Flesh Of My Flesh

Dean’s door was half-closed, and you stood outside of it for a full thirty seconds before you finally knocked. It wasn’t because you were uncertain. Uncertainty was something you had worked through over the past couple of weeks since your conversation with Sam. No, your hesitation stemmed from the strange stuttering thing that your pulse was doing again.

The one that had started happening more and more ever since the harpy hunt. The same thing that had happened when Dean stepped behind you at the shooting range. The odd warmth you had felt jolt through your system when he helped you flip the grilled cheese sandwich.

Your heart was doing it now.

You knocked on the door. There was a rustle from inside before you heard a quiet,

“Yeah?” You pushed the door open to peek in.

“Dean?” He was sitting on the edge of his bed, boots off, cleaning a gun that looked like it had been pulled off from the wall above his bed. He looked up at you, casual and unguarded for once, and something in his expression sharpened when he met your gaze.

“You okay?” he asked, brows knitting together in concern.

It was your first time in his room, and you couldn’t help but notice how much more… personal it was than yours. The wall had a series of weapons mounted on it. There was a large box with vinyls sitting on a dresser beside a record player, and the desk in the room had papers scattered across its surface. “Feathers?” he prompted. You looked at him, dragging your eyes away from the rest of the room.

“Yes,” you answered honestly. Then, after a moment, “I would like to have sex with you.”

The words landed in the room with all the subtlety of a dropped glass. Dean’s eyes went wide.

“… I’m sorry, what?”

You stepped into the room fully and gently closed the door behind you because everything you had read suggested that this was a private matter. His eyes sharpened as the latch clicked on the door.

“I would like to have sex with you,” you repeated as though he might have misheard you. “I believe it’s the logical progression of our friendship.” He stared at you, his previous concern giving way to sheer confusion. There was color climbing his neck.

“Feathers,” he began carefully, setting the gun down on the nightstand like he suddenly didn’t trust his coordination. “Where is this coming from?” You clasped your hands in front of yourself, rocking your weight back and forth between your feet as you presented your findings.

“When you stand close to me, my pulse increases,” you explained. “My stomach feels tight, and there is a flutter in my chest when you’re around that doesn’t seem to be related to a medical issue. I find myself thinking about you at irregular intervals throughout the day even when something I’m doing has nothing to do with you.” You wet your lips. “I replay conversations we’ve had, and I am always unconsciously looking for you when I enter a room.

“I believe that these are all indicators of attraction. And attraction, when mutual, typically leads to sex.”

Dean let out a long, slow breath through his nose, pressing his lips together into a thin line. There was a flicker in his expression. Not disgust and not anger. It was something else that you didn’t have the language for. 

“Jesus…” He wiped his hands on the rag in his lap before tossing it to the side and scrubbing a hand over his face.

“Is that incorrect?”

“No. I mean… not technically.” You waited for him to continue. He stood up, ran a hand through his hair, then paced a couple of steps like he was trying to shake something loose. When he finally looked at you again, his eyes were softer. Not offended but amused. And maybe a little worried.

“But…?”

“But,” he began, “you can’t just come into a guy’s room and drop that on him like you’re asking to borrow salt.” You cocked your head to the side.

“I don’t require salt.”

“That’s not my point.” A long silence stretched between the two of you, and you watched as he recalibrated his approach. He took a step closer. You felt your pulse spike and your next breath stuttered. “Are you asking because you want me or because you think you’re supposed to?” You considered him for a moment.

“I don’t feel ‘supposed to,’” you said slowly. “I feel… compelled. Curious. Aware. My body reacts to you in ways it doesn’t react to Sam. I don’t feel the same… pull to Sam that I feel towards you. Like I want to be close to you even though there is no reason for the proximity.” You could see the way his Adam’s apple moved as he swallowed.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Could you clarify?” A muscle in his jaw ticked, and you watched as his gaze flicked down to your lips for half a second before looking back up. His eyes searched yours, but you weren’t sure what he was looking for.

“Do you want sex because you want me?” he asked. “Or because you’re still learning what being human is and this feels like the next box to check?”

You opened your mouth to respond and paused. Then closed it. Because when he framed it like that, you weren’t entirely certain. Your silence was enough of an answer for him, and Dean nodded once, like he was expecting it.

“Thought so,” he murmured, something melancholic laced in his tone. Something shifted in your chest. A sort of… disappointment. Perhaps you had misread his kindness for mutual attraction?

“Am I… undesirable?” The question came out unbidden, and you weren’t entirely sure where it stemmed from. Dean’s attention snapped to you.

“No. No, that’s not– don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Make it about you not meeting standards.” You blinked.

“I’m trying to assess variables I might’ve gotten wrong.” Dean huffed out a quiet, humorless laugh and shook his head. He came a half-step closer and raised his hand like he was going to place it on your shoulder before pausing and drawing his arm back to himself like he thought better of it. You met his gaze, eyes wide with wonder.

“Feathers,” he said, “you’re still learning.” His tone wasn’t unkind. It wasn’t condescending. In fact, his voice sounded strained, as though the words he was saying cost him something. “You’re still figuring out what it means to be in that body. To want someone. To choose.”

“But I have chosen,” you said.

“Not like this.” His eyes held yours, heavy with implication you didn’t understand. “Not yet.” There was something in his expression that mirrored the heat you had catalogued in yourself. But it was more restrained. More reined in. “I’m not going to be the lesson,” he said softly. “You don’t get to use me to figure out how this works.”

“I’m not using–”

“I know.” His voice went impossibly soft. “I know you’re not trying to. But that’s the point.” There was a tightness in your throat and chest that you didn’t understand and an odd burning sensation pricked at your eyes.

“I don’t understand why this is wrong.”

“It’s not wrong,” he clarified, shaking his head. “It’s just…if this were just about sex? Yeah. Fine. Whatever.” He dragged his hand over his mouth again. “But this is something you deserve to want.” You stood perfectly still, pinned to the spot by his gaze. Your mind churned, trying to grasp what he meant by want. It didn’t seem like it was a tough concept.

If you were hungry, that meant you wanted food. Thirst meant wanting water. If you were exhausted, that meant you wanted rest. So if you felt drawn to Dean, surely that meant you wanted him, right?

“I don’t understand,” you said again, feeling something like frustration building inside you. “I feel attraction towards you. That means I want you, doesn’t it?” Dean sighed, a sound pulled from somewhere deep inside him.

“Wanting is more than just your body reacting, Feathers. It’s about knowing yourself well enough to understand what you’re asking for. What it means. What happens after.”

The words hung between you, heavy with a significance that you couldn’t fully wrap your brain around. You turned the idea over and over in your head, as though it were an artifact that you could understand just by looking at it for long enough. What was the difference between feeling attraction and truly wanting someone? The fact that there was a difference at all was somehow even more confusing than the concept of wanting itself.

“If I return when I understand,” you began slowly, “would your answer change?”

Dean’s nostrils flared slightly, and you watched his shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath.

“…Maybe.”

And there it was. Not a no. Not a yes. But a door left open just a crack, leaving a sliver of hope shining in. Hope was new, but it was a lovely feeling.

“But for now,” he continued, “you don’t bring this up again. Not until you’ve had more time to figure out what being human means.” His voice went soft. “Deal?” You nodded slowly, brows furrowing as you rolled the new concepts around in your mind.

“That feels acceptable.” Dean gave you a small, crooked half-smile before stepping back. You turned and left Dean’s room, closing the door behind you. The corridor stretched before you, each step carrying you further away from the conversation that had just happened. Your face felt warm, and your pulse still thrummed irregularly in your veins. You filed the interaction away to analyze later, missing the way Dean sat back down on his bed and stared at the space where you had been standing.

You sat on the edge of your bed, rubbing the heel of your hand against your chest absentmindedly. A habit you’d developed in the past month, though you couldn’t say for sure exactly why you did it. There was a subtle change in the air, like gravity had shifted just a bit. You looked up from where you were sitting on your bed to find Dean darkening your doorway. One shoulder was braced against the frame, and his arms were loosely crossed over his chest.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Can I come in?” he asked, even though he was already halfway through the door. He looked different. Less on guard. His eyes tracked your hand as you let it fall away from your chest.

“Ah, hello, Dean,” you replied, tilting your head at him curiously. Things had been… strained between the two of you over the last few days. Ever since you had propositioned him for sex, Dean seemed to have taken a step back, figuratively speaking. And perhaps literally, you supposed. You found him throughout the bunker less and less. And the few times you did come across him, he always seemed to be busy with something and didn’t pay you much mind. This was the most interaction you’d had with him since the conversation in his room a week and a half prior.

“Everything okay?” he asked, nodding towards where your hand had been. There was a time when his question would’ve felt like an interrogation, but now, it felt like concern.

“Yeah,” you answered honestly. “I was just… thinking.”

“About your mojo?” The corner of his mouth quirked up, but there wasn’t any mockery in his tone.

“About its absence, in particular.” You shifted on the bed, making space for him to take a seat beside you without an explicit invitation. Dean hesitated for a moment then pushed off from the doorframe and crossed the room to join you. He moved with the careful deliberation of someone navigating unfamiliar territory which didn’t quite make sense because you had seen him pass through this doorway dozens of times in the weeks since your arrival.

The mattress dipped beside you. It was a small thing, but your body registered it immediately. Dean’s thigh didn’t touch yours, yet your body reacted as though it had. A subtle tightening beneath your ribs and a faint warmth crawling up your spine. He smelled like gun oil and soap, the scent simultaneously grounding and disorienting all at once. You leaned into him, just barely. Not enough to close the gap between you. But the proximity felt like relief.

The distance after the rejection had been expected but also painful in a way that you couldn’t fully explain. There was a new sense of hollowness that was entirely unrelated to your Grace. A sort of sting that didn’t fade. It lingered in the quiet moments between conversations with Sam. The camaraderie that had been building between you and Dean had stuttered to a halt, and you missed it more than you could articulate. But his presence beside you now felt like a balm to the ache.

“And?” he prompted, looking down at his hands in his lap. “How’s that going for you?”

“It’s… not as painful as it used to be,” you admitted.

“You miss it?”

“Not in the way I expected to,” you said, taking a moment to admire his profile. You swallowed. “It’s more like… I’ve forgotten the tune to a song I knew once. I remember that it was beautiful, and I loved it. But I can’t recall quite how it went.” Dean nodded slowly, his thumb dragging along the seam of his jeans.

“Yeah,” came his simple response.

Silence stretched between you, and you could feel the weight of something unspoken pressing in the space between you. He hadn’t sought you out alone since your conversation in his room. He hadn’t sat this close. Your pulse quietly rose.

“Look,” Dean began, shifting slightly. You braced yourself. “I actually came in here to ask you something.” The air in your lungs stalled. “About angel radio.” You blinked in confusion.

“About… what?” you asked, trying not to let disappointment color your voice. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes slowly rising to meet yours.

“Like prayers. How you guys hear ‘em. Is it like all the time or can you tune it out?” You stared at him, your brow furrowing as you tilted your head at him. The question caught you entirely off-guard. He was watching you expectantly, waiting for an answer. Like there wasn’t a completely separate conversation hovering between you, unfinished.

“I had assumed that you wished to address our earlier interaction.” Dean pressed his lips together and shrugged, but the motion looked more stilted than you had seen from him before.

“Nothing to address.”

“But there has been distance.”

