what the hey, dude?

You had no power. No signal.

The comm clipped to your vest was cracked, its red light long dead. You’d lost contact twelve hours ago with no evac route and not much to salvage—except, maybe, whatever the bastards had holed up in this ruin for.

The mission had started out clean: trail a set of stolen drives to a black market depot south of the border, confirm cargo, intercept transport. Simple enough. But nothing ever stayed clean anymore. The drop had gone sideways, the contact was a no-show, and the convoy you were shadowing got hit by someone with too much ammo and not enough patience. 

You didn’t know who was pulling the strings anymore. Everyone with a title was gone or dirty. You were running ghost missions on secondhand intel, answering to a handler who stopped using names.

Back when you wore an actual badge—back when SHIELD was still pretending its spine wasn’t made of snakes—your missions came with dossiers, backup, and coffee that didn’t taste like ash. You used to get full schematics, satellite overlays, extraction windows timed to the minute. Hell, sometimes you even knew why you were doing the thing you were doing.

After the fall, Sharon had tried to keep you on her side of the line—intel work for the CIA, favors for favors. And for a while, it worked. Langley gave you new paper, new credentials, new orders wrapped in red tape and plausible deniability. 

But even that version of the game burned out, same as everything else. Somewhere along the way—after the Accords, after headlines turned the word Avenger into a curse, after fractures became permanent—Tony had made you an offer. 

Said you didn’t have to keep running ops in the dark. That you could have a real role with Stark resources. He was still building, still believing. Still trying to hold together whatever was left after the team...

You had turned it down.

You told yourself it was pride.

Maybe it was fear.

You never did get to ask what made him offer that. Not after everything. Not after you and Steve—

You shut that door before it could finish swinging open.

Now you were here. Five years after the Avengers disbanded, three years into a ghost war, standing in a tomb full of water and rot, chasing intel you weren’t even sure was real. Every place you touched felt emptier than the last.

But even ghosts left footprints.

Your steps echoed as you crossed the slick floor, eyes sweeping every corner. You paused beside a cracked support beam, hand brushing over a bullet-pocked wall. Someone had been here recently. Old ash. A half-burnt ration pack. Mud still wet in the shape of a boot print too big to be yours.

That was when the hairs rose on your neck.

Not from the cold.

From instinct.

A sound to your left. Soft, precise. Not the clatter of a rat or the lazy roll of debris. Intentional. Measured.

Someone else was here.

You went still.

Back pressed to the pillar. Rifle lifted. Breath held. The rain covered the approach, but not well enough. You knew the cadence of trained feet, of how they moved. How they waited until they were just close enough.

You shifted a half-inch, just enough to catch movement in your peripheral. 

A blur of motion—too fast to be clumsy, too direct to be aimless— and from the right this time.

You pivoted, aimed.

CLANG.

Something metal hit the wall behind you with a bone-shaking crack, ricocheted off the concrete, and came back through the air in a perfect, practiced arc. You ducked, barely—

whrrp-whump

—and tightened your grip, finger on the trigger. The figure that stepped from the shadows was soaked through, shoulders broad and unarmored, clothes dark and simple—civilian, maybe, but nothing about his posture said untrained. 

His hands lifted. Slowly. No sudden movements.

“Y/N?”

It hit different hearing your name in his voice again, like it had no business in his mouth anymore. Not after everything. Not after all that silence.

You didn’t lower the rifle.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just kept the barrel locked center-mass while your mind tried to reconcile what your eyes were seeing. The figure in front of you wasn’t in uniform—no star, no stripes, no shield on his back. Just a soaked thermal padded shirt clinging to broad shoulders, dark cargo pants, a battered utility belt that looked like it had been patched by hand. Hair longer than you remembered. Beard, thicker. His face was older. Not by years—by weight.

The man who stepped out of the shadows didn’t look like Captain America. Didn’t look like the Steve Rogers you used to know.

"You're not going to shoot me," he said, quiet. Certain.

"That so?" you refused to lower the rifle.

Your voice came out flat. Measured. You didn’t let it shake.

"You threw the goddamn shield at my head."

"It wasn’t at your head," he said, softly, like you were a cornered animal. "If I wanted to hit you—"

"I know," you cut in.

The silence that followed dragged like a blade. Rain pattered against the broken steel above you. Somewhere, deep in the wreckage, water dripped into a shallow pool, slow and steady like a metronome.

Steve still hadn’t moved. Hands half-raised, eyes locked on yours.

They were the same. That part hurt the worst. Still that too-honest blue. Still looking at you like you weren’t a stranger. Like he hadn’t disappeared from your life the moment you stopped agreeing with him.

You swallowed hard.

"What the hell are you doing here, Rogers?"

He didn’t answer right away.

You saw it then—that flicker of tension behind his eyes. The same kind that used to come right before he told you something he didn’t want to say. Like the truth still cost him something.

“Looking for someone,” he said.

Your grip tightened on the rifle.

“And what? You thought that was me?”

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you the way he always had, like you were still the same person. Like time and war and silence hadn’t carved a canyon between the two of you.

“No,” he said, then huffed, quieter. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

You almost laughed. But it stuck somewhere in your throat, curdled and dry.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He lowered his hands, slow and deliberate, watching you for any sign you’d twitch. But you didn’t. You wouldn’t.

"Long time," were the only words you could force out. "Not even a text."

"Did you want one?"

The question landed between you like a live wire.

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then took a slow, careful step forward, gun still trained, your voice cutting quieter now, crueler by necessity.

"You think you get to ask me that?"

His jaw worked, but he didn’t speak. Didn't argue.

Of course he didn’t.

Because you had chosen Tony.

Not because you believed in politics or paperwork. Not because you thought the Accords were just. You didn’t. You’d read them twice, marked every loophole and lie in red ink. But when it came down to it, Stark offered accountability. Control. A way to stay in the fight without burning every bridge on the way out.

Steve had only offered faith.

Faith in a man who remembered you, but didn’t choose you.

You remembered the moment the rift cracked wide. Remembered the air going thin as Steve’s gaze slid right past you—past everything you’d built together—and landed on Bucky Barnes like no time had passed at all. Like the world could still be rewound, just for them.

And maybe it could.

Just not for you.

So you agreed with Tony. Watched Steve walk away. And told yourself it didn’t gut you.

Still. You’d expected something. A sign. A message. Even a goddamn name on a list.

But he hadn’t reached out. Not once.

You exhaled through your nose.

“If you’re here for the drives, I don’t have them. They’re gone. Burned with the convoy. Nothing left to chase.”

“I’m not here for that,” he said. “Didn’t even know you were on this op.”

“No one does.”

Your finger hovered over the trigger. Not ready. Not willing. Just there. Just in case.

He took a cautious step forward, just enough to put the shield between you.

“You working freelance now?” he asked, like small talk was the safest ground left.

“I’m not working with you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Didn’t ask.”

You finally lowered the barrel. Just an inch.

Your arms were tired. Your chest was worse.

“Then what, Steve? Why are you here?”

His eyes darkened. Just enough to make you regret saying it with that venom in your voice.

“I’m here because people are disappearing,” he said. “Off-grid. Off-record. Half the world’s asleep and someone’s still running black sites like the Cold War never ended. Someone who’s using old SHIELD routes.”

You blinked. The shape of something sharper forming behind his words.

“And you thought I was working with them?”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t think that. Not for a second.”

“Then what did you think?” you snapped, posture sharpening. “That I’d just be here? Wandering around some dead zone in the middle of a ghost town, waiting for you to come waltzing out of the fog like some bad fucking memory?”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t respond. The words flooded out before you could stop them.

“Say something, Steve. Say anything. Because the last time I saw you, you were walking away like I hadn’t meant a goddamn thing.”

“I didn’t walk away from you,” he said finally, voice fraying. “I walked away from a system that—”

“Bullshit.” The word cracked from your throat. “You walked away from all of us. From me. From everything we were trying to hold together.”

His silence roared louder than the rain.

You stepped closer. Closer than you should have. The rifle dropped further—still in hand, but forgotten in the heat of your own pulse pounding in your skull.

“I chose a side, Steve. You didn’t like the side I chose, so you erased me—like it made you noble, like it made you right. Like saving Bucky meant losing everyone else didn’t matter.”

“You chose Stark,” he bit out. Finally. Like the truth had been rotting in his mouth for years. “You chose the man who handed our freedom over in exchange for a clean conscience. You chose the accords. You chose a leash.”

You laughed, a sound that barely passed for human. “So what? You thought I’d come chasing after you? Beg for forgiveness? You never reached out. Not after Germany. Not after the Raft. Not even after Thanos ripped half the universe out of our lungs.”

He flinched.

And that made it worse. That made it real.

“You had to know I survived the Snap,” you said. Quieter now, colder. “I checked on you. You were breathing. You were still breathing, and I didn’t even get a fucking email. And if you didn’t know I made it out, then that means you never bothered to check. Never cared enough to find out if I was even still alive.”

His expression cracked—just barely, but enough. Like a fault line splitting beneath the surface of stone. The rain caught in his beard, dripping from his jaw as his eyes dropped, jaw tightening like he was chewing glass. 

He didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Not when you knew your words hit their mark. That flicker behind his eyes—recognition, regret, confirmation—was all the answer you needed. He had known. And still, had said nothing.

His voice came low, frayed at the edges, like it hurt to pull the words out.

“I didn’t know what to say.”

“Try starting with I’m sorry,” you hissed. “Or how about, I’m glad you’re alive, or I missed you, or literally anything besides radio silence for five goddamn years.”

“You think I didn’t want to?” His voice broke. Just barely. “You think I didn’t—don’t—wake up every day wondering how it would’ve been if you’d stood next to me? If I hadn’t lost you before the war even started? If we’d made it out of D.C., out of Vienna—hell, even just one more morning in bed before it all went to shit—”

“You didn’t lose me. You left.”

“I had to.”

“No, Steve,” you growled. “You chose to. You chose what mattered to you. And it wasn’t me. Not the life we built. Not the future we almost had. You let all of it burn.”

That landed.

Hard.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just rain. Just breath. Just a long, shaking silence.

“I needed you,” you said, and your voice cracked wide open around it. “After it all went to hell. After the team shattered. After Tony—I needed someone to remember who I was, and instead I got nothing.”

He opened his mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to apologize. You never found out.

Because the floor exploded.

A split-second sound—shattering pressure, a boom low and wrong, and suddenly the world dropped out beneath you. Concrete groaned. A rusted support beam twisted above like a snapping tree limb. Something hit your shoulder—something heavy, splintering—and you went down hard, lungs crushed against the flood-slick ground.

Your ears rang. Rain screamed louder than it had before. Somewhere in the debris haze, you heard groaning metal and fractured stone.

You coughed once, wet and raw, and then the ceiling collapsed.

You didn’t have time to think. Just enough to roll. Just enough to see Steve tackle you back, the shield coming up over both of you as the upper level gave out and came down hard.

The world blinked white—

—then nothing but darkness and dust.

────────────────────────

The first thing you registered was the dull pounding behind your eyes.

The second was the hum of an old generator, weak and sputtering.

You blinked. Slowly. The world swam, grey at the edges, ceiling panels dancing overhead. The air was warmer than it had been in the refinery. Dry. Thick with dust and antiseptic. A flickering halogen bulb buzzed in the corner of your vision. The sharp tang of blood still clung to the back of your tongue.

You shifted. Or tried to. Your shoulder screamed.

Pain flared bright and sudden, blooming up your arm like fire up a fuse. You hissed through your teeth and reached instinctively for your weapon—except your gear was gone. Jacket. Boots. Holster. Everything stripped down to a thermal undershirt and pants.

For a moment, you thought it had been a dream. The refinery. The collapse. Steve. Your brain was still half-buried under rubble, after all.

But then a shadow moved in the corner of the room. Broad shoulders. Familiar gait. Hands moving in deliberate rhythm as he packed up what looked like a med kit in the far corner, back half-turned like he was pretending not to keep checking on you.

Not a dream.

You exhaled, shaky, uneven, and braced a hand against the cot to push yourself up.

Steve’s voice cut across the room before you even got halfway.

“Don’t,” he said, without looking.

His voice was calm. Low. It scraped the air like it belonged here, like the silence was just waiting for it. He picked something up from the table—gauze, maybe. A bottle of antiseptic. Didn’t even turn his head.

“You’re gonna tear the sutures.”

Your eyes drifted down.

The fabric of your shirt had been cut open, peeled away, and loosely tucked back across your chest. Your shoulder was wrapped in gauze, layered tight and low, stained dark at the edges with a bloom of maroon and yellow where the bleeding had stopped but the bruising had set in. 

“You stitched me?” you rasped, voice like gravel.

He turned. Just a little. Just enough that you saw the flicker of emotion pass across his face—relief, maybe. Guilt. Something heavier than both.

“No one else was gonna do it.”

You swallowed back the ache in your throat. 

“You’re lucky it didn’t go through. Beam clipped you on the way down.”

You shifted again, slower this time. Tried to sit.

Steve’s boots scraped across the floor as he crossed to your side in three slow steps, hand raised—not to stop you, but to steady the edge of the cot as if he knew you’d fight him on principle.

“I said no.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice came out hoarse. 

“You’re not.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to ignore it.”

You sat up anyway. Teeth gritted. Muscles trembling. The motion tore fire through your shoulder and you hissed, just barely, biting down on the sound like it could make you stronger.

Steve didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.

You hated that look. Quiet concern. Controlled tension. That soldier’s calm like he was holding the whole damn world together with his bare hands.

“Where’s my gear?”

“Drying.”

“And my weapon?”

He hesitated. “Unloaded. In the bag, across the room.”

You turned your head, just enough to confirm it. The duffel sat by the door, damp canvas darkened by the rain. 

“Figured I’d get shot less if you woke up slow,” he added. Dry. Almost wry.

You didn’t laugh. He didn’t expect you to.

Your gaze shifted to the window. Cracked glass, warped frame. No sounds outside but wind. No movement. No footsteps.

You cleared your throat. Winced at the way it scraped raw.

“Where are we?”

“Off-grid SHIELD safehouse,” he said. “One of the old ones. No power except what I could coax from the generator. Roof’s half gone, comms are fried. But it’s dry. And it was close.”

“How close?”

He paused, just for a breath. “I carried you for a mile before I found the bike.”

You blinked. Slowly.

“You had a bike?”

“I had your blood all over me. Priorities shifted.”

You hated the way that landed. The way something twisted in your ribs like regret wearing someone else’s face.

He finally looked up, eyes finding yours across the small distance like it wasn’t the first time he’d done it while you were unconscious.

“I don’t know what brought the place down,” he said. “I checked the feeds—nothing. No sat activity. No signal bursts. No seismic spikes. Just... nothing. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. Clean sweep. Quick exit.”

Your jaw tensed.

“And you’re sure it wasn’t me?”

His expression didn’t even twitch. “If it had been, I’d be dead. Or you would.”

You flexed your fingers. The pain in your shoulder pulsed in time with your heartbeat.

The silence between you was thicker now. Heavier.

“It happened fast,” you muttered. “One second we were—” 

You stopped yourself. Words scraped up short. Fighting. Screaming. Bleeding into each other without ever touching.

“—Talking,” you finished.

His jaw clenched. Barely.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he said, quiet. “I should’ve been watching your six. Not running my mouth.”

You frowned instinctively. “Steve—”

“I hesitated.”

He didn’t say it like a confession. He said it like it was a wound scarred over too many times.

“You were right there,” he said, voice dropping a register. “Ten feet. Maybe less. I heard the first groan in the beams, I felt the pressure change, and I still froze. I was too busy standing in the middle of a fight we’ve been having for five goddamn years.”

You stared at him. Something cold cracked open behind your ribs.

“I don’t blame you.”

“I do.”

The words landed too fast. Too hard. Like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud. 

“I do,” he repeated, quieter. “I saw the weight coming down. I didn’t react fast enough. I didn’t get to you before you hit the ground. You were trying to get to cover and I was still looking at your face.”

His knuckles were white around the edges of the cot.

“I couldn’t get to you in time because I was still trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t make it worse.”

You turned your face away. Not because it hurt. But because you remembered it. That split second of impact. Of knowing it was too late.

And still looking for him.

“Feels like a pattern,” you muttered.

He didn’t argue.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” he said. “Back there. I didn’t show up looking for a fight.”

“You didn’t have to.” You met his eyes again. “It’s just what we do now.”

He looked away first.

You didn’t feel good about it.

There was a long beat of quiet. The kind that pressed at your skin like it wanted to get in.

Steve rubbed a hand over his jaw, rough and slow. “I kept thinking I’d run into you somewhere. Out in the field. At some ops drop. Even just on a list. I thought maybe if I did, I’d know what to say.”

“And?” you asked.

“And I didn’t,” he said. “I still don’t.”

You nodded slowly, shoulder aching like the truth had barbs.

“I figured you were dead,” you said. “Honestly, I hoped you were.”

He didn’t answer.

“Not from the snap. After. In the fallout. When the world went quiet and the people who used to matter just… stopped showing up. I thought maybe you’d finally gotten tired of surviving something you couldn’t fix.”

Steve’s jaw twitched. But still, nothing.

“You vanished. You, Nat, even Rhodey. No broadcasts. No missions. No presence. Just dust and rumors. I started thinking maybe that was the plan. Maybe you were done trying to save anyone.”

“I wasn’t done,” he said.

“You sure?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

“I was tired.”

That landed harder than anything else so far. 

You blinked. “Aren’t we all.”

He shifted, sat on the edge of the nearby table like standing was suddenly too much. The air between you tightened. Not heavy with anger anymore, but everything else you hadn’t been able to say the past five years.

“When it first happened,” he said, “I went north. Couple months. Off-grid. Thought maybe if I got far enough away from everything, it’d stop feeling like I failed.”

“You did,” you said, voice flat.

He nodded. No argument. That part surprised you. 

He rubbed at the base of his neck. That old familiar tic, like he was trying to knead guilt out of muscle.

“I kept thinking if I could fix one thing—just one—it’d start making sense again. That maybe the universe would stop punishing people for being the ones who stayed behind.”

You didn’t interrupt. Let him talk. Let him try.

“I joined a support group in New York,” he said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “Group therapy, Rogers? Bold.”

“Wasn’t therapy,” he muttered. “Not really. Just people talking to each other so they didn’t break apart.”

“And you?”

He hesitated. “I kept my mouth shut most days. Let other people grieve. Made it feel like I was helping.”

You tilted your head. “You really think you can out-punish yourself by proxy?”

Steve gave a bitter huff of breath. “You sound like Sam.”

It hit harder than he meant it to. Maybe harder than he realized.

You did sound like Sam. Maybe that’s why it hit wrong—because you hadn’t let yourself think about him in months, not since the dust cleared and his name stayed off every list that mattered.

You huffed past the stinging behind your eyes. “I sound like someone who remembers how you tear things down in the name of what’s right—then walk away and leave the rest of us to sweep up the wreckage.”

He didn’t deny it.

“You still running ops for Nat?” you asked.

“Not for,” he corrected. “With. When she lets me.”

You let out a low, humorless laugh. “So she’s the one actually keeping the world stitched together? Guess some of us never learned how to sit still.”

“You say that like you’re not doing the same damn thing.”

That caught you sideways. You opened your mouth, but he cut in before the words came.

“You’re out here alone. Ghost missions. No insignia. No team. Just one name off a list at a time.” He leaned forward slightly. “That’s not justice, Y/N. That’s attrition.”

You stared at him. Your pulse pounded behind your ribs.

“That’s rich,” you chuckled, strained. “Coming from the man who tore the Avengers apart and then decided the world could save itself.”

“I didn’t decide anything. I lost everything.” His voice cracked—not loud, but deep enough to shake something loose in the air between you.

“So did we all.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I know. But I didn’t know how to come back from it. I didn’t…I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Your jaw twitched. “You do not get to use me as your reason to stay gone.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were.”

You forced yourself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through clenched teeth.

“I buried enough people,” you said. “I wasn’t gonna dig a grave for you too. But if you’d been dead, at least it would’ve made sense. At least I wouldn’t have had to live with the fact that you were alive somewhere and still didn’t give a damn if I was breathing.”

Steve stood.

Just like that. Like the words hit deeper than he was willing to show while seated.

“I did give a damn.”

“Then prove it.”

That stopped him.

He stared at you, rain-wet still clinging to the hem of his sleeves, dust in his hair. A little more human than you remembered. A lot more worn.

“How?” he asked.

Not defensive. Not angry. Just broken.

“How the hell do I prove something that should’ve been obvious five years ago?”

You didn’t have an answer. Not one you were ready to say aloud.

He took a breath. Shaky. Quiet.

“I left you the key.”

The words were soft. Almost inaudible. But they landed like a thunderclap.

You blinked. Thought you must’ve misheard him.

“What?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t look away.

“The apartment in D.C.,” he said. “I changed the lock after Germany. Everyone told me to. Said I had to cut ties, play ghost, clean slate.” His voice stayed low, even. But you could see the tension working through his jaw. “But I taped the old key under the planter. Same spot as before. In case you ever came back.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You think a key fixes five years of silence?”

“No,” he said, and there was that flicker of frustration—tired, raw, not defensive but wrecked. “I think I didn’t know what else to do that wouldn’t look like I was trying to pull you back in. You made your choice. I didn’t want to make it harder.”

“So you left a key instead of a call.” You laughed under your breath, sharp and bitter. “Jesus, Steve. That's not romantic. That’s cowardice dressed up as sentiment.”

“I knew you wouldn’t want words,” he said. “Not from me. Not after I put you on the other side of a war you never asked to fight.”

You swallowed. Hard. “You still should’ve tried.”

“I did.” His voice cracked again, too fast, too loud, and then pulled right back under control. “I watched the safehouse drop feeds for your name. I checked post-mission logs. I went through the Redacted Clearance reports and saw your initials buried under three layers of burn notices. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to drag you back into something you were bleeding to get away from.”

You stared at him. Something between disbelief and recognition clawing its way up your throat.

“I didn’t want to be another reason you broke,” he finished, quieter now. “I thought I already was.”

You didn’t mean to move.

You didn’t mean to explode.

But something inside you snapped like a tripwire. The ache behind your ribs ignited—old rage, old grief, everything you’d shoved down for the sake of mission after mission. All of it detonated the second his voice dropped soft, like he still thought this was about regret and not the gaping hole he left behind.

You shoved yourself off the cot. Fast. Too fast.

“You don’t get to say that,” you snarled, jabbing a finger toward him, arm trembling under its own weight. “You don’t get to stand there and pretend you cared so much you stayed away.”

He froze. Eyes wide—hands instinctively twitching like he wanted to reach for you but knew better.

“You left me!” you shouted, your voice breaking on the edge of it. “Don’t you dare stand there and romanticize your silence like it was mercy. You ran. You let me rot on the other side of a war you started, and then you buried me under good intentions and a goddamn potted plant that I never went back to.”

Your vision blurred. The room tilted.

You stumbled.

Your shoulder tore, white-hot pain lancing up your arm as the bandage slipped, the gauze suddenly warm and wet and wrong. Your knees buckled.

But you didn’t hit the floor.

Arms caught around your waist, firm and too steady, grounding you in ways that made your stomach twist. Steve’s hands were calloused and warm and familiar, and it made your throat seize.

“Shit—hey, hey,” he said, voice dropping into that too-gentle register, like he didn’t trust himself to speak louder. 

You tried to shove him off. Weakly. Your hand found the front of his shirt and curled there instead, trembling with effort.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. “You popped the stitches.”

“No shit,” you gasped. “Was trying to make a point.”

“Yeah? Next time try yelling from the bed. Less blood that way.”

You let out a shaky exhale, somewhere between a laugh and a grimace.

“I’m serious,” he said, guiding you back onto the cot with that same maddening mix of patience and control. “You’re running hot. You’ve got adrenaline flooding your system, and you’re down a pint at least. Sit down or I swear I’ll tie you to the damn mattress.”

You slumped back with a hiss as the cot creaked beneath you. “Still bossy.”

“You’re still reckless.”

He crouched in front of you, already reaching for the med kit again. You watched the way his fingers moved—faster now, more precise. You could see it in his face: the guilt still sitting under his skin like shrapnel he never got around to digging out.

You breathed through your teeth.

“I don’t want you to act like you care now.”

“I never stopped caring.”

He looked at you, eyes dark with something deeper than just guilt.

“Even when I hated you,” he said, voice low, rough. “Even when I thought you’d picked Stark over everything we had—I still looked. Every op I ran, every leak that hit the darknet, I scanned for your name. I followed rumors that didn’t go anywhere, chased shadows that might’ve been you just to make sure they weren’t a body in a ditch. I watched the world fall apart and kept wondering if you were somewhere trying to hold it together without backup. Without me.”

He hesitated, just long enough for it to ache.

“I left the key, yeah. But that wasn’t the only thing I left behind.” He sighed, heavy. “I left every damn thing I didn’t know how to carry.”

You closed your eyes.

He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth coming off him. Could smell blood and iodine and rain in his clothes.

“You broke my heart, Steve.”

He froze.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. Not with that much space between your ribs, cracked wide open for him to crawl into and never leave again.

“I know,” he said. Quiet. “I think I let it break mine, too.”

You opened your eyes.

He was kneeling now, one hand still pressed near the bandage on your shoulder, the other braced against the edge of the cot. There was nothing noble in the way he looked at you—just tired hope and fractured guilt and a quiet kind of gravity you didn’t know how to fight anymore.

“I should’ve called,” he said. “I should’ve said something. Anything. Even if it was just ‘I’m sorry.’ But I thought—” He stopped, jaw tight. “I thought maybe I’d already burned the last bridge I had with you.”

Steve exhaled slowly, like the breath had been caged in his chest for years.

“I have no right to ask you this,” he said. His voice was even, but the tension beneath it buzzed like a tripwire. “Not after everything. Not after what I did. What I didn’t do.”

You didn’t speak. Just let him feel the silence settle around you.

“But…” he hesitated, eyes dropping for just a second before finding yours again, steady and unflinching. “If you ever thought about it—if you ever wanted to—there’s still space for you at the compound.”

You stared at him.

Not because you hadn’t expected it. But because it still managed to feel like an ambush.

“It’s mostly empty these days,” he said. “We lost more than we could count, and the rest of us… we’re just trying to make sense of what’s left. Nat keeps a list of names on the fridge. People we lost. People we’re still hoping might come back.”

You felt the heat rising in your throat again. Fought it down.

“She hasn’t taken yours off.”

He gave you a small, tired smile. One side only. “Says it’s bad luck.”

“She misses you,” he added. “She’s never said it out loud. But I know she does.”

You swallowed, slow and quiet.

“And you?” you asked.

He didn’t flinch.

“I’ve missed you since Germany,” he said. “I missed you when the world ended. I missed you every time I thought I was about to die and you weren’t there to say something sharp and awful. I miss you like I miss the rest of myself.”

The room went still. No more generator hum. No buzz from the light overhead. Just the echo of five years and every inch of ground you’d both lost in between.

You looked away. Stared at the cracked cement wall like it could offer you something steadier to hold onto than the space between you.

“I’m not the person I was five years ago,” you said.

“I know,” he said. No hesitation. “Neither am I.”

That made something twist in your chest. You hated how easy it would be to say yes. How much you wanted to believe you could step back into something familiar without shattering it in your hands.

You looked at him again.

Steve, kneeling beside you. Bleeding at the seams in ways he didn’t know how to hide. Offering nothing but a fractured truth and the kind of silence that never demanded an answer.

You hated that he didn’t push. Hated that he still knew how to make space for your anger without shrinking under it.

Your voice was quieter now, but no softer.

