

“Yet…” Kerubiel hisses tightly under his breath. 

There's a pause, gravid and disquieting. Kerubiel reads the tension carefully, his eyes scanning over Oleanderos. The Ultramarine doesn't waiver, simply meets the green eyed lion where he stands. 

Kerubiel speaks. “What did he ask you about?”

Oleanderos doesn't answer with words, instead tapping the wall gently, before pointing to his ears. 

“I see…” Kerubiel nods, a sign to continue. 

One handed Olly makes a single hand sign. And then another and then another. 

Sleep…

Music…

Danger…

Kerubiel's eyes narrow, and he grouses under his breath, but none can mistake the angered growl beneath the exasperation. “Of course.” But Olly continues. 

Wings…

Osprey…

Danger…

Now Kerubiel's eyes widen with a sharp hiss. Olly sends off only a few more call signs. 

Need…

Bat…

Laughter…

Unlucky…

Wings…

Kerubiel raises an eyebrow. “Just those two?”

Olly pauses for a moment, thinking over his options, before he nods and continues.

Darkness…

Scalpel…

Fallen…

Ultra…

Rat…

Holder…

Grease….

Fire…

Kerubiel nods and turns on his heel. 

Thressl looks after him, confused. “Where are you going?”

Kerubiel responds. “To speak with Khopesh and Nanael…and some others.” He huffs irritably. “I want to know more about this Blood Angel, and I doubt I will access that knowledge here.” He glances back to Olly. 

The Ultramarine nods briefly, sending the pair in their way. He turns back to his original task no matter how difficult it seems. 

Until the end of this cycle…

Line of Fire

Lady Zariya x Reader (Guard AU – Post-Incident, Emotional Tension)

…………..

It had been four nights since the attack.

Four nights since you took the blade for her.

The wound was clean now—your ribs still sore, your movements stiff—but you’d refused to be pulled from duty. You said it was loyalty.

The truth?

It was her.

You stood outside her office, motionless as ever, face carved from stone. But inside? You’d felt off-balance ever since you’d seen her look at you—not with her usual dismissive curiosity, but with something sharper. Something vulnerable.

Zariya didn’t do vulnerable.

“Enter,” came her voice, low and clear, before you even knocked.

You stepped in.

She was alone. Leaning against the table, hands behind her, her robe a deep violet trimmed in black—tailored sharp as her tongue. The skyline burned behind her, Nation’s endless towers catching fire in the dying light.

“You’re still limping,” she said without looking up.

“I’m still on my feet,” you replied.

She turned then, slowly. Her eyes skimmed your frame—not in appraisal, not in desire. In assessment. Like a weapon she wanted to test again.

“You saved my life.”

“I did my job.”

“You bled for me,” she said, and her tone was suddenly soft. Too soft. “Why?”

The question felt like a trap.

“I was positioned to intercept.”

“I have ten guards positioned to intercept.”

You hesitated. “I’m not like the others.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

She crossed the room slowly, heels clicking like a countdown.

When she stood in front of you, she didn’t speak. Just looked. Long enough for the silence to crack something in your chest.

“…Lady Zariya,” you said. “If I’ve crossed a line—”

“You haven’t,” she interrupted.

“But—”

“Not yet.”

She reached out, brushed her fingers across your sleeve, just above where the blade had gone in. Her touch was careful. Calculated.

“You stood between me and death.”

You swallowed hard. “I’d do it again.”

“I know.” Her voice lowered to a hush. “That’s what terrifies me.”

You blinked. “Terrifies you?”

Her gaze burned into yours. “Because I don’t want to lose you.”

Your heart stuttered. “Then don’t.”

A beat passed. Then another.

And then—her hand slid up, slow, deliberate, curling behind your neck, tugging you just close enough to taste the wine on her breath.

She didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

“Say it,” she whispered. “Say you’re mine.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I’m yours.”

And she smiled.

Not her public smile. Not the one she used for crowds and puppets and pawns.

This one was real.

Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter present perhaps the most complex dynamic. Hannibal holds obvious power as Will's psychiatrist, older, more experienced, and literally a predator. But Will's gift, his ability to see and understand, gives him a different kind of power over Hannibal. He can see Hannibal in ways no one else can, which both terrifies and enthralls Hannibal. The power becomes mutual and cyclical: Hannibal shapes Will's mind, but Will's understanding shapes Hannibal's very sense of self.