“Been busy,” he said easily. That wasn’t an answer. You studied him, and he held your gaze steadily. His face was a careful mask of neutrality. Too neutral.

“And… now?” There was a beat between you.

“Now I need to know about angels and prayers.”

And there it was. A deflection that came as naturally as breathing and was so obvious that even you could see it. Something twisted in your chest – not pain exactly. Not the sharp sting from before either. It was quieter. Thinner. Was he dismissing what had happened before? Were you expected to do the same? Or was this the point in time that you were supposed to let whatever this was be confusing? You took a steadying breath.

“What do you wish to know about them?” you asked after a moment. Dean visibly relaxed, the tension in his posture loosening as you let the topic shift. The space between you reorganized into something safer. Something more comfortable.

“So, uh, you guys and prayers. Do you guys hear all of them? Or do you have to be listening in for them?”

“Prayer is a form of communication. Intention. It reaches who it’s meant to reach.”

“Huh.” He nodded, jaw working like he was chewing on something tougher than the question suggested. Then, he seemed to pivot from his original inquiry and asked, “Do angels ever pray to each other?” You hummed quietly, mulling the question over. Prayer was a distinctly human act. Humans prayed; angels answered. There was hardly a need to pray when you could simply communicate directly to another.

“Prayer between angels is unnecessary. Communication was rooted in sharing intention directly, not the structured pleas that humans use.”

“Right…” Dean seemed to bristle slightly at your words, and wondered if perhaps your choice of words had been too 'detached’ as Sam had once commented on. You endeavored to improve your communication skills. “So if someone was, say, sending a structured plea to a specific angel. Multiple times. And not getting an answer…”

The shape of what he wasn’t saying materialized in your mind. You remembered his brief slip up when you had first come to the bunker. The brothers knew another angel, one that they considered a friend. Sam had given you his name in passing. Castiel. Or Cas as they called him. It didn’t ring any bells, though it was likely that you wouldn’t have recognized the name in human language. You let Dean have the space to circle around whatever he was asking, determined to keep the conversation comfortable. You had missed interacting with Dean.

“…I never had anyone pray to me specifically. But if you are praying to a particular angel, they should hear it.” Dean frowned, the concern in his expression deepening. “But there could be many reasons that they don’t,” you added quickly. “Sometimes there could be interference. Or perhaps the angel is otherwise engaged and can’t answer.”

“Yeah.” Dean let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh in another situation. “Figures.” You watched him for a moment. Really watched him. The way he tensed his shoulders. The way his leg bounced. The way his fingers interlaced and the knuckles went white. Concern sat differently on him than anger. Concern was heavier but quieter.

“Does it bother you?” you asked slowly. Dean hesitated before responding.

“Yeah, kinda does.”

“You care for him.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean huffed, “don’t go spreading that around.” He stood suddenly, breaking the fragile moment between you, and ran a hand through his hair, clearly uncomfortable with the vulnerability of his admission. He paced a few steps away, creating physical distance to match the emotional barrier that you were still learning to navigate around.

As he moved towards the door, you almost asked him to stay. This strange, human dance of getting close only to pull away again was confusing and frustrating. “I just…” he started, then shook his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” And just like that, he was gone from your room. 

The place where your Grace used to live didn’t ache anymore. In the first few days after your fall, it had been impossible not to notice it. A raw, cavernous absence. Like a limb torn away and replaced with nothing but the phantom sensation. You had kept reaching for it reflexively. A habitual inward turn. A listening for a chorus that no longer answered. Every silence felt loud. Every moment of stillness had felt wrong.

But now? It was… quieter.

Not gone. Never gone. But it wasn’t screaming for your attention anymore.

You could still sense the shape of it if you tried. A hollow behind your sternum, tucked behind your ribs, where something vast once coiled and hummed and knew. It was like the memory of a room you had lived in for eons then left behind. You could remember where all the windows were. You could remember the way the light used to fall. But you no longer found furniture there when you walked past.

A month and a half ago, the void felt like a wound. Now, it felt more like… space.

Not empty in the way that Heaven warned you that emptiness would be. It wasn’t corrupted or starving or wrong. Just unoccupied. Available. With all the potential for you to fill it with whatever you wanted.

You pressed your palm to your chest, more out of curiosity than grief now. Your heartbeat answered you, steady and imperfect and undeniable present. It was still strange, feeling your existence reduced to something so small and rhythmic. No vast awareness. No omniscient knowing. Just blood. Just breath. Just warmth.

At first, you hadn’t known how to live without the light. Without the ability to mend and see the truth of things at a glance. Gone was the certainty in every action. Gone was the way you had known the universe like a close friend. But now, you realized that your Grace had been a separation – a constant reminder that you were made of something other than what you were meant to observe. You had loved humanity from afar in the same way a human might have loved a star. A star was beautiful, untouchable, and safely theoretical.

Now, everything was close enough to bruise. And somehow, that made you love it even more.

The void didn’t pull at you the way it once did. It didn’t beg to be filled. It wasn’t a whisper of what you were. It simply existed alongside everything else you had learned to carry. Soreness after a long day. The ghost of laughter in your chest. The strange, fluttering awareness that some moments were precious because they would never happen again.

Your thoughts drifted to Dean, as they always seemed to regardless of the topic at hand. You couldn’t pinpoint exactly when thoughts of Dean had become so frequent. When had his presence started to feel like gravity? When had his approval begun to matter more than Sam’s? When had the warmth of his smile become something you sought after like a flower to sunlight?

And as your thoughts of Dean always did, they turned to his rejection. It settled like a stone in your chest, sitting in the furniture-less room. You wondered if rejection was the right term for what had happened. Dean hadn’t said no. He had said “maybe” which wasn’t outright declinations. Instead, it felt more like a question mark. Like unfinished business. A conversation that had simply been put on pause rather than completed.

Anymore, interactions with Dean felt like they all were unfinished business. In your limited time at the bunker, Dean had always been direct. Direct about his suspicions of you. Direct in his mistrust of you. Direct in his rules and why it was important to follow him. But now, it all seemed more vague. Like he was suddenly unable to handle being up front about what he wanted to talk about.

His questions about your grace. About angels. And more specifically, about angels hearing prayers. You had a feeling he was talking about Castiel, their angel friend Dean had mentioned when you first fell. Sam had explained in small bits and pieces, but from what you had gathered, Cas – as they frequently called him – was like family.

You wondered how long he had been praying. How long those prayers had been left unanswered. Having never been on the human side of prayer, it was a foreign concept. Your siblings always heard your intentions when you shared them. Do angels pray? The question struck you and stuck with you in an odd way that felt almost uncomfortable.

You had answered it logically. There was no need to pray if you could communicate directly with your siblings. But now? In this human form? Why hadn’t you considered doing that earlier? Humans prayed; angels answered. And you were human now, weren’t you?

You scooted your chair back, the legs of it scraping against the library’s wooden floor. Sam and Dean had gone out on a supply run, and you had been staring at the book in front of you without actually seeing it for the last twenty minutes. The idea drew you like a moth to a flame.

Would your siblings still recognize your voice, even though it was filtered through human vocal cords and human intention? Would they answer? Could you finally figure out why you had been sent to earth? It was worth a try.

The decision pulled you forward with a purpose you hadn’t felt in weeks, your feet carrying you up the stairs in the war room until you were standing at a heavy, metal door. You hesitated briefly. The last time you had been outside of the bunker had been with Sam for a nice walk in the surrounding woods. Dean had been clear that you shouldn’t leave the bunker without one of them with you.

But this could’ve been your answer to everything.

And if you were going to pray, there was a comfort you couldn’t explain in the prospect of doing it where you could see the sky. See where you fell from. Symbolically, speaking, of course. Heaven wasn’t a place people could simply look at from Earth. The door felt unusually heavy as you pushed it open, the hinges protesting with a low, metallic groan. Cool air rushed to meet you, and you blinked against the sudden brightness of natural light.

You stepped out, finding a small landing outside of the door immediately next to a quiet road that weaved through the surrounding trees. The fresh air was like a revelation, and you breathed in deep, feeling the way your lungs expanded in your chest. The sunlight warmed your skin in a way that the bunker’s lighting never could. Birds sang in the distance, their melodies carrying through the trees like secret messages.

You left the door cracked open, crossed the small road and wandered between the trees, making sure to keep the bunker entrance in view. Your heart raced as you interlaced your fingers together and turned your face to the sky. It felt… silly and strange and a little ridiculous.

“Brothers and sisters,” you began slowly. Speaking your prayer aloud wasn’t necessary, but something about it felt… right. You reached for the frequency that had once been constant. A hum that sat just beneath your existence. The chorus of wings. The static of thousands of voices overlapping in divine accord. None of it answered.

“Any of you,” you pressed. “I am here. If there is instruction, I will receive it.”

Your words hung in the air, as though waiting for the wind to carry them skyward. You stared up at the pale blue sky, waiting for… something. Anything. A sign that your plea was acknowledged. The wind rustled through the leaves above you. Birds continued their distant songs. But no divine voice reached back for you.

“Please,” you begged softly, feeling the familiar weight of disappointment settling over you. “Is there a purpose? A reason I’m here?” Your voice faltered slightly, sounding infinitely small against the vastness of the forest around you. “I’m trying to understand.”

The silence that answered wasn’t just the absence of a response. It was a profound emptiness. The kind that you presumed humans lived with every day that their prayers went unheard. Was this what it meant to truly be human? To call out and hear nothing in return? To speak into a void and hope for a reply? The realization washed over you like cold water. Perhaps this was the most human experience of all. The terrible uncertainty of faith. To believe despite the silence. To hope without evidence. To choose to stop believing because nothing gave you any reason to think otherwise.

You dropped to your knees, your eyes falling to the dirt beneath you. You had been on the receiving end of prayers for eons. Heard the human cries for help and guidance and simply brushed them off. Every answer had always been pre-written. Every mercy had been measured fair. There hadn’t been any sense in responding to the prayers for good fortune or success when their human lives were so minute in His grand canvas.

You pulled your structured pleas back to yourself, inwardly wincing. Yeah, you could understand why Dean had bristled when you called it that. It was extremely detached. You stood, brushing the dirt from your knees and turned back towards the bunker. It had been worth a shot.

Your feet had just touched the empty road when another thought struck you. You pressed your lips together, not quite believing that it would yield any different results. But at this point, it wasn’t like it could do any harm. You didn’t turn to the sky this time. Didn’t clasp your hands together in reverence. Because this was more like a casual request than an official prayer.

“Castiel.” The name settled in the quiet forest. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but Dean Winchester is worried about your absence.” You waited, breath caught in your throat, for any sign of a response. For any sign that someone had acknowledged your human existence. You weren’t sure what you were expecting. Perhaps a dramatic flash of light? The earth trembling beneath your feet? Even though you knew that you had never appeared to anyone like that, some of your siblings preferred the dramatic flair. You sighed and crossed the road.

You were on the landing of the bunker when a soft rush of wings behind you froze you in place. The air shifted, molecules rearranging themselves to accommodate a new presence. Then, a low, gravelly voice spoke.

“Where is Dean?”

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The ancient Enochian characters blurred before your eyes, their curves and angles twisting into shapes that felt both familiar and foreign. You blinked, trying to refocus as your fingers traced the faded ink on the yellowed parchment in front of you. There was something about this particular text that pulled at something deep within you. A memory just out of reach. Like trying to recall a dream after waking up.