“I don’t know who I’d be if I went back. And I’m not going to tear myself into pieces just to fit a shape that used to make sense.”

Another long silence.

“I’m not asking you to,” he said finally. “I’m not asking you to come back and be the same person again. I wouldn’t dare.”

You stared at him. Tired. Angry. Still bleeding.

“I’m still angry,” you said.

“I’d worry if you weren’t.”

“And I don’t forgive you.”

He nodded. “I’m not asking for that, either.”

You leaned your head back against the cot. Let your eyes close for a beat too long.

You flexed your fingers once in your lap. Winced.

Then muttered, almost too low for the room to catch it:

“…You’ll owe me a new vest. And a real bed. Maybe something that doesn’t smell like mold and paranoia.”

Steve blinked. A pause. The smallest tilt of his head.

You still didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

“And if anyone makes a welcome-back banner,” you added, sharper now, “I’m walking.”

He huffed a breath. Almost a laugh. Not quite.

“I’ll tell Nat,” he said. “No glitter. No balloons.”

────────────────────────

The sky was overcast when you reached the compound.

Not stormy. Just gray—thin clouds stretched across the horizon like gauze over a wound too old to stitch shut. The breeze kicked up dust along the road, grit catching in the seams of your jacket, the creases of your hands.

You stood there, just outside the security perimeter, backpack strapped across your shoulders and two duffels at your feet. Everything you owned. Everything that had survived the last five years.

The compound looked… smaller.

That surprised you.

The walls were the same steel and glass, the same minimalist brutality softened by age and too many failed repairs. A few windows cracked. Solar panels weathered. A corner of the roof patched with something temporary that had become permanent.

But still—intact.

You weren’t sure what you expected. Ruins, maybe. Proof that it had fallen apart. Something dramatic to match the ache in your chest.

Instead, it just looked tired.

Like everything and everyone else.

It had taken you months to get here.

Not just the logistics—the clean exits, the quiet disavowals. It was everything else. The way you’d hesitated at the last city, pacing the train station. The way your hand hovered over the burner phone every time you thought about calling first.

But mostly?

It was because you’d finally realized you weren’t just afraid of seeing them again. You were afraid of what they might still see in you.

The gate, a slab of reinforced metal that once made you feel invincible, clicked.

You flinched, instinct sharpening for just a second—useless habit. It wasn’t a threat. Just the sensor. It triggered a low, mechanical hum as the fencing began to move. Steel slats groaned, grinding against their own weight, and suddenly the world was in motion again.

The sound snapped your focus back to the present—back to the reality that you’d made it here, that your boots were on this soil again, and that it was too late to turn around.

As the gap widened, so did the hollow place in your chest.

You weren’t ready.

Footsteps echoed against the stone a second later. Measured. Familiar. Sharp, but not rushed.

“Y/N?”

You turned your head just slightly.

Natasha stood just inside the threshold, hair longer now, half red half blonde, tied back in a low knot. Her posture was the same—alert, self-contained—but there was something heavier about her presence. Not weaker. Just worn thinner. Like too many years had passed without enough space to grieve them.

Her voice had cracked on your name. Just barely.

You gave her a soft smile. Couldn’t quite manage anything else.

“Hey.”

She was already moving before the second syllable left your mouth.

Her arms came around you hard, tight enough to knock the wind out of you. You stood there, frozen in the middle of it, your arms hovering awkwardly until instinct took over and you returned the embrace, slower, unsure.

Nat wasn’t one for physical affection. Not even at the best of times.

But five years was a long time.

And somehow, she still smelled like gunmetal and old soap and the damn cherry scented shampoo you’d made fun of her for keeping in her locker.

“I didn’t expect—” you started, but she pulled back before you could finish.

“You’re late,” her hands held you still on the sides of your arms.

The words were dry. Familiar. 

“I thought you were dead,” she continued. No drama. Just fact. Her voice had always been like that—flat where other people would’ve cracked.

“I wasn’t,” you said.

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, and looked away, “doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like it.”

That hit harder than it should’ve. Because it was true. Because you hadn’t accounted for what your absence had cost anyone but yourself.

You’d mourned Steve. Hated him. Raged at his silence.

But you had been silent too. Not just to Steve.

You hadn’t spared a second thought for Nat. Hadn’t considered what it had done to her—losing half the world, half the team, you.

Nat’s fingers squeezed once at your arms before they dropped. She stepped back, just far enough to study your face again, her brow furrowing like she hadn’t decided if she wanted to hit you or hug you again.

There was a slight crunch in the gravel. Her eyes flicked over her shoulder—sharpened slightly, lips pressing into a thin line.

You followed the shift in her gaze, the heaviness of it drawing your attention like gravity.

Steve stood a few paces off, just past the edge of the walk where gravel turned to concrete. Hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, hood half-up, boots scuffed. He looked like he wasn’t sure whether to keep walking or turn around and pretend this hadn’t been the moment he’d been waiting for since the day you left that refinery, that safehouse.

His posture was loose, unguarded. But his eyes were already on you.

His hair was shorter than it was at the last time you saw him, trimmed at the sides, still messy up top like he hadn’t bothered to do more than rake his fingers through it. His beard was gone now—just a ghost of stubble left in its place.

You hated the way your chest reacted. Like memory lived deeper than muscle. Like grief didn’t care that time had passed.

It was startling, how fast you remembered.

Not everything. Not clearly. Not the break, or the fighting, or the arguments, or the last bitter words before you split down the middle.

Just the mornings.

Quiet ones. His shoulder against yours. The sound of coffee brewing. That stupid look he’d give you right before saying something so soft it didn’t make sense. You remembered what it felt like to be seen and not touched. Like you were something sacred and volatile at once.

You turned your face back to Nat, trying to buy yourself a breath of steadier ground. She was watching you with something complicated in her expression—something warm and weighty, but edged with a knowing you hadn’t earned yet.

Her eyes flicked toward Steve one last time. Then back to you.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” she said.

Your mouth parted, instinct tugging you into motion, like maybe if you said something fast enough, she’d stay. Give you one more second to breathe before the ground shifted again.

But she was already turning.

“Nat—”

“Don’t take too long,” she said over her shoulder, halfway to the compound doors. “I’ve got something to show you.”

You frowned.

“What is it?”

She didn’t stop walking. Just raised a hand and called back:

“It’s yours.”

And then she was gone—inside the glass entry, vanishing into the corridors beyond. Like she knew exactly when to let go and how much space to leave.

The silence filled in fast. Not loud. Just close.

Steve took a step toward you. Then another. Measured. Hesitant, but not unsure.

You didn’t move.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” he said.

You shrugged, shouldering the weight of your backpack like it might keep your spine from curling.

“Well,” you said, dry, “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

The corner of his mouth pulled. Barely.

“You always did hate proving me right.”

You gave a noncommittal grunt, eyes scanning the edges of the compound like you were cataloguing damage that didn’t show.

Steve shifted, not quite meeting your gaze now. There was a tension in him you recognized immediately, something coiled and uncertain. Not fear. Just the kind of quiet he wore when he knew the next words mattered more than most.

“You look…” he started, then stopped. Shook his head like the word didn’t work anymore. “You made it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bit early for congratulations, don’t you think?”

“I’m not congratulating you,” he said. “I’m… I don’t know. Glad. That you’re here.”

You looked down. At your boots. At the dirt scuffed by tires and footsteps that didn’t belong to you yet.

“Glad, huh,” you said. The word tasted strange in your mouth. “That’s a safe one.”

Steve didn’t answer right away.

Somewhere above, the clouds thinned. Not all at once—just a slow parting, like the sky couldn’t quite decide if it wanted to let go. But the sun slipped through anyway, carving a thin blade of gold across the compound pavement, warming the back of your neck. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just watched as the light stretched across the ground, inching forward until it touched the toes of your boots.

Steve’s shadow reached yours a second later, long and familiar, stretching beside your own, close enough to touch and still not close enough.

You didn’t look up.

Couldn’t.

Not with the way he was standing. Not with the way your pulse betrayed you every time you remembered the shape of his shadow next to yours.

Steve shifted. Just slightly. You felt it before you saw it. The warmth of him, the weight of him in your peripheral.

“You cut your hair,” he said, quiet.

You huffed through your nose. “You shaved. I guess we’re both full of surprises.”

His mouth quirked again, but it didn’t last.

Silence settled in again—thicker this time, not uncomfortable, just there.

“I thought about this,” he said eventually. “This exact moment.”

You finally glanced over, just once.

His eyes were on the ground, like he was watching ghosts walk between his boots.

“Didn’t think it would be here,” he continued, looking up towards the sky. “Didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to get daylight and your voice in the same breath again.”

You felt that. Low in your throat. In the back of your ribs.

You crossed your arms—not cold, not defensive. Just trying to hold yourself still.

“You still talk like that,” you murmured. “Like your heart’s got a filter for poetry.”

He looked up then. Met your eyes, really met them. And there it was again—that gravity. That pull.

Only now, it wasn’t clean or soft. It was worn. Weathered. Carved out of ash and grit and all the shit you both had to crawl through just to get back to standing distance.

“I don’t know how else to talk to you,” he said. “Never did.”

You held his gaze longer than you meant to.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t smile.

You just let it hit you—how tired he looked. Not defeated. Not broken. But changed. Like every part of him had been sanded down to the essential. The man left standing wasn’t the one who’d walked away.

And he wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t asking for anything at all.

Which somehow made it worse.

And somehow made it real.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you said finally, voice soft but not uncertain.

“I don’t want anything,” he said. “Not unless you want to give it.”

You looked away. Just for a second. The wind caught the edge of your coat. The sky was pale now, lit gold at the edges, like even the sun had decided to stay a while longer.

“But if you’re here…” he added. “If you’re staying…”

You waited.

“…Then I’d like to know what it feels like to walk beside you again.”

Your stomach turned over once. Hard.

You swallowed. Fought the crack in your voice before it could form.

“I’m not the same.”

“I know.”

“You can’t have what we had before.”

“I’m not asking for before,” he said. “I’m asking for… after. For now.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t back down. Didn’t press forward either. He just let it sit there between you—quiet, whole.

Something flickered in your chest then. Not surrender. Not trust.

Just a small, sharp willingness to stop running.

And maybe, just maybe, start walking.

With him. With Nat. With the rest of the team that was still here.

“You always were shit at timing,” you said, finally.

His mouth curved. This time, it held.

“And you always were hell to follow.”

☆  Clark Kent finds himself gravitating towards you.

He couldn’t help himself. He tried. God, he really tried.

You arrived from Central City after Perry singled out one of your columns in the Central City Citizen on the reach and power Luthor held within the government. 

Clark had read the article after Perry raved on about it, of course. He saw how you singled out Luthor and his known associates, and uncovered his hidden ones as well. 

Ever since you arrived from Central City, Clark—both as a citizen of Metropolis and its protector, Superman—has seen a subtle increase in the security of major businesses that had known shady dealings, and a decrease in interviews and tours by said companies, LexCorp being just one of many.

So he found himself drawn to you. Call it a journalist's instinct or a superhero's one, but Clark really couldn’t help but think that you were hiding something. 

He wanted to get close to you, but every time he found himself in your presence, he got loose-lipped, unable to lie or even give you a half-truth. He would answer each of your questions with unwavering truth. 

Maybe that was why he tried and failed to keep his distance. He couldn’t control what he was saying around you. He knew you had powers; no, he didn't; he just couldn't prove it.  

But seriously, how else would you be able to do what you do? 

To get that type of information, you had to have something working on your side, and Clark was determined to figure out what it was. Despite his ongoing dilemma about you and your powers (you totally had them), he found himself genuinely admiring both you and your work.

Clark wasn't blind; heck, he didn't even need to wear glasses, and he wasn't ignorant. You were beautiful. From your smile to the way you carried yourself, you not only drew attention, you commanded it.

Maybe that's why he was staring at you again, as you sat working at your desk, which was conveniently placed directly in his line of sight from his desk.

"Hey man," Jimmy said, breaking him out of his thoughts. "You look like you are about to shoot lasers out of your eyes. I think she's going to notice you staring right at her."

"I'm not staring at her," Clark huffs, forcing himself to look away from you. "I was staring at the... sunset."

"The sunset?" Jimmy repeats as he looks in the same direction as Clark. "You mean the same sunset that building is blocking? You sure you weren't staring at the desk directly in our line of sight?"

"Yep. Sunsets look so pretty this time of day." 

"Okayyy," Jimmy said, squinting at him. "I'm gonna go enjoy the sunset on my drive home. Where I can actually see the sunset and not a building and not be a creep and stare at my crush." 

"I'm not a creep," Clark defends himself. "And I wasn't staring. And she's not my crush!"

"Uh-huh, whatever you say. Watch out, Loverboy, here she comes."

"What?"

“Hi, Clark! Hey Jimmy!”

Clark blinks, tearing his eyes away from Jimmy to find you standing in front of him. 

"Hi," Jimmy greets. "Bye."

"Going home already?" You question. "You had the biggest stack of work on your desk this morning."

"What can I say? I'm as fast as the Flash."

You laugh, and the air around you seems to shift, and an aura of gold shines around you, but Clark knew it was just the last rays of the setting sun streaming through the windows.

You and Clark wave goodbye as Jimmy leaves.

"So," you said. "Whatcha 'doing, Clark?"

“Thinking about you,” Clark answers before he can stop himself. Gosh darn it. He had to get a filter for his darn mouth. 

"Really?" you smile. “What about me?”

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“How does everyone you ask tell you exactly what you want to know? How do you find your sources? How do you know what you know?”

"It's my superpower," you answer, eyes glinting mischievously. "I'm kidding. I smile, ask nicely, and say please. Sometimes I add a cherry on top, you know, for extra pzazz."  

Clark feels the corner of his lip quirk up. "Pzazz?" 

"Pzazz," you nod seriously. “Anyways, I saw your article about Superman.” 

“You like it?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think about it. “I suppose it met my standards. Although I might be biased since I'm a fan of our resident Kryptonian.”

Clark blushes, the tips of his ears going red. “Well, that’s a relief. That you liked my article and Superman.”

“How could I not like the guy?” you said. "Anyways, you have been sitting at your desk since before lunch. Want to grab a bite?”

“Food? With you? Like now?”

“No, on August 29th,” you deadpan. “Yes, Clark. Food with me, now. I swear we go through different variations of this conversation every time I ask you.”

Clark pushes his glasses up his face. "Do we? Sure, we can go eat."

"Yes, and you don't sound sure," you frown. "You don't have to say yes just because I asked. If you're busy, then—"

"No! I mean, yes, I'm busy, but it's nothing I can't do at home. I would love to grab a bite with you now."

You grin, aura sparking gold again. 

"Yay! Let's go, slowpoke. I found this place not too far from here. The food is so good, it should be a crime."

"You have yet to give a bad recommendation," Clark grins, offering you his elbow. "So I place my faith in you once again, master."

"I shall ensure your faith is not misplaced, young padawan."

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Jimmy, Lois, and Cat stare at the duo across the office.

"They had a date last night," Lois comments.

"It was a date?" Jimmy asks. "Clark said she wanted to grab something to eat together like they always do."

"Two people eating together at a restaurant and arguing over who gets to pay the bill is a date, Jimmy."

"Oh," Jimmy winces. "Remind me to make a call later." 

Lois rolls her eyes, already used to his antics. "Ten bucks says they start going out by the end of the year."

"Twenty says by the end of the month," Jimmy bets.

Cat raises her brow. "Amateurs."

"Oh, and what does the fabulous Ms. Grant think?" Lois questions.

"Fifty," Cat smirks. "That they get together by the end of the week. He's going to be the one to ask her out."

"No way," Jimmy scoffs. "She will make the first move, guaranteed."

"I'm with Jimmy," Lois agrees. "I don't think Clark has it in him, especially by the end of the week."

The trio stare as Clark trips over thin air and drops some files to help you fix the printer. 

"Actually," Lois hums in thought. "Cat might be right."

"Of course I am," Cat said smugly. "Like I said, amateurs."

"Nah, I still think the end of the week is too soon," Jimmy argues.

Lois nods.

"You two better get your wallets ready," Cat smirks as she walks away. "I'm never wrong about things like this!"

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

You usually don't end up in situations like this.

You were careful, borderline paranoid, about your safety. Always making sure to ask your questions, but not too many of them.

But alas, here you are, in a room, tied to a chair, hands tied to the back, ropes digging into your wrist after you asked the one question Luthor supposedly drew the line at. 

Ask him about his company? Go ahead.

Ask about his shady business ventures? Tricky territory, but you always navigate it with finesse.

Ask about his latest spat with Superman? Nope, get knocked out by security. Although, in all fairness, you knew Superman was a touchy subject for the billionaire. 

You grumbled under your breath, "Stupid males and their stupid pride."

You turn your head, watching him as the door closes behind him with a soft click. 

"Your questions," Luthor continues. "Are always oddly specific. Always direct, with little wiggle room." 

You smile. "I do my research before my interview, Mr. Luthor. It's my job."

"I admit some of them... I don't wish to answer, at least not truthfully, and yet, yet, I always answer them with nothing but the truth. I can't even get by with a half-lie. You want to know what I think?" 

"I'm always thankful, and I do love hearing you talk, Mr. Luthor."

"There is more to you than what meets the eye. Bring him in."

You flinch as the door bangs open and a guard hauls someone into the room, dropping him at your feet. Even through his busted lip and swollen eye, through all the bruises marring his skin, you recognise him. You know him and you know him well.

In front of you was your source inside Lexcorp.  

You must do a good job at hiding all signs of dread, worry, guilt and recognition from your face because Luthor doesn't comment.

"This is David," Luthor introduces. "I want you to ask him a couple of questions for me." 

"Me?" you said. "I've never met this man before in my life, Mr. Luthor. So, with all due respect, I think you should be the one asking the questions."

Luthor glares, eyes locked on yours. "Ask him his name."

"I already know his name. David."

"Ask him for his full name."

"His full name," Luthor grits out.

"What's your full name?" you ask again, correcting yourself.

The man at your feet glares at Luthor and stays silent. Luthor's glare turns lethal. 

"Why isn't he answering?"

"He doesn't seem to want to tell me," you shrug. "Shame."

"I'm in no mood for games." Luthor grips your hair, yanking your head back. "Question him properly!"

"I asked him exactly how you instructed." You wince as his grip tightens in your hair. "He doesn't want to tell me."

"No!" Luthor yells. "I know you can make him tell you!"

"I can't make anyone do anything!" you shout. 

"You have magic," Luthor hissed in your ear, "or you're an alien. That is a fact. You can ask someone a question, any question, and they will answer it with nothing but the truth." 

"Then why didn't he answer?" you argue. "Why didn't our friend David answer me?"

Luthor lets go of your hair, shoving your head away, and pulls out a gun. Your breath quickens. Shit.   

"What are you doing?"

"Make him answer your question," Luthor said, aiming the gun at David's head. "Or I kill him."

"What?"

"Ask him the question again."

"You are going to kill him over a name? Are you insane?"

"Ask him." 

Shit, shit, shit. 

You feel the now familiar sensation work its way through you. You feel sparks ignite at your fingertips, see colours swirl around David and Luthor's heads, and the world slows down a fraction of a second. 

You weren't going to be the reason David dies today. He has a family, three kids, two boys and a baby girl. You aren't going to be the reason they grow up without their father. 

You lick your lips and open your mouth. "What is your—"

You don't get to finish your question. 

One second, you are about to give yourself away, and the next, the wall behind Luthor explodes. You duck your head, close your eyes, and turn yourself away from the explosion as much as you physically can. 

You look up as the dust begins to settle, only to be met with red and blue.

You haven't been living in Metropolis long, but you knew your way around heroes. Central City had The Flash, and Metropolis had him. 

Superman. 

You don't know what happened to Luthor, only that there was no longer a gun aimed at David's head. Superman walks around your chair and undoes the rope tying you to the chair.

You fall to your knees beside David.

"Oh my god," you said. "I'm sorry. This is all my fault."

"Don't start," David groans. "I knew what I was getting into. And hey, I'm not dead, you aren't dead. It all worked out in the end."

"I wasn't going to let him shoot you," you mutter.

"I know," David smiles at you before grimacing. "Ow, smiling hurts."

"I would assume so, your lip is busted."

"That would explain it."

You move to help him stand, but are stopped when a gentle hand settles on your shoulder.

"It's alright," Superman assures you. "I've got him. I'll be right back."

Before you can get out a word, Superman hoists David up and flies out of the room. You look around the room and see Luthor and his guard slumped against a wall.

You walk over to the door and stick your head out, checking the hallways.

A small grin works its way onto your face. 

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

Clark returns to the room he had left you in, only to find you missing. 

His eyebrows furrow as he concentrates on you, more specifically, your heartbeat. No, he hasn't memorised it. He definitely has.

You are still in the building; in fact, you're not very far away at all. He walks to the end of the hallway and stares as you scroll through the computer in Lex Luthor's office while muttering to yourself. 

He sighs. He really should have known you wouldn't stay put. 

"You are aware that what you are doing is illegal, ma'am?" he questioned.

Your hands pause, and you look over the screen to see him standing there.

"Mr Luthor gave me permission," you said, giving him one of your false smiles. "It came with the interview."

He raised his brow. "Are you sure?"

"Quite," you answer. Clark keeps staring until you start pouting. "Fine. I'll stop. I can't help it,  journalist's curiosity."

"I understand." He walks forward and holds out his hand. “Shall we leave?”

“Are you offering to walk me home?”

“Yes,” Superman said, words flowing out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Your lips quirk up. “Thanks, but I think I’m going to call my friend, Clark. Wait, you know Clark, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Superman nods. “He’s my go-to interview guy. Well, I should go. Since you are calling him. Bye.”

He doesn’t stay a moment longer, flying away. You blink at his abrupt exit, then shrug. Men. 

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────────

You stand in front of LexCorp, waiting for Clark to show up.

You had called him the moment you were out of the building, and he had said he would be there in about five minutes.

Clark, true to his word, appears exactly five minutes after you call him. You stop him before he spots you, although it was hard not to find him since he towered over almost everyone. You smile, waving at him.

"Hey," Clark greets, offering you his elbow. "You okay? I heard about what happened. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine." You loop your arms together. "Nothing to worry about."

Clark frowns, spotting the bruises on your wrists.

"Clark," you said. "Really, I'm fine, I promise. Although..."

"What? You are hurt, aren't you? I knew it."

You roll your eyes. "I was going to say I am hungry, Clark."

"Oh," Clark places his free hand over his heart and sighs in relief. "You scared me. What you wanna eat?"

"I don't know," you frown. "But I've got a craving for something homemade."

"You could come over to my place," he suggests. "I could cook something. I live close by."

"You would cook for me?" you ask, eyes sparking. "Do you season your food?"

"Don't be silly. Of course I season my food!"

Arms looped, Clark guides you on your way to his apartment, listening as you talk about the dishes your father taught you to make, and how he drilled the names of hundreds of seasonings into your head by the time you graduated high school.

Every time you laugh, Clark spots the familiar golden glow around you. The two of you stop in front of his apartment, and you laugh at one of his comments, and the aura around you burned so brightly it made him pause. You come to a stop beside him as you begin to rant about a new bakery you want to visit with him soon.

"You're glowing," Clark mutters.

"Hm?" You blink up at him, not having heard what he said. "What did you say?"

Clark shakes his head, moving you, so he opens the door for you. "Nothing, what were you saying about the new bakery? It's this elevator."

You backtrack to the elevator you walked past.

"Oh, they have these superhero-themed doughnuts we need to try," you said as you entered the elevator that Clark held open for you. "Personally, the Batman one looks like everything I have ever wanted in a doughnut. I bet you would like the Superman one."

"Uh, huh," Clark said, pressing his floor number. "And why is that?"

"The blue icing reminds me of your eyes," you said offhandedly as the two of you walked out of the elevator, and you waited for Clark to open the door. "You live on the top floors?"

"Yeah, and my eyes remind you of doughnuts?"

"Mhm, the Superman one."

Clark chuckles, unlocking the door. "Should I be flattered?"

"Of course, you should! It's a great honour being compared to a doughnut."

"I'll take it," Clark grins. "Make yourself at home. I'll cook something quick. How do you feel about pasta?"

"I could have it every day for a month-no, a year, and still I wouldn’t be sick of it,” you answer. “Can I sit on the counter?"

“I didn’t realise you were such a big pasta fan,” Clark said. “I did say make yourself at home.”

You jump up onto his counter and swing your legs, watching him weave through his kitchen, “It’s my favourite thing ever. I love it more than life.” 

Clark laughs, and you both fall into a calm silence. 

“Hey?” Clark said. “What were you doing at Lexcorp anyway?”

“An interview,” you sigh. “Although it seemed I was the interviewee, not the interviewer.”

Clark frowns. “What did he want?”

“He wanted me to ask David some questions,” you shrug. “I said no, he got iffy, Superman saved us, I snooped, I left, and now here we are.”

“David?”

“Luthor introduced us; he seemed like a poor guy.”

“You don’t know him then?”

You look at Clark and raise your eyebrow. “An answer for an answer.”

Clark weighs his options. “Okay. Did you know him?”

“He’s my source,” you answer. “Why do you wear glasses? You don’t need them. 

“It helps the strain after staring at a screen all day. What did you find out when you snooped?”

“Nothing I didn’t already know,” you pout. “I was interrupted. Who taught you to cook?”

“My Ma. Why did Luthor want you to ask the questions?”

“Because I have powers,” you answer like it's nothing. “When were you-”

“I knew it!” Clark said, whirling around, holding his wooden spoon in the air. You blink as a dollop of the pasta sauce lands on your cheek. “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

You lift a finger, cleaning your cheek and bringing it to your mouth to taste. Your eyebrows raise in surprise.

“This is really good!”

“Thanks,” Clark said, grabbing a tissue and handing it to you so you could clean your cheek properly. “Wait, you just told me you have powers. Why tell- ”

“Let me stop you there,” you cut him off. “It’s my turn for an answer.”

Clark opens then closes his mouth and nods. 

“So,” you muse. “When were you going to tell me you were Superman?”

Clark chokes on air. “What?”

“You are Superman,” you said. “An alien. And I’m a meta. Go figure.”

“You- how? Why? When did you- What is going on?” Clark stumbles over his words, mind working overtime, trying to figure out what was happening. 

You watch as he mutters to himself, trying to make sense of your sudden drop in information.

“Clark?”

He lets out a distracted hum. 

“You better not burn that pasta sauce. I will riot.”

You grin as Clark whirls back around to the bubbling pot of sauce, turns off the fire and sets it aside. 

“How do you like it?” Clark asks. “The pasta sauce. Mixed or on top?”

“You can mix it up,” you said, jumping off the counter. “Where are your plates?”

“I’ll do it. Go sit at the table.”

“But-”

“Go.”

“I was going to say I wanted to sit on the couch.”

“Oh, we can sit there if you like.”

“I’ll get the plates-”

“Go.”

“Fine.” You pout, but make your way over to the couch and sit down.

“So, Superman,” You look him up and down. "I heard you have a place in Antarctica. Is that true?"

“The fortress? Yeah. How do your powers work?”

“I ask a question and get an answer. More specific questions mean fewer chances of half-truths. I can turn it off and on. You have a dog?”

“Krypto,” Clark answers. “Technically, my cousin’s dog. So not every question you ask is powered?”

“Yep. You have a cousin?”

Clark nods. “Kara.”

“Oh, I love that name,” you said. “You know, I had a dog named Kara.”

Clark places a plate of pasta in front of you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, she's dead now, but like I thought, it was funny.”

“You thought your dog dying was funny?” Clark said, confused.

“No! I meant you have a cousin named Kara who has a dog, and I had a dog named Kara…” you trail off, wincing. “You know, now that I'm saying this out loud, it doesn’t sound that funny.”