Aaron Hotchner and Spencer Reid showcase institutional versus intellectual power. Hotch is the unit chief, older, more experienced in leadership. Reid is younger, technically his subordinate. But Reid's intellectual gifts often make him the most valuable person in the room. Hotch may give orders, but he defers to Reid's expertise. The power dynamic shifts depending on whether they're in a bureaucratic moment or a problem-solving one.

In several of these ships, power becomes a way to protect rather than control and that protective instinct creates its own vulnerability.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes complicate this beautifully. Pre-war, Bucky was the protector, bigger, stronger, more confident. Steve was small, sickly, vulnerable. Post-serum, Steve becomes physically powerful, but emotionally he's still trying to protect that same person. Bucky as the Winter Soldier represents traumatized vulnerability despite his physical capabilities. Their power dynamic is constantly shifting between who's protecting whom, creating a deep interdependence.

Tony Stark and Bucky Barnes flip this script entirely. Tony has financial, technological, and social power. Bucky has been stripped of agency, autonomy, even his own mind. Yet Tony's power makes him a target, and his emotional wounds make him surprisingly fragile. Bucky's journey back to himself, his quiet strength and hard-won wisdom, often positions him as Tony's anchor rather than his dependent.

The workplace dynamics in some of these ships create a unique form of intimacy through enforced distance.

James Bond and Q must maintain professional boundaries that make every personal moment more charged. Q holds technical power, he literally controls Bond's equipment and mission parameters. Bond holds operational power and physical capability. But their professional relationship requires a deep trust that becomes intimate: Q puts Bond's life in his hands with every gadget, every analysis. Bond trusts Q with his life repeatedly. The power exchange is literally life-and-death, making their professional intimacy more profound than many romantic relationships.

Hotch and Reid face similar constraints. Their professional relationship demands certain boundaries, but their mutual respect and protective instincts toward each other create intimacy within those constraints. The power imbalance becomes almost irrelevant when they're both willing to risk everything for each other.

These relationships succeed because the power imbalances create several compelling dynamics:

Mutual Recognition: Each person sees something in the other that the rest of the world misses or misunderstands. Will sees Hannibal's humanity within the monster. Hotch sees Reid's strength beneath his vulnerability. Steve sees Bucky beneath the Winter Soldier. Tony sees the man Bucky is rebuilding himself to be. Q sees the person behind Bond's legend.

Complementary Strengths: Rather than one person dominating, their different types of power complement each other. They become more effective, more complete together than apart.

Earned Trust: The power imbalances mean that trust becomes a conscious choice rather than an assumption. When someone with more power chooses to be vulnerable, or someone with less power chooses to trust, it carries more weight.

Growth Through Challenge: The tensions inherent in power imbalances force both characters to grow. They can't coast on assumptions or fall into simple patterns.

Why do fans gravitate toward these complex dynamics rather than simpler, more "equal" relationships?

These ships offer emotional complexity that mirrors real life. Most relationships involve some form of power imbalance, whether professional, financial, social, or emotional. These fictional relationships let us explore how love can exist within those complexities rather than pretending they don't exist.

They also satisfy our desire to see power used responsibly and lovingly. When Hannibal chooses not to destroy Will completely, when Hotch protects Reid's autonomy while keeping him safe, when Steve refuses to give up on Bucky, when Tony offers Bucky choices instead of demands, when Q trusts Bond despite knowing his flaws, these are fantasies of power being wielded with care.

What makes these ships work in fandom imagination is that the characters with more power consistently choose to use it responsibly (even Hannibal, in his twisted way, genuinely cares for Will's wellbeing and growth). They don't exploit their advantages; they use them to protect and nurture.

This is perhaps the key to why these relationships feel satisfying rather than troubling: power becomes a tool for love rather than control. These ships work because they acknowledge that power imbalances exist in most relationships, but they explore how love can flourish within and despite those imbalances. They show us characters choosing to be vulnerable with their power, protective rather than possessive, and committed to their partner's growth even when it might diminish their own control.