Sam’s laptop was open nearby, and a reference book was pulled halfway off the shelf behind you. You’d been working at this particular text for hours. There was a paper of handwritten notes off to the side, the script slightly uneven and sloppy. A pen in your hands still felt awkward and clunky.

You sensed Sam’s approach from behind you, his footsteps deliberately heavy enough that you could hear him coming. It was a consideration you had come to appreciate. He had quickly learned that sudden movements startled you and that you still tensed at unexpected sounds despite spending weeks in the bunker’s relative safety.

“How’s it going?” he asked, sliding into the chair across from you. The wooden legs scraped softly against the floor as he settled his tall frame at the table. You looked up at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. Sam was always a constant. A steady presence during your stay at the bunker.

“I’m having some difficulties with this,” you answered honestly. His presence was a welcomed interruption. You swore that you had been staring at the parchment for so long that the Enochian was starting to look foreign.

“What are you working on?” You suspected he already knew. Sam had a way of asking questions that gave you the space to explain things in your own words rather than assuming. It was different from Dean’s direct approach, but you appreciated both in their own ways. He leaned forward, eyes scanning over your notes with genuine interest.

You had noticed that about him too. He never treated you like something to be studied or fixed. He always approached you as an equal. A colleague with a valuable perspective. You supposed that you saw him in the same light. Experts in separate fields who could recognize the importance of the other’s knowledge.

“It’s a prayer,” you replied, tapping your finger against a particular symbol. “But it’s been… corrupted somehow. The syntax feels odd.”

“Corrupted how?”

“Well, this symbol here,” you began, “means ‘devotion’ in standard Enochian. But in this context, it’s been paired with a qualifier that shifts the meaning towards something more like ‘longing’ or perhaps even ‘attachment.’” Sam leaned closer, his brow furrowing as he studied the symbol.

“Is that unusual?”

“For an angelic prayer? Yes.” You traced the symbol with your finger. “Angels don’t typically acknowledge attachment in formal texts. It’s considered…” You paused, searching for the right word. “Impure.”

“But someone wrote it anyway,” Sam observed. You nodded slowly.

“Someone who may have seen attachment as something more.”

There was a strange tightness in your chest as you spoke, the words resonating somewhere deep inside you. The words didn’t make sense even as you spoke them. Enochian was the language of angels, and it would make the most logical sense that an angel wrote this text. Or helped a human write it. But as far as you knew, there weren’t any angels that would’ve viewed attachment as anything more than an inconvenience. It was hard to get attached to something that would be gone in a blink of a celestial eye.

“Do angels view attachment as a weakness?” Sam asked, as though he had read your mind. You wondered how he could do that. Maybe he actually could read your mind. You would have to ask him.

“Not a weakness, exactly. Attachment is usually linked to an emotion of fondness. And they don’t experience emotions the way that humans do,” you explained slowly.

“Do angels feel… at all?”

“Angels exist in a state of purpose,” you continued, choosing your words carefully. “They were created for specific functions, and emotions can interfere with those functions. So they… don’t feel them. Not the way you do.” You paused, realizing that you had said they instead of we. Surely there was something to explore there, but that could wait until you were staring up at the ceiling at 2am. 

The distinction between what you were and what you had been was still blurry, and wrapping your head around the concept always brought on a headache. “It’s more like purpose and intention. We understand concepts like devotion and loyalty and conviction, but they are not felt. They simply are.” Sam pursed his lips together.

“That sounds… empty.”

“It wasn’t,” you replied, surprising yourself with how quickly the defense came. “It was complete. There was never any question of what we should feel or why.”

“But you feel things now, don’t you?” Sam asked gently, his eyes finding yours.

You hesitated, the question landing in a place you weren’t sure you could articulate yet. Since your crash-landing on Earth, emotions had flooded through you in waves you couldn’t name. Sometimes, it felt like drowning. Other times, it felt like you were being led to somewhere important. You nodded.

“Now I feel everything. All at once.” You looked down at your hands, studying the lines that mapped your palms. “It’s overwhelming. Humans feel so much all the time. How do you bear it?”

“Most of us don’t analyze it that much. We just learn to live with it.” He smiled, a thoughtful expression crossing his face.

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But that’s how we know that the good parts matter.”

You frowned. Dean had said something similar. That all the bad stuff mattered because it made the good stuff worth it. The thought of existing without feeling struck you as foreign now, even though you had just acknowledged it as your previous reality.

“But how do humans know which feelings to listen to?” you asked, looking back at the text. “There are so many of them, all contradicting each other.” Sam chuckled softly across from you.

“That’s the big secret. We don’t always know. We just… try our best and hope that it’s good enough.” You mulled his words over in your head. Hoping that your best was good enough was… odd. Angels always dealt in absolutes, none of this ‘try and see how it turns out’ sort of stuff.

“Perhaps that is what sets angels and humans apart,” you said, eyes roving over the corrupted prayer in front of you. “Angels have certainty while humans are left with… possibility.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it.” Sam’s expression brightened with the intellectual curiosity you had come to recognize in him. “So then, if we frame this from a human perspective, what would this prayer be? In the closest human equivalent, if you had to guess?” He ran his finger along the symbols around the one you had pointed out.

You stared at the angular Enochian, the meaning of the prayer shifting as you considered it through your new, human perspective. The words embodied something complex – a devotion that transcended duty. A longing that defied celestial detachment. You didn’t have a definitive answer, and it felt odd to simply ‘guess’ at what the writer’s meaning was.

“It… seems to be about love,” you said after a long moment, your voice thoughtful. “About something akin to faith. About deciding to stay.”

Sam was quiet, letting the words sink into the space between you. The concept resonated with you in ways you couldn’t put into words. Deciding to stay. Not out of duty or obligation but choice. It felt significant, like the author of the prayer had handed you a key to a door you hadn’t realized was locked.

“Sam,” you began softly. “When humans feel something they don’t understand… do they avoid it?” He made a low noise of acknowledgement, but Sam didn’t ask what you meant. He didn’t press for clarification or try to diagnose what you were really asking. He simply considered your question with thoughtful attention.

“Sometimes,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Sometimes they study it to death instead.” A beat passed between the two of you. “And sometimes they let it be confusing for a while.” You exhaled, a weight lifting from your shoulders. Permission to exist in uncertainty felt like a gift you hadn’t known to ask for.

“I think I’ve been trying to categorize everything,” you admitted. “Like I could organize all these feelings into neat little boxes with proper labels and they would make sense to me.” Sam smiled, understanding without judgement.

“That sounds like a very angelic approach to a human problem.” The observation struck you as both amusing and profound. You had been applying celestial logic to earthbound emotions, trying to apply celestial absolutes to human possibilities. The reframing felt like puzzle pieces clicking into place. “I used to intellectualize everything. Every feeling. Every interaction. I thought if I could understand it perfectly, then I could control it.”

“Did that work?”

“Not even a little bit.” He laughed softly. “I nearly drove myself crazy trying to make sense of it all.”

“And… what did you do to fix that?”

“I realized that you don’t owe anyone certainty,” Sam said. “Not even yourself.”

The words struck you with unexpected force. How many hours had you spent interrogating your own feelings, demanding explanations from yourself that you couldn’t possibly provide? The pressure to understand everything immediately was exhausting.

“That seems… difficult to accept,” you admitted.

“Most important things are.”

You turned the concept over in your mind, quietly meditating on it. The messiness of human emotion had always seemed chaotic from a celestial perspective. But now? After experiencing it firsthand, you could see the beauty in the disorganization. There was something profound and honest in the complex tapestry of human emotion. There was room for contradiction. For nuance. For the messy reality that feelings rarely made complete sense.

“Thank you, Sam,” you said, your voice quiet but sincere. The words fell easily from your lips now, no longer feeling like a formality.

“For what?”

“For giving me space to be uncertain.” Sam’s smile softened, a gentle understanding passing between the two of you.

“We’re all figuring it out as we go. Even those of us who’ve been human our whole lives.”

The scent of something savory in the air drew you away from your philosophical conversation with Sam, hunger guiding you from the hallway like an invisible thread. The smell grew stronger as you approached the kitchen, and you stepped through the doorway to find Dean standing at the stove, his back to you as he flipped something in a skillet.

“What are you making?” you asked, curiosity drawing you further into the room. Dean glanced over his shoulder, that half-smile you were coming to recognize playing at the corner of his lips.

“Grilled cheese,” he said, turning his attention back to the pan. “You haven’t had one of these before, yeah?”

“I… don’t know,” you admitted, pursing your lips as you mentally went through the list of foods you had tried. A grilled cheese didn’t sound familiar to you.

“Well we’re about to change that.” He grabbed a plate from the cupboard and slid what appeared to be a sandwich onto it before setting it at the table and gesturing for you to sit. The sandwich was golden brown, cheese melting from the edges in a way that made your mouth water. “Kitchen basics,” Dean said, sliding into the seat across from you. “Lesson one.”

You took a small, tentative bite of the grilled cheese, not sure what to expect from it. The flavor hit your senses all at once. Butter, bread toasted to perfect crispiness, and cheese that stretched in strings as you pulled the sandwich away. A small sound escaped your throat, something between surprise and something else. Dean watched your reaction with a hint of pride on his face. “Good, right?”

You nodded, taking another, larger bite. The simple pleasure of the food was almost overwhelming. How could molecules arranged in this particular order create something that made your tastebuds sing?

“It’s…” You searched for the words adequate enough to describe the sensation. “Complex.” Dean laughed.

“Most people just say ‘delicious,’ but ‘complex’ works too.” You took another bite, savoring the way the textures interacted. The way the crisp exterior gave way to the soft, warm interior. It was easily the best thing you had eaten in your time here on Earth.

“Why would humans eat anything other than this?”

“Oh, sweetheart, you haven’t even started to enjoy food. Just wait ‘till you try pie.”

“Is pie better than this?”

“Much. This, here, is comfort food. It’s simple. Satisfying. The kind of thing you learn to make when you’re a kid.”

You chewed thoughtfully, imagining Dean as a child learning to prepare food. Developing preferences and tastes. The concept of growing into knowledge rather than being created with it was a fascinating thing to think about. You supposed that you were experiencing that exact thing. Learning how to be human rather than just having the knowledge from the get go.

You finished the sandwich, a sense of contentment settling in the pit of your stomach alongside the food. Dean snagged your empty plate and stood, setting it in the sink and motioning for you to follow him across the kitchen.

“Come on, time to learn something practical.”

“What?”

“Your turn to cook.”

You blinked at him in confusion. You knew the concept of cooking. Of transforming raw ingredients into something edible through applied heat and technique. But Dean had decided that you were ready to learn how to use the stove? You weren’t as confident as him about it.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you murmured, staring at the stove like it might spontaneously combust. You’d had three more shooting lessons with Dean over the last several days, and you felt capable – confident, even. This was different. Guns had rules and clear instructions. This kitchen contraption with its dials and burners seemed like it was designed for chaos.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be right here with you.” Dean placed the pan he had been using before back on the burner and turned a knob until blue flames licked at the metal. “It’s not rocket science. Just bread, butter, and cheese.” He handed you a knife and a small dish of butter. “Spread this on one side of each piece of bread. Not too thick, but not too thin.”

You took the knife awkwardly, your fingers struggling to find a natural grip. It didn’t sit in your hand the same way your angel blade used to. This wasn’t a weapon to be used on enemies. The simple task of spreading butter felt monumental, requiring a different sort of coordination. You had seen Sam and Dean do it multiple times when they set toast down on your plate for breakfast. The knife slipped in your grasp, smearing butter unevenly across the bread’s surface.