Clark chuckles. “It’s one of those only funny inside your head things. How did you- You seem to be enjoying the food.”

Your cheek is puffed from the amount of pasta, and you quickly chew and swallow. “I love pasta.”

“If I doubted you before, I don’t now.”

The two of you finish eating in silence, Clark looking up from his food occasionally to see you wiggling your shoulders every time you take a bite. His mind flashes back to the first time the two of you had gone out for lunch and how you told him that you tend to do a little shimmy every time you enjoy eating your food. It had been one of the habits your mother tried and failed to stop, but your father loved. 

“So,” you said, as you both finished eating. “When are you planning on asking me out?”

Clark splutters. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Saying stuff like that out of the blue. Give a guy some warning.”

“Okay,” you nod. “This is your warning. When are you going to ask me out?”

Clark gives you a look.

“What? I gave you a warning! Answer the question, Superman. When are you going to ask me out?”

“How did you get your powers?

“It’s a recessive gene passed through my father’s line. My grandma had it, it skipped my dad and his siblings, and I got it. It tends to skip a few generations, so grandma found it weird that I got it. My mum doesn't know about it. The powers.”

“How?” Clark questions. “Wouldn’t she realise?”

You shrug. “My mum’s a boy mum. She always preferred my brother to me. She never paid attention, so my grandma and dad never told her.”

“Why-”

You reach and put your hand over his mouth. “Nuh-uh. The deal was an answer for an answer. I’ve given you two answers; you owe me two.”

Clark sighs, moving your hand from his mouth but keeping it in his. 

“I was going to ask you out…eventually.”

“And when exactly would eventually be?”

“When I worked up some courage to ask.”

“You needed to work up courage?”

Clark nods, gaze holding yours. “When it comes to you, yes.”

You feel your face flush as you tease him. “You like me that much?”

“I like you as much as you like pasta.”

“Impossible,” you snort. “Pasta is the epitome of all things, and if I could, I would have married it.”

Clark laughs at that. “Well, then almost as much. Although I think you bruised my ego a little by choosing pasta over me.”

“Men are temporary, pasta is forever.”

“Can I quote that?”

“Stop it.” You slap his arm as you laugh. 

“My newest article,” Clark grins as you continue to hit his arm. “Superman: Rejected for Pasta.”

Between all the teasing and laughter, Clark had refused to let go of your hand, and the two of you hands drifted together, thighs touching, face a breath away from each other. 

As your laughter dies down, you realise just how close you are to him, and your breath hitches as you look at him. 

“How much do you want to kiss me right now?” you ask.

“More than life,” Clark whispers. His eyes flicker above your head, and his lip quirks up. 

“What are you looking at?”

“You,” Clark answers, hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb ghosting over your lower lip before he leans in.

The moment his lips touch yours, your heart skips a couple of beats, explosions erupt, and your eyes flutter close, hand coming up to fist his shirt. The kiss was soft, warm, and gentle in a way you had never experienced. He kissed you like you were a dream, and he didn’t believe this was happening. 

Your nose bumps his when you tilt your head to go deeper, but Clark pulls back. Foreheads touching, you open your eyes, taking him in. His eyes have darkened, pupils over taking the blue in his eyes like storm clouds. 

He leans in to kiss you again, and again, and again. Short and sweet in a way that makes you smile against his lips before finally, he kisses you like a drowning man needs air. You don’t know how much time passes, you two wrapped up in each other, the world fading into the background, but when you finally break apart and you know it’s over. You know you are never going to be able to live without this-without him- ever again.

“You know,” you said, attempting to catch your breath. “This means you are stuck with me now. Maybe forever.”

Clark smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 

“Forever sounds nice.”

Clark knows he’s made a huge mistake. He doesn’t actually think your work is cash-grabby, he just wished you could see him- well, his alter identity in a more positive light. He loves your work, even if it makes him cringe when you point out his flaws with your cutting tongue, getting under his skin better than anyone else could.

You’re brilliant, and he’s just.. him. As Clark Kent, he doesn’t hold a candle to you. You’re fierce, bold and you leave a mark with your words and your presence. He can’t even begin to describe how much he admires you, but you barely even glance his way.

Maybe that’s why he’s in the office, eight on the dot every morning with a coffee in hand for you, asking you about your articles, your thought process, anything to get a few minutes with you.

Now, he’s officially screwed it up. Whatever tolerance you held for him previously, it’s all gone now thanks to his stupidity.

He sighs, shutting down his computer. He can’t even focus, and his eyes were starting to strain over staring at the blank document. Glancing over at you, you’re still typing away, with that same furrow in your brow that he’s memorised in his mind. How could he make it up to you? How could he change your mind?

Shifting his weight, his chair squeaks as he ponders.

“What are you looking at?” Clark jumps, suddenly registering Jimmy’s voice. Its rare for him to not hear footsteps nearing him, and it's only more proof of how much of a distraction you were. “Oh, her. Your office crush.”

“I do not have a crush.” Clark interjects, feeling oddly defensive. Having a crush on you, it makes his neck hot from the mere thought of it. “I just made her angry, and I’m thinking of how to make amends.”

Jimmy laughs. “Unless you somehow snag an interview with Superman for her, I think you’re going to have to wait awhile for her to cool down.”

“What did you just say?”

“That you’ll have to wait awhile?”

“No, the other thing.”

“Oh, an interview?” Jimmy scratches at his head. “I overheard her talking to Lois about how she’s stuck on her most recent article, and that she wished she could have a one-on-one with Superman to hear his perspective.”

That’s it. He may have screwed it up with you as Clark Kent, but Superman may be able to salvage this. Clark practically leaps off his chair, giving Jimmy a grateful squeeze. “Thank you, man. Seriously, I owe you.”

“Woah, dude. You’re heavy.” Jimmy huffs. “You’re welcome? But how are you going to get Superman to agree? It’s not like you have his contact or anything, do you?”

Clark doesn’t bother to reply, determination coursing through his blood as he walks out the office. Nearly out of ear-shot, he still hears Jimmy’s ‘Wait, Clark! Do you?’ repeating as an echo through the walls.

By the time you've managed to break a paragraph into your latest article, you feel that incoming headache and back-pain on its way to torment you for your incompetence. There's this block in your mind that refuses to be drained, and your tension with Clark earlier this morning certainly didn't aid you in your focus. You look up, noticing that the office is practically empty, and that most of the lights are off except for a few desk lamps from other co-workers who haven't left either.

You eye Clark's desk discretely, only to feel a pang of disappointment that he's already left. You rarely fought with him, as much as he was an insistent Big Blue fan. He was the sweetheart of the office, and on some days, you'd like to think he extended his sweetness a little more to you than everyone else. After today's conversation, you probably soured his impression on you after bashing his favourite metahuman in your headlines.

There's some part of you that worries you won't see him at your desk tomorrow with your coffee and another debate ready on his lips. He had left so early, which is incredibly unlike him. He couldn't possibly still be upset that you told him to bugger off, did he? He didn't seem like the type to hold a grudge, but maybe today was a step too far?

You shook your head, trying to shake off all your thoughts about your strange co-worker with his oddly charming demeanour and a size too large for his clumsy antics. Maybe you should pack up and go for a walk to clear your head. Sitting around here wasn't doing you much good other than increasing the hours of your back and eye strain.

Metropolis was nice at night. The city, which was always packed with crowds and honking cars, had quiet down at this hour. You watched as the lights went out in the tall buildings around you, signaling people leaving their work stations or going to sleep for the day.

If only you could get your hands on an interview opportunity with Superman. Funnily enough, despite having lived in Metropolis your whole life, you've never seen the hero who was so beloved in people's hearts. Other than social media spottings and the morning news, you have never seen the actual man who captivated Metropolis.

Kicking a crushed soda can on the sidewalk, you wonder if your bad luck in sighting him has to do with your articles being the singular negative perspective in the Daily Planet.

"Should I consider that as littering?"

Your head snaps up, and you.. can't believe it.

"Superman." You gasp, and realise this is probably the first time you've addressed him to his face rather than through an article.

He smiles, and you're surprised by how human it is. He bends down, picking up the soda can you kicked and tossed it into the nearest trash can- which was nearly ten feet away.

"You shouldn't be out alone this late." He comments. "The city's crime rate is higher at night."

"Isn't that what you're here for?" You ask. "To keep the city safe?"

His dimple deepens, and he lowers his head in a nod. "I do my best, but I can't be around every area no matter how fast I try to fly."

"Right." Through your daze, only one thought comes through with sharp clarity. You can't lose this opportunity to interview him. "Um, actually. I'm a news reporter from the Daily Planet. I was wondering if we could have a-"

"An interview?" His voice is filled with mirth. "Of course."

That was easy. Easier than expected. The daunting task and envy of Clark being able to secure interviews with Superman so easily seems less intimidating now, but you find yourself at a loss of what to ask as you prepared your recorder.

"What is your line of thought regarding the recent Metropolis fire?" You decided to start there, the topic most fresh in your mind from having just published the article this morning.

"I saw people that needed saving, so I did just that." He answers.

"However, when you saved the culprits who intentionally started the fire and insisted they be brought to the hospital and taken care for, you received a lot of criticism for not considering the victims who had to watch you care for the culprits."

"In life or death situations, I don't place people in boxes based on their roles. I do think the culprits need to face the consequences of their actions, but they were also injured. A life is still a life."

"You have very strong morals." You responded. "However, people are concerned on whether your judgement can be misplaced one day, and that you'll let the wrong people walk off free because you only cater to your own morals. What do you have to say to that?"

"If I had to consider what everyone wanted before I made a decision, I would have lost a lot of lives. In my situation, I will always be prone to making mistakes, so I try to make the ones I'll least regret."

"That is true." You answered, not expecting him to be so honest and open to your intrusive questions. "You are one of the only few metahumans in Metropolis. Have you ever felt out-casted by living on Earth?"

"Not really." He shrugs. "I always saw myself as human. I was raised by human parents with a normal human life. I am a Metropolitan as much as everyone else here."

"Just with ridiculous strength and the ability to fly." You point out.

He laughs. "And that too."

He walks alongside you as you add on more questions, your excitement palpable over the chance to finally have a real debate with the man himself. He's charming- irritatingly so, and sometimes, you have to force yourself to focus on what he's saying and not the way his eyes glimmer under the street lights, or how his height makes you crane your neck to look at him in the eye.

“So do you swoon all reporters this way to keep your pristine reputation?” You tease.

“Nope.” That damn dimple of his. “You’re the first person I’ve ever done this with.”

“Interviews? You sure give plenty to Clark.”

“Clark?" His expression freezes for a moment before relaxing. "Ah, that Daily Planet reporter? He’s a nice guy who happens to be around whenever I.. save people.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You huff. “He might be your biggest fan.”

He takes note of your tone, the near sigh at the end of it. “Do you not.. like him?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just that..” How could you tell Superman of all people that you had a disagreement with Clark just this morning about him? “I was a little harsh with him this morning.”

“How so?”

“Well, before I met you.” Evading your gaze, your force yourself to admit the truth. “My impression was different to his, and it was quite obvious from my articles. He commented that my works were cash-grabby.”

“That’s a rude thing to say.” He responds.

“Really?” You implore. “I mean, I wasn’t exactly kind when twisting my words to fit the narrative of what sells. I didn’t consider how you also have feelings, and that you’ll probably feel horrible if you read what I wrote. Maybe I felt defensive about what he said because I was scared he’d be right.”

“Well, he isn’t right.” His gaze is determined, so sure his words are the truth. “Your articles are amazing, and he’s a fool to comment on them so carelessly.”

You blink. “You read my articles?”

He realises his accidental confession, his lips stuttering to come up with a response. “Occasionally.” He coughs, being the one to avert his gaze this time. “I am a Metropolitan, and you make good headlines for the news covers. Even I can be curious about what the Daily Planet writes about me.”

”My, if Superman is keeping an eye on my writing, I’ll have to be careful on what I say.”

“No, I like your honesty.” There he goes again with that smile. You understand what people mean when they say it blinds you. “It’s refreshing. And it’s good journalism.”

You snort at his words. “If Clark heard you say that, he’ll never dare critique my articles again.”

“You sure do mention Clark a lot.” He murmurs. “Is he a close colleague or..”

“Oh, not really.”

For some reason, his expression dampens at your words.

“He’s, how do I put it?” You mutter. “He’s like this ball of sunshine. He’s always got something nice to say to everyone, and a real big heart. He'll help out when the photocopier is down, when someone could use an extra coffee, when someone needs a proofreader. He’s the complete opposite of me. It's like he came into this world to help others.”

“Is that a bad thing?” He asks.

“No, actually I-” You bite your lip, wondering if you should tell him. I mean, it’s not like him and Clark are tied to the hip or anything, it’s practically the same as telling a stranger. “I kind of do- like him.”

Superman is silent. Deathly silent. It’s like he’s going through cardiac arrest, and you hurry to speak to clear the air. “You can’t tell him. I swear, not even my closest friends know about this.”

He seems to be recovering from your words, with a small grin raising the left corner of his lips. “I can keep a secret.”

“No, seriously. No one except you and my cat knows about this.” You sigh, feeling the flurry of emotions overwhelm you. “He drives me crazy.”

He looks like he’s trying to contain his laugh, making you feel even more silly. “How so?”

“He never gives me a break to recover from well, him. It's like he's always ready as soon as I reach the office with my favourite coffee, having already read through my entire article even if I published it minutes before. He’s always hogging my desk and asking me questions during my break too, and I do my best to not feel special because he treats everyone nicely.”

“From the way you put it, I think he likes you too.”

“Seriously?” You ask, trying hard not to be swayed by his confidence. He's looking at you so earnestly as he says it, it's almost like he knows he's right.

“Why don’t we do a little test?” He offers. “Does he wait to give coffee to other people in the morning?”

“No..”

“Does he ask other people about their articles?”

“Not that I know of?”

“Does he spend time with others during break or is it always just with you?”

You’re silent, feeling the racing of your heart. Superman smiles again, as if he already knows the answer you refuse to accept.

“I think you should have a talk with him.”

The moments you had with Clark flash through your mind. All the times he was so considerate with you, so passionate, and.. how you ended things today with him during your conversation. You didn't want to lose him, not when you had a chance to turn things around. “You know, Superman? Maybe you're right.”

The next day, after Superman graciously dropped you off at your apartment per your directions, you feel your anxiety clogged up in your throat as you wait for the office elevator. Your foot taps anxiously, wondering if you should truly take the advice given to you and confess to Clark.

Worse case scenario, you get rejected and have to face a lack of free morning coffees and interrogations for the rest of your career. That realisation does pummel your spirits down a little. You do like his interrogations, even if you had to be held at gunpoint to admit it.

You reach your floor, and step out with a chaotic choir shrieking in your chest, instinctively looking to your desk where Clark would usually be waiting with your coffee. Your heart seizes when you find no one there. Right, maybe this is a sign that your plan is bogus and you should come back to Earth, instead of listening to some metahuman’s love advice-

A call of your name interrupts your train wreck of thoughts. You turn around, and Clark is standing there with your coffee.. and a bouquet in hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be late.” He stammers. “Your favourite coffee spot was crowded today, and the florist was on the opposite side of town, and I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked.”

“Also, I’m really truly sorry about the other day.” It’s like he’s on a marathon but with words, spilling sentences out like he’s rehearsed them beforehand. “I didn’t mean to call your articles ‘cash-grabby’. You’re an amazing writer, probably the best I’ve ever met, and I don’t want you to feel insulted by my stupid comments-”

You step closer, ignoring his rant and place a kiss on his cheek, stopping him in his tracks. His lips are still parted midway through his sentence, only now, there’s no sound coming out from him.

“Thank you, Clark.” You replied, ignoring the shakiness of your hands. “And lilies are my favourite, so good guess.”

He swallows dryly, blinking like a morse code pattern as he tries to find something, anything to respond to you. “Well- Right. That’s good. Flowers are good.”

You laugh, taking the coffee from his hand to take a sip, mostly to ease your nerves from your impulsive action. The faint scent of coffee and peanut butter was still lingering in your mind from having been so close to him. “I have a new article on Superman." You brought up, trying to seem casual as you toy with the back of your chair. "I thought you would like to have a read.”

That seems to kick him back into his senses, his response arriving as soon as you stopped yours. “I would love to.”

You move the monitor to make the article visible to him. “I’ve come up with a few pointers, but I need help with the title. Do you want to.. work over it while getting lunch together?”

“Yes!” He exclaims, a grin so wide on his face it nearly splits it in two. “I mean, yeah." He shrugs, a light red coating his ears. "I would be glad to help out.”

You can’t help the grin that slips out when you see his, which is as infectious or even more so than Superman’s. Maybe Clark was right about Superman being more than the words you wrote about him in the past. Yet, it was the man in front of you now.. that held your heart.

Hawkgirl was circling what she deemed The Abomination, trying to distract it while Mister Terrific tried to do some digging on what this could possibly be. Guy was just trying to beat the shit out of it, which was failing horrendously, but not that he would admit it. Metamorpho was trying all sorts of different things, fire, water, anything he could conjure to stop it. It also failed. Clark was currently trying to evacuate.

Why did people love to stand around when there was a giant monster crushing buildings and roaring? The world may never know.

"I don't think we're stopping it!" Guy yelled, his green wrecking ball doing absolutely no damage.

"Really?" Hawkgirl sarcastically called back. Clark could practically feel the roll of her eyes from however many hundred feet apart they were.

Once he moved one last person, Clark was back in the sky. "We've gotta distract it. Everyone, take a different side!"

They scattered—Hawkgirl veering left with a sharp beat of her wings, Metamorpho sliding into a pillar of smoke and reforming on the right, and Guy zipping overhead, grumbling something about doing all the heavy lifting around here.

The Abomination didn’t flinch.

Its head swiveled slowly, deliberately. Not like a mindless beast, not even like a predator. Like something aware. Something watching.

Clark could hear it now, the sound it made—not just the booming roars, but the low, guttural thrumming beneath it, like the growl of a world about to crack open.

"We’ve got nothing on this thing,"Mister Terrific said in his comms, breath quick. "Nothing in the archives. Nothing in the Watchtower database. Not even in Kryptonian logs, and you guys usually write everything down."

"That’s comforting," Clark muttered, eyes narrowing. He rocketed upward, cutting through the clouds, then shot back down like a missile, both fists forward, crashing into the creature’s chest with a thunderous crack.

It didn’t move. No stumble. No flinch. Just a slow pivot of its head toward him. Clark froze.

Its eyes—if they were eyes—were pure white, blank and unblinking. And in that second, he felt it. Not pain, not fear. Something colder. Something that reached past muscle and bone and found whatever existed beneath.

"Superman!" Hawkgirl’s voice snapped him out of it. She dove at the creature, swinging her mace with a shriek of battle, striking it across the jaw.

That, at least, made it move. Its head turned with the blow, just slightly, but the rest of its body stayed rooted like a mountain. "Got a reaction," she called, swooping back. "Barely."

"Keep it coming," Clark said, voice firm. He turned toward Metamorpho. "Try acid next. Corrosive. Anything."

"On it," Metamorpho replied, shifting into a sickly green gas and funneling toward the creature’s arm. It swatted the cloud away like an annoying fly and looked at him. 

That was when it happened.

The ground beneath them cracked, deep and wide. And from it, a low hum began to rise, vibrating through the air. Streetlights shattered. Windows exploded in a sharp cascade.

Clark clenched his jaw, fighting the pressure pushing into his skull. Guy grunted over the comms, "Okay, did anyone else get a brain earthquake, or was that just me?"

"Everyone felt it," Mister Terrific said grimly. "This thing’s broadcasting telepathically on a level I didn’t even think was possible."

Clark hovered in place, breathing heavy. "We need to figure out what it wants. Why it’s here."

And then, before anyone could respond, the creature’s head turned again, but this time, it seemed to freeze. It turned its head again, then again. After a moment, it was looking around like it had been blindsighted.

"What's it doing?" Clark turned to ask Mister Terrific.

"I don't know," he slowly answered, just as confused as the rest of them.

"Is it.. blind?" Hawkgirl asked, circling cautiously.

"I didn’t do that," Metamorpho muttered.

"Neither did I," Mister Terrific chimed in. "Something’s messing with its vision. Or whatever that thing uses for vision."

Clark squinted. There—near the edge of a crushed construction site—he caught the faintest glimmer. A shimmer of distortion, light bending around nothing.

And then a voice crackled on the comms. "Maybe stop standing around and hit it while it’s blind?"

Guy groaned. "Oh, fuck off. Not you!"

"You know her?" Clark asked, already diving back into the fray.

"Unfortunately."

The voice chimed in again, dry as ever. "Glad to see your grudge is still going strong, Gardner."

"She’s from National City," Guy burgudgenly explained. "Metahuman. Ran into her last month while I was tracking a dimensional rip. She got in the way."

"I fixed your mess."

"You freelanced! I had it under control!"

"Oh, yeah? What part of screaming and flailing was your strategy, exactly? My city, my problem!"

"Can we do this later?" Hawkgirl snapped. "We have a kaiju that can smell our intentions and slap us into next Tuesday."

The mystery woman didn’t respond. Instead, she acted.

Another ripple shimmered across the battlefield, barely visible. A wave of force shifted under Clark’s feet midair. The Abomination’s foot sank into the street unexpectedly—caught in a trench that hadn’t been there a second ago.

A sudden slam of a dome of force, unseen but solid, locked around the creature’s upper body. Its arms flailed uselessly against the shield.

"Who is she?" Metamorpho asked.

"I don’t know," Clark said quietly. "But she’s buying us time."

A moment passed. Then you shimmered into view, just barely. Still half-cloaked, eyes locked on the beast as you held the field steady with both hands. "I’m not going to hold this long," you said through clenched teeth.

Clark finally saw you clearly. Not one of his team. Not someone from the Watchtower. But she was here, and she was saving their asses.

"Then let’s make it count," he said.

It took an impressive six minutes and thirteen seconds to take down The Abomination. Once it was down, you walked over to the group who landed together like a clique. "Sorry," you said, slowly turning visible before their very eyes. "One of ours."

"Of course it is," Guy scoffed.

You pointed at him, giving him a look of confusion. "Says the one who couldn't stop it until I got here."

"What the fuck are you doing here anyways?" Guy said. "This is Metropolis."

"I'm very much aware of that," you replied, dusting off your hands. "I'm moving here." You ignored Guy's very passionate and loud groan. "National City has no room for me to grow in my career, so I thought I'd give Metropolis a try."

Guy scoffed, "Does Flash know you're abandoning ship?"

"Yes, he does," you confirmed. "And he's very happy for me. Plus, with all the metahumans running around National City after the particle accelerator exploded, I think it'll be just fine without me."

"Shit," Hawkgirl smiled, "I've seen you on TV. You're Invisible Woman; you can make forcefields and turn invisible."

"And she can generate, if I’m reading the residual energy signatures right, concussive bursts with enough kinetic output to level small structures." You tilted your head at Mister Terrific. "Hi, Mister Terrific," he added after seeing the look on your face.

Guy frowned, "She's not that cool, guys."

"The grown ups are talking," you shot back, making Guy's mouth fall open as he sputtered out that's mean! "And I know all of you, which is really cool. Metamorpho, Hawkgirl, Guy, Terrific, and.. Superman. Hi."

Clark swallowed.

You smiled—just slightly—but didn’t hold his gaze long. Instead, you looked back at the now-smoldering crater where The Abomination had been. "His name used to be Frank Albright. Frank here was affected by the accelerator while transporting a truck full of reptiles to National City Zoo. You.. can guess what happened to him after. I've handled him before, but I think you guys accidentally made him stronger somehow. It was like holding down a building with my hands. He's.. also never this.. big."

Clark did not hear a single word you said. He was a little busy watching the way your hair blew in the wind and the way your mouth moved as you spoke.

"You kind of did," Metamorpho said, still catching his breath. "That shield trick? That was nuts."

"She has a name, right?" Hawkgirl asked, glancing between Clark and Guy.

"Yeah," you said, brushing a speck of dust off your jacket. "But Invisible Woman’s fine if we’re staying professional."

"We’re not," Guy mumbled.

"I vote professional," Mister Terrific added quickly.

Clark stepped forward, almost a little awkward. He didn't want to butt in. "You said you’re moving to Metropolis?"

You nodded. "New job offer. Labs in the north end. It’s more theoretical than hands-on, but.. I did not get it, so.."

"And you just happened to show up in the middle of a monster fight?" he asked, not accusing, just.. wondering.

You tilted your head. "I was already here. Interview finished twenty minutes before the big guy was on every Metropolis news channel. Thought I’d walk off the nerves, grab a coffee. Then the big guy showed up and ruined my latte."

Guy let out an exaggerated groan. "She always does this. Shows up, takes over, insults me, and somehow still looks like the reasonable one."

Hawkgirl smirked. "You make it easy."

Mister Terrific pulled up his T-Spheres, scanning the area. "Well, regardless of how she got here, the data doesn’t lie. That blindfield she put around its head? Brilliant. You disrupted its sensory matrix. The force cage? Custom density modulation. Your control over energy structuring is unlike anything I’ve seen. Especially from someone unaffiliated with a league."

You blinked. "I mean, thanks, but I’ve literally emailed you twice about the research at STAR labs."

"Wait. You’re her? The gravity-lens force shell theory? That was your email?!"

"Guilty."

Guy threw up his hands. "Oh great, now he’s starstruck too."

Clark smiled a little at that. He really didn't know you, but gee, did he really want to. Everyone was making you sound fantastic. "Sounds like we’ve been overdue for an introduction."

You held out your hand, giving him your name. "I'm sort of a scientist. I just learned a lot from my friends at STAR labs. I'm really a journalist—er.. trying to be one. I'm a blogger, really."

"Clark," he smiled. "Clark Kent."

The way your jaw dropped was near comical. "Clark.. Kent. Daily Planet journalist Clark Kent? The one with all the Superman—oh my god, that's how you get all the interviews!"

Clark laughed. Not a heroic, public-facing laugh, but a real, honest one, soft and almost shy. "Sorry. I don’t usually lead with that."

"You mean to tell me the man I’ve been quoting in articles is also the man who just suplexed a building-sized monster?!"

Guy muttered, "I tried to tell her that last time, too. She didn’t believe me."

"I thought you were being sarcastic! You said, Clark Kent is Superman, like you were making a joke about his glasses! Also, why on Earth would you actually tell me who Superman is, you idiot!"

Guy threw up his hands. "Because I was trying to warn you! You were going off about how he writes with bias and how it’s suspicious he gets all the Superman scoops—like I was just gonna let you spiral into a conspiracy blog!"

"I stand by that observation," you snapped, pointing accusingly at Clark. "Because it’s true! You were basically interviewing yourself! That’s not journalism, that’s—that's a loophole!"

Clark held up his hands. "In-In my defense, I do ask myself the hard questions." It was hard to ignore how gorgeous you were. Your words had Clark's cheeks turned pink in an instant.

"Oh my god," you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.

Guy grinned like he had just won the lottery. "So, are you gonna apologize for calling me a dumbass when I told you the truth?"

You shot him a glare. "Absolutely not."

Throwing his hands in the air, Guy turned away, literally kicking a rock angrily as he grumbled to himself. Metamorpho just carefully followed behind, almost like a babysitter of sorts. Imagine that, Green Lantern has a babysitter.

"So, you said you didn't get the job?" Hawkgirl curiously continued.

"Yeah, I wasn't what they were looking for," you awkwardly responded. "I'm gonna try some other places, see what I can get. Actually, this is my first day in Metropolis. You guys know any good hotels or anything?"