“Careful.” Dean’s hand moved instinctually to catch the knife if you dropped it. “Like this.” He took the knife from you and demonstrated with the second slice. You mimicked him, focusing intently on the pressure and angle of the knife against the soft bread. He nodded approvingly.

“Better. Now you put the butter-side down in the pan.” The bread sizzled when it met the hot metal. Tiny droplets of butter popped and danced across the surface, one landing on your wrist with a sharp sting that had you jerking back. “Yeah, it bites sometimes,” he said, reaching for your wrist to examine the spot where the butter had splattered.

His touch was soft and clinical, but it still sent a small jolt through your system. You couldn’t help but notice that you never got this sensation whenever Sam’s hand brushed against yours. The casual way that Dean touched you felt strangely comforting. There wasn’t any reverence in his fingers. No hesitation or awe that humans typically showed towards angels. Just a human caring for another. You swallowed.

“Your first kitchen battle scar,” he said with a hint of pride in his voice. “Now you add the cheese while the bread cooks.” He released your wrist and nodded towards the slices of cheese he had cut. “Don’t be stingy with it.”

You layered the cheese onto the bread, watching in fascination as the edges began to soften from the rising heat. The smell intensified, rich and savory. The aroma enveloped you. This was something different than hunger. It was anticipation. It was creation. There was a sense of pride that filled you as you carefully set the second slice of bread on top.

“Now flip it,” Dean instructed, handing you a spatula. “Quick and confident or else you’ll lose the cheese.” You took the utensil and hesitated, spatula hovering over the sizzling bread. 

The apprehension didn’t make any sense though. You had done far more complicated things than this. You had held constellations in place. You had bent light through a vacuum. You had made and unmade things with little more than your will. And yet… You wore the physical proof of what could happen if you weren’t good enough. Your skin still held onto the memories of the harpy. Was this what the fear of failure felt like?

Dean’s hand covered yours, jolting you from your thoughts. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a sandwich.”

With his help, you slid the spatula under the bread and flipped it with a jerky motion. The sandwich landed askew, cheese oozing out and bubbling against the hot pan. The bread had shifted, leaving one corner exposed and cheese-less. You glanced at him, and his approving smile made you preen beneath his gaze.

The act of creation wasn’t something entirely new to you, but there was something oddly significant about it now. The fact that it took work with your hands rather than simply willing it into existence. The fact that there was a certain unknowing aspect to it all. The fact that it was imperfect. The fact that imperfect was okay.

“How do I know when it’s done?” you asked, studying the sandwich with intense concentration.

“You’ll know,” Dean said, stepping away and leaning against the counter with his arms folded. You wished he would stand closer. You liked when he was close. The warmth you felt with him was different from the warmth of the stove in front of you. “Trust your senses. They might be different than what you’re used to, but they work.”

You nodded, focusing on the sizzling sounds and the deepening color of the bread. These senses, even as limited as they were in this form, were still something you could rely on.  When the appropriate amount of time seemed to pass, you slid the spatula beneath the sandwich and transferred it to the plate Dean held out for you with more confidence than your first flip.

“See? Not so hard. First meal made by your own hands.” You stared at the lop-sided sandwich, pride swelling in your chest. A new emotion, bright and warm and nothing like the ugly sin you had been warned of time and time again.

“I made this,” you said quietly, almost to yourself.

“Yeah, you did,” Dean agreed, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards and something like approval coloring his tone. “Now eat it before it gets cold.” You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the sandwich for a moment longer. Despite your earlier enthusiasm over the taste, your stomach felt... still. Quiet. In your focus of learning, you had somehow overlooked the final step. Consumption.

“I...” You searched for the sensation of hunger. The one that plagued you day after day. But of course, now that you wanted it, it was nowhere to be found. “I don’t think I’m hungry anymore.” The admission felt strange. Like you had somehow missed an obvious human cue. You waited for Dean to withdraw. To decide that your inability to follow the process to completion was a sign of failure. 

Instead, he just shrugged and drew the plate back towards himself before picking the sandwich up without ceremony and took a bite. His eyebrows rose slightly, and he nodded, wiping away crumbs with the back of his hand.

“Not bad,” he said through a mouthful of melted cheese. “Bread’s a little dark on one side, but that just adds character.”

Something light unfurled in your chest as Dean’s casual praise warmed your entire being more than the stove did. You never knew something as mundane as a sandwich could elicit such an emotional reaction. You watched as Dean devoured your creation, studying the way his throat moved when he swallowed. The casual way he licked a smear of butter from his thumb.

Your gaze lingered.

You had catalogued the way his mouth moved without realizing it but only in an abstract sort of way. Its shape when he smirked. The way it flattened when he was annoyed. The small crease that appeared beside it when he tried not to smile. But now, even though you had seen Dean eat many other times, you found yourself focusing on the mechanics.

The press of his lips around the crust. The slow drag of his tongue across his thumb. The brief flash of teeth. Your breath caught. It was subtle but real. And before you realized it, you found yourself imagining what it might feel like to press your lips to his. Not in the clinical, detached way you had once considered physical intimacy.

You wondered if his lips would be warm from the food. If they would taste faintly of butter and salt. If the stubble along his jaw would brush against you and spark the same prickling sensation you felt when his hand had settled over yours at the stove. You shifted slightly on your feet.

This wasn’t the logical curiosity you had grown accustomed to. This was something far less organized. There was something new and inexplicable slowly blooming within you. There was comfort in his presence. There was a sense of safety around him that went beyond the protection of the bunker’s wards. It was like discovering a new color in your previously monochrome world. You wanted to bask in whatever it was. You wanted more of it. More of him. More of the small, human things that had shaped him into this steady, warm presence beside you.

“How did you learn to cook?” you asked. Dean looked up from the last bite of the sandwich, his expression shifting subtly. You noticed the way his shoulders tensed slightly, as though your question had touched on something deeper than you’d intended.

“Trial and error,” he answered after a moment, setting the plate down and wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Didn’t always have someone else to do it.” The way Dean said it landed differently than his usual quips. There was a weight to his words, an unspoken history that hung in the air between you.

His eyes drifted somewhere past you, focusing on a point that only existed in his memory. There was something unspoken behind his words. A childhood that had demanded more of him than most. You watched his face carefully, wondering if you should press further or leave the subject alone. The kitchen seemed to close in on you, the air between you and Dean charged with something more.

“It must’ve been difficult,” you began softly. “Learning without someone to teach you.” Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, something vulnerable flickered across his face before disappearing behind his usual mask.

“Had to learn quick. Dad was gone a lot, and Sammy needed to eat.” He shrugged, but the casual gesture couldn’t fully hide the significance of his words. “It’s just what you do. When someone needs you, you step up.”

The idea of someone depending on you so completely was new from this human perspective. Your siblings had relied on you before, but it felt different somehow. There was never a chance for failure. There was never the option to be wrong. But Dean had been thrust into a role where failure wasn’t an option. And he didn’t have the divine perfection to ensure his success.

For a moment, you tried to put yourself in his shoes. As a boy who had become a caretaker before he’d had the chance to be a child. The weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. You realized that a childhood like that required Dean to develop a resilience that angels never needed. That he had forged it through necessity and love.

“You took care of Sam,” you said. It was a statement more than a question. Dean’s expression softened.

“Someone had to.” He leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest. The gesture seemed protective, like he was guarding himself against memories that still had the power to hurt him. You understood that impulse. To shield what still hurt and ached. “It’s what families do.” He cleared his throat, gaze dropping to the floor. “Even when they mess up.”

You watched him, this human who carried so much for so long. His hands that had made food, wielded weapons, carried his brother, and patched wounds. The warmth in your chest deepened, a feeling so intense that it almost hurt. This was more than gratitude. More than admiration. It was something you couldn’t name yet, but it filled the hollow space where your Grace had once resided.

“Thank you for teaching me, Dean.” Your voice was quiet, like speaking too loudly would shatter the moment. His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, that vulnerability remained unguarded.

“You’re welcome, Feathers.”

There it was again. The nickname. The one that had once mocked your very nature now sounded like something you wanted to hear. A term of familiarity. Of belonging. It was something warm and affectionate that connected you to him and no longer felt like he was reducing you to what you had lost. You liked the way it sounded on his lips now, with that softness that hadn’t been there before.

In that moment, something shifted between you. A boundary that had once felt impenetrable now seemed permeable, like a door left slightly ajar. You wanted to step through it. To cross whatever invisible barrier still existed between you and this human who had shown you more kindness than you had ever expected when you first arrived.

Dean pushed himself off the counter, wiping his hands on his jeans. The gesture was casual, but there was something different in the way he looked at you now. A shift in his expression that made your heart beat just a little faster.

“Listen,” he said, his voice dropping to that lower register that seemed reserved for important things. “If something feels wrong, you tell me. You don’t need to push through it just because you think you should.”

The words caught you off guard, his green eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. This wasn’t about cooking anymore. This was something deeper, more significant.

“I promise,” you said, the words emerging with surprising conviction. His gaze lingered on you a moment longer, searching your face for something. Whatever he was looking for, he seemed to find it because his expression relaxed into something like relief. He nodded once, a gesture that felt like acceptance.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m starting to think you might be worth keeping around.”

The words landed with unexpected weight and warmth, wrapping around you like a blanket on a cold day. For the first time since you’d known him, Dean looked at you with something that felt like trust. Not the cautious acceptance he’d gradually extended, but something deeper. Something that acknowledged that you were more than just a fallen angel in his care.

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You sat in the backseat of the Impala, staring out the window as trees blurred past. The uncomfortable knot in your stomach had only tightened since you’d examined the feather. Something fundamental wasn’t adding up, but you couldn’t place what it was. Dean’s distrust radiated from the driver’s seat like a physical force, and you found yourself shrinking against the leather upholstery, trying to make yourself smaller. The Impala turned onto a narrow gravel road. Through the windshield, you could see yellow police tape fluttering between some trees further down a dirt path.

“All three victims were found on this trail,” Sam said, pointing to the map spread across his lap. “About half a mile in, there’s a clearing where hikers will camp sometimes.”

“Remember, you stay in the car,” Dean said as he parked, meeting your eyes in the rearview mirror.

“I’ll stay here,” you promised, clasping your hands in your lap to stem your nervous fidgeting.

As they gathered their equipment from the trunk, you watched through the back window, the familiar anxiety of being left alone settling in your chest. Dean pulled out a large duffel bag while Sam checked something on his phone. Their movements were practiced and efficient, a well-choreographed routine that you were still learning to understand.

“We won’t be long,” Sam said, opening the door closest to you. He held out his phone. “If you need to contact us, you press this button here.” He pointed. “Just stay put, okay?” You nodded, taking the phone from him and looking down at the screen to see a photo of Dean.

“Be careful.”

“We’ve handled worse than some overgrown birds,” Dean scoffed, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

They disappeared down the trail, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the troubling inconsistencies that wouldn’t stop circling in your mind. The feather’s coloration, the precise wounds, the location of the bodies... None of it matched what you knew about Avernian harpies. You leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, trying to fit the pieces together in your mind. The silence of the car pressed in around you, a stark contrast to the constant hum of activity in the bunker. 