And that was exactly how Clark Kent found himself with a temporary roommate.

Sure, offering you a place to stay felt like the right thing to do. You were new in town, clearly resourceful, a hero, and let’s be honest—after wrangling a twenty-foot mutant lizard formerly known as Frank, you’d earned a soft bed and some clean towels.

But now, with you sitting cross-legged on his couch, laptop open, typing furiously about metahuman media bias in urban reporting while wearing an oversized Daily Planet t-shirt he swore he didn’t give you on purpose—

Now he was rethinking things.

Because you were brilliant. And sharp. And you called Guy out without hesitation, which was... actually kind of hot. And for some reason, the way you chewed on your bottom lip while editing made it very difficult for him to concentrate on the news broadcast quietly playing in the background.

"I can try and get you an interview at The Daily Planet," Clark blurted out suddenly.

You looked up from your laptop, blinking like you weren’t sure you’d heard him right. "..What?"

Clark cleared his throat, suddenly very aware of how loud the tea kettle wasn’t. "I mean—if you’re still looking for jobs. You said earlier you didn’t get the lab one, and I just thought—since you’re already writing, and blogging, and clearly have a voice—and you’ve already been published online, right? I could talk to Perry. I mean, you probably wouldn't start out as a journalist, maybe something else, but—"

"Clark."

He stopped mid-ramble.

"Thank you," you said softly, a small smile on your face. "You really think Perry would give me a shot?"

"I really think he’d be an idiot not to."

You stared at him a beat longer, then let out a breath, the kind you only exhale when something finally clicks. "Well," you said, stretching a little. "Guess I should update my resume."

Clark smiled at your words. After a moment, he asked, "How did you get them?" You looked up, head tilted at him. "Your powers, I mean. You said they were from the STAR labs particle accelerator explosion, but.."

"That’s a big question," you said.

Clark tilted his head, hands relaxed on his knees. "You don’t have to tell me."

"No, it’s okay." You set your laptop aside, drawing your knees up a little on the couch. "Just.. not something I talk about a lot. Most people assume I got lucky. That I was some random bystander who just happened to walk through a cloud of science and come out gifted."

He didn’t say anything—just waited, quiet and open.

"I was in the sub-levels," you continued. "At STAR Labs. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was following up on a tip, some whistleblower said the lab was hiding preliminary safety data. I was freelancing then, trying to get noticed, and I thought.. if I exposed them, I’d finally get taken seriously."

Clark’s brows furrowed slightly. "And then the explosion happened?"

You nodded once, eyes distant. "I was right next to the core when it ruptured. Radiation, energy discharge, everything. I should’ve died." You paused, then gave a half-laugh. "I actually did for like.. two minutes. Clinically. But then my heart jump-started itself. Literally. That was the first time a forcefield triggered—my own body keeping everything out."

Clark’s eyes widened. "That’s.."

"Yeah. Terrifying. Weird. Physically disorienting. You know. Super normal." You smiled a little, then shrugged. "After that, it took months to get control. For a while, my hair and my hands kept phasing invisible and wouldn’t come back. The STAR Labs team that remained helped stabilize me, ran diagnostics, taught me how to regulate it, but I never really fit in with them. They became friends, good friends, but really.. I was just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Clark’s face was unreadable, but his eyes—those damn, kind eyes—held steady. "They were lucky to have you."

You gave him a look. "You don’t even know me."

"I know enough," he said gently. "You risked your life today to stop something no one else could. You didn’t hesitate. And you’re sitting here now, not demanding praise, but quietly updating your resume and thinking about a new job."

Your throat felt a little tight. "I didn’t want powers," you admitted. "I just wanted to write. Tell the truth. Make people listen. Ironically, my powers make me literally invisible."

Clark smiled softly. "Then maybe now you can do both."

You stared at him a moment longer, then looked away with a breathy laugh. "Are you always this nice?"

He looked down, sheepish. "I try."

You stood up slowly, fingers brushing your laptop as you picked it up. "I’m gonna go shower now, before you say something else that makes me question my emotional stability."

Clark grinned. "Third door on the right."

As you walked down the hall, you called back, "And don’t go reading my resume while I’m gone, Kent!"

He chuckled, sinking back into the couch. But the truth was, he didn’t need to read your resume. He already knew you were something extraordinary.

Which was exactly how you got your job as a journalist for The Daily Planet. Clark wasn't entirely sure how you got the job. Maybe it was how you called Perry Perry and not Chief from your first introduction.

Or maybe it was how you walked into the bullpen like you already belonged there, laptop under one arm, confidence under the other, and zero fear in your eyes even as every other person looked you up and down, analyzing your every move.

Maybe it was the way you handed in a trial article the same day you were hired, titled The Myth of Superhero Objectivity: Are We Getting the Full Truth? and still somehow walked away employed.

Or maybe, Clark thought, it was the moment Perry read the piece, raised one eyebrow, and muttered, "Well, hell. Someone finally decided to grow a spine around here."

Clark remembered watching the whole thing unfold from his desk, completely bewildered by how quickly you had settled into the newsroom like you were born for it. One second you were apologizing for stealing his mug—again—and the next you were in a heated debate with Steve Lombard about metahuman ethics and whether or not vigilante reporting should fall under sports or crime.

You won. Loudly.

And now? Now you had your own desk across from his. A stack of post-it notes, coffee rings already staining the edge, and a cracked screen on your tablet because apparently forcefields don’t protect against clumsiness.

"Hey, Kent." You peeked over your monitor, holding up a file. "Does Perry like exposés with footnotes or without?"

Clark glanced up from his own article, lips twitching. "With. But only if you’re prepared to explain every single one."

"I live to explain footnotes."

"You live to argue."

You grinned. "Same thing."

And Clark just smiled.

Because even if he couldn’t quite explain it—how quickly you’d become part of this life, how easily you’d carved out space in both his home and his work—he didn’t question it.

Neither did you.

To you, Clark Kent wasn't Superman. Superman was Clark Kent.

In all honesty, if just a few months ago, someone were to ask you who you liked better: Clark Kent or Superman? You'd say Clark Kent. He was a master journalist with more front pages than you could ever imagine yourself having.

Clark was also never freaked out by your invisibility. In fact, he always chuckled whenever something embarrassing would happen and you'd have to hide some part of yourself that had gone invisible. Slowly, Superman and Invisible Woman were nearly always seen working together to help save the city.

Perry’s front pages even started pairing your names.

Superman and Invisible Woman Prevent Tidal Catastrophe

Justice Pair Save Metropolis from Interdimensional Breach

Forcefield and Flight: The New Dynamic Duo?

Not that anyone knew what that actually meant. Not yet. Not even you.

Because Clark was still Clark. Gentle. Steady. The kind of person who saved the world and still offered to do the dishes. And you were still you. Deflecting with sarcasm, writing exposés by day and deflecting plasma beams by night, pretending like you didn’t feel something tighten in your chest every time he called you partner.

But it was there.

And every time he looked at you like you were more than just part of the job, more than a byline or a backup, you wondered how much longer you could keep pretending.

You told yourself it was just admiration. Just the thrill of working alongside one of the most iconic heroes in the world. Just the adrenaline of sharing a byline with Clark Kent, Superman.

But late at night after the rooftop rescues, the deadline sprints, the spontaneous pizza on the fire escape, there was a part of you that knew better. It wasn’t about the cape. Or the headlines. Or the city that never seemed to stop falling apart.

It was about the way he looked at you when you weren’t invisible. And even when you were.

Because somehow, Clark always saw you. Even in the silence between conversations, in the moments when your forcefields slipped, when you were too tired to be clever or guarded or strong—he saw you. And he never looked away.

"You ever miss Krypton?" You asked one night curiously, a half eaten slice of pizza in your hand.

Clark looked up from his seat across the couch, surprised. It wasn't by the question itself, but by the way you asked it. Casual. Soft. Like it had been sitting at the edge of your tongue for weeks, waiting for a quiet enough night to slip out.

The room was lit only by the lamp near the window and the flickering light of some old black-and-white movie playing in the background, but neither of you really watching it. The kind of night where the city felt quiet.

Clark leaned back, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don’t know if you can miss something you never really knew," he said after a moment, voice low.

You didn’t respond right away. Just nodded slowly, the slice of pizza forgotten in your hand.

"But sometimes.." he continued, "I think about what it would’ve been like. Who I might’ve been. Who my parents were. What they dreamed of. If they would’ve been proud of me."

You turned your head, eyes meeting his across the narrow space between you. "They would’ve loved you," you said quietly. "They would’ve been so proud."

Clark blinked, taken aback—not by the words, but by how fiercely you meant them. He offered you a soft, grateful smile. One of those half-smiles that didn’t reach all the way to his lips, but burned in his eyes.

"You think so?"

"I know so," you replied. "Because I know you. And if they were anything like you.." You shrugged. "Then Krypton was lucky to have them."

The comfortable silence between you stretched. You set your plate down on the coffee table and shifted a little closer, pulling your knees to your chest.

Clark’s voice was even softer now. "You ever think about what life would’ve been like if the accelerator hadn’t exploded?"

You breathed out a quiet laugh, but it wasn’t really funny. "All the time."

"Do you wish it never happened?"

You looked down, fingers brushing along the edge of the blanket draped over your lap. "Yeah," you softly said. "I wish it never happened.. the fact that it happened because someone covered up data and didn’t care who got hurt. But the powers?" You glanced back up at him, catching the way he was watching you again, like you were made of stars and secrets. "I think they found me for a reason. I just don’t always know what that reason is."

Clark nodded slowly. "I think you’re still figuring it out."

"I think I’m terrified of that."

He smiled again, gently this time, like it wasn’t just okay to be scared, it was expected. "I am too."

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Then, after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper, "Do you ever feel.. alone?"

Clark’s gaze didn’t waver. "I think so. Until I met you. Felt like a whole new chapter in my life. You living here, working with me, being my best friend."

The room went still. The movie in the background didn’t matter. The pizza had long gone cold. And suddenly, your heart was loud in your chest.

You swallowed hard. "Clark.."

But he didn’t lean in. He didn’t move a muscle. He wished he had. So did you.

Over the next few weeks, it was almost like the tension was building up.

It sat in the spaces between words. In the brush of your shoulders at the office printer. In the way your mugs were always side by side in the kitchen sink. In the late nights where you both stayed too long at The Planet, pretending the deadlines were why.

It was in the way Clark looked at you a second too long when you laughed. In the way your voice softened when you said his name. In the fact that neither of you ever brought up that night on the couch.

Not once. But the air changed around you.

He stopped knocking before walking into the living room. You stopped apologizing for falling asleep on the couch with your laptop open. He started learning how you liked your coffee—extra cream, no sugar—and you started keeping two spare ties in the hall closet just in case.

You never called it domestic. Neither of you would dare. But it was. Quietly, undeniably domestic.

The missions didn’t help.

Superman and Invisible Woman were a tag team now. The public started calling you the Sky and Surface. There were headlines, photos, footage. A whole Reddit thread dedicated to your dynamic, most of which you definitely didn’t scroll through at midnight while Clark was asleep down the hall.

He would hover close when you took a hit in battle. You would always know where he was before he said your name.

And still, no one moved. That was until now.

It was just some Imp from somewhere across the vast universe, but it was strong enough that you were tired. Clark was frustrated. He wasn’t angry at you. He never was. But he was frustrated because you were tired.

And the Imp—what was it this time, Mxyzptlk’s cousin?—was playing a game neither of you had the patience for. Looping physics, rewriting gravity mid-punch, and cackling like a cartoon villain as your forcefields cracked under the pressure of keeping civilians safe.

"Enough," Clark growled, low and warning.

He blurred forward, a red-and-blue streak of controlled fury, tackling the creature mid-air and sending them both crashing through a billboard high above the city. You landed below, hard on your knees, catching your breath, your fingers buzzing with strain.

"Need some help?"

You sighed, "You’ve gotta be kidding me."

Guy, along with the rest of the Justice Gang, grinned from ear to ear as they hovered above you. He looked as smug as ever. "Seems like this guy’s giving you hell," Guy replied, looking over to where Clark was trying to freeze it with his breath. 

You grunted. "He’s been rewriting the laws of thermodynamics for twenty minutes. I’m working on fumes here."

"Hey, no shame in that." Guy grinned. "I figured you could use a hand. Or five."

Hawkgirl rolled her eyes. "Let’s be honest, Guy’s just here to make snarky commentary."

"Which is emotionally vital to team morale," he fired back.

You shook your head. "Please. Just hit the damn thing."

"Gladly." Hawkgirl launched herself into the sky, a golden streak of righteous fury, and slammed her mace into the Imp’s path just as he tried to blink away.

Mister Terrific landed beside you a moment later, his T-Spheres hovering protectively overhead. He took one look at your face, pale, jaw clenched, hands still trembling from overuse, and frowned. "Stay here," he said, gentle but firm. "Catch your breath. Your field’s flickering."

You opened your mouth to argue, because of course you did. But he raised a hand before you could get a single word out.

"I know you can keep going. That’s not the point." His voice lowered, calm and even. "But you’re running on fumes, and I need you at one hundred percent in case this thing gets worse. So take the break. Recharge."

You hesitated, guilt bubbling under your ribs like static.

"I’m serious," he added. "Let the rest of us carry the next few minutes. You’ve done more than enough."

You finally let yourself sink to the curb, one knee drawn up, fingers pressing into your temples. The cool concrete felt almost good against your skin. Your forcefields wavered, then shimmered out completely. Rest mode.

Clark touched down beside you a beat later, crouching low enough that his shoulder brushed yours. "Hey, hey. You okay?" His voice was soft. Too soft. 

You nodded before you even processed the question, which probably gave you away.

Clark’s brow furrowed. "You’re shaking."

"I’m just—" You inhaled sharply, fingers curling into your lap. "I’m fine. Just hit my limit. It’ll pass."

Clark didn’t say anything right away. He shifted so he was fully facing you now, one knee on the ground, hand braced against the pavement. You couldn’t look at him. Not like this. Not with the exhaustion catching up to you and your adrenaline crashing hard.

"I’ve never seen you drop your field like that," he said quietly. "Not even when we fought Parasite."

You finally glanced at him, your throat dry. "This guy hit different."

Clark’s eyes searched yours like he was trying to read between the lines. "You don’t have to prove anything, you know that, right? Not to me. Not to them."

"I’m not," you said, and it wasn’t a lie exactly, but it wasn’t entirely true either.

He saw it. Of course he did.

"You don’t have to save the whole world by yourself," he added, even gentler now. "That’s kind of.. my thing."

You let out a weak laugh, one that cracked somewhere in the middle. Clark reached out slowly and rested his hand on your knee. Just pressure, presence.

"I hate seeing you like this," he said. "And I know you hate being seen like this."

"So let’s not be seen."

Clark couldn’t even get a moment to protest when he realized a barrier had gone around the two of you, making you invisible. He blinked at the sudden shift in light, the rest of the world fading into a soft blur beyond your invisible forcefield. Just the two of you, tucked inside a bubble of silence and bent light, the chaos and smoke of the battle muffled outside.

He didn’t speak. Not right away. Just crouched beside you, still and steady.

The hum of your field buzzed gently between your palms, the glow faint, flickering—like the heartbeat of something private. Something sacred.

"I just needed a second," you said quietly, finally breaking the silence. "Not to hide. Just.. to be. Without all of them looking."

Clark nodded. "Yeah. I get it."

Your eyes flicked toward him, a hint of surprise there. "Do you?"

He smiled, just a little. "I think we both spend a lot of time being what people expect. Sometimes you just want to take the cape off for a minute."

You let out a breath, soft and tired. "Exactly."

A few beats passed. Your forcefield crackled gently above you, and from the outside, no one would’ve guessed the world’s strongest man was sitting on a broken curb with someone who could barely hold her eyes open.

But in here? It was enough.

Clark shifted just slightly closer, the warmth of him grounding you. "You did good today."

"Barely."

"You did," he insisted, gentler now. "You always do."

You looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, it wasn’t Superman staring back at you. It was Clark. The man who made you tea when you had a migraine. The man who knew your coffee order better than you did. The man who never once asked you to be stronger than you already were.

"I think," you said softly, "this might be my favorite part of the job."

"What part?"

"This. Right now. Just.. you and me."

Clark's gaze didn’t waver. "Then let’s stay a little longer."

Clark sat close enough that his knee brushed yours. His hand was still on your leg, thumb gently moving back and forth like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. You looked at him again.

Not the suit, not the symbol, not the myth. Just the man. With the unruly hair and the soft eyes and the weight of the world tucked behind a smile that was always just for you.

Your voice, when it came, was almost a whisper. "Do you ever get tired of waiting?"

Clark tilted his head. "For what?"

"For the right time."

He didn’t say anything. But his eyes said enough. So you leaned in—just slightly. A test. A question.

And he met you halfway.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow, almost cautious, like neither of you wanted to break the moment you’d spent months circling. His hand slid up, resting lightly against your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his suit. And when your lips finally met his, it felt like exhaling for the first time in hours.

The kiss was soft. Sure. Familiar in a way it had no right to be.

Clark pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his smile blooming so gently it hurt.

"Your forcefield is.." You looked up to see what he meant. It was flickering, the rainbow’d look of the energy was dancing around the waves of energy.

"I’ve never seen it do that before," you whispered.

Clark smiled, forehead still resting against yours. "Maybe it’s responding to you."

"To us," you corrected softly.

His hand found yours—fingers lacing without hesitation—and you let yourself lean into him, the exhaustion melting just slightly at the edges of your ribs. "Think it’ll hold a little longer?" he asked.

You looked at the glowing field around you both, then back at him. "I think it’ll hold for as long as we want it to."

Clark smiled, leaned in again. While ignoring the swears from Guy, the screeches from Hawkgirl, and the loud grunts of the imp, the moment was perfect.

lords and esteemed knights from across the earldom would gallop their chargers at one another, lances poised for the honor of your betrothal and title. regardless of who would win your hand, you were decidedly unhappy to sit on your cushion of satin and wait for it to happen. nervous, too.

it was an unconventional way to pledge yourself, and you'd been furious when your father had announced it, a way to involve the village and the empire in an exciting event with an exciting end - but no amount of begging or pleading could change his mind.

the banners of your house whipped in the summer wind, mounted high around the arena. the seats were already full with a chattering, anxious audience, eager to see the violence underway. mercifully, you had some shade in the earl's boxstand, your father and a smattering of cabinet members fanning themselves and plucking from fruit platters. your satin frock did nothing to help fight the heat and you felt a bead of sweat drip down your neck, perhaps from nerves as much as the warmth.

"stop fidgeting, your father is looking."

breath across the shell of your ear. your head barely turns to take in your knight at your periphery, inky locks and glittering armor adorned in your house's colors. he's watching the field, a gentle breeze sweeping the curls off his forehead but you can see the imperceptible twitch of his head, nodding to your father. your gaze flits to your impatient papa, who's staring at you across the stand. you were sure he thought you impertinent for being anything but gracious of the festivities in your honor, but you could hardly care. it was enough that you were here, you thought. it was you who would be delivered like a prized sow to whoever shed enough blood.

"he may control my marriage, clark, but he can hardly control me entirely," you grumbled, slouching like a sour child. beside you, clark's lips twitched at your petulance. he was familiar with it by now - sir clark kent had served in the earl's guard since his adolescence, as was the way of imperial knighthood, and had been assigned your duty on your sixteenth birthday. many years later, he was familiar with your antics and how best to discourage them.

"he'll be eager to leave such matters to your husband, i imagine." clark muttered.

a rather unladylike snort escaped you and this time clark's face betrayed a grin, blue eyes sliding just briefly to glance at you.

"if my father thinks a husband will be his solution, i quite fear for his sanity. he must know the only gentlemen i can respect enough to obey is you, clark."

"and even that you hardly do."

you and your knight exchanged looks, a small curl of the lip reflecting memories of your calamity clark had covered up over the years, promises vowed to your father to keep you under better control. they were hardly kept - you simply enjoyed riling clark up too much. the frustrated furrow in his brow when he would find you prancing in the creek off your estate or taking your horse out too early to be proper for a young lady, which inevitably smoothed into an indulgent smile that clark reserved only for you. he let you get away with far too much, as calm and kind as he was. he understood your need for freedom, to leave the stuffy interiors of your birthright and roam the real world - it's what led you love him, foolheartedly and secretly.

you looked out to the center of the grandstands, where the jousters stretched and practiced, prancing around on their rounceys.

"i don't make much of these competitors - they're show ponies who have dolled themselves up to give the appearance of utmost masculinity. all of these frilled lords hardly have enough brain to keep their dance steps in order." you sighed, squeezing your fingers together anxiously. "and i would know. i've danced with most of them."

clark was quiet as he appraised the lot. you hoped he would agree with you. you hoped he would turn to you and take your hands in his larger ones and profess that you were right, that he was the only man suitable to wed you. it had only been your dream since you had become of marrying age. sir kent was everything you could hope to wed - strong and calm, sweet with you in ways that sometimes felt unbecoming of a knight to his charge. he was kind to a fault, giving and gracious to the many villagers of the earldom. you could see him quite perfectly marrying you and inheriting the title of earl to rule justly over your spill of land.

but you were destined to be disappointed, you supposed. clark was steadfast in his duty to you and your father, perfectly oblivious to your longing, and completely set on finding you a husband.

"you shouldn't be so harsh," he sighed. "many of them may make perfectly fine candidates. not every man must be so skilled in combat if he has no necessity for it. so long as he is worthy of your affections."

you picked at a thread, doubtful. "i don't think my affections matter much," you said softly. "doubly so when my opinions mean so little."

clark turned, eyes hard and boring into you, his attention fully turned from the field. his curls spilled across his forehead, damp with the heat of the day and his lips pressed into thin lines, appraising your moroseness. your words seemed to offend him almost personally and he was earnest when he spoke.

"i wish you wouldn't say that." he said softly. "your father may be impatient, but he's not unkind. i wouldn't allow a cruel man to take your hand - i was sworn to protect you, and my oath doesn't lift when a ring touches your finger."

your heart just barely skipped a beat and you looked away, absently rubbing the naked spot on your left hand.

"you're sworn to my father," you pointed out obtusely, feeling the need to push back, to rouse him even more.

"and by proxy, you. surely you can't imagine all those times i've saved your skirts has only been in oath to your father. you are my duty."

and that was the end of it, the lump in your throat too thick to overcome. clark held your eye for a beat longer, perhaps to watch his words settle over you, before turning his attention back to the arena, oblivious to the ache in your chest.

you and clark hardly spoke after that - the arena filled with noise as the villagemen competed, elementary compared to the events later in the afternoon. noblemen and cabinet members chattered and ate around you, and despite the festivities being in your honor, you found yourself feeling quite alone. each round of the joust brought your doom closer. dimly, it occurred to you that the end of the evening would bring your betrothal with it. it was hard to stomach.

it was as the initial games waned that a slick voice, like oil, slipped in beside you.

"my lady, how lovely you look this morning."

both you and clark turned at the sound, clark's hand slipping to the hilt of his sheath at the surprise visitor. a well-jeweled hand presented itself, attached to fine silk robes and a sly smile.

"lord luthor," you greeted, offering a hand to him, which he took with much peacocking. "how kind of you to greet me. i did not believe i would see you before your match."

you'd rather hoped you wouldn't see him. you had a distaste for the wealthy baron who had pursued you tirelessly since you had been presented. he was all hard edges and calculation, and his pale eyes made you shiver. his reputation preceded him - he had been married twice before, despite his young age, and each wife had brought vicious rumors of lex's cruelty - lashings, you'd heard once. confinements to rooms equipped with sparsity as punishment for their misdeeds for days on end.

your fingers tightened around your skirts.

beside you, clark's jaw ticked and you could practically feel the heat of his sizzling distaste.

"i thought i would pay my respects. it's not every day a lady is presented at the joust, particularly for a husband. your father must be very...unconventional."

"imaginative, i think," you bit off, smiling a tight smile. "it adds excitement for the people, and friendly competition to test the lords' metal."

lex hummed, nodding as if the other lords presented only a trivial detail. "yes, quite. i've heard many lords will be pulling out all the stops this afternoon. for such a delightful prize, i must say i will be doing the same."

intended to make you swoon, the comment just felt smarmy, paired with that smile of lord luthor's that seemed more of a leer. none of the competitors seemed particularly appetizing, but lex luthor least of all.

"and what might those stops be, my lord?" you ask pleasantly.

luthor considers you, eyes sliding to clark beside you, then back. "i'm sure it would be difficult for a noblewoman with such fine sensibilities to understand. you must simply watch and enjoy."

with another lingering kiss to your fingers, the lord departed the box to prepare his armor and horse.

"what a pig." you grumble, wiping your palm on your skirts. "i'll rightly run away if i must marry lord luthor. we must hope his efforts are in vain."

you expected clark to protest, to highlight the more charitable qualities of the lord as he had done before, but when you looked at him, his eyes were set hard, and he was quiet.

"clark?" you asked softly, hesitantly brushing the hard metal of his gauntlet.

he turned to look at you and something had shifted, cleared in his expression. "I apologize," he murmured softly, pressing his large palm to the top of your hands, smoothing his fingers over your knuckles. "i must attend to something. i shouldn't be long."

"what? but clark, the main event is about to start-"

"i won't be long." he promised again, rising from his seat beside you and hurrying from the tent, leaving only the wagging flap behind.

bewildered, you turned back to the flaring trumpets announcing the main event, the anxious pit in your stomach now twofold without the presence of your knight.

the lords paraded out into the arena, armor glinting in the sun, horses adorned in the frills and colors of their house. you recognized most of them - you'd grown up with these boys, attended birthdays, dances, and celebrations with them, had endured cruel childhood tricks and sore toes with them. it was why you detested the joust so much. you knew each of these men well enough to know you could not marry them. and yet, once everything was said and done, you would. this was the unavoidable truth.

the procession trotted forward, lapping the arena to greet the howling stands, rounding to your booth to pay their respects to the earl and yourself. the heat and the eyes of the crowd were unbearable as the men approached, a long column of wolves set to the hunt. they would kiss your fingers as you bid them luck, grinning behind their visors that revealed only greedy eyes set on their prize. it made your stomach churn, the nerves worse than ever.

where was clark? the fanfare would have been so much more bearable if he were here, a sentinel warding off the choking cloak of your discomfort. the brush of his fingers against your wrist, a whispered word of comfort, his easy assurances of the character of each of these men as they pass you, that clark would never let harm come to you. it was too palpable as each man passed, their desire to win you, unwrap you, bind you to them forever. where was clark's elusive optimism, entirely unquenchable and passionate?

some of the lords barely grazed your fingers, hardly pausing in their stride to kiss your hand. other's gripped your hand tightly, squeezing in a vice that pledged ownership to your independence.

lord luthor was among the fray that paraded past you, identified by his purple and green caparison draped over his horse. he took your fingers in his grip, pressing them to the mouthpiece of his helmet for a beat too long - eyes challenged you through the visor, cold, and blue, and all at once a promise and a threat. you would be his.

you pulled away quickly.

finally, the last of the competitors approached. you'd hardly had a moment to inspect each and every knight, but you knew immediately that you did not recognize this one. It was not unusual - lesser-known knights competed in local jousts for glory and appraisal. but the stakes of this festival were far too high for a man of unspoken character. to win your hand and, ultimately, the promise of the earldom, he had to be reputable, accomplished, vouched for - this rider bore no marking on his steed, a rather bright white and shaggy courser whose neck ripples with strength. his caparison was of no house you knew, a vibrant blue and red rippling in the breeze.

and there was the knight himself. clad in armor that shimmered not-quite sapphire in the beating sun, he was a mountain of a man, all brawn and strength. carved into his shoulder plates was a symbol you couldn't identify, a strange 's' certainly not from your corner of the empire.

"well - i would have never expected to see him here."

beside you, a nobelwoman giggled behind her fan, shark-like in her inspection of the knight.

"do you know him?" you ask.

she raises a thin brow and looks at you with a cluck. "only by rumor. a friend of mine in the north tells me he's quite popular there, wins every jousting tournament he enters but never accepts the prize. imagine that! dueling for simply the fun of it!"

this gave you pause. "he never collects them? what does he do with them, then?"

another woman beside her leans over, wine slipping over the rim of her glass. "gives them to the villages, i've heard!" she cows loudly, gesturing to something figurative. "insanity to me! some of the wealth he's passed on, he must have taken one too many blows to the head!"

the first woman tucks behind her fan, giggling. "it's rather gallant, is it not? i do wonder what he looks like beneath all that armor."

"no one's seen him?"

the woman shakes her head. "he never removes his visor and has never had it knocked from him. perhaps better that way, as men have a propensity for being so very..." she sighs. "disappointing."

you lean back into your seat, unsure what to make of him, left with only more questions. why would he compete in this joust at all? you certainly could not be donated to the village and should he win, it would be incredibly unseemly to turn your hand down.

christ, would he turn your hand down? was the possibility of a public embarrassment on the table?

you snapped from your ruminating as the knight rounded the arena, approaching your boxstand to pay his respects. on instinct, your arm stretched, fingers curling into his approaching grip. you tried to discern anything from him now that you were close. his armor was of very fine quality, perhaps an indication of wealth. his hands were massive, nearly paw-like in their leather bindings and he was oddly...gentle as he took your fingers in his.

whoever he was, he was impervious beneath his visor. the crowd was a frenzy, roaring at this new and fresh arrival, but his head was trained only on you. what man lay beneath such thick leather and metal, you wondered? what stranger had found his way here, into this arena, to battle for your honor? without quite understanding why, your heart shuddered in your chest.

he said nothing to you, no greeting that could provide a clue to his identity. even his eyes were shielded in the early afternoon glare.

"best of luck in your endeavors," you whispered, wanting to say more, questions on the tip of your tongue, but losing your nerve.

he squeezed your palm, lingering. his thumb brushed your knuckles, a gesture oddly familiar in a way you couldn't place, tapping your hand to the mouth of his visor, and then wheeled his horse around, back to the entry gates where each man would prepare.

you watched him as long as you could, sweat dripping down the back of your neck. there was a strange anticipation to joust now, to measure the capabilities of this new challenger.

the joust was comprised of bracket rounds, each competitor eliminating one another until the final two stood. you were grateful for the swiftness of it, at least - the earl's boxstand was increasingly hot, not helped by the growing drunkness of its attendees, whipped into a fervor by the masculine sport of it all.

you felt as if a rope was being pulled taught with each passing moment, a noose to be tightened at the apex of the excitement.

the early rounds were a blur - dust and the clash of wood. lords you could hardly care to remember battling more for your inheritance than for you.

the third round roused some of your attention. the purple and green of lord luthor's charger entered the field, taking one end of the pole, shifting his lance under arm. you saw his visor flash your way and imagined the wide smile of a predator beneath, appraising his prey. his horse pawed the ground, wound tight with energy. sourness curdled in your stomach.

the men took their mark. the trumpet blared and in an instant two shapes broke loose, blurred by speed, colliding - luthor's opponent fell to the ground with a crash, unseated, bucked by his frothing steed, hand broken in the weight of his armor and the fall. luthor's lancetip was embedded firmly in the man's shoulder plate, shredding the metal in a way you hadn't seen before, straight to the meat of the man's shoulder.

"good lord," you gasp softly, hand to your mouth as blood spurt from the wound.

"never seen that before," coughed a man behind you, squinting into a pair of opera glasses. "that lancetip is sharp as a blade. tore into the armor as if it were made of paper!"

luthor rounded the arena, waving to a crowd stirred at the gore and blood of the battle. the fallen knight groaning and pawing at his shoulder from which the lancetip protruded, was pulled into the innards of the arena. you hated this barbarity and it's blind celebration, you hated luthor's gleaming eyes as he passed your box on horseback, and you hated that he was one step closer to winning.

beside you, clark's seat was still empty. you had half a mind to find the man - certainly he had deserted his post for longer than was allowed. hardly anyone else in the box noticed, filled with wine and hams and enraptured with each trumpet blare that sets forth a new flurry of violence. too disturbed by the red-stained sand in the pit, the image of the lancetip shredding the chestplate burned into your mind, you determined to find clark, if not to simply catch your breath. you paused at the flutter of blue and red.

lance tucked loosely beneath his arm, the blue knight stepped into the arena. he seemed exceedingly calm, practiced in this violent dance, unaware that he was bait in a lion's den - his shoulders were set back, wide as a mountain, hips loose as his horse trotted to the starting pole. his armor shone blindingly. you almost waited for him to glance at you, a tilt of his helmet to acknowledge your direction, but he doesn't. your fingers still tingle with feeling of his touch, gentle grazes of leather over your knuckles, and warm metal at your fingertips.

the horses puff and paw at the ground like restrained dragons, muscles jumping in their anticipation. you can't take your eyes of him, magnetic in the way he commands the attention of the grandstands. you imagine the man beneath it all, sweating and focused as he pulls into his pole lane.

the air is tense, hundreds of bodies holding their breath. the jousters adjust their lances. you think you can hear your own heartbeat in the silence. then an invisible snap, a string pulled taught enough to break, and the men take off down the pole, two speeding bullets destined to make contact in a shattering blow and you're on the edge of your seat in a way you haven't been this entire joust, fingers wringing into one another, breath caught in your throat, then there's contact and suddenly stillness.

the blue knight rounds the stadium, lancetip broken off. his lordly opponent lays in the dust.

it all happened in an instant.

the deafening roar of excitement that had filled the stadium as the men had taken off, silenced, a flame snuffed out. no one can quite believe it, you think, as the mysterious dark knight no one quite seems to know sits unmarked astride his horse, and his opponent lay shuffling in the dirt. the herald makes the call - a win in one round for the mysterious knight in red and blue for unseating his opponent.

it's then that the knight's head turns towards your box, and the women beside you stiffen in excitement. you know with complete clarity that he's looking at you. watching you for a beat as if boasting of the win-no, not quite boasting, you think, but wanting you to see his intent. he's here for you.

there are a few more runs after the shocking upset, none quite as eventful as the blue knight. points are tallied, and it becomes apparent who the final run will involve - lord luthor and the blue knight.

word makes its way quickly through the stands and through your box. lord luthor was unbeaten in your earldom and seldom let the village forget it.

but so, too, was the blue knight.

they both emerge into the arena and there's a strange tension between the two as they approach the line. luthor is agitated - you can see his lips moving as he passes the blue knight, eyes hard. they're equal in points. equal in contention to win you.

your future comes down to these final moments. you can't begin to guess the identity of the stranger, but you prefer it to lord luthor.

you can feel the gentle ghosting of the knight's touch on your fingers.

luthor's lancetip glimmers in the sun, sharp and dangerous, the memory of torn armor fresh in the arena.

this is the moment. the satin folds of your dress clench in your sweaty fists.

both men take their marks. is it the noise of the crowd you hear or your blood rushing in your ears?

each man fits their lance beneath their arms. your heart is choking you in your throat.

the blare of the starting horn. the pair tear down the line, a magnificent courser of white against lord luthor's thickly muscled charger. streams of blue and red blurred against purple and green.

two bodies meet in the middle, and it's hard to see what's happened in the commotion. the horses pull away from each other, both riders still astride.

"heavens!" your father erupts and you see lex's helmet has been knocked from him, a gash streaming blood into his eye. he seems furious, embarrassed at having been marked so easily. the knight is not unscathed - a shard of lance has glanced off his chest plate, shredding down to the blue cotton beneath. you can make out a glimpse of a strong chest, damp with blood.

this time, they don't even wait for the trumpet when they pull up to the line. they're off like shots, making their approach. you think you can see lex's lance angle upward, teeth bared as he makes for the knight's helmet. determined to unmask the phantom jouster, dispel the fable mystery that enshrouds him. mortally wound him, you think, and knock him from his horse. teach him that a whipped dog shouldn't challenge.

but it's dodged at the last moment, the blue knight twisting and sending the lance careening into open air over his shoulder. his own lance meets lex squarely in the chest, knocking him loose, dragging him across the ground by his foot caught in a stirrup.

"yes!" you find yourself cheering, along with the rest of the grandstand as the knight makes his round, shedding his snapped lance. luthor struggles in the sand, twisting his leg to free it, snarling up at the knight and the audience who delight in his failure. you desperately want to meet the knight, pull the helmet from his head and see who has usurped the favorite so gallantly. he should be making his round to you, pledging such a victory to your honor. he should be coming to claim you. but he's not.

he's clutching his chest where the plate metal is wet with blood, slumping a bit in his saddle.

"he's not well," you worry aloud, wringing your hands. "he's - is there a physician?"

the blue knight is riding to the gate, squires meeting him to help him dismount and disrobe.

your heart is thrumming in your chest with anticipation, to see this victor unmasked, to know who had gripped your fingers so tenderly and ridden so hard for his victory. you can slip out. the noblemen are too drunk and too preoccupied with celebrations to notice your absence. your father has been swept away in conversation and will surely seek you out soon - now is your only chance to escape.

the festival grounds are coming to life as you slip out, streams of revelers emptying from the arena into the splendors of the grounds. the crowd is thick, and you have to elbow your way through sweating men and women, acrid with the smell of smoke and ale. the gates to the hold are just ahead, manned on either side by two earl's guards to prevent strays wandering through. your lucky the path is somewhat clear and you approach them with an air of impatience.

"i've come to see the champion, please."

the guards raise their brows, taking in your muddied slippers and hem and your apparent lack of knightsmen.

"i'm sorry m'lady, but no visitors through this point-"

"i'm hardly a visitor," you snap impatiently. "has he not won the right to my betrothal, to be the next earl? have i no right to see my fiance?"

the guards shift uncomfortably, eyeing one another. this is all technicality and you hope it to be above their station to worry about it.

"will you really press the earl's daughter?"

"fine." they gruff, one unlocking the padlock and stepping aside.

the inner walls of the arena are cool and dark, much cooler than the fray outside. it smells of horse manure and dampness, the thick stone walls muffling the residual excitement inside the stadium. there's only one long corridor that encircles the place and you figure you'll take your chances with the first room you happen across.

now that you're away from the bustle and noise, you're nervous again. your betrothed is a stranger, really, a man who happened into the ring and won it all. he may be kind, but he's only supported by rumors of his charitable will. you don't know the man, and what if he rejects you at first sight? it was a humiliation you had not anticipated, would struggle to swallow after the build-up of the day.

you slip down the hall quiet as a shadow, the soft soles of your slippers muffling your approach. an archway appears, flanked by flickering torches. you can't hear anything inside - peeking around the corner, it looks like a deserted equipments room, shucked lancetips piled in one corner, shorn armor in another. across the far wall hang saddles and torn horse caparisons of all colors. there's a bench in the center of the room, illuminated by a torch.

there's a man on the bench.

his back is to you, large and flexed as he touches the wound on his chest. the worn cotton material of his shirt stretches across his wide back, and you should be intimidated by his breadth, but you find yourself rather impressed, if not a little warm. beside him lay the top fastenings of armor in a pile, sapphire and shining in the torchlight. his helmet sits beside him, too, and on the shoulder of the plate, you can make out that strange symbol of an 's'.

it's him.

you don't know how to start - he doesn't know you're here. you feel like you're intruding. the importance of this moment, this confrontation, dancing through your chest, pulling your heart into your throat, and making words difficult. where should you start? what should you say? you weren't even sure what you wanted from him - a rejection that would stay the hand of fate just a moment longer? an acceptance of a betrothal, and by extension, you?

you take a step into the room, a step closer to him.

"i've heard you're not one for accepting prizes. i suppose i won't be terribly offended if you reject me."

the man straightens immediately, turning his face just enough for you to see the profile of his nose, but the rest of him is shrouded in shadow. you strain your eyes to make out some discernible feature, the color of his eyes, perhaps, or the bow of his mouth as he speaks, but it's fruitless.

he says nothing, still as a statue.

"i-i didn't mean to intrude on you. i was afraid for you when you left the ring injured. your chest-"

"is that what they say?"

you pause, startled.

"pardon? oh, well, i'd heard rumors that you don't and i-i suppose i was curious because the prize is...well, me."

he says nothing, letting your words hang heavy in the air.

christ, why is he silent again? could he understand the nerve it took you to lay yourself bare, approach him with your muddied gown, and ask him if he was interested in you?

"is that what they say?" he repeats, clearer, and there's a tick in the back of your brain that recognizes the voice.

the blue knight turns fully and warm light catches a strong jaw, a straight nose, full lips. his hair is a mess of dark curls across his forehead, and his eyes, deep and blue, warm and serious.

"i'm sorry to disappoint, but this is a prize i will be taking."

Before you could open your mouth, Steve's posture shifted from one of disbelief to something akin to the soldier you'd seen in action on a number of occasions. Steve's face grew almost as stony as Bucky's used to before he'd finally found the right therapist. This was a Steve you didn't see often, and you preferred it that way.

"How long?" was all he asked, his voice soft with what you could only describe as resignation.

"A few weeks at least," you said, your words careful, even as you studied him.

A part of you wanted to rush towards him and wrap him tightly in your arms at the way his jaw ticked. His Adam's apple bobbed a few times as his gaze moved towards the numerous soon-to-be-filled suitcases. When he spoke again, it was only to ask, "Where?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm sure it'll be exactly what's needed," you shrugged your shoulders while taking a step towards him, wishing to close the distance between you. It was a distance that hadn't existed until now, and it made you sick to your stomach it existed at all.

You stopped the instant his body grew more rigid than it already was. A look passed over his features that you wished you could read. Before these past few weeks, you would've been able to, but that day had been just the thing to disconnect the two of you. If what you had planned helped at all, you would take whatever risk you needed. Sure, your plans weren't on the level of some life-saving mission, but you hoped it would be enough to get your marriage back on track.

Your hands came up in a non-threatening gesture, hoping to soothe that rigidity in him. "We haven't been exactly in-sync with one another. It occurred to me that we need some time alone to reset, you know? Pepper's already signed off on a generous vacation, and I'm hopeful this will help with moving past what happened."

"If this is what you need, sweetheart."

"What we need, my love," you countered, allowing yourself a small smile. You couldn't help it as you took in the way his eyes widened before he schooled himself again. "Now, I could really use your help. Can you bring those cases into the bedroom? I already have a few piles ready to pack. You'll need to catch up."

"Catch up?" He shook his head, his composure slipping once again. An almost stern expression slipped over his face, but you knew him well enough that he was trying to work out whatever puzzle he'd just been handed. His head shook once more a moment later. "Sweetheart, you've lost me."

"You and me," you motioned with your finger between you two, "are going away for a few weeks."

His brows drew tighter together, creating crinkles that you used to smooth out with your thumb.

It beckoned you as it always did, but you stayed where you were. You didn't exactly want a repeat of his earlier rigidness when you attempted to erase the space between you. A space that hadn't existed since the early days of you two getting together. A space you couldn't help hoping this vacation would help ease in ways that time had only managed to increase these past weeks.

"I thought…"

His voice trailed off, unable to continue with whatever he'd been about to say, but you had to know. "You thought what?"

His throat bobbed again, and his gaze dropped to the floor near his feet. His words came out thick, raspy, and stammered, "I thought you were leaving me."

Even as you suspected those were the words he would speak, they still slammed into you.

You swallowed back the soft cry that came with the pain of those words spoken aloud.

Nothing stopped you then from closing the distance between you. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you tugged him close until you felt his arms wrap around you, pulling you equally close. Not an inch of space remained between you as you settled in his arms, anchored by your legs hooked around his hips. Your fingers wove their way into his hair until you could grip and tug his locks. You did so until his gaze met yours.

"Steven Rogers, you really think I'm some meek little mouse? That I married you without knowing the risks I'd be taking by being yours and you mine? That I haven't had Nat and Bucky training me since the day we officially announced we were dating? Or doubling my training when their schedules allowed after we got engaged?"

"No, but—"

You cut off whatever protest he might've given with a kiss, quick but firm against his lips. While you'd never consider the kiss one meant to lead toward a night of passion, it worked as if it had been. He reciprocated after a fraction of a second, his mind quickly recognizing and following your lead. Even when you pulled away, he tried to follow you, having missed this simple intimacy as you had.

A smile threatened to tug your lips upward, but you fought the urge.

With Steve now so receptive, you took this moment to finally have the talk you two had been circling without actually confronting. This was so unlike the two of you, and that was the hardest truth you'd had to confront earlier that day when it'd smacked you.

"My love, my darling husband, please do me the greatest favor and stop taking advice from Tony. He may have slept with more women than there are in Manhattan, but he knows very little about them. All you need to do is ask Pepper and she'd tell you the same."

When his brows drew together this time, you didn't hesitate in smoothing the crinkles that appeared as he asked, "How did you…"

"FRIDAY patched me into the lab earlier. I was hoping to have lunch with you since I missed you, missed us." You met his widening eyes with an arched brow. "Imagine my surprise hearing you two discussing how I wasn't acting as Tony was all too certain I would be after being kidnapped. To hear him say how much Pepper clung to him, which she was so thrilled to hear herself when I sent the recording not long after I asked FRIDAY to cut the connection."

Pink stained Steve's cheeks, a rarity anymore but gave him away without saying.

"Is his bad advice why you've been hovering so much these past weeks?" you asked in a voice barely above a whisper. You didn't need to be louder for his enhanced hearing to pick up your words. At his nod, you sighed, "Oh, my love."

His grip on you tightened. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

You knew his apology went far beyond the hovering or the lack of communication. It encompassed all you two had dealt with the past few weeks, the kidnapping, the loneliness, and everything between. Just as you would with him, he wanted to make all your fear, hurt, and pain go away. He wanted to make it his and his alone to bear.

With a shake of your head, you pressed another kiss to his lips, softer this time.

This one lasted far less time than the first, but it was no less potent as you two continued to rediscover the smaller parts of yourselves that you'd lost but missed dearly.

"You nearly got yourself blown up to save me. Completely unnecessary from what Bucky's told me since then," you started, frowning at your husband. It was the only way to show him your disapproval that he'd listen to from your experience. Only when his face shifted into something resembling an apology did you continue, "I thought you needed me to be okay. It's what an Avengers' significant other does. I even convinced myself that I was okay."

Steve whispered your name when you paused to take a breath.

You shook your head. Your fingers weaved through his hair, taking comfort in the way it shifted and curled around them.

"It didn't even hit me how miserable I've been until I overheard your little convo with Tony. I didn't realize that by trying to prove I was okay, I've been putting you at arm's length. I've been hurting you, haven't I?"

The stricken expression that shifted over his previous one was answer enough.

"I'm so, so sorry, my love," you said, your voice breaking as several shameful emotions washed over you. You'd been just as blind to what you'd been doing as he'd been. It hurt to realize that you had, but at least, you knew you could do better going forward. You would do better.

Your head dropped to his shoulder as several shudders passed through you.

Though, you couldn't be fully sure they all belonged to you as Steve mimicked your actions. His body finally released the same tension he'd been holding as long as you had. Warm tears trailed down your shoulder to your collar just as warm tears trailed down your cheeks.

You both remained like that for several minutes. It was as if time slowed just for the two of you. It gave you those precious minutes to just be with one another again, to reconnect what you thought lost. What you had lost and almost lost.

A rumbling stomach pulled you apart with soft huffs of laughter.

"I might've skipped lunch," you admitted softly. "I just wanted to get everything set in motion, and I did. All that's left is packing what we're taking with us once you decide where we're going."

Expecting a reprimand for being neglectful of your health, you weren't prepared for the gentle shake of Steve's head or the sweet smile that graced his features. You definitely didn't expect the teasing glint that came into his eyes as he tilted his head to study you.

"Are you the reason Bucky and Sam cornered me before I left? They both declared they were under strict orders to bench me. Then told me that they'd be handling all my missions for the next few weeks. They even went so far as to lock me out of my office."

You gasped. "They didn't?"

"They did," his smile grew, "and I'll show them my gratitude later."

He took his first step into your home, causing you to squeak and grab onto him tighter. His rich laugh echoed off the walls in genuine pleasure at hearing you. His grip never faltered but rather tightened, keeping you safe. His giant steps brought you to the kitchen where he soon set you on the counter, patting your thigh.

"Now, sweetheart, let me whip something up for you while you tell me this grand scheme you've devised for us."

Over the next thirty or so minutes, you watched him whip up a grilled chicken salad with a few extras. Your eyes never left him, enjoying the view as he easily maneuvered around the kitchen with such ease. The sight was one you never wanted to take for granted as you recalled his earliest efforts and the progress he'd made since then. Plus, you just loved looking at him with the apron he insisted on wearing. How one man could look both so cute and so sexy at the same time was beyond you.

While he worked, you kept up your end of the bargain, outlining your plans for you two over the next few weeks. You didn't leave out one step in either itinerary you created that held activities you both enjoyed. It was truly an effort of love to create something to reconnect you both. You even made sure to leave some alone time should either of you desire it.

"So, mountains or beach?" you finally asked as he handed you your bowl and a fork.

He took a bite of his food, chewing while he carefully considered the two options you presented.

"Well, sweetheart, it seems to me you've already decided."

You frowned at him. "I haven't."

"Didn't you say something about me needing to catch up on packing earlier? If you've already started, then you must have a destination in mind that you'd prefer. So…"

Your smile returned with a hint of mischief. Leaning into him, you caught the way his smugness shifted into a bit of neediness. Staring a little too long at his lips tended to do that as you well knew. You used it to your advantage, too.

When he leaned in, you moved so your lips caught his cheek instead, earning a muffled groan.

It also gave you the perfect angle to whisper into his ear, "Well, I may have done a little shopping before coming home earlier. I thought some new lingerie that went well with either destination was called for."

"Do I get to see this lingerie before we head out?"

You shook your head. "Nope. Gotta wait until we get there, but first, stud, you gotta decide."

"They both sound so good, sweetheart." He took your empty bowl from you and set it in the sink. His hand, now free, reached into his pocket, fetching something you couldn't quite make out. At least, until he held it up for you to see. "Heads Carolina, Tails California?"

You nodded, your smiling growing until your cheeks hurt.

"Captain Wilson set me to remind you that you have training in ten minutes."

"Shit." You turn over on your stomach and groan into your pillow. "Can you tell him to go fuck himself?"

"Certainly."

"You are the only one that needs to knoow …"

"And please turn that noise off," you groan into your pillow.

The music gently fades into silence.You enjoy a few more moments of keeping your eyes closed before  brginning to crawl backwards out of bed, taking half of the sheets with you. "Are you sure it’s Friday? Feels like it should be Monday, at least."

“Today is Friday, July 4th,” FRIDAY tells you pleasantly.

You whine into your blanket. At least that means tomorrow’s Saturday.

Since saving the world and shift work both happen on kind of an unpredictable schedule, it’s hard to get actual time off sometimes. You’ve had to close up shop and immediately jump on a quinjet one too many times in the past year, and not having any time for yourself has made you "not just irritable but also twice as accident-prone", according to certain people.

So, you’ve insisted on one proper day a week where no one was going to expect anything productive from you, ever. Unless the world was literally about to end, it could do without you for twenty-four hours.

"One more day," you tell yourself as you roll out of bed with a groan. Your head hurts like you’ve got a hangover, even though you’ve not gotten drunk in ages. Every muscle in your body feels as sore as if you’d just finished running a marathon.

Maybe you should start looking into superhero retirement funds.

You splash some cold water in your face, then reach for your rings with a yawn when you notice you’re already wearing them. Geez, you’re more out of it than you thought if you’ve put them on without noticing; only odd thing is that one’s missing. It’s not in the little tray on top of your sink, at least.

If you’ve lost one of them after less than a year, you’re going to be so pissed with yourself. Absentmindedly, you rub the empty space on your pinkie with your thumb.

There’s a pounding at your door that makes you flinch, followed immediately by Sam’s voice. "Rise and shine, McFly! Time to get your ass kicked!"

You look at the clock on your bedroom wall. It’s shortly before 8 a.m., which means you’ve once again slept through your actual alarm and you can’t even blame him for the rough wake-up call.

You’re still going to, though.

"Not gonna happen, birdbrain!" you shout back and go through the pile of semi-clean gym clothes by the foot of your bed. As you get changed, you notice a mark on your wrist, like you’ve burned yourself; it doesn’t hurt, though. Just prickles a little.

You pull an old sweatband over it to deal with it later.

"Don’t ever wake me up like that again!" you call out to Sam, slamming the door to your room behind you.

He pushes away from the wall and falls into step next to you. "Sweet white teenage angst not your style?"

"You’re the worst." The song is stuck in your head now, too.

This is already a horrible day, and you haven’t even had coffee yet.

You push the door to the gym open and hold it for Sam, ignoring his jovial grin in favor of sending another glare his way. Not even the view helps to cheer you up today. For some reason, the picture-perfect blue sky only makes you more annoyed.

You drop your rings into the little metal dish you keep next to the window and climb into the boxing ring after Sam, stretching your back.

"Let’s get this over with, then."

He wiggles his eyebrows and immediately launches into an entirely predictable attack on your weak side. You evade him with a half-step, jabbing a punch at his defenseless torso. Sam coughs in surprise but doesn’t let it stop him. Instead, he aims his next blow at your shoulder. Almost like you’ve expected it, you block him again, then use an upkick to put some distance between you. With a surprised yelp, he loses his balance, only just catching his fall with a roll to the side.

"Damn," he huffs. "Where’d that come from?"

You have no clue. To be honest, you’re not even that winded.

Instead of showing your own surprise, though, you flash him a grin as you offer him a hand. "What was that about getting your ass kicked?"

"Oh, you’re on."

Again, you manage to step out of his way before he makes contact, instinctively watching for his tell. The more annoyed at you he gets, the more clearly his eyes narrow before he launches an attack. It’s not something you’ve consciously picked up on before, but this morning, it seems like the most obvious thing in the world.

Still, Sam’s clearly gotten more sleep than you have, and you’re more evenly matched after the first round. Your head is still heavy, and you feel like someone’s wrapped you in cotton wool and turned you on the spot a couple of times. It makes you wired, lashing out with energy reserves you don’t have. When he attempts to drop you with a well-timed swipe of his leg, your elbow accidentally goes up, crashing into his face.

"Holy—time-out, ow fuck."

"Shit, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!"

Sam groans, tilting his head back. "That was some underground illegal fight club kinda shit."

"Are you okay?"

"I’m fine. Just—let’s maybe call it before I have to explain to the nation why I look like I got beat up in an alley."

"Isn’t that the Captain America style?"

He snorts. "Whatever you did, keep doing that. But not at my face next time, alright?"

"Yessir, captain," you say with a little salute as he climbs out of the ring and makes for the showers.

After your stretches, you stay on the mat, closing your eyes for a moment. Even though your headache has basically disappeared, you still feel odd. Like you’ve misplaced something.

"You look like shit."

You turn your head. Bucky doesn’t even look at you, instead concentrating on the little rag he cleans the inlets in his arm with. They leave glittering golden spots on the floor, hauntingly pretty in the way they dance. Something about it leaves you dizzy.

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

A tiny grin passes over his features so quickly you think you must have imagined it altogether. "How are you feeling?"

"Why?" you say skeptically, sitting upright. "Did you do something?"