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as you waited, eyes fixated on the trail where Sam and Dean had disappeared. You looked down at Sam’s phone again, the photo of Dean staring back at you. Should you call them to make sure they were okay? Sam had said that you were allowed to contact them, but he hadn’t placed any stipulations on it. You set the phone down on the bench beside you and fished out the small evidence bag with the feather that Dean had left in a folder by your feet. You turned it over in your hands as you examined it again. The iridescent blue caught the light filtering through the clouds, the copper specks seeming to pulse with an energy that almost felt familiar.

Something nagged at the edges of your consciousness. A memory or a piece of knowledge trying to make itself known. You closed your eyes, concentrating on the sensation of the feather through the plastic. It crinkled between your fingers, and something clicked into place in your mind. You froze abruptly, the thought coming to you like a bubble breaking the water’s surface.

Hybrid.

The word materialized in your mind with startling clarity. Not Avernian. Not Stymphalian. Both. A hybrid harpy. Something that shouldn’t exist in nature but somehow did. The realization sent a chill down your spine. It would explain everything. The conflicting signs. The blue feather with copper – genetic traits from two distinct subspecies. The precise, deep wounds – the strength from one variant combined with the surgical hunting style of another. The bodies left at the kill sites instead of being taken to a nest – conflicting instinctual behaviors warring within the same creature. 

You sat up straighter, heart pounding. This wasn’t just unusual. It was unprecedented. Hybridization between harpy subspecies was theoretically possible but incredibly rare. Unheard of. The implications sent your mind racing. If a hybrid existed, it would explain all the contradictions. The normal rules wouldn’t apply. Which meant you weren’t wrong. You just didn’t have the full picture.

You hit the button Sam had pointed to and held the phone to your ear. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Then,

“This is Dean Winchester. If this is an emergency, leave a message.”

A new thread somewhere in the far recesses of your memory was pulled at the sound of his last name, but that was the least of your priorities.

“It’s a hybrid. It’s–”

Beeeep.

“Dean?” He didn’t answer. “Hello?” You looked at the phone, confused. From what you understood, it was supposed to allow for real-time communication. Maybe he was just listening. “It’s a hybrid. It’s both Avernian and Stymphalian. I think it’ll take both bronze and iron to kill it.”

You waited for a response. A confirmation that he had received your message.

Nothing happened.

You looked back at the tree line beyond the windshield. It was too still. Too quiet. Too wrong. Did they know? You were sure that they had taken both iron and bronze with them, so at least they were equipped for it. But if they didn’t know that they needed both...

The door opened with a soft click, and your feet hit the gravel before you could second-guess yourself. Breaking Dean’s trust now was going to destroy what little progress you had made, but if you were right, the brothers were walking into danger with incomplete information. The gravel crunched beneath your feet as you oriented yourself towards the trail. Adrenaline surged through your veins, carrying your body forward before your mind could fully process the decision. 

The forest path stretched before you, roots and stones threatening to trip your still-clumsy human feet as you navigated the trail, and you wished now more than ever that you had your wings. You could’ve covered the distance from the car to them in a heartbeat. You stumbled over an exposed root, catching yourself against a tree trunk. The rough bark scraped against your palms, sending a sharp sting up your arms. The sensations were so raw without the buffer of celestial detachment.

A shout echoed through the trees, closer than you expected. You pushed forward, legs burning with the exertion as you ran towards the sounds of conflict. The forest blurred around you, your human senses struggling to process everything at once. The sharp scent of pine. The uneven terrain beneath your feet. The distant calls of birds fleeing the commotion ahead. But you couldn’t focus on any of that. Your focus was pinpointed on Sam and Dean’s safety.

You broke through a dense patch of underbrush and stumbled into a small clearing. The scene that greeted you sent ice through your veins. Sam and Dean stood back-to-back, weapons raised as they faced the creature that confirmed your theory.

The harpy circled overhead, its massive wingspan casting flickering shadows across the grassy clearing. Its body was a horrifying blend of features. The powerful build of an Avernian harpy with the sleek, predatory grace of a Stymphalian. Midnight blue feathers with copper accents caught the light as it dove, talons extended towards Dean. He dodged its first strike, rolling to one side as talons gouged the earth where he had stood just moments before. Sam moved in time with him, keeping the harpy between them so it couldn’t strike one of them without leaving itself open for the other. The creature shrieked, the sound so loud and piercing that you had to cover your ears. The high-frequency made your skull vibrate painfully.

“Dean!” you shouted, your voice nearly drowned out by the harpy’s cry. He spun around, eyes widening when he caught sight of you. His moment of distraction almost cost him as the harpy swooped again, talons barely missing him.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” he yelled, ducking behind a fallen log. “You were supposed to stay in the car!”

“It’s a hybrid!” You dipped behind the tree closest to you as the harpy turned in your direction. “Iron alone won’t kill it!”

Sam pivoted, swinging the sharpened metal rod in his hand at the harpy as it went for him. The iron connected with a sickening thud, and the creature screeched in pain. But it stayed airborne. It circled higher, wings beating furiously as it prepared for another attack.

“What do you mean ‘hybrid’?” Sam called, keeping the creature in his sights.

“It has traits from multiple subspecies,” you explained, peeking around the tree to scan the area. Your eyes landed on Dean’s duffel bag that was dropped several feet away from you. You could see the fletching of the bronze arrows poking out from the open zipper. “You need both iron and bronze to kill it!” Dean cursed aloud, dropping down to avoid another attack and landing another blow with an iron rod of his own.

“Great timing, Feathers! Maybe lead with that next time!” he snarled. The guilt hit you immediately. If you had just figured it out faster, then you wouldn’t have broken the tentative trust that had begun forming between the two of you. But there wasn’t time to dwell on that. Not when the harpy was circling back for another attack.

“The arrows!” You pointed at the bag across the clearing, and Sam nodded in understanding. Dean raised his weapon defensively as the harpy made another pass. Its claws sparked against the metal, and he took advantage of its moment of hesitation to stab the sharpened end through its side. It shrieked in pain, ripping the weapon from Dean’s hands as it pushed off from him. He stumbled backwards.

You darted from your hiding place, and the harpy tracked your movement, its intelligent eyes fixing on you with predatory focus. Sam reached the bag first, fingers frantically closing around one of the arrows. You took it from him, the metal cool against your skin and the weight of it strange in your hand. You understood the weapon in theory, but you had never wielded it in your lifetime.

The harpy screeched again, abandoning its futile attempts on Dean and pivoting mid-air towards you. You turned just in time to see its massive form descending, talons extended like daggers aimed straight for your chest. Time seemed to slow down. Dean shouted something, but the sound was drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears.

Your body reacted on instinct. Muscled you didn’t know you had tensed as you gripped the arrow tightly and launched yourself to the side. The harpy’s talons tore through your shoulder as you rolled across the ground, sending a white-hot flash of pain through your awareness. You gasped, the sensation stealing your breath for a crucial moment.

“Stay down!” Sam shouted, and you flattened yourself against the ground as Sam swung above you. There was a sickening crunch noise as the rod connected with the harpy’s wing. It faltered mid-air, one dangerous talon carving its way through the dirt just beside you as it descended towards you. 

You scrambled to get your bearings, rolling onto your back and ignoring the warm trickle of blood sliding down your arm. You shoved the sensation of the throbbing pain in your shoulder to the back of your mind as you lunged up at it. The arrow felt heavy in your grip, its weight unfamiliar but right in your hands as you thrust it forward with all the strength your human body could muster. 

The arrowhead connected with the harpy’s chest, sliding between the iridescent feathers and into flesh. The creature’s momentum carried it, impaling itself upon the bronze shaft. Its shriek morphed into a guttural, choking sound as the metal pierced its heart. Hot blood spilled over your hands, startlingly warm and sticky. The harpy’s massive wings beat frantically, once, twice, then went still. Its weight crashed into you, knocking the air from your lungs as its body pinned you to the forest floor. 

For a terrifying moment, you couldn’t breathe beneath it. Its body was heavier than you had expected as the last twitches of life left it. The smell was overwhelming, a mixture of copper blood and something wild and musky that filled your nostrils.

“Feathers!” Dean’s voice cut through your panic as rough hands grabbed the harpy’s shoulders, lifting the dead weight off your chest. Air rushed back into your lungs with a painful gasp. Sam was helping you sit up as Dean tossed the harpy’s corpse aside. 

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked, his eyes roving over you. Your shoulder throbbed where the talons had torn into you, warm blood still seeping through your shirt. But the pain felt distant, a secondary sensation to the rush of adrenaline still coursing through you.

“I... I don’t believe it caused any permanent damage,” you said slowly, but you winced as you tried to move your arm.

Dean stood over the harpy’s body, his expression complicated as he studied it. His jaw was set in a hard line, and you could see the familiar tell-tale-twitch of the muscle beneath the skin. When he finally turned to look at you, his eyes were sharp and angry, frustration etched into every line of his body language.

“What part of stay in the car wasn’t clear?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous. You struggled to your feet, Sam’s steadying hand on your elbow to keep you from swaying.

“I realized what it was,” you explained, your voice shakier than you had intended. “And I couldn’t get a hold of you. I tried to contact you, but I didn’t know if you heard me or not. You didn’t respond.”

“So you thought the best plan was to run straight into danger?” Dean’s voice rose as he stepped closer, looming over you. The adrenaline that had carried you through the fight began to ebb, leaving you trembling slightly under his glare.

“You were in trouble. And I knew iron alone wouldn’t be enough,” you said, meeting his eyes despite the urge to look anywhere else.

“You could’ve been killed,” Dean snapped, gesturing at your bleeding shoulder. “It nearly took your head off!”

“But she was right,” Sam interjected. “It’s exactly like she described. Traits from multiple subspecies, and it took both iron and bronze to kill.” Dean’s jaw worked as he struggled between acknowledging your contribution and maintaining his stance on your disobedience. The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of your labored breathing and the distant calls of startled forest birds.

“Let’s get you back to the motel,” he finally said, his voice dropping to something less harsh but no less serious. “We can discuss this once you’re patched up.” 

You pressed your lips together into a fine line, your shoulder pulsing in painful anticipation. Without the adrenaline, dizziness sunk into you, and you were becoming increasingly aware of the warm wetness seeping down your arm. You swayed slightly, and Sam’s grip on your elbow tightened.

“We need to get that cleaned up,” Sam said, nodding towards your injury. “Infection can set in quickly.”

The drive back to the motel passed by in a blur of discomfort. Every bump on the road sent a fresh flare of pain through you, and you focused on staying upright. Sam and Dean spoke in hushed tones on the front bench during the drive, but you couldn’t focus on their words through the haze of discomfort. They both sounded upset. You thought you might’ve heard something like ease up from Sam and ticking time bomb from Dean, but you would’ve been hard pressed to try and make much sense out of it.

Sam had told you that the wound didn’t look deep enough to need stitches, but they had left the bulk of their medical supplies back at the motel room. Dean had stripped off his jacket, folded it neatly, and pressed it hard against your shoulder, telling you that it was important for you to maintain pressure on it despite the pain. You had dutifully kept your hand pressed over his jacket.

You shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position that didn’t subject your shoulder to the unevenness of the road, but nothing seemed to ease the wave of nausea that washed over you with every jolt of the car. Sam insisted on grabbing food as soon as the three of you pulled into the motel parking lot. Dean grumbled a protest, but Sam’s stubbornness won out. The weight of the door slamming shut as he left felt oddly final, leaving you and Dean alone in the motel room.