His eyes meet yours, and there’s something so strangely familiar in them, sad and hopeful and nonsensical; you can’t put your finger on it, but it makes your heart twinge all the same.

"Me?" he says finally, huffing lightly. "Not at all."

"What do you mean?"

His jaw twitches before he lets go. "I think you nearly broke Sam’s nose, there."

"Scared?" you grin.

"Oh, shitless."

You laugh, and a split second, the way he looks at you changes to something much more intense, bright-eyed and steady. His hand tightens on the rag, and you notice some reddish-brown stains along its seam.

You really need to catch up on laundry.

"Don’t worry," you wink, leaning forwards. "I’m still there, watching your back."

"That’s good to know." For a moment, it looks like he wants to say something else, but he doesn’t, instead shaking his head. "Take the towel on the right, I already used the other one."

"Thanks, Buck."

He hesitates as he turns away from you, his vibranium fingers flexing as if reaching out for something before he lowers his head and leaves.

Weird, you think before shrugging and heading for the showers.

* * *

As the warm water hits your back, you let out a slow, blissful sigh. You don’t know why your muscles are aching quite so much; it’s like you’ve been moving for a lot longer than that forty minutes sparring session.

At least it’s over now, and by all accounts the rest of the day should be quiet. There’s nothing on the shared hero schedule yet, and you honestly doubt that much is gonna come up on Independence Day, of all days. Most supervillains are gonna be too busy getting drunk and stuffing themselves with hot dogs to make much progress on the whole world domination front.

Well, at least the local ones, you suppose. You’re really not responsible for what happens in, say, Portugal.

Then again, a weekend trip could be fun. You don’t get to travel much, after all. You’d have enjoyed your London stint a lot more, too, if that place wasn’t haunted with so many lingering memories.

Anyway. The best thing about today is that it’s Saturday tomorrow.

Until then, you’ll just hope nothing comes up and enjoy the holiday from the Tower. You’d probably get some coffee later. Maybe catch Sam’s speech on the television. The view of the fireworks is pretty nice from up here, too.

Realistically, though, you’re gonna be in bed by eleven again. Another uneventful day.

Maybe you should be more bummed out about your lack of plans.

When you enter the kitchen, Sam’s already staring at his laptop again over his bowl of cereal, as he’s done for the past couple of mornings as well.

"You okay, Sammy?" you ask, helping yourself to some toast.

"Sure." He rubs his temples. "It’s an extremely low-pressure event. Not like anyone’s gonna pay attention."

"That’s the spirit, Cap. Long live irrelevance."

"Not helpful."

"Can I help?"

He holds up his laptop. "Burn this and get me a new brain?"

"We can burn it tonight if it makes you happy. You just have to smash your grand entrance before then."

Sam groans and buries his face in his hands.

You laugh. "You need caffeine, my friend."

"We’re out of ground coffee," he replies, his voice muffled.

"Luckily, that’s just the kind of problem I actually can help with," you say. "Don’t fret, rescue will be here in ten."

"My hero," Sam says dryly, deleting another paragraph.

You hum around your toast as you collect your shoes from next to the coat rack. The damn song is still stuck in your head.

I go around a time or two, just to waste my time with you …

"You gettin’ coffee?"

You look up at Bucky. "Yeah. Do you want something?"

He shrugs, putting his hands into his jacket pockets. "I’ll come with. Get some fresh air."

You blink in surprise. "Sure."

It’s a quiet elevator ride. You rub the space just behind your temple where most of the pressure is coming from; it’s like you’re having a one-sided migraine.

Bucky keeps glancing at you without turning his head. "Y’alright?"

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

"I dunno," he says. "It’s been a long week."

"You could say that," you laugh. "You have any plans for the weekend?"

You see his spine stiffen. Of course; no actual personal information between you two. You don’t know what you expected. More than that, you don’t know why it stings.

"I’m not sure yet," he replies, and the elevator doors open with a ping.

The entrance hall of the Tower is mostly empty, but the streets are starting to get busy, people heading towards the nearby train station or walking their dogs. The steady buzz of traffic does wonders for your aching head.

The sign next to the door of your Starbucks tells you it’s happy hour. "Get two of your favorites for the price of one!" it says in Lucy’s beautiful handwriting next to a lovely drawing of two colorful plastic cups.

Inside, the air conditioning is on full blast and the smell of ground coffee is enough to make you sigh contentedly. The queue is about ten people deep, so you have some time to watch the people around you while you wait.

Bucky, thankfully, doesn’t seem much for conversation today. Or any day, if you’re being honest. You glance at him from the side again and find his eyes already on you.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he looked worried. But that doesn’t make any sense.

You move up the line. "How’s it going, Luce?"

"Ask for a frappuccino and I will fucking murder you." Your coworker tugs a strand of hair back under her cap with a sigh. "I swear, if I see another child today, I’m gonna quit."

"That bad already?" you ask with a sympathetic smile. Holidays always are, particularly at this store, since it’s only a hop and a fall from Grand Central.

"Please kill me," Lucy says dryly and then, "Usual?"

"Please," you say. "And a black iced tea with extra honey for Sam."

"Cap excited for the big speech?" she asks casually, tapping your order into the register.

"Driving himself up the walls."

"He’ll be great. Are you getting anything else?"

"What do you want?" you turn to Bucky.

"Same as her," he tells Lucy.

"Really," you say incredulously. "Stealing my order now, are we?"

"Thought I’d try something today," he shrugs. "Special occasions and all that."

"Well, it’s a step up from black coffee," you say and sign your receipt as he wanders off towards the drop-off.

There’s only one person behind you, so you linger at the register and wait for the unimpressed business guy to finish his order, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Love what you’ve done with your face, by the way."

"Thank you," Lucy says, proudly turning her head so you can admire both sides of her red-white-and-blue themed makeup. "Took me ages, too."

"I can imagine."

"You working this weekend?" She leans forward on her elbows, cracking her back.

"Not ’til Wednesday," you say with a grin.

"Boo, lucky," she groans. "I should go down with my hours, too. I feel like I’m in every day."

"Ask about Thursday," Cass calls over from the bar. "Iced grande extra whip caramel macchia—shit!"

Before the drink splashes all over the business man’s suit, Bucky catches the plastic cup at the last second. He hands it to the man with a stern look on his face and mutters something you don’t catch from where you’re standing. The man hurries off, his face reddening quickly.

"Right," Lucy says and pulls a flyer out of her back pocket, not paying any attention to that whole situation. "Cass and Sorin have a gig in Brooklyn next week and it’s gonna be really great."

Her eyes are very wide as she says this, which makes you doubt it.

"At least if our new bassist finally plays their part the way they’re supposed to," Cass says loudly.

"Mhm," Lucy nods. "Do you wanna come with? If you don’t want to hang with us all night, you can bring some friends, too." Her gaze flits over to Bucky, the emphasis hanging in the air between you like a dare.

"What kind of music do you play?" Bucky asks, reaching for the flyer with one hand while handing you your coffee with the other.

"It’s sort of nightcore punk," Cass says.

"There will be alcohol," Lucy adds when Bucky’s face does that thing. "Anyway, it’d be fun if you came. Think about it."

"I will." You raise your coffee cup at the two of them and say your goodbyes.

The hot air outside hits you like a slap to the face. You squint up at the blatantly blue sky; there’s not a single cloud in sight.

"What on earth," Bucky says, coming up next to you, "is nightcore?"

You throw your head back and laugh. "You might get to find out. How’s my coffee?"

He takes a sip and you watch him attentively as he licks his lips and looks at the ground. You don’t know what it is, exactly, but his face changes in a way you don’t expect; twitching, perhaps, but too quick to draw any conclusions from it.

"It’s really good," he says finally. "It’s just what I needed."

* * *

Something’s weird about today. You can’t really put your finger on it, but the odd feeling that’s been following you around all day never lessens, never dissipates. If anything, it grows bigger the longer the day goes on.

You sit down on the couch to read for a bit, and you’ve barely been scrolling on your phone for five minutes when Alpine meows at you.

You ignore her as you usually do, unwilling to collect another scratch on your arm today.

She meows louder.

"What do you want?" you say without looking up from your phone.

"I need a favor," Bucky says, leaning in from behind you. There’s a bemused expression on his face, but it doesn’t entirely wash the haunted look away from his eyes. "And you’re in her spot."

"Why does the cat need a spot on the couch, exactly?" you mumble before the first part registers. "Are you sick?"

"What?"

"Shit, are you dying? I’m not taking care of your cat, I’m putting her up for adoption."

Alpine bonks her head against your palm. She’s starting to really freak you out.

"Good to know," Bucky says. "I need a time pocket."

You snort. "Anything else? You know I can’t do that."

"Have you tried lately?"

"Fuck you, Barnes." For a moment, something flickers across his face, gone too quickly for you to pinpoint.

Alpine chooses that moment to jump up next to you and nudge her head against your hand once again. Then, she climbs into your lap and settles there with another indignant sound. And she starts purring.

You stare at her in surprise. "What the …" You turn to Bucky. "Since when does she like me?"

A tiny grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe she just needed some time warming up to ya."

"I’m scared," you say, your hands hovering over her. "I think she’s planning something."

"Do you want me to take her?"

"Don’t you dare."

He almost laughs when he walks off.

Yes, something’s definitely weird about today; you’re not entirely mad about it, though, even though you’d have to put your clothes through the washing. You already know you’re going to be covered in cat hair by the time you get up.

Whenever that might be; you’ve never been trapped by this particular cat before, and you’re pretty sure she’s fallen asleep. Considering your phone is only at 23%, the probability of you actually reading this morning has just skyrocketed.

You glance at your rings, biting the inside of your cheek. They shimmer in the sunshine, dark emerald barely speckled with black. It’s surprising, really, considering how little sleep you’ve been getting. Maybe it could be a good sign.

Have you tried lately?

The world comes to a gentle halt.

Usually, the standstill is more jarring than this, but today it’s more of a gradual thing washing over you and freezing everything else. You turn to look for Bucky who’s frozen mid-step, his arm glittering gold and onyx in the sunshine.

You reach out for something inside of you that could work the way he wants, could manage what he’s asking of you for whatever reason. You’re not sure why you’re trying at all.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Your powers don’t extend to anyone else, they never have. You’re stuck in a familiar silence, one that doesn’t scare you anymore.

And then the cat moves in your lap.

You flinch and reality stutters back to life. Bucky keeps walking, Sam finishes his paragraph, and Alpine turns around sleepily before rolling herself up again.

Your heart is beating so fast you can hear it in your ears. Impossible, you tell yourself. You’ve lost your grip earlier than you thought, is all. The world was already on its way back to moving.

That’s all it was.

Probably.

With a sigh, you gently pet Alpine’s back—you don’t trust this new armistice—and reach for your book. Apparently, you’ve misplaced your bookmark again.

For the next half an hour or so, you struggle to find where you’ve left off, but whenever you think you found the right place, your eyes completely skip over the following paragraph, convinced you’ve already read it. It’s a very unsatisfying conclusion, and you close the book with a frustrated flourish loud enough to wake the cat in your lap. She meows in disdain, like a knife scratching the whole diameter of a dinner plate.

"Is it time for lunch yet?"

"Please," Sam calls. You don’t think he’s moved away from his place at the kitchen counter at all. "Pizza?"

"No pizza," Bucky shouts from the workroom.

"Yes pizza," you say.

"God bless democracy," Sam says. "FRIDAY?"

"Sharing order forms across all devices."

You put your usual order in with a grin before cradling Alpine to your chest and moving to the workroom. You don’t usually go inside; most of the interesting stuff got packed up before the move to Avengers Campus, leaving a sterile looking, well-lit room with a large work bench and a single old rolling chair that Bucky is currently perched on.

"What are you doing?"

"What’s it look like?" he says, tongue poking his cheek.

"Like you’re trying to kill Redwing for good. What’s he done to you again?"

"I’m trying to fix it."

You tilt your head. "And you’re sure you’re feeling well?"

"I’m fine, sweetheart," he says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Something sharp and hot rushes through you and for a moment, you sway on your feet, dropping Alpine to the ground. When you come back into the present, Bucky’s grabbed your shoulders to steady you.

"What did you say?"

"I said I’m fine, but I feel like you aren’t." He pulls the chair up. "Sit."

"It’s just this headache I’ve had all day," you mumble, following his orders. "I’ll take some painkillers."

"You sure?"

Again, there’s that look in his eyes, something too close to concern to make sense, flickering amidst the blue. It draws you in like a moth to the flame, hypnotically familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

"Yes," you say, forcing your gaze to drop before he notices that your heart has picked up speed. "So why are we trying to fix your archnemesis? How’d you even find him?"

"It’s not my archnemesis." He sighs. "I don’t want Sam to go alone today."

It doesn’t escape your notice that he ignores your other question, but you decide to drop it. "Did you get a tip?"

"You could say that."

"Why don’t you go yourself?" He holds up his arm. "Okay, fair point, most conspicuous person in all of New York. What about me?"

He grins. "You’re a shit spy, Y/L/N."

"I resent that," you scowl.

"Doesn’t make it any less true. Which leaves us with no option than to try this."

"So it’s us now?"

His jaw clenches for a split second before he says, "You thought of something. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here." Before you can protest, the doorbell rings and his spine straightens. "I’ll get it."

His arm brushes against yours as he goes to leave the room, and before you can consciously decide to do it, the world around you stops spinning with a stutter once again. The hum of the AC, the barely audible noise from the city outside, the song playing from the living room speakers; it all halts once more, and a familiar silence envelops you.

You can feel Bucky freeze next to you because you’re still touching; his elbow presses into your side. Of course, it didn’t work. Why would it have?

Usele—

"Wow."

You whip around, keeping hold of Bucky’s arm as the world around you continues not to continue. He’s looking right at you; moving, breathing.

The world has stopped spinning for the two of you.

"Incredible," he says, drinking you in with his eyes. You’re unusually close, with your hand clutching around his metal arm. It’s whirring softly; you can barely hear it in the quiet of the universe.

You let out a breathless laugh. "Not too bad, right?"

Bucky smiles softly. "You’re a genius."

Not a trace of sarcasm in the statement, only honest admiration. Something warms right underneath your collarbone.

"We’ll need another co-conspirator, though," he says before you can make sense of the feeling. "Unless you’ve gotten really good at engineering lately."

"If only you’d told me last week. I could’ve prepared something." You look at where you’re still holding onto him. For some reason, you don’t want to let go. "I don’t know how this works," you confess.

"Only one way to find out."

You get your fingers to loosen, slightly, and Bucky pulls his arm away. Inconceivably, he doesn’t stop moving.

A pulse of your powers ripples through you, but the world stays on pause.

"Can you hold it?"

"I think so," you say, reaching for your necklace with a frown. It’s warm to the touch. "I’ve never done this before, though."

You’d expect more of a strain, if you’re being honest, but right now, it feels simple. Like you’ve merely hit the pause button on a remote control and wandered off.

"What are we doing, then?"

Instead of answering, he leads you into the hallway, past Sam, who’s frozen next to the kitchen counter. He has two different documents pulled up on his laptop, one with the bullet points for his speech later, large font and multiple colors; the other one looks like government protocols, some sort of status report with graphs that are too small for you to decipher at a glance.

"Y/N?"

"Mhm, present." You join Bucky at the front door, raising your eyebrows. "Him?"

"Yup."

"Why?"

"You trust me?"

You blink. He’s never asked you that before, and you don’t think you have an answer.

Again, you consider the young delivery guy in front of you. He’s precariously balanced a stack of pizza boxes on one arm while reading something on his phone, brown hair sticking up wildly in all directions. There’s nothing about him that screams Fixes Drones In Spare Time.

But there’s something weird about today, and you feel your powers bubble up in nervous anticipation.

So you boop the guy on the nose.

He blinks to life again and flinches backwards so violently it’s honestly impressive he doesn’t drop your food. "Holy—"

"It worked!" you laugh.

"Genius," Bucky repeats under his breath.

"What worked? Where did you even—why is it so quiet? Guys? Am I dead again?"

* * *

The weirdest thing about this is still that you’re not putting that much effort in. Usually, with the world on hold, there’s a part of you that has to consciously hold onto that fact for the whole time, even if it’s just a very small part. Today, though, hours pass by and you feel completely fine. Like you’ve done it before and have gotten used to it ages ago.

Gentle swaths of green light dance around your fingers as everything keeps still, and you watch them delightedly. One thousand-odd feet below, New York City is frozen in place, just like it’s been for the past couple of hours.

It’s peaceful up here. You’ve brought your book up a while back, after your phone ran out of battery, but it’s still disconcertingly predictable, and so you’ve resorted to playing with your powers.

"You alright?" Bucky asks, sitting down on the ledge of the roof next to you.

With a last quiver, the light sinks back into your skin. "You keep asking that and it’s getting creepy."

He huffs, looking down on the streets below. His arm is gleaming in the frozen noon sun.

"Parker’s doing good work," he says after a while. "We’ll probably be done soon."

You finally manage to avert your gaze, leaning your head against the half wall next to you. "I still don’t understand why you know him. Or why he happened to have the exact right spare parts for this thing in his backpack."

Judging by the glances and the polite but close-lipped smiles, Peter’s been sworn to secrecy long before he’s started working on Redwing One’s sensors. It’s all very annoying.

"You don’t need to know everything," Bucky says.

"Ugh," you grimace. "Says who?"

"How’s your head?"

You resign yourself to getting no answers out of him today. "Surprisingly okay, considering. I could just fall asleep, though." You yawn. "Pretty sure that’d continue time as usual, though, so maybe not yet."

Bucky contemplates you for a while, and then he says, "Get up."

You pout. "No. Why?"

"Just do it."

Begrudgingly, you let him haul you to your feet. You’re already mentally preparing to refuse to do push-ups or run drills or whatever the army did to purposefully cause sleep deprivation, when he pulls you closer instead. His hands both come to rest at your back while yours, helplessly, settle on his chest.

You can feel his heartbeat like this, sped up due to the serum coursing through his veins. His face is unreadable but steadily on you, when he takes a step towards you, making you stumble backwards. He takes a step back again.

"What are you doing?" you whisper.

"What’s it look like?" Another step, to the side this time. A half-turn.

You bite the inside of your cheek. "I can’t dance."

"True," he says, stepping towards you again. "You also can’t fall asleep while you’re dancing."

You can’t argue with that logic. Besides, it’s weirdly nice. You’ve never seen this side of Bucky before, and it feels odd and right at the same time. Like without you noticing, he’s growing into his own again after a very long time.

"You tell that to all the girls back in your day?" Your hands come up slowly, lightly gripping his shoulders to better keep your balance as you keep swaying. He makes no attempt to stop you.

"I don’t think any of them were that worried about falling asleep."

"Now that’d depend entirely on your skillset, wouldn’t it?"

Bucky stumbles and you hide your laugh in his chest as you fall back into an easy, entirely imaginative rhythm. He smells really nice, you think. Familiar, even though you’ve not been this close to him since … yeah, since when?

For some reason, your fingers keep itching to play with the collar of his shirt. It looks so soft.

"You know," you say, tightening your hold on his shoulders ever so slightly, "I think there’s something terribly wrong with the world today."

"Yeah." He spins you both again, towards the ledge and away again. "Fucking tell me about it."

Again, something warm uncurls in your stomach, soft and comfortable. It’s not enough to let you shake the feeling that’s been haunting you all day, but it’s something, at least.

You keep dancing, and even though your eyes flutter closed every now and then, you feel very wide awake; or maybe you just feel very present, with Bucky’s hands gently pressing against your lower back and his eyes focused somewhere just over your shoulder. Your headache fades to background noise, something tingling at the very back of your mind.

It takes you a long while to notice that the world isn’t completely standing still at all; it’s just moving very, very slowly. Changes so small they are imperceptible to witness, only obvious after they’ve already happened.

Which is a new one in addition to you being able to have two people in your little time pocket with you.

"I’m feeling a little dizzy," you mumble.

Bucky slows, his gaze finding yours again. "Too much spinning?"

No. "Yeah. Probably."

Damn, have his eyes always been so … blue? How come you’ve never let yourself notice before today?

"Maybe we should stop."

You swallow. Your thoughts are a little fuzzy. "I think we have."

Bucky doesn’t smile, but something in his face softens. At some point, his hands must have slipped to your hips, like he’s not sure whether to keep you at this distance or pull you closer.

Why would he hesitate? He can’t stand you, remember?

There’s a whirring in the silence of the universe, and you jerk back. When you turn around, Redwing is hovering just above your head.

"Good news, guys," Peter calls from the door. "I think I did it. That was so cool!"

With an exhale, reality returns back to normal. You take another step away from Bucky, blinking repeatedly. His jaw is clenched tightly, his arms stiff at his sides, like he can still feel the shape of you in his hold and isn’t happy about it.

It shouldn’t hurt.

* * *

"I thought the point was to not have to come here," you shout.

"I told you to stay home and take a nap," Bucky replies. "I believe your exact words were, 'I have never needed a nap in my entire life'."

"Well, I didn’t think you were serious," you reply, gesturing at the packed hall. "You hate crowds. And speeches."

"I don’t hate speeches."

You roll your eyes. Over the speakers, there’s a deafening commercial jingle you’re going to have stuck in your head for the next few hours.

Bucky steers you through the seats in a pattern that makes no sense to you. You’re veering towards the other side of the podium, like he wants to stare at the speakers’ backs. You’re cutting it close on time, and people are giving you dirty looks.

You should’ve taken that stupid nap.

"Where’s Redwing, then?"

Sam wasn’t exactly thrilled about a civilian messing around with his gear—you believe his exact words were, "if you ever touch my stuff again, I’ll laser your other arm off"—but even he’s had to admit that a couple of preliminary tests resulted in Redwing acting functional, at the very least.

"Around," Bucky says.

Throughout the Garden, the crowd erupts in cheers. You can see Sam has entered the stage they’ve erected in the middle of the field, giving a polite wave in his full Captain America uniform, wings extended, the shield hanging loosely from the other arm. His smile is blown up on the screens overhead, large enough that you can see the gap between his front teeth. A small dot in the corner tells you it’s being broadcast live across the nation.

Bucky’s unperturbed even though he squares his shoulders a little. His gaze flits between the screens and the crowd like he’s trying to orient himself.

"Who are we looking for?" you shout over the noise.

Finally, he moves towards one of the rows, mumbling excuses to the annoyed middle-aged couple with matching caps. You pull your own baseball cap deeper into your face when you notice how close to the range of the cameras you’re getting. You’re almost down at the pit, and surrounded by people who’ve brought their own signs. You stop right behind #ONYOURLEFT, as one look at the screens tells you; you’re only just out of frame.

"I don’t like this," you hiss at Bucky, joining the clapping that’s still going on.

"Five minutes," he says. "I promise."

You take your seat, angling yourself so that you’re completely hidden by the sign in front of you, then look back at Bucky. He keeps checking his watch.

"Are you about to make a drug deal? What the hell is happening?"

You search the heads of the people in front of you; none particularly stand out. Everyone’s turning away from you, cheering and wooing as Sam awkwardly scratches his neck. Then, you find the one person apart from Bucky who’s not joining the general merriment; it’s a woman with short blonde hair who’s hunched over in her seat in the row in front of you, typing furiously on her phone.

Then, to your surprise, she half-turns in her seat to take a call. Her face looks familiar, but it takes you a moment to recognize her.

The feedback from the microphone makes you grimace. One glance at Bucky tells you he’s clenched his teeth, his brows furrowed at he stares at the floor in front of you.

In a stadium filled with thousands of people, he’s trying to eavesdrop.

You bump your knee against his and shake your head incredulously. You are crazy, you mouth silently and he grins. It takes him a while to lift his eyes from your lips again. You ignore the way that makes your heart lurch, instead turning to look at the screens.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Sam starts his speech.

Even as the crowd quietens down, you strain to hear anything from the hushed conversation in the row ahead. You only catch a few disconnected words that don’t make any sense; "cooling" and "quicker" and "stakes".

You glance at Bucky again and realize he’s drifted closer to you, his eyes still closed in an effort to hear something.

Your heart gives a painful tug.

You scooch away from his seat, but unfortunately, the woman catches the movement out of the corner of her eye.

"—call you back. Barnes."

"Sharon," he says, opening his eyes. "What a surprise."

Sharon Carter looks him up and down. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

"I like keeping people on their toes."

"I remember." She raises her eyebrows at you. "New girl?"

For the first time in a while, you wish you still had your damn cape.

"You’re being rude, you know," Bucky says, flicking his eyes towards the stage.

"Outside," she mutters, gets up and leave.

"Five minutes?" you say skeptically.

Bucky grimaces. "Maybe ten. Listen, you don’t have to—"

"I’m not staying here," you interrupt. She’s already clocked you, so it’d be weirder not to follow him out.

With a sigh, you make your way through the same frustrated cluster of people in your row again, silently apologizing to Sam on the big screen for missing his first official July 4th speech.

"Now, more than ever, it’s important for us to trust one another," he continues with his firm Cap voice, not noticing the commotion behind his back. "None of us can do this alone."

For a split second, you’re tempted to pull time back and force her to forget seeing either of you. Your fingers are already twitching at your sides, only hesitating when you see the determined look on Bucky’s face.

The door falls shut behind you.

Agent Carter is already waiting for you in the deserted hallway, her arms crossed.

"I’m guessing this isn’t going to be a friendly catch-up," Bucky says loudly.

"Are we friendly?"

She starts walking, Bucky falling in step with her easily while you have to hurry to keep up. Your headache’s started up again.

"What brings you here?" she asks.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing," he replies.

"Can’t I just show my support?" She doesn’t wait for a response before rolling her eyes. "I was going to catch Sam after his speech, but since you’re already here: What were you doing in London?"

Bucky shrugs. "Did some sightseeing. Watched Frozen."

"I mean when you nearly blew up a fucking building in Harley Street."

"Oh, that." His hands disappear into the pockets of his jacket. "Tragic, really. Gaslights are a hazard."

They really are. That nearly was hard work on your part. In your eyes, that mission went well enough—especially since Redwing’s fine again now.

"Director’s not happy," Agent Carter says.

"Last time I checked, Sam and I didn’t work for the CIA. And your part in this is, what, playing messenger?"

Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. "Leave the demolition to the builders, alright? That’s all." She looks at you, giving you a cursory, dismissive once-over. "Letting this guy into your life is inviting a whole bunch of trouble."

Something prickles behind your temples.

"I dunno," you say. "I like my odds."

With a razor-sharp smile, she regards both of you one more time, and then walks away.

"Happy Independence Day, Agent," Bucky calls after her.

She gives him the finger without turning around.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you let out a shaking breath, your shoulders deflating. "What on earth was that about?"

Bucky shakes his head slowly, the gears in his head turning. "I have no fucking clue."

* * *

"Something is very, very wrong here."

"You always say that," Sam says, securing the room ahead and then nodding for you to follow him.

"Yeah, and I’m usually right." Your fingers are itching for you to flick them and speed up this terrible silence so that you can at least know what’s going on. This place already feels too ominously familiar for your liking, even though you’re positive you’ve never been here before.

It’s like a scene out of a nightmare, anyway. What little of the low sunlight makes it in through the dirty windows gives the hallway a strange, eerie atmosphere. The air is thick with a stench you can’t identify.

"Lovely interior design," Sam mumbles. You follow his gaze to a pile of bones that lie scattered in one of the rudimentary holding cells you’re walking past. A spider runs from his flashlight and you grimace.

"Sam," you say, focusing on the half-extended wings on his back again. "Did you invent this mission to get us to go to a haunted house with you?"

He snorts lightly as he pulls the cloth off the crates that are stacked alongside the wall. There’s a single red handprint near the bottom right of each of them. You almost sigh.

"Do you think I’d pass up the opportunity to hear the two of you scream in terror when the vampire puppets creep up on you?"

"Gotta disappoint you, cap," you grin and wait for him to check in with Redwing. "I only scream when there’s good reason."

"Like what?" Bucky says, smirking at you.

An unexpected flash of something hot goes down your spine and you roll your eyes. "Wouldn’t you like to know, wolf boy."

He raises a single eyebrow. "That’s a new one."

"Try to catch up." Your eyes flick to your rings. Two of them have turned a deep black while the others are still a shimmering deep emerald with a few darker specs. Not bad for an afternoon that lasted about ten hours. "We should be good on the resets but this place gives me the creeps, so don’t be stupid, alright?"

"I prefer heroic," Sam says. "They’re closing in, by the way."

"You alright?" Bucky asks while you place the explosives you’ve brought next to the wall Sam has pointed out. It’s not the most elegant way, but there hasn’t been time to research key codes or break in quietly, so you’re going in with a bang.

You nod. "Just haven’t gotten a lot of sleep since …" Wow. For some reason, it feels like ages ago. "It’s gonna be fine," you continue. "Just try not to get killed."

If you didn’t know better, you’d think Bucky looks ever so slightly worried.

"We’ll be okay," you repeat and he nods.

"'Course we will."

The little timer starts counting down from ten.

"Alright, guys," Sam says as all three of you take cover behind the shield. "Five. Four."

"Careful," Bucky says quietly just as you hear Redwing’s tranquilizer shots find their marks outside. You turn to look at Bucky questioningly.

"One."

You shut your eyes just in time before the door gets blasted off its hidden hinges. A cloud of dust hits your face and you start coughing violently.

"Why would you breathe in?" Bucky has the nerve to sound amused as he claps you on the back a few times until the grim has finally cleared from your lungs.

"Shut up," you rasp, roughly drying your eyes with your sleeve.

His hand gives you another almost gentle pat before you looks at the newly cleared entryway. Just like you expected, the lab on the other side looks empty.

"I’m gonna keep One outside just in case there’s any more comin’," Sam says just in time for Redwing Two to whir back towards him and click into place.

You take a look over your shoulder back down the hall. Just outside, you can see the blinking lights of Redwing One’s rear; in the gloomy light, they look wraithlike, and you can’t help but frown as the uneasy feeling sinks deeper into your bones. Like a tingle that claws its way down your spine to settle in your fingertips. You pull your gun out of the holster.

"Don’t you feel like this is way too easy?" you say quietly, reassuming your position in front of Bucky.

"Yup," Sam says, shield still held up in front of him. He keeps moving forward, Redwing Two detaching again to scan the room ahead.

The lab is small and crammed with tables that are overflowing with strangely colored concoctions and stacks upon stacks of papers. You take a step closer, trying to make sense of the strange chemical formulas scribbled next to a bunch of tables and graphs. It’s not exactly your strong subject, though, and you can’t really concentrate with someone else breathing down your neck.

"You’re hovering again, Barnes," you say without looking up; you feel his gaze lingering on you, heavy with something he doesn’t say. "You sure you’re alright?"

Not for the first time today, he seems to be lost in thought. His eyes flicker to the amulet around your neck before returning to your own. "We might have to step on it," he shrugs.

"You’re so weird today," you reply.

"This isn’t it," Sam says, closing the last of the filing cabinets with a bang. "But look at that."

Bucky is still staring at you, and for some reason, you don’t want to look away. You force yourself to, anyway.

"What did you find?"

"Scanner found a hollow behind this one," Sam says, knocking against one of the cabinets. "Someone gimme a hand here."

He moves to the side when Bucky gestures for him to, letting him hook his vibranium arm into the cabinet and pull. With a screech of protest, the entire thing slowly moves open to reveal a broad winding staircase leading downwards. Another wave of the horrid smell hits you, even stronger now, like something metallic that’s being set on fire.

"Show-off," you mumble as you slip past Bucky. Out of the corner of your eye, you think he smirks a little.

The stairs go down deeper and deeper for ages, lit by motion detector lights that turn your shadows into overly large figures on the opposite wall. It doesn’t ease your premonition in the slightest; nor that odd sense of déjà-vu that’s been looming behind you all day.

You really, really need a day off.

Finally, everything opens up and you look down into a large, almost cave-like room. It extends pretty far backwards before it splits into several tunnels that remind you of the one you spotted when you got out of the quinjet earlier.

But despite the stone walls and your being several feet underground, it is surprisingly warm down here, probably due to the several giant containers placed along one of the walls that seem to be the source of the atrocious smell. They are also faintly glowing.

"Are we gonna get radiation poisoning? Because you definitely don’t pay me enough for that." You wrinkle your nose.

"I doubt they’d send their own people 'round the perimeter with nothing more than a face mask if those things were radioactive," Sam says. "And you’re here voluntarily."

"That’s a nice way of putting it," you mumble, but you follow him anyway.

Unlike the lab upstairs, everything here looks orderly, almost pristine. Not a single sheet of paper is unfiled, the metal tables are empty and wiped clean. There’s a gentle whirring sound that leads your gaze to several monitors, some of which are showing different maps and security camera footage while others seem to be tracking the progress of some sort of test.

"Look at that," Sam says again, stepping closer to the containers. "What is that?"

A dark blue liquid is slowly dropping out of a hole near the bottom of one of the containers. Bucky kneels down next to it.

"Don’t touch that!" you say quickly and he looks bemused.

"I wasn’t going to."

Redwing Two bumps into his side and he looks at it irritatedly. Then, he rolls his eyes, moving out of the way so it can collect a little sample in a glass vial.

"Maybe we can send that to Banner, have him take a look." Sam walks over to the computers and plugs in a drive. "We’ll make a copy of that for Torres and then get out of here."

"What do you think that is?" you wonder, crossing your arms in front of your chest. Once again, this mission has you feeling unbelievably superfluous.

You only wish your damn migraine would finally go away.

"Not the serum," Bucky answers as if he could read your thoughts. "But based on what these guys have been up to, it’s not gonna be good."

"Have you been doing research?" you ask.

"Are you impressed?"

You’d roll your eyes, too, if you didn’t know that’d only make that stupid smirk reappear. "Can we leave before I do something I’ll regret?" you shout at Sam.

It returns anyway.

"I think we have another problem right now," Sam says, looking up from the monitors. "We’re getting company."

Only a moment later there’s a thunderous crash and the table to your far left bursts into flames. You stumble backwards. Right overhead, there’s a large round hole where the floor of the small lab on the first floor used to be.

All of a sudden, dozens of people descend upon you from all directions, swarming the lab and surrounding you within seconds. They’re all dressed exactly the same, white jackets over their black overalls, identical white face masks and goggles, and matching black berets.

"Oh, this is like a nightmare flash mob," you shout as you avoid the first kick to your face. "They must’ve sounded a silent alarm!"

"Redwing should’ve been able to intercept that," Sam shouts. "Always the damn glitches!"

Bucky punches another white jacket in the jaw, his eyes darting around wildly. You aim your gun just as Sam flings his wings out, swishing your target off their feet. Behind them, another group closes in. You fire without a second thought, and three of them drop to the ground.

Just as you try to reload your weapon, there’s a sickening cracking noise behind you and someone stumbles into you hard enough your gun drops to the ground. It slides across the floor towards the center of the room.

You start after it, kicking another white jacket in the chin as they reach for it first. They stay down when you hit them over the head with the barrel of your gun.

Another explosion makes you turn back around. A shower of glass splinters and burning pieces of paper rains down through the hole on the first floor, taking bits of the ceiling down with it.

"We better get moving," Sam shouts. "If you take care of the drive and these idiots, I’ll clear the tunnels for a way out of here!"

Wordlessly, Bucky holds up his arm. Sam throws the shield, hitting two more white jackets in the face before Bucky catches it with ease. You kick another one of them in the groin, wrangling the weapon out of their grasp.

"Who the fuck brings a knife to a fight like this?" you shout.

Bucky doesn’t answer, holding up the shield to protect both of you from hailing gunshots. His face is a little pale.

"What’s—wrong—with you—today?" Each of your words is punctuated by a punch.

His eyes catch yours as he raises his gun and shoots, not even looking. Through the comms, you hear a yelp that isn’t Sam’s, followed by the sound of Redwing’s lasers cutting through something that promptly detonates.

"How’re you doing, Sam," he says, still staring at you with that odd expression.

"Get out of there asap," Sam replies. "I can see at least another dozen heading in. I’ll send Redwing to try to cut them off, but it won’t buy us much time."

Something flickers in Bucky’s eyes, somehow resolute and desperate at the same time. "Y/N—"

You tear your gaze away, landing on the monitors on the far side of the room. "I think it’s done."

"Ah, fuck," Bucky says, but you’re already running. Behind you, there’s the metallic clang of the shield hitting a reinforced cap.

You’ve not had to use your powers yet in this fight, and it feels like time is getting impatient with you. It makes you almost trip over your own feet, pulling the drive out of the computer and holding it up triumphantly just as Bucky reaches you.

"See?" you grin. "All—"

He crashes into you at full speed, one hand supporting your head as the other comes around your torso. Less than a second later, the computer explodes.

The two of you are thrown forwards, but Bucky catches your fall, rolling both of you over and out of harm’s way. Your ears are ringing, and you can tell by the buzzing that your intercom is probably broken. Surprisingly, you both seem unharmed apart from that.

Bucky stares at you, face only a few inches from yours, breathing heavily. "How the fuck do you do this?"

Every cell of your body is on fire. "Do what?"

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but look at you. Then, he quickly presses his forehead to yours closing his eyes. "Geez," he says, and then he mumbles something under his breath, and it almost sounds like—

No. Definitely not.

You shake the broken comm pieces out of your ear and let him pull you back to your feet, your cheeks flaming. Even when you’re standing, he doesn’t let go of your hand, just starts walking in the direction of the tunnels.

Your headache is back in full swing, and something pulls at your insides, a feeling that’s impossible to ignore; and yet you just can’t seem to pinpoint it. It doesn’t make any sense.

"Bucky?" you whisper, stumbling after him, your hands still intertwined. You can see a green flicker dancing between your fingers.

"Yeah?"

"This could’ve gone a lot worse, right?"

He chuckles, a low, lovely sound that strikes a chord at your very core. It makes you speed up to match his long strides. You feel the sudden need to see his eyes.

"Ain’t that the truth, sweetheart."

There’s sweat on his brow and blood on his neck, and somehow, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

"Then why do I feel like the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet?"

Bucky looks at you, and you realize with a sudden pang that he looks utterly resigned. Like he, too, knows, deep down, this isn’t over yet.

"Buck—" you start, but at that moment there’s a thunderous clash right behind you, like someone’s ripped a hole through the entire cave wall.

"Run," Bucky says, and then he’s jerking you along, shield up high as you speed through the tunnels. One curve after the other, until you feel like surely you’re almost at the end of it; there’s no way for these burrows to just keep going endlessly, like a labyrinth made of cold stone and darkness.

On and on you keep running, and behind you the horrible sounds continue, coming ever closer. Your lungs are on fire. You can’t see anything, and you know that Bucky is slowing down for your sake, even though you don’t understand why he would.

"You should go," you gasp as you round another curve. "Get Sam. The jet."

"I’m not leaving you," Bucky replies. He is starting to sound out of breath as well, which is about as bad a sign as it gets.

"'M fine," you pant. "Stop time. Get out." Everything is starting to get blurry in front of your eyes.

"Look!"

There’s light. You’d cheer if you weren’t hyperventilating. You can see the end of this tunnel, getting closer and closer, until you finally round another corner and—

Everything opens up and you come to a halt in a large, almost cave-like room. On the far side, a broad winding staircase leads up. The ceiling’s mostly collapsed, with bits of debris lying around everywhere, flames licking at computers and lab equipment.

"How?" you manage.

Bucky lets go of your hand, stepping in front of you. "Maybe we need to—"

Another clashing sound, much louder than before. A feeling of bone-deep despair takes hold of you before you even consciously realize what’s happened.

Your body acts before you do, firing at the white jacket pointing a smoking blaster at you. You don’t know where they even came from; out of nowhere, it seemed. Like they were a bad dream come to life for just one crucial moment.

There’s so much blood.

You fall to your knees next to Bucky, frantically pressing your hands on the wound in his chest. The trouble is, it doesn’t seem to make any sense. You’d expect something bad from a blast like that, but through your blurry eyes, it almost looks like a stab wound. No, gunshot wounds. No, his chest has caved in.

You reach backwards, over and over, but your hands can’t seem to get a grip on time. It keeps slipping through your fingers.

"Bucky, you have to stay with me, do you hear me? Please."

With a jolt, you force the world to stand still so you can maybe think, blinking the tears away, refusing to let him out of focus. His injury settles on gunshot wounds, but he’s still twitching in your hold.

He barely gets your name out, blood bubbling out of the corner of his mouth. He drops his right hand on his chest, just above his heart, his vibranium hand coming up to your face. You’ve never seen it shake before.

Gently, his fingertips trail along the side of your neck, catching in your necklace.

"You," he whispers, barely audible, with so much emotion on his face you can barely breathe.

And then his hand drops and his eyes glaze over.

You scream.

You scream in the quiet of a standing universe, not understanding what just happened, why you were not able to stop it. You don’t understand, you don’t know what the point of any of this strange day was.

You feel it, though. You feel the rage and the shock and the grief, all at once, mixed together so potently you’re sure you need to explode to process it at all. You are consumed by it.

The pendant around your neck grows hot, the physical sensation of it brutal enough to force you back into this moment on the floor of a cold cave with Bucky dead on your feet.

And then, with a strange sort of clarity, you remember what he said earlier.

We might have to step on it.

The strange emphasis he put on the last part, the glance at your necklace, him reaching up. All the little moments in the lead-up to this that haven’t quite made sense.

The thoughts come rushing in, swirling wildly through your brain as you slowly get back up.

What if he knows something you don’t?

Even though that’s impossible. Right?

But there’s that tugging you’ve felt all day that tells you it’s not. Not quite. You just can’t make sense of it right now.

You trust me? Step on it.

You tear your necklace off and look at it one last time before you drop it on stamp on it with your heel until the stone in its center cracks.

A shudder goes through you. Your power is bubbling up underneath your skin as if it’s waking up, as if it’s been waiting for this exact moment, and for the first time in your life, you’re not afraid of it.

You raise your hands out of habit but then you realize, as if you’d known all along, that that’s not necessary; it’s too grand a gesture. You don’t have to reset the whole world, not this time. You only have to reset this.

So you do.

Green waves drip from your hands, billowing down Bucky’s cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. His eyes are still frozen in time, reflecting the lights surrounding both of you, and it’s a new and all-too familiar sight at once.

One by one, the bullets drop out of his chest as if pulled by invisible strings, and you pluck them from the air and toss them to the ground as you sink to your knees.

The holes blown into Bucky’s jacket are gone, like they’d never been there in the first place.

Your head is swimming, showing you new images, different ones as vaguely familiar as memories but too fast to focus on. What’s left behind is this feeling of breathless yearning unlike any you’ve ever felt, like you’re pressing your hand against a glass, looking in on something you can’t quite grasp.

"Bucky?" you whisper, but the void doesn’t answer. It’s still lying in wait, and you’re not done yet.

Another wave of nausea rolls over you, your powers making your entire body tingle, bubbling up like they’re screaming at you to do something. Without even thinking about it, you press the palms of your hands together and push.

A rush of light and energy pours into the place between your hands with concentrated force, and something inside you uncoils, like you’re pulling at the very root of it all. It’s a thread that tightens, and then snaps.

You’re thrown backwards with the force of it, right as the world resumes turning with a stutter. Your hand cramps around the thing in your hand, barely bigger than a coin, its blunt edges cutting you open.

You can just see Bucky sit up with a gasp for air before your head knocks against the stone floor and everything turns black.

* * *

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

You’ve been here before.

This empty nothingness feels familiar to you, even before you open your weary eyes. You’re neither warm nor cold, weirdly weightless, like you’re remembering a dream.

Déjà vu.

The world around you is hazy in the afterglow of the sun just disappearing on the horizon. You’re standing in the middle of an empty street that looks different than you remember, all sharp angles and off colors. It reminds you of the astral realm.

You blink.

You only have a vague recollection of it, like the memories all got jumbled and disconnected, just out of reach.

Your feet have started moving without your conscious decision, walking along this street you vaguely recognize. You’re surrounded by a comfortable quiet, and some deep-rooted knowledge inside you tells you that even though you’re outside of time, right now, you don’t have to carry its weight.

A cool breeze tickles your neck like it’s whispering your name, but when you turn to look over your shoulder, no one’s there. There’s only mist and void.

When you turn back around, there’s a small figure sitting in the middle of the street in front of you, a child wearing a jumpsuit and a yellow shirt that you know for a fact has three little holes below the left sleeve. She’s hugging her knees to herself as she watches you approach through wary eyes, her hands balled into fists so tight her nails must be digging into the palms of her hands.

Oh, you think with a painful tug of your heart. That’s what this is.

You approach slowly, not wanting to frighten the girl, sitting down with your legs crossed underneath you, just like her.

"Hi," you say softly.

She doesn’t reply.

"What are you doing?" you prompt.

The girl bites her lip, not sure if she should talk to you. "I’m waiting," she tells you finally.

"What are you waiting for?"

"You know," she says reproachfully. "Things aren’t moving."

You do know. The silence surrounding you is familiar, after all. You’ve known it all your life.

"How long have you been waiting?" you ask.

The girl looks at her feet. She twists her fingers. "I’m not sure," she says. "A long while. It’s very boring."

"I know it is."

She sizes you up carefully, considering all of you right as you are, and you let her. It takes some time.

That’s fine.

"What are you doing here?" she asks finally.

"I’m not sure," you say. "I think I’m here to pick you up."

"To go where?"

"Home?"

She pouts. "But I was waiting."

"I know. It might take a while, though." You tilt your head and she does the same, a little mirror image. "We could drink some hot chocolate while we wait."

That does catch her interest. "Yeah?"

"Sure." You both get up and pat the dust off your legs. "It’s not far, is it?"

"No," she replies, taking your hand. "Just around the corner. Did you forget?"

"Maybe a little."

You start walking and the breeze picks up again, twirling mist between your legs and playing with the girl’s hair. It smells like warm cookies.

As you’re holding her hand, the girl grows a little taller, skipping along. "Does it get easier?" she asks after a while.

"It does," you say. "And it doesn’t. It’s like some things get scarier with time and others are less scary. You know?"

"Not really."

"It’s harder in a lot of ways. But it’s easier when you’re not alone."

"I’m always alone," she whispers.

"No, you’re not. I’m here. And we’re getting hot chocolate."

"You don’t count."

"Now that’s just mean." You pass houses you barely recognize and others you know well, but you’re not there yet. "But if I’m not alone, that means you aren’t either. That’s just how it works."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"So we’ll be okay?"

You squeeze your hand. "We’ll be just fine, honey."

She hums contentedly, some song you vaguely recollect. You’ve not heard it in a very long time.

"Do you have to go again soon?" the girl asks. "After, I mean."

You look around at the strange colors and the almost forgotten memories, and your steps feel a bit lighter, somehow. You take a deep breath, basking in this frozen little moment.

"I think I have a little more time," you say. "I have to get back, though."

She smiles, widely. "Yes, please."

epilogue

He did. In fact, he tried to get you a whole new couch, but you liked the one you already had.

“Thank you,” he told you for the twentieth time as you helped him up to his apartment the next morning. His wounds had already started to close. “This really isn’t necessary.”

“Nurse’s orders,” you replied sternly and kept your grip on his arm until you reached his front door. No welcome mat, no seasonal decorations, not even his name next to the bell.

He coughed, as if there was anything to be embarrassed about now. “I’m Bucky, by the way.”

You nodded politely. “I know.” That arm did him no favors when it came to staying anonymous.

There was a quiet scratching coming from the other side of the door, but his eyes didn’t stray from yours. They looked pretty, you supposed, when they weren’t glazed over in pain. “And do I get your name?”

“With the receipt from my dry cleaning.”

His low chuckle followed you back downstairs.

The second time wasn’t nearly as bad. In fact, his knock on your door was so tentative you wouldn’t even have heard it had you not just walked by the door one last time to check the locks before bed.

“Sorry,” he said as soon as you cracked the door open. “I’m kinda out of thread?”

The gash in his palm was deep, but not bad by any standards; still, you could understand why he’d be cautious with wounds on his right side. He didn’t even flinch once as you stitched him up.

“You’re a good patient,” you told him, pulling the knot tight.

Bucky huffed quietly. “All your good patients show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night?”

“No,” you shrugged, setting your tools aside for sterilization. “But there’s gotta be something that makes you special, right?”

There was something akin to a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth right as you turned away.

“I owe you,” he called after you.

You raised your brows. “You wanna repay me for a bit of suture?”

“And your professional craftsmanship,” Bucky said. “D’you think I could do stitches that neat with my left hand?”

Honestly, yes. But if he insisted …

“I have Saturday night off,” you said. “How about a takeout?”

His grin widened a fraction. “We’re talkin’ food, right?”

“Yes,” you laughed. “For now.”

You weren’t sure whether to expect him to join you on Saturday, but he showed up on your doorstep at 6 p.m. sharp, completely unharmed this time. Instead, he was carrying several plastic bags full of food.

“I wasn’t sure what to get, so …” he muttered once you’d stopped laughing and showed him into the kitchen.

“So you got everything?” You eyed the containers of food, all steaming and smelling divine. “Are we expecting seven more?”

“We?” He sounded so genuinely surprised that you shook your head at him incredulously.

“You don’t expect me to eat all of this on my own!” You took plates and cutlery for two out of your cupboards. “I’m pretty sure I owe you now, Bucky.”

Another tentative smile formed on his face, again a bit wider than the last one you’d seen. You wondered how long it would take you to get a full laugh.

It became a habit, you bandaging up whatever wounds he got on his latest mission and the two of you sharing takeout on your nights off, some movie the background noise to your chatting. In the beginning, it was mostly you talking, telling him about work, about your friends, asking only few questions about his life. It took Bucky a couple of weeks to open up on his own. To relax his shoulders where he was sitting, until he slouched into your couch almost as casually as you did.

Bucky was easy to talk to, you realized quickly, because he was a great listener. It didn’t take you much longer to notice how your stomach would twist and your lungs would constrict whenever he looked at you, whenever his smile grew another fraction of an inch.

You didn’t need your degree to tell you what those symptoms meant.

But he needed a friend more than he needed to be rushed into anything, and so you bit your tongue and you said nothing.

***

The problems really started when S.H.I.E.L.D. decided to hire you as, essentially, a freelance nurse to go in the field with a crew when they were short a doctor.

“Absolutely not,” Bucky argued until he was hoarse, with you, with Fury, with Rogers, with anyone who would listen.

You still went. Frankly, the pay was better than what you earned after three years at the hospital.

Then again, they didn’t really put you into actually dangerous situations at the hospital.

The first mission you were sent on together mostly consisted of awkward silence, Bucky still fuming about the fact that you were coming along, and that he’d been unable to put a stop to it, you still rolling your eyes about the fact that he was angry about all of that.

Of course, it turned out that they barely needed you, anyway. You stayed out of the building, and the rest of the team did all the dirtywork while you sat around in the quinjet and waited. There was a fight; you heard the shouts and the shots, and the barked commands the comms. When they made their way back, though, sticky with soot and sweat, the most painful thing you had to fix was a cut on agent Romanoff’s temple.

Still, that night when you sat down, you found your hands almost shaking with relief that it’d been that easy.

Bucky had a key at that point, from when he’d offered to water your plants while you went to see your parents during your vacation days a few months back, but you didn’t expect him to come that night. Didn’t expect to hear his knuckles softly rapping against the doorframe, because he always knocked, even though he had a key. Didn’t expect his slow, heavy steps in the hallway. Didn’t expect him sinking to his knees in front of the couch, in front of you, as if his strength had finally given out all at once. Didn’t expect his eyes drinking you in, tracing every inch of your skin as if to prove to himself that you were unharmed.

You shivered, even though he didn’t touch you.

He was never the one to reach out first, instead preferring to stare at you in silence, like a man drowning. So you did it for him.

He must have heard your heart thundering in your breast when you pulled him into your embrace, but he still didn’t speak. He just held onto you like you were his lifeline, and not for the first time you wondered what lies the demons in his head sprouted.

“I’m fine,” you whispered into his hair, carding your fingers through it. “I’m here.”

Every mission after went much the same, the only thing different each time the amount of time he needed until he could find his voice again. Until he could start believing your words.

“I’m sorry,” he said, again and again.

Every single time, you answered, “Don’t be.”

***

The first time it went badly, it was a mission Bucky hadn’t been on.

You didn’t get hurt then, either, not physically at least, but some of the agents they carried past you ... fuck. It felt worse than it did in the hospital, because there, you could depend on equipment being sterile and well-stocked. Out in the field, there was no such luck.

Your eyes must’ve looked empty, but maybe he just chalked it up to exhaustion. To your usual empathy with anyone in pain. Or maybe you’d gotten good at hiding things from him.

But sleep didn’t find you that night.

Every time you closed your eyes, you were back out there, fighting to keep agents alive and whole while they still struggled to get the jet up in the air. You kept tossing and turning, trying to shut the memories out, but it was no use.

And then your feet started moving on their own accord, out of your bedroom, out of your apartment, quickly, before you could overthink this, up the stairs, stopping only in front of Bucky’s door, your hand raised to knock softly against his frame like you’d heard him do countless times.

It swung open.

Your vision went slightly unfocused when Bucky stood in front of you, chest on full display. Your gaze crept up slowly, too slowly, following the chain of his dog tags to his neck, his chin, his eyes. A slight blush had spread on his cheeks.

“Hey.” He sounded as ruffled as you felt.

“Hi,” you replied weakly. “I …”

Your mind was blank, devoid of all coherent thought.

“Can’t sleep?” Bucky offered and you nodded, even though you weren’t even sure anymore what force had brought you here in the middle of the night.

You looked down again, stopping yourself at the scars on his left shoulder. You’d never seen them up close. He’d never allowed you to, no matter how badly he was bleeding. Bucky tensed when he noticed your transfixion.

The scars trailed towards the center of his chest like they were pointing at his still beating heart, red and harsh and beautiful. Proof that despite everything, he was still alive. Despite everything, he still chose to be better, no, to be good every day.

It brought tears to your eyes.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, not daring to look at his face.

“Yeah,” he said, because he knew you’d call him out on a lie. His voice was rough around the edges. You wanted to wrap it in the softest linens. “At night, mostly.”

You’d usually tell him the reason for that, the medical explanation, but your brain was still empty. Bucky just stared at you, waiting. You drew a shuddering, deliberate breath.

“Today was bad.”

He took a step to the side and let you in.

Alpine immediately darted towards you, running between your legs until you picked her up and pressed her against your chest, inhaling deeply into her fur. Cautiously, you followed Bucky through the hallway to where he wordlessly held another door open for you.

You’d been to his bedroom before, to watch movies or to just spend time with each other when you both had nothing else to do, but this … this felt different, somehow.

You rolled into a tight ball on his bed, careful not to take up too much space as he crawled in next to you and pulled the blanket over both of you. It smelled like a gentle hug.

“Do you want to talk about it?” was the only thing he asked, and you shook your head. “Try to close your eyes.”

You fell asleep swiftly, contently, and when you woke up hours later, you found yourself tucked closely to Bucky’s chest, his metal arm wrapped tightly around you, warm from sleep. Alpine had curled up on your pillow, her fluffy tail resting on your head.

You smiled and snuggled closer.