“Sit,” Dean ordered, motioning towards one of the beds. You obeyed, sinking on the mattress with a soft groan. “Let me take a look.” Dean crouched in front of you, carefully peeling back the blood-soaked fabric of his jacket before brushing his fingers along the edge of your torn shirt. “Doesn’t look like it got you too deep,” he said gently. “You said they got toxins?” You nodded slightly, head spinning. 

“Causes disorientation. Isn’t enough to kill on its own,” you said.

“You got lucky, Feathers.”

The toxin must’ve worked its way into your system thoroughly because you were sure that the nickname landed differently this time. It was softer, somehow, lacking the dismissive edge it usually carried. You blinked, trying to focus on his face even when it wobbled in your vision. “Come on, let’s get you into the bathroom and get you cleaned up.”

He helped you stumble into the bathroom, a steadying hand on you the entire way before helping you perch yourself on the ledge of the bathtub and opening up a first aid kit that had seen many, many uses. He nudged the torn jacket off of your shoulders, and it stuck slightly where the blood had dried. You hissed as it pulled free. Your shirt had been torn, and Dean cut the tatters of the sleeve off with a pair of medical scissors from the kit.

“This is gonna sting,” Dean warned as he poured antiseptic on a gauze. It burned like fire when he pressed it against you, and you bit down hard on your lower lip to keep from crying out, your fingers pressing into the cool porcelain of the tub as the world wavered around you. The smell of antiseptic mixed with the metallic scent of blood made your head swim, and combined with the disorienting toxins from the harpy, your body didn’t stand a chance.

You pushed Dean away and turned your head to the tub, your body heaving as your stomach emptied itself. Bile and acid burned its way up your throat, and you coughed as you instinctively leaned further over, retching. You vaguely felt Dean’s hand on your back as your body convulsed, each involuntary movement pulling your shoulders up and sending new pain through you.

“Is this… dying?” you asked between gasps, your body shuddering. Dean let out a humorless laugh despite himself.

“Not dying. You went through a lot in a short amount of time. You’re just processing,” Dean murmured, his having gone low and surprisingly gentle. His hand moved in small circles, a gesture of comfort that was foreign but welcome. You flinched as another wave of nausea hit, but nothing came up this time. Your throat burned, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. The taste in your mouth was foul, and a cold sweat had broken out across your forehead. Dean reached past you to turn on the faucet, washing away the mess. “That’s it, get it all out.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and immediately regretted it as the coppery tang of harpy blood met your tongue. You gagged again. Dean grabbed you a small plastic cup of water. “Rinse and spit,” he instructed. “Don’t swallow.”

You did as he told, the cool water soothing your raw throat before you spat it into the drain. When your stomach was a little more settled, Dean set about cleaning your shoulder. Each touch sent sparks of sensation through you, though not every one of them was painful. You weren’t sure what else it was, though. A new sort of silence settled over the two of you as he worked. “Doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, but it’s gonna hurt like hell for a few days.”

You nodded, watching his face as he concentrated on bandaging your shoulder. The furrow between his brows had softened, his earlier anger having given way to something more complex that you still didn’t know the name of. His fingers moved with surprising gentleness, wrapping gauze around your shoulder with careful precision.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. Dean paused for just a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a brief moment before returning to his task.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, the words coming out gruff but genuine. He finished securing the bandage with medical tape, his fingertips brushing against your skin one last time before he pulled away. The absence of his touch left you feeling oddly bereft. “How’s that feel?” he asked, packing the supplies back into the kit.

“Better,” you said, experimentally moving your shoulder and wincing at the pull of the damaged tissue. “Still hurts, but… it will recover.” Dean nodded, his expression softening slightly as he handed you a water bottle. You took it gratefully, your hands shaking slightly. The cool plastic felt odd in your blood-crusted fingers.

“Drink,” he instructed. You did so, taking careful sips as he watched you with the same assessing gaze you had grown used to. The water soothed your parched throat, washing away the metallic taste of fear that had lingered there since the harpy’s attack.

“Dean?” you began softly.

“Yeah?”

“Is… is being human always like this?” He went still, like the question had caught him completely off guard.

“Like what?”

“Hurting,” you said. “It seems like there are so many ways the human body can experience pain.” Dean leaned against the bathroom counter, bracing his hands on either side of himself.

“No,” he started slowly. “It’s not all pain.”

“But there’s a lot of it?”

“There is… but it’s not always like that.” He sighed and reached for one of the folded washcloths, ran it under warm water, then crouched in front of you again. “C’mon, gimme your hand.” You placed it in his without hesitation, and he began gently wiping away the dried blood.

“Then what’s the point of it?” you asked. “Why endure all of this if it hurts so much?” He didn’t answer right away. He kept his gaze trained on your hand, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your knuckles as he worked. Something in his expression had shifted. Something softer. Something melancholic. 

“Because there’s more to it than just pain,” he said finally. “There’s lots of good things. Good food. Stupid movies. Music that hits you right in the chest.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “There’s pie.” 

“Have I had that?”

“Not yet,” Dean replied, a flicker of something that might’ve been excitement crossing his face. “That’s something we need to fix.” The pain in your shoulder had settled to a dull throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, and the toxin in your system must’ve dissipated quickly because you were already feeling much better after emptying your guts into the tub. “But there’s also connection,” Dean continued to speak as he cleaned, eventually finishing one hand and urging you to set down the water bottle and give him the other. You obeyed, listening to him. “There’s learning that not every touch is meant to hurt.”

“What do you mean?” you cocked your head to the side. He paused again, your hand resting in his with the washcloth held in the other. He set it down, moving slowly and deliberately.

“Like this.” His fingers brushed against your wrist, a gentle touch that sent a strange warmth up your arm. You watched, fascinated by the sensation. Warmth bloomed in the wake of his fingers, quick and fleeting. This touch was different. You didn’t get that kind of warm feeling when he had been cleaning your shoulder. This wasn’t a functional touch. It was something else entirely. Something you had no idea the name of. For a single moment, both of you held your breaths. 

Then, Dean pulled his hand back to himself, grabbing for the washcloth again as though he just realized what he had been doing. He wouldn’t meet your eyes, suddenly very intent on cleaning the blood from between your fingers. “There’s plenty of good stuff in the world. The kind of things that made the bad stuff... survivable.”

“Is that what keeps humans going?” you asked. “For those moments?” Dean swallowed, still not looking at you.

“Yeah. I think so.” There was a long beat of silence between you as he finished what he was doing. Then, 

“Is sex one of those ‘good things’?” Dean froze, movements paused halfway through wiping dried blood from one of your knuckles. 

“... I’m sorry,” he began after a beat. “Is what one of those things?”

“Intercourse,” you repeated simply. “I saw it referenced often in a book.” 

“Christ, what the hell is Sam teaching you?” Dean heaved a sigh, letting go of your hand in favor of rubbing the back of his head. “It– uh… yeah. I mean… it can be.” You watched him with interest, noticing a pinkish hue rising to his cheeks. 

“Is it connection?”

“Sometimes,” he said, recovering slightly. “Sometimes it’s just–” Dean caught himself and sighed again. “Look, it’s complicated.”

“But it’s one of the good things?” You dipped your head down slightly to meet his gaze, and when you caught it, there was something cautious but honest there.

“It can be. With the right person. When everyone’s on the same page.” You nodded, filing that away.

“Is it painful?” Your question earned you a startled huff of laughter before he could stop himself.

“No. No, not usually.”

“Then… it’s the opposite?”

“...Yeah,” he said slowly. “Pleasure.”

You rolled the concept around in your mind, trying to find the right way to categorize it. Pain and pleasure. Opposites on the same spectrum, you supposed. You were plenty familiar with the former, but the latter was something entirely unknown.

“I think I want to experience that,” you said. “Pleasure.” Dean straightened up abruptly, standing and putting a careful step of distance between you as he tossed the washcloth beside the sink.

“Okay,” he said, his voice a little rough. “That’s– that’s not a conversation for right now.” You blinked up at him.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” His answer came far too quickly, and it gave you the sneaking feeling like you had said the wrong thing. “No, you didn’t. I just…” He sighed again, scrubbing his hand over his face and turning to look into the bathroom mirror. “How about this? You don’t ask me about sex until you understand what it means to want something.” 

You nodded, unbothered, but the flicker of curiosity played at the edges of your mind. You weren’t entirely sure what he meant by wanting something, but the idea was intriguing. Wanting. Desire. Abstract concepts that were foreign but enticing. You understood the principle of longing from stories you had watched unfold, but, just like with everything else relating to the human experience, living it in your new form was something else entirely. 

Dean hastily closed the first aid kit and ushered you out of the bathroom, tossing you a flannel from his bag. “You should change into this. So you don’t have to sleep in a bloody shirt.”

“Thank you.” You stripped, noticing that Dean abruptly turned away from you as you did so. “I’m sorry about leaving the car,” you started slowly, buttoning up the shirt with minimal difficulty. Your first time with buttons had been better than shoe laces, but the fine motor functions needed for it hadn’t been very well developed. This time, your only fumble with them was missing a hole which left the shirt bunched up oddly in one spot. “I know you told me to stay put.”

“Yeah, well… for what it’s worth, you did good out there. For someone who’s only been human for a week, you handled yourself better than most.”

You blinked at the unexpected praise, warmth flooding your cheeks at his words. That wasn’t what you had been expecting from him at all.

“But I broke your rule,” you reminded him, testing to see if his anger had truly dissipated or if it was just temporarily buried beneath the concerns for your wellbeing.

“Yeah, you did,” he admitted, his voice soft. “But you saved our asses back there. So I guess I can let it slide. This time.” He peeked, making sure you were decent before he turned around and pointed a finger at you, but there wasn’t any heat behind the gesture like you had seen before. “Don’t make a habit of it.”

A smile tugged at your lips, a strange lightness in your chest at his acceptance. Every interaction with Dean thus far had felt like a negotiation. A careful dance of boundaries and trust that you had hoped was slowly building into something more solid. But for once, you felt like actual progress was being made.

You sat on the edge of the bed, shifting slightly and adjusting to the comfort of his flannel. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and leather and something distinctly human that you didn’t have a name for. It was grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. Familiar already despite how new everything was to you still.

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and sat on your uninjured side, close enough that your shoulder almost touched his. And he stayed there, quiet and unmoving, as he tapped at his phone screen.

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward. It didn’t press in on you or demand to be filled. It simply existed, – shared and steady – and you got the distinct feeling that maybe, just maybe, Dean had decided that you were less of a liability than he had expected.

Lower divider by @/kodaswrld

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Everything came to you in flashes, glimpses of memories that fluttered through your consciousness like pages torn from a book. The exact details were lost to you but bits and pieces pushed to the forefront of your mind.

Something grabbing hold of your Grace – unseen fingers closing around your very essence and squeezing until you couldn’t breathe. A lock clicking shut – the sound reverberating across dimensions and sealing something precious away from you. Your name – someone shouting it but cutting off before the final syllable. Light became dark. Heat became cold. There was the sensation of being shoved into something too small. Too compact. Too painfully finite.

The transformation stripped you layer by layer, peeling away the millennia of celestial being-ness that had never questioned its permanence or mortality. Wind rushed past you, and the sensation of falling registered somewhere in your brain. You willed your wings to catch you, mentally picturing their vastness stretching across the sky and stopping your descent. The sheer magnitude of them could blot out the sun. Nothing happened. 

Impact. 