***

His problem with the missions, he told you, wasn’t that you were going per se, it was that he wasn’t able to keep an eye on you at all times. Naturally, it was worse when you were assigned to leave and he wasn’t.

“I have a bad feeling about this one,” he murmured when he came to see you off.

“I’ll be fine, Buck,” you said lightly. He only hugged you more tightly, only letting go when Steve shouted his name for the third time. They had their own plane to catch. So you smiled at him. “Promise.”

He reached out to pull a piece of hair out of your face, his fingertips gently grazing your temple before he pressed a featherlight kiss to your hairline. You froze, staring at him with big eyes. Bucky took a step back.

“Just be careful, alright?”

You couldn’t do anything but nod, turning your head over your shoulder over and over again until you took the final step up the gangway. His eyes stayed fixed on you the entire time.

The second it went badly, when you heard your leg snap, you felt the regret of your own broken promise through the searing pain.

And then the world went black.

You came to when they pulled you out from under the rubble, your leg still twisted at an awful angle, your forehead warm and sticky. The way back had you going in and out of consciousness over and over again, only vague impressions sticking in your mind. The way your seatbelt was tugged just too tightly around your waist. The way the jet shook when it landed, and how you cried out because it meant your leg moved. The shouting outside.

When you woke up in the med ward, they’d already put you in plaster and disinfected your head. You blinked against the horrible white lights until you could make out Bucky in the chair next to your bed, still dirty and roughed up from his own mission, holding your hand tightly in his own.

“Your hands are very soft,” you said with a tired smile.

He shot you a weary glance, but didn’t let go. Instead, he just moved closer, helping you to sit upright. “How are you feeling?”

“Could be worse,” you said, wincing slightly when you tried to move your leg.

He was so careful when he sat down on the bed next to you, as if he were terrified of breaking you further. When he wrapped his arms around you, you noticed he was shaking slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“Don’t be,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours. “I just—when they told me, for a second I thought I lost you, and I couldn’t … I can’t …”

And something in you broke, the dam of butterflies seemingly exploding. You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes fluttering shut. “I need …”

You could feel Bucky’s unsteady breath against your lips. “Anything.”

So you kissed him.

His arms tightened around you when he answered your kiss with just as much fervor, as if he, too, needed to reassure himself that this was real, this was happening. He tasted faintly like dust and blood. You didn’t care.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging him closer, closer, until your need for air left you gasping. You had no intentions of moving away already, though. Neither did he.

“I’m fine,” you murmured between kisses. “I’m here.”

When you finally retreated far enough to see his face, your heart almost burst out of your chest.

Bucky smiled at you, as brightly as the sun, eyes incredulous and sparkling with happiness. You thought you’d never seen anyone look this beautiful before in your life.

And then he laughed, and you knew.

Bucky Barnes doesn't understand a lot of things since he returned to society.

Cryptocurrency is one of them. Social media is another. Anything that involves more acronyms than actual words is an immediate no on his list.

Above all else, Bucky Barnes struggles to comprehend how exactly he became responsible for the group of walking disasters now hailed as earth's newest, mightiest heroes.

Looking at the pack of hellions in front of him, Bucky has serious doubts about that title.

Right in the middle of the tower's lobby, the Thunderbolts—the New Avengers now, apparently—are scattered like barbie dolls in the aftermath of a toddler's tantrum. John is standing against a column with a tight jaw, his left leg lifted gingerly, wrapped in a makeshift splint that looks suspiciously like someone's utility belt. Beside him, Yelena sits on the ground, legs sprawled in front of her as she cradles a bruised shoulder with an equally bruised hand. Alexei leans atop the front desk with a dried blood streaking down his temple, the young receptionist gone in fright the moment the team walked through the tower's entrance. Even Ava, usually one to disappear before debriefs, is visible for once, propped against the wall with her suit half-glitched and her expression blank.

Everyone is accounted for. Everyone is breathing. 

But they all look like they rolled down a hill of bad choices where they banged their heads at every rock.

The mission was supposed to be a quiet recon, a simple surveillance on a rumored underground tech sale in an abandoned shipyard, low risk with minimal engagement. But then someone—Bucky still doesn’t know who—decided that they could handle it. 

No heads-up. No plan. 

Just four impulsive thrill-seekers interrupting a high-stakes black market deal involving high-tech plasma rifles and an offended buyer with too many goons. 

By the time Bucky caught wind of what was happening, it was already chaos. He had to go in solo, extract the squad under heavy fire, disrupt the shipment, and reroute an entire response team of hostiles to avoid further catastrophe. They got out—just barely—and none of them seemed particularly eager to look him in the eye about it, especially after the thirty-minute tirade he launched into somewhere between fourth gear and a traffic jam.

From his place in front of the elevator, Bucky crosses his arms. “If any of you pull something like that again, you're all getting benched. Indefinitely.”

“What?!” Alexei roars.

Yelena scowls. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You don't get to make that call, Bucky,” John protests.

Ava nods. “We're not children. You can't just ground us whenever you feel like it.”

“Yeah?” Bucky laughs. Sarcastically. “Watch me, kid.”

As if on cue, the elevator arrives with a ding. Bucky gestures curtly towards the opening metal door. “Inside. Now.”

Reluctantly, the team shuffles in like a group of sheep being herded back into their pen for a much-needed nap time.

For a beat, the only sound that settles inside the cramped space is the low mechanical hum of the elevator ascending. 

That is until Ava decides to speak up.

“I’m just saying,” she begins, “it wasn’t like we meant to crash the deal. We were just improvising.”

“Improvising?” Bucky exclaims, glaring at her. “You call tossing a grenade into an active negotiation improvising?”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Yelena argues, crossing her arms. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Bucky screeches, his tone rising. “Walker nearly lost a leg!”

“It's just a sprain,” John clarifies. “Probably.”

“See? It's just a sprain!” Yelena repeats a little too cheerfully. “He'll be good as new in no time. Right, John?”

John nods, failing to conceal his wince when Yelena bumps her unharmed shoulder to his.

Bucky rubs his temples. “I can’t believe I’m in charge of you people.”

The elevator dings again at the top floor.

“You know,” Yelena says as the team stumbles out of the metal trapbox, “we technically stopped the deal. You're not giving us credit for that.”

“That’s because you weren't supposed to stop the deal. You were supposed to observe.”

“Back in my day, observe meant punch first, ask questions later,” Alexei quips.

Bucky lets out a scathing scoff that echoes through the air. “Right. Remind me again how many years you spent rotting in that Siberian prison, Alexei?”

“Well, that's not very nice,” John mutters.

“You know what else isn't nice, Walker?” Bucky growls. “Getting your asses lit up by dozens of machine guns because none of you seem to grasp the basic concept of following orders.”

The group swelters in a momentary silence.

“I mean, in our defense,” says Ava, “none of us actually got shot.”

Before Bucky can tell her off even further, a voice suddenly intercepts, “How fabulous! You guys didn't get shot? Geez, someone really should give you all a medal for that.”

The whole team stops in their tracks.

One by one, everyone turns their head towards the direction from which the voice has come. The view that greets them could probably send a perfectly healthy man straight into an early grave.

On the platform floor a few paces away, they find you standing with arms folded across your chest. Despite the bright lilt of your voice, your eyes are cutting as they assess the entire team with the judgement of a juror who has already decided on a guilty verdict. It's clear from your attire that you were freshly off work before going straight to the tower, and since everyone knows that you were supposed to be on a work trip to Philadelphia for at least another two days, it’s safe to assume that your ticket back was booked right around the time someone shouted “mission compromised!”.

It's a full ten seconds of shared disgrace before Yelena finally breaks the silence.

“You called her?” she hisses, landing an accusatory glare in Bucky’s direction.

“I did not.” Bucky scoffs. “And why does it matter if I did?”

“Bucky didn't call me,” you interject, your posture still rigid, your gaze still icy.

“Then who—no.” Yelena's eyes drift towards the kitchen, squinting as she takes in the figure trying to hide behind the doorway. “Bob.”

Ava snaps her head up. “Bob, you little shi—”

“That’s enough,” you jump in, moving sideways to conceal Bob from Ava's murderous line of sight. “He's got nothing to do with this. This is about you—all of you—and what a stupid, reckless, dangerous thing you just did.”

Under your scrutiny, the whole squad shifts like a pack of raccoons caught rummaging through the kitchen trash. The weight of your stare seems to age them all by a decade.

“I'm gonna give all of you two minutes to explain yourselves,” you declare, the authority in your tone indisputable. “And I already know what happened, so don't even think about trying to trick me.”

There is a lull in the air where everyone seemingly tries to process your demand.

When their mouths open again, what follows is not so much an explanation as it is a verbal dogpile. Everyone starts talking all at once—too loud, too fast, and entirely contradictory. John tries to lead with the logistics, only to be steamrolled by Alexei shouting something about creative liberty. Ava attempts to downplay the situation with a jovial “it was barely an explosion!” while Yelena throws her under the bus with a hasty “she started it!”. 

Bucky—standing to the side with the posture of a man watching his funeral getting turned into a Dollar Store circus—doesn’t even bother stepping in. He knows better. 

You hold up a single finger and the room quiets instantly, like someone pressing mute on a trashy sitcom argument. The stillness that follows is so heavy, even the lights begin to flicker in anticipation.

“But we got out fine!” Ava sputters, desperate to fill in the quietness, though her voice immediately thins when she adds, “Mostly.”

“Yeah! I mean, it's just a bruise here, a bruise there—everything's great.” Yelena grins.

Your sharp stare slides towards John, the lines between your eyebrows tightening as you take in the awkward angle of his injured leg. John nearly cowers under your piercing gaze.

“How bad is the damage?” you question, your voice booming throughout the surrounding space.

“What, this? Oh, it's not that bad. Probably just need to ice it then I'll be good as new—”

“Walker.”

It's hardly a secret that John is perhaps your least favorite person in that room, with you still clearly holding a grudge towards him for what happened with the Flag Smashers. The man is used to your constant cold shoulder by now. He expects it, even. More often than not, John finds himself wondering if you would ever warm up to him the way you have with the rest of the team.

And yet, as he now stands at the end of your long stare, John can't help but think that perhaps your silent treatment isn't really that bad. Especially if it means he doesn't have to be on the receiving end of the critical scrutiny you're currently aiming towards him.

The blond gulps.

“There's a forty percent chance it might be broken,” John admits. “But it's likely just dislocated. No big deal.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“Get to the medbay and tell them to run a scan,” you command. “Alexei, go with him.”

“That's not necessa—”

The sharp glare you're sending him causes John's words to lodge in his throat.

Alexei springs right into action, steering John away from your ferocious perusal and back towards the elevator.

“C'mon, big guy,” Alexei bellows. “Let's go pay a visit to our doctor friends.”

As soon as the two men disappear into the elevator, your glower shifts towards the remaining two people standing behind Bucky. Yelena pretends to check her nails while Ava's eyes are roaming the ceiling with faux nonchalance, both a pathetic attempt to avoid the clear daggers in your stare. The ridiculousness would've made you chortle were you not livid beyond salvation right now.

“I want you two to go back to your rooms, clean yourselves up, and be back here in no more than thirty minutes,” you proclaim. “We'll continue our discussion after dinner.”

“Wait, hold on—”

“That's not—”

“Just go, you two,” Bucky interrupts, the blue in his eyes colder than the Arctic ocean. “That wasn't a request.”

The two figures slump in defeat, teetering towards the staircase with the speed of a turtle in a morning rush hour. You hear Yelena grumbling something in Russian under her breath, and you force yourself not to think about what the phrase might mean lest you want your skin to crawl in an even higher degree of vexation.

“Good gracious.” Bucky shakes his head.

Behind you, Bob emerges out of the kitchen, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly as he approaches you like a wounded kitten.

“They're mad at me, aren't they?” Bob murmurs. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you guys fight with each other.”

“It's not your fault, sweetie,” you assure him, extending your hand and offering a comforting squeeze around his palm. “They're just being idiots right now. You did good, okay? Give it a few hours and I promise you, they'll forget about this already.”

Bob nods solemnly, his voice quiet as he excuses himself and trudges towards the common area. You release a breath as you observe him diving head first onto the sofa, burying his face in the cushion like a Victorian widow fainting onto her chaise.

Turning around, your eyes lock with another pair in blue. The smile on Bucky's face grows as he takes you in, his arms opening with all the intention to collect you in his embrace. 

“Hey, doll. I've missed—”

“No. Stay right there.” You raise your palm, taking a step back. “I'm mad at you, too.”

Bucky blinks. 

He watches you turn around and walk away from him, his arms coming down limp by his sides before he scutters after your retreating form. Bucky lingers in the doorway as you move about the kitchen, taking out pots, knives, and pans while slamming the cabinet doors shut in the process. You don't even spare him a glance as you start retrieving fresh ingredients from the fridge.

“Honey?” he calls out, voice meek beneath the echo of your knife slicing through onions on the counter. “C'mon, doll, you're really not gonna talk to me?”

“No.”

The chopping continues.

Bucky rubs his face.

“You know I'm just as disappointed in them as you are, right?” he begins. “Swear to God, doll, I had nothing to do with this. Didn't even know what those rascals were planning ‘till I got the call from Alexei. Told ‘em off as soon as I extracted them outta there.”

“Hm.”

Sighing, Bucky takes a tentative step forward, then another, finally closing the distance when he's sure you wouldn't smack him across the head with the chopping board in your hand. His fingers find purchase around your elbow, halting your movements, the gentleness aching as he spins you around to face him. The knife and half-sliced onion lie dormant on the counter.

“Hey,” Bucky utters, so softly that the air nearly swallows the word whole. “Talk to me?”

You heave in a shaky breath, evading his eyes. “What's there to talk about? I told you I'm pissed.”

“Okay, that part I already got.” Bucky chuckles, brushing the back of his palm on your cheek. “Help me understand why? At least tell me how I can fix it, pretty girl. Hm?”

Your silence quivers at the edges, growing more brittle with each swipe of Bucky’s touch on your skin. The walls around your heart crumble under his infuriating tenderness.

“When Bob called and said the team had gone radio silent, I—” you pause, swallowing hard, “—I thought something terrible happened. I booked the first train out of Philly before I even hung up.”

Bucky stays quiet, watching you with careful eyes.

“I couldn’t reach anyone. Not John, not Yelena, not Ava, not Alexei—not you. And the longer I waited, the worse it got in my head. I pictured the mission going sideways. All of you gone.” You inhale sharply. “I pictured all of you coming home in body bags.”

Bucky's heart breaks at the shudder he feels running through your back. His soul is already mourning over the loss of light he would usually find shining so brightly out of your eyes. It makes him cling to you just a tad bit tighter.

“Bob finally called me again to tell me that you're all fine. That you're on your way back. But that's not the point, Bucky.” You look at him then, your fingers flexing. “The point is, I should've never heard about all of this from Bob in the first place. I should've heard it from you.”

Bucky's shoulders sink. “I didn't want you to worry.”

You shake your head, eyes burning with the threat of unshed tears. “But I do worry, Bucky! That’s the point. I worry every single time. The moment all of you step out of this building, I'm counting down the minutes until you guys return to me again. You can't shield me away from that.”

He steps closer, removing what little bit of distance between the two of you until all of your atoms are nearly merged as one. “You're right. You are. I should’ve called. Should've trusted that you'd want to know, even if it might scare you.”

“It did scare me,” you whisper. “And I didn’t want Bob’s voice telling me everything was okay. I wanted yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky murmurs, his arms pulling you nearer. “No more leaving you out. I promise it’ll be me from now on. I'll tell you everything, doll. Always.”

A shuddering breath leaves your lungs, and just like that, you completely melt away under Bucky's touch. Your forehead drops against the line between his shoulder and chest, your fingers gripping his sides as though he was the very force keeping you tethered to earth. Meanwhile, Bucky's lips ghost over the top of your head, whispering sweet nothings, the contrasting temperature of his palms appeasing you with random patterns against your back.

“I don't know how this all started,” you confess. “I'm not sure when I began caring this much about those idiots, but I do. The thought of something happening to them—to you—to all of you…”

Bucky's arms tighten around your frame. “I know, honey. I feel the same way.”

“This is not what I had in mind, you know?”

You tilt your head back to stare at his face, your fingers tangling themselves in the soft waves that Bucky has been growing out over the past few weeks. He almost cut them all off several days ago, but after some convincing on your end—which may have included activities that found your fingers buried in the soft tendrils and his face buried somewhere else—you managed to talk him out of it.

Bucky's eyebrows lift. “What do you mean?”

“Well… when you said that you were joining this team, I thought I'd never seen a more dysfunctional group of people in my entire life. I figured it'd be a miracle if all of you last a whole month without someone quitting or accidentally blowing each other up.” You chuckle, your eyes softening. “I didn't think I'd end up pacing the hallway every time you guys went out, worrying like some overworked mother of five.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, his forehead falling onto your own. “I get it. This wasn’t exactly how I imagined myself stepping into the dad role either, but… here I am.”

“Yeah?” Your lips quirk up. “How did you imagine it then?”

“Well—” Bucky's voice drops, his breath warm where it fans against your skin, “—I figured it’d start with a little house, somewhere quiet. Nothing fancy. Just enough for us to start building a life in. I’d fix the place up real proper. You’d hum to yourself as you whip up one of those famous pies of yours, and I’d pretend not to stare.”

The cheeky grin on Bucky's face grows, prompting a laugh out of your chest. His thumb continues to trace idle circles upon your waist.

“Then, when you feel the time's right, we’d try for a baby. The old-fashioned way. Real slow, real sweet. I’d kiss you like I got all the time in the world, and make love to you like I didn’t.”

Something flutters inside your chest, like stardust stirring in a forgotten corner of the galaxy. The way Bucky is looking at you makes you feel as if you were the first breath of the universe itself.

“That's how I pictured us becoming parents,” Bucky adds, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not… this. Whatever this is.”

You smile at the graze of his beard on your cheek, angling your head to capture him in a brief kiss. 

“You know what I think this is, Buck?” you ask, teasing your lips against his own. “I think we should view this as a practice run. After all, how hard can it be to parent our own kid if we can do it to a group of five ridiculous, chaotic misfits, right?”

“Doll.” He sighs. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Depends.” You hum, your lips twitching in feigned innocence. “If you think I'm imagining you putting a baby in me… then yeah, you're absolutely right.”

Bucky swallows your cheeky grin with a kiss, grunting against your mouth as he presses you back against the counter. The muffled moans you let out are music to his ears, a lascivious melody that rushes straight towards places he reserves explicitly for you. His hands slip under your blouse, roaming the expanse of skin, drifting lower and lower in search for the one place that could send him straight to heaven and—

“Yelena! Give it back to me!”

“I told you it wasn't me!”

Bucky groans.

The shrill voices resonate all the way down to the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable echoes of footsteps thundering down the staircase. Bucky makes a guttural noise of frustration as his face slumps into the crook of your neck.

“I swear to God, I’m gonna ship them to Asgard one of these days,” he mutters.

You snort, brushing your fingers through his hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. 

“Let's put a raincheck on the baby-making, soldier,” you purr, smirking when it spurs on a rumble from Bucky's chest. “Looks like I've got a fight to break up before we have two dead superheroes on our hands.”

He groans again, this time at the loss of your warmth as you slip out of his arms. From the kitchen's doorway, you raise an eyebrow towards the common area, perching your palms on either side of your hips as you take in the havoc ahead.

“What the hell is going on here?” you snarl.

“She stole my snacks!” accuses Ava.

“I don't even like Jammie Dodgers, you lunatic!”

“What a lot of crap. We all know you'd even eat chicken off the ground given the chance, you pig!”

“Fucking asshole—”

“Hey!” you interrupt, your voice sharp as you march towards the two fuming Avengers. “You call each other any more names, then I promise you, you're gonna wish you got shot on that mission today.”

Bucky watches the whole interaction from the kitchen with his arms crossed and a slow grin spreading across his face. He leans against the counter, studying you with the quiet reverence of a man who has found the meaning of home after decades of searching. Even in the midst of this domestic madness, even with the team’s antics grinding on his last nerve, he wouldn't trade a single thing in his life for anything else.

There are still a lot of things in this world that Bucky struggles to understand.

your friend called it a night around 11. the only reason she was in the area was for work, and with her luck, they’d scheduled her with a meeting very early the next day. it was time for her to head out, especially now that her boyfriend had arrived, ready to carefully help her to their hotel.

“do you want me to stay?” your friend slurred, grabbing ahold of her boyfriends arm as he guided her up to her feet. “we can stay. wanna make sure you get home safe.”

“i’m okay,” you told her, a genuine, reassuring smile on your face as your words slurred just as bad as yours. “promise i’ll get home safe, i’ll text you when i do.”

the way you rose to your feet wasn’t the most elegant, though you fit right in with the atmosphere. you wrapped each other up in a large hug, bidding each other a giggly goodbye, promising to keep in touch. her boyfriend gave you a small wave before he helped her out of the bar and away from your sight. that’s when you let yourself slide back into the booth, fumbling with your purse in search of your phone. your promise was true to her, you were going to get home safe. while you only stayed a few blocks away from the bar, you weren’t quite comfortable walking home in the state you were in, not like you’d walked there three hours ago.

your mind slipped straight to the thought of bucky as you pulled up your contacts, searching for his name and number. your thoughts often slipped to the man, it was hard for them not to. in the few months you’d known the man, living in the rebuilt avengers tower, you grew quite fond of him. it was a little unexpected.

you weren’t searching for anything romantic when you’d somehow stumbled upon the new team. you were focused on a list of other things - your mental health, your career (though being a now nearly full-time superhero wasn’t exactly what you’d envisioned), your hobbies -, so it caught you off guard when you noticed your growing feelings towards bucky. you began to seek him out in a way you hadn’t with anyone else. despite being a little tough and uptight at times, not really the most talkative person ever, he was kind. he had a nice sense of humor, too. dry, sarcastic, a little playful. at times, you were convinced that playfulness with you bordered flirtation.

that’s why you had found your way to bucky again in your drunken mind. you always felt oddly safe with him, anyways. it was comforting how protective he could be, a subtle sort of thing that you admired about him. you pressed your phone against your ear rather harshly as you listened to your phone ring a handful of times. the noise had you zoned in to the point you barely noticed he’d picked up, a curious ‘hello’ ringing into your ears. your body straightened up at the sound of his voice, a dopey smile finding your lips.

“hey!” you said cheerfully, hand gripping your phone tight as you began rambling to him in an obvious slur. “i’m so sorry if you were asleep or if you’re busy, but i’m kinda really drunk right now, i’m a few blocks away at a bar. is there any chance you’d, i dunno, come get me and walk me home? so i’m not alone? it’s totally okay if not!”

you realized how desperate you must sound calling him like this. you weren’t sure if he’d caught on to your slightly obvious feelings for him yet, but if he had even an idea that you might like him, this call was incriminating. you were calling him of all people, rather than simply calling a cab or an uber, or even just sticking it out and walking anyways.

“of course,” bucky told you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. his response was immediate, without a second thought. those two words alone made your heart flutter inside of your chest. you passed along the name of the bar, one he’d remembered from passing so many times. he knew his way around the city well, and promised to be there in 10.

the moment you’d hung up the phone, soft giggles slipped from your mouth, the same wide smile on your face still present. you ordered yourself one last drink while you waited, closing your tab while you were up before you left and forgot. you sat in your booth in silence as you waited, gaze settling on to the drink that you sipped on. your body was beginning to feel a little heavy, the alcohol and your sleepiness starting to settle in now that you weren’t so focused on an ongoing conversation.

you were so zoned in, in fact, that you didn’t realize bucky had finally found his way to the bar, beelining to you in a slow, steady strut. his head tilted to the side when he stopped at your table, biting back a smile. you still hadn’t noticed him yet.

“hey there sweetheart,” bucky spoke smoothly, sliding on the opposite side of the booth. he noticed you still had a drink and decided to give you time to finish. your head shot up to look at him, eyes wide and gleaming the moment you recognized his voice. you gave him the same dopey smile you had when you’d called him. “mind if i take you home?”

you giggled at his words, biting your lower lip as you began to put on a show, thinking a little for a response you already had. you gave him a hum, words slurring still as you respond. “well i suppose so.”

you sipped the rest of you drink away after you spoke, quickly wiping away the drop that slipped from your lips clumsily. whether that clumsiness was because you were drunk or because bucky made you nervous, you weren’t quite sure. regardless, your nose scrunched up a little in embarrassment, trying your best to shake it off. he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. bucky had a small, content smile on his face, his blue eyes shining gently as he gazed at you.

the moment you set the glass down, his fingers found their way to it, taking it into his hand. he pushed himself back up from the worn booth, watching as you fumble to grab your purse and phone. the hand bucky offered up was his left. the metal felt nice against your buzzing warm, buzzing skin as you accepted it, letting him assist you to your feet. despite how hard the metal was, he was gentle with the way he held your hand, guiding you towards the bar again to give the bartender your empty glass.

bucky’s hand left yours, only to grasp ahold of your purse and your phone to carry it for you. he helped you towards his right side, wrapping that arm comfortably around you, hand bracing your waist as respectfully as he could. he began walking the two of you out the bar and onto the streets in a comfortable silence neither of you broke. you began leaning into him, still a little unsteady on your feet as you stumble slightly down the street.

your head eventually found comfort in bucky’s shoulder, the weight becoming nearly too much for you to bear on your own. you missed the way he smiled, small and proud as he continues to guide you through the city. that’s when he started to speak in a low mumble, voice deep, his tone sending shivers down your spine.

“you look pretty tonight,” bucky complimented, his head turning to look down at you fondly. it wasn’t often he got to see you like this, a little skirt he’d helped you pull back down into place just a minute or two previously. the shirt you wore was a little low cut, too, just enough to show some cleavage. that’s not why he gave you the sentiment. he rarely got to see you put together. it was usually sweaty work out clothes or bloodied uniforms he saw you in. this was a nice change.

bucky watched the way you smile wide, nose scrunching up again at his words. you tilted your head up to see him, sincerity laced in every inch of his face. while collecting your thoughts, you pressed your cheek into his arm as you stare up into his eyes, clinging to his body for dear life as you try not to fall. his strong arm kept you upright, though, careful not to let you drop to the ground.

“thank you,” was all you could manage out in a small voice, a hand of yours gently grasping at the sleeve of his leather jacket. it was then that you’d finally made it to the rebuilt tower, bucky swiping the both of you in, before holding the door wide open for you. he watched the way you stumbled into the building with an appreciative smile, before looking back at him expectedly. you had your hand extended outwards for him, searching for his touch

bucky took your hand without a second thought, letting his fingers intertwine with yours, before you guys made your long way towards the living quarters. even when you’d entered the elevator, three empty walls and a long railing for you to grasp ahold of to find your footing, you still held onto him. he was already helping you, anyways, so why would you let go now?

he continued to walk you out of the elevator when it’d reached high inside of the tower, helping you all the way to your bedroom door. bucky positioned you in front of him, letting go of your hand only to reach to your hair, tucking pieces behind your ear and out of your face.

“think you can find the rest of your way?” he asked, his hands smoothing down your hair once, before dropping it to his side. you gave him a lazy nod, eyes beginning to droop with exhaustion.

“yeah, i think should be fine,” you answered, offering a small smile. before you could overthink, you took two steps forward, arms reaching up to wrap around bucky’s shoulders. he blinked a few slow times, arms finding their way around your torso carefully as he embraces you. he tugged you a little closer to him, letting his chin rest gently on top of your shoulder. the hand that wasn’t holding your belongings smoothed up your back, a weak attempt to soothe you.

“thanks for walking me home, buck,” you whispered. “it means a lot. you’re a great guy.”