Pain flooded your senses in a way angels never experienced. In a way you had never experienced before. Your form – your body – crumpled against soil and stone. Bones that hadn’t been yours until this very moment absorbed the shock and punched the air from your lungs in a shocked gasp. The sound that escaped your lips was raw and mortal, and you instinctively curled in on yourself, eyes squeezed shut. Something foreign and heavy thumped in your chest, and the sound of your own heartbeat lulled you into unconsciousness.

When your awareness returned to you and you finally cracked your eyes open, you found yourself in a wide, open field. There was no crater or trench carved into the earth to signal your arrival, just the subtle signs of something unnatural happening. The tall grass was bent outward, bowing away from you, and there was a strange sort of static charge that made the air taste like metal on your newly human tongue. Your entire body hurt in a way that was more physical than you had ever been before, a punishing ache that radiated through every joint and muscle. It was the kind of pain that belonged to fragile beings. Not warriors of Heaven.

You tried to sit up, but your limbs didn’t respond properly. They felt heavy and unwieldy, like you were trying to operate machinery without knowing which control did what. Your fingers dug into the dirt beneath you, and you briefly marveled at the way it pressed against your skin. The sky above you was painfully blue, completely indifferent to your fall, fluffy white clouds rolling across their canvas without a care in the world. The sun hurt your eyes, and you blinked, dropping your gaze back to the earth around you.

It was eerily quiet. The constant chorus of your siblings’ voices was missing. You couldn’t hear their reports. Their songs. Their endless communications across the galaxies. You reached for it only to find emptiness. Even worse than the silence, though, was the gaping chasm in the center of your being. A hole where your Grace should’ve been, warm and pulsing and alive. Instead, all that remained was a strange sort of vacuum, as though it had just... opened up and swallowed your celestial self whole. The more you searched for it within yourself, the more the void inside you yawned open. You took a deep breath, shifting your attention to search for your wings. You stretched the muscles that should’ve unfurled vast appendages of light and intent, but all you got was the awkward shifting of shoulder blades beneath unfamiliar skin. You weren’t sure what made you feel the most vulnerable – the silence, your missing Grace, or the lack of your wings.

Cold seeped into the edges of your awareness, the sensation startling you. The clothes on your body weren’t yours. The jeans were frayed at the hems. The t-shirt hung loose across your shoulders. The jacket smelled of a life you had never lived. You’d heard of angels coming to Earth before, but they needed willing vessels that could house them. You didn’t remember requesting permission from a vessel, and when you dug through your mind for signs of the human whose body you wore, you couldn’t find them. There was no one. No memories of a life lived before all of this. No thoughts of family flitting around your mindscape. It was like this vessel had been crafted specifically for one purpose. To house you. To contain you.

A strange sensation hit your abdomen. A hollow, twisting feeling accompanied by a low rumble. You felt your expression morph into something confused. You’d spent countless spans of time watching humans, and you knew the concept of hunger… but was this what it felt like? The basic, human need that was entirely foreign to your existence. The discomfort bewildered you, and you had only just begun to examine it a little closer before it curled through you again, this time more insistent. 

You moved to stand, stumbling over twice before you finally figured out how to convince your legs to hold you upright. Balance came slowly, the mechanics of bipedal movement requiring a level of concentration your celestial form never needed. Gravity felt like an adversary you weren’t sure how to face, an enemy you had never encountered before. The weight of this form felt like a prison sentence.

Slowly, you started walking. Where you were going, you couldn’t say for sure, but somehow, staying still felt dangerous. There was an echo of the urge to run, but you couldn’t figure out exactly what from. You couldn’t summon your angel blade to yourself which was just another thing to add to your growing list of things you were missing. Every step sent small shocks through your ankles, knees, and hips. Joints that you never had to consider before. The human body, you realized, announced itself with each movement. It demanded constant attention. Required perpetual management. It was exhausting having to keep track of everything.

The field gave way to a smattering of trees. A forest, you recalled. You had seen many of them from your vantage point in heaven, but the trees were much larger looking at them from the ground. Your true form would’ve dwarfed them several times over. They opened up to a road that carved its way through the forest, and you followed it because sticking to a well-traveled path made the most sense even if it left you out in the open.

Time passed differently in this form. Without the eternal perspective of an angel, minutes dragged on and rushed by in unpredictable patterns. You weren’t sure how to track the passage of time. Centuries didn’t pass between each blink of your human eyes. You counted the seconds instead. The sun moved overhead as you walked, and your shadow gradually overtook you until it stretched ahead of you on the road. It looked nothing like what you once were. You studied the flat, wingless silhouette that moved in time with you, taunting you as it slowly stretched longer and longer with the setting sun. It was a strange, earthbound thing. 

Signs of civilization cropped up. Powerlines overhead, discarded trash along the sides of the road, and the occasional passing car that slowed to stare at you before speeding off in the direction you had come from. Your hunger grew more adamant, your stomach twisting and contracting as it let out an impossibly loud noise. A second sensation joined it, an odd sort of sticky dryness across your tongue. Thirst, you realized as your throat constricted in a way that made swallowing difficult. These sensations – the things humans felt on a daily basis – were overwhelming, pushing their way to the forefront of your consciousness and demanding to be sated.

A town appeared as you crested over a small hill, and a feeling of elation spread through you at the sight. The town was very different from the forest. It was louder. More chaotic. There were more cars, and even though the sun had turned the sky a beautiful orange color, there were still people on the sidewalks. Smatterings of conversations surrounded you. The rumble of vehicle engines distorted as they moved past you. A neon sign flickered in the window of the building you stopped in front of. 

Mae’s Diner. 

You could see people sitting in booths through the large windows. Some were conversing. Others had drinks and food in front of them. It struck you just how easily they just... existed. Like it was effortless. The sight of them so comfortable and content in their humanity made something tighten in your chest. Envy, perhaps? Or maybe longing? It was hard assigning the proper name of an emotion to something that had merely been a concept to you for countless eons.

You pulled open the door of the diner, and it was like stepping into another world. Voices layered over top of each other. Silverware clinked against plates. The smell of coffee and grease and perfume all mingled in the air. It was practically an assault on your senses, and if there wasn’t the promise of relief from your hunger and thirst driving you forward, you were sure that you would’ve turned right around and gone back to the forest.

“Take a seat wherever you’d like, hun!” A woman in an apron shouted over the noise. You looked at her, and she made a vague motion with her hand. After a moment, you awkwardly sat at the counter, taking the seat that was closest to the wall and doing your best to mimic the behavior of those around you. Your movements felt stiff and mechanical as you folded your hands in your lap. Then unfolded them. Then gripped the edge of the counter because you weren’t quite sure what else you were supposed to do with them. The woman who had greeted you approached, her face lined with years of expressing emotions. “What can I get for you, hun?”

She set a laminated menu in front of you. The symbols on the page swam before your eyes, looking both familiar and unfamiliar. Words, the currency of communication. You could read them somehow, but understanding the meaning behind them required more concentration than you felt capable of in the present moment. What was a compote? Or an eggs benedict? The meaning swam somewhere in your head, amorphous and unformed but just out of reach.

“Water,” you finally said. The word felt rough in your throat and clumsy on your tongue. Your voice didn’t sound like yours. The waitress nodded and left you. You stared at the menu. The words might not have made sense to you, but there were pictures at least. What did this body need to function? Did it run off of French toast? When the waitress returned with a glass of water, you glanced at her with uncertainty before pointing to one of the pictures on the menu. She scribbled something down and took the menu back, and you gulped down the water greedily. The cold liquid slid down your throat, quenching one of the sensations that had been gnawing at you. The ice rattled in the cup as you set it down. 

You were halfway through your ordered meal when the bell above the diner door chimed. You didn’t turn to look as you had done the past four times it happened, but you felt the way the air in the room seemed to shift. A weight entered the room. Not a physical mass but one of intention and focus. You recognized it without fully understanding how. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of two men walking in, their boots making distinct sounds on the linoleum floor. One set was heavier and measured. The other was quicker, more purposeful. 

The diner’s ambient chatter died down slightly as a few heads turned to look at the newcomers. You followed along with one of the other patrons near you and looked. One of them was tall with long hair, and the other was slightly shorter with watchful eyes. They paused just inside the door, scanning the room with practiced casualness that wasn’t casual at all. The shorter one clocked you instantly, his gaze locking onto you for three heartbeats before sliding away. You didn’t blend in. Not even a little bit. 

You ducked your head and went back to pushing the food on your plate around in an attempt to look normal. The waitress came by and refilled your water, and you closed one hand around the glass, the cool surface giving you a physical sensation to focus on. The men’s footsteps drew closer to you before stopping abruptly. The sound of vinyl seats squeaking met your ears, and you snuck a glance in their direction. The two of them had taken a booth near you, and they leaned over the table, speaking in low voices.

Why did this feel dangerous? Why did you feel exposed? You called for your angel blade, willing it to manifest in your hand. You called for your Grace, reaching for the void inside of you. You called for your wings, searching for their familiar weight and comfort. Anything to quell the overwhelming urge to get up and run. Nothing responded to your call.

You lifted the glass to your lips, but for reasons you couldn’t comprehend, your hand shook. Water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto the counter in front of you. The movement of bringing the liquid to your mouth suddenly took more coordination than your frayed nerves could manage. You set the glass down harder than you intended.

One of the men stood from their booth suddenly, having murmured something to his companion. You kept your eyes fixed on your plate as his footsteps approached. He moved through the diner with the easy confidence of someone who knew precisely what he was doing. When he reached the counter, he slid onto the stool beside you, his body angled in your direction. The weight of his attention settled over you.

“You alright there, sweetheart?” His voice was low and casual with an undertone that suggested he already knew more than he was letting on. You froze at the endearment. It was something meant to soothe. To provide a false sense of familiarity. The concept of false niceties wasn’t foreign to you, and you were thankful that not everything was entirely unknown to you.

“I–” Your voice caught in your throat. What was the proper response? The taller man hadn’t moved from his spot in the booth, but he watched your interaction with careful eyes. His posture seemed less aggressive than his companion’s, but that didn’t mean he was any less vigilant.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” the man beside you continued when you didn’t give him a response. His green eyes didn’t match his easy-going smile. They were sharp, assessing your every movement.

“I’m fine,” you managed, the words feeling strange on your tongue. You weren’t. Your first lie in your entire existence. You weren’t very good at it. 

“Yeah?” He nodded, though it was clear he didn’t believe you. “Got a name?”

The question struck something raw in you. Your name, your true name, was a sequence of celestial harmonies. A vibration that couldn’t be replicated by human tongue. You stared at him, feeling like an animal in a cage, and the door was closing. What were you supposed to call yourself? The question felt more profound than he probably meant it. It was about identity. About who you were now that you had been stripped of your celestial nature. A name rolled off your tongue. Something you had heard before. Something human. Something that just felt… right. He repeated it, and it settled over you, etching the beginning of this new identity.

“You new to town?” He shifted on his stool, one arm resting on the counter. You nodded slowly. Lying didn’t feel like something you could confidently pull off with this man. “Where are you from?” he continued, casually reaching over to the salt and pepper shakers.

“I… don’t know.” You stared at the counter’s speckled surface like the answers you needed would suddenly reveal themselves. 

“They don’t season their fries well enough here,” he said, gesturing to your plate. “Try throwing some of this on ‘em.” He slid the salt shaker over to you, the movement smooth like he had done it countless times before. You stared at the shaker for a moment, uncertain if there was something more to this gesture than just seasoning or if perhaps it was a common human greeting. Not wanting to offend him in case it was a greeting, you lifted it and tipped it over your plate. He watched you with an intensity that made your skin prickle uncomfortably.

“Thanks,” you said, picking up one of the freshly-salted fries and eating it. His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture relaxed slightly. Just a fraction. Not enough to make you feel any less like you were being scrutinized, but enough that you noticed.

“You don’t know where you’re from?” he asked, his tone skeptical as he jumped back to the previous topic. The taller man finally rose from his booth and approached, hovering just beside his companion. The fact that he positioned himself just enough to block off your exit wasn’t lost to you. “What do you know?” The seated man’s tone grew harsh.

“Dean.” The taller one finally spoke. There was an edge to his voice. A warning, perhaps? Your gaze darted between the two of them. They exchanged a loaded look, a conversation in a glance. It reminded you of your connections with your celestial brothers and sisters, of the language of siblings. Another thing that had been taken from you. “I’m Sam,” he continued, his voice gentler than it had been a second ago. “Were you in some kind of accident?”

“Accident,” you repeated, tasting the word on your tongue as you considered his question. The word was inadequate to describe what had happened. You winced, trying to recall anything more substantial than the flashes before the field. “Yes. I fell.”

“You fell,” Dean echoed, his tone flat and eyes narrowing. “Like, you tripped? Or fell from…?” He made a vague upward gesture with his hand. You met his gaze, unsure of how to explain dimensions and the cosmos to them. Was there a way to make them understand?

“I don’t remember the details,” you said honestly. “Just… falling. Then waking up in a field.” Sam and Dean shared another look. Dean’s jaw tightened, a muscle tensing just beneath the skin. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only the three of you could hear him.

“Look, we know you’re not human. We just need to figure out if you’re the dangerous kind of not-human.”

You shifted uncomfortably on the stool, feeling exposed under their scrutiny. Something twisted in your stomach, but it wasn’t the same sort of twist that felt like hunger. This felt more like fear. Terror. Everything about this existence felt wrong. Too loud. Too bright. Too confining. And now these men with their probing questions and knowing looks.

“I should go,” you said, moving to stand. Dean’s hand shot out, not quite touching you but hovering near your wrist in warning.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Metal glinted from beneath his jacket, and you met his gaze, eyes widening.

You froze, caught between your instinct to flee and the realization that they could – and would – stop you with very little effort. There was a subtle shift in the diner’s atmosphere. Other patrons seemed to sense the tension radiating from your corner and averted their gazes, suddenly fascinated by their own meals.

“I’m not…” Your voice faltered. What were you not? Dangerous? Human? An angel anymore? All of the above felt true and false at the same time. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.” Sam’s expression softened slightly, but Dean’s didn’t change, suspicion etched into every line of his face.

“We’ve heard that one before.” Dean drummed his fingers against the counter. “Usually it’s right before things get real messy.” Sam cleared his throat meaningfully.

“If you’re hurt or confused… we might be able to help. We deal with these kinds of things.”

“What kind of things?” you asked, voice just loud enough for them to hear it above the diner’s ambient chatter. Dean leaned closer.

“The kind of things that fall from the sky and don’t leave craters.”

Your breath stuttered. They knew. Somehow, they knew what had happened to you. Or at least… they had some idea. Some experience in things that were beyond normal mortal knowledge. It should’ve been comforting – someone who might actually understand what you had to say – but instead, it only sent a cold spike of dread through your new form.

“I don’t know what I am anymore,” you admitted, the words feeling more raw and honest than you were prepared for. Your eyes stung. “I just woke up… like this.” Sam’s expression softened further, sympathy flashing behind his eyes that Dean’s didn’t mirror.

“Like what exactly?” Sam asked.

“Mortal,” you whispered, and the word was ash on your tongue. Dry and bitter. “Human.” Dean’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinized your face, as though he were expecting to find the traces of a lie somewhere in your features.

“Humans don’t fall from the sky and survive.” You flinched at his accusatory tone. 

The noises around you suddenly amplified, too loud and too close. Someone behind the counter was saying something, but their words tangled together, swallowed by the rush of blood pounding in your head. The lights grew brighter, glaring and unforgiving. You blinked hard, but it didn’t help. Everything felt overexposed. The edges were too sharp, and the colors were too vivid, like the world’s saturation had been turned up. The floor tilted beneath you, a sickening lurch in your stomach as though the ground itself had decided that it couldn’t hold you anymore.

The walls around you were closing in. Not moving, not really. But the air thickened, pressing against your skin. There wasn’t enough of it. You tried to breathe deeper, but each breath caught halfway in, shallow and useless. Your heart slammed against your ribs, too hard and too fast, like it was trying to beat its way out of you. Something was wrong – catastrophically wrong – but you didn’t know where in the room to look or how to fix it.

A hand rested on your shoulder. You blinked, and everything was right again. The diner’s walls hadn’t moved, and the floor was still solid under your feet. Your heart raced in your chest, and you gulped down lungfuls of air. Sam had stepped closer, placing himself slightly between you and Dean, and you could feel warmth seeping into you from the contact. It was surprisingly comforting, and you leaned into it slightly.

“We have a safe place,” Sam said quietly, his tone having gone impossibly soft. “Somewhere we can talk about this without…” He glanced around the room at the other patrons meaningfully. “Without an audience.”

“Or we can keep doing this here,” Dean added, annoyance flickering in his gaze behind Sam. “Up to you.”

You weighed your options. Staying in this diner meant remaining exposed, vulnerable to these men – hunters, something in your brain supplied – or possibly what had done this to you in the first place. But going with them to their “safe place” meant trusting strangers who clearly knew more about your situation than they were letting on.

“If I go with you,” you said carefully, “I can leave when I want, right?” Dean snorted, shaking his head.

“That’s not how this works.”

“Dean,” Sam’s tone was warning again. He looked at you. “You’re not a prisoner. We just need answers.”

“I don’t have many to give,” you replied, meeting Sam’s gaze. Sam felt far less volatile than Dean did. Felt less likely to stab you. “I’m not… withholding information. I don’t know what happened to me.” Dean ground his teeth together, his jaw tightening.

“Well that’s what we’re gonna find out,” he said, standing up from the stool. “Because something’s not adding up here.”

Lower divider by @/kodaswrld

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The past few days had been filled with nervous anticipation, trying not to get your hopes up while still checking your phone more often than you wanted to admit.

When the call finally came, you spent a few moments afterward simply staring at your phone, letting the reality settle in. The countless applications, the late nights searching for opportunities, the uncertainty of what came next, all of it had finally led somewhere.

You got the job.

When you told Paul, he looked happier than you expected.

He immediately celebrated with you, insisting that it was exactly what you deserved and that he knew you would get it. Later, when he returned from the headquarters, he told you that everyone had sent their congratulations.

Even Bucky.

You tried not to look too interested when Paul mentioned him.

According to Paul, Bucky had simply nodded and said that he wasn't surprised. The compliment stayed with you longer than it probably should have.

It was twelve days after you joined before you saw Bucky again.

Not that you were keeping track. At least, that was what you told yourself.

The Avengers medical facility was unlike anywhere you had trained before. The foundation was still the same, patient care, emergency response, and teamwork, but the environment existed on a completely different level.

It wasn't only built for the Avengers.

With Valentina overseeing the facility's operations through her connections with the CIA, it also served as a specialised medical centre for select security personnel, field agents, and government operatives across the city. People whose work placed them in situations where ordinary hospitals either couldn't provide the right care or couldn't protect their privacy.

Advanced technology. Unusual injuries. Patients whose situations belonged nowhere near an ordinary hospital.

Slowly, though, the unfamiliar became routine.

Between learning new protocols, shadowing senior nurses, finding your way around the vast facility, and familiarising yourself with technology you had never seen before, you barely had time to think about anything outside of work.

Still, you noticed his absence.

You had seen almost everyone else at least once.

Paul stopped by whenever he had a moment, usually checking in before getting pulled back into work.

Yelena occasionally appeared just to complain about something minor, though she always made sure you were alright before leaving. Bob somehow managed to complain about paperwork even while getting his vitals checked.

John was quieter, usually offering a simple greeting before returning to work. Alexei, meanwhile, treated the medical wing like a social club, arriving with dramatic stories and unnecessary commentary that somehow made even routine check-ups entertaining.

Ava began appearing too, usually with some flimsy excuse, before casually asking oddly specific questions about Paul’s preferences and disappearing again.

But Bucky never came through.

Until tonight.

It was almost seven, and your shift was nearly over, when the alarms announcing the team’s return echoed through the medical wing.

The quiet rhythm of the facility changed into something sharper and more focused. Staff moved with practiced urgency, medical teams preparing equipment, monitors being checked, and reports being pulled up before the returning agents had even reached the doors.

You weren't part of the emergency response team yet.

As a trainee, your role was still mostly observation, assisting where needed, and learning the procedures from those who had been doing this far longer than you had.

So you stayed back, organising supplies and restocking equipment while the senior medical staff handled the more serious injuries.

About twenty minutes later, after the immediate rush had settled, you stepped into one of the quieter supply corridors to collect additional sterile packs.

The hallway was much calmer now.

The bright overhead lights hummed softly, casting pale reflections across the polished floor. Most of the staff had moved back toward the main treatment areas, leaving this part of the facility almost completely silent.

Then you noticed movement. A door at the end of the corridor was slightly open.

You slowed and through the gap, you saw him.

Bucky stood alone inside one of the smaller treatment rooms, facing away from the doorway where you had stopped without realising it.

For a moment, you simply watched. Not because you meant to. But because there was something strangely different about seeing him like this. Not as the Avenger everyone knew. Not as the man people talked about.

Just as someone who had come back injured and was trying to handle it himself.

His tactical jacket had been discarded over the back of a chair, the heavy material hanging there like a reminder of where he had just been. His gloves and equipment were placed neatly beside him, everything arranged with the same careful precision you had noticed about him before.

His shirt was caught between his teeth, holding the fabric out of the way as he leaned one hip against the examination table. The overhead lights caught the faint sheen of sweat on his skin, making the injury stand out even more clearly.

A deep graze stretched along his ribs, the skin around it already bruising slightly. It wasn't life-threatening, and from the look of it, it probably wasn't even something he would consider worth mentioning.

You knew James Barnes was a super soldier. His body healed faster than a normal person's, and an injury like this would probably close up within a day or two. If he ignored it, he would likely be fine.

But "fine" wasn't the same as being properly treated.

The wound was longer than you first noticed, the edges irritated from whatever had caused it. There were still traces of dirt and debris caught around the injury, the kind of thing that his enhanced healing might push through but didn't make any less unpleasant in the process.

It wasn't life-threatening. It wasn't even close. But it was deep enough that it needed to be cleaned properly. Deep enough that leaving it alone simply because it would heal felt careless.

In one hand, he held an unopened dressing pack. With the other, he was trying to reach the injury himself.

You watched as he carefully attempted to clean the wound.

Once.

He stopped, adjusted his position, and tried again, shifting his body slightly to get a better angle. It didn't help. His fingers still couldn't quite reach the area properly without forcing his shoulder into an awkward twist that looked increasingly uncomfortable.

A quiet sigh escaped him.

He tried a third time, reaching around himself with a little more determination, but the result was exactly the same. The muscles across his shoulders tightened slightly with frustration, even though his expression remained carefully controlled.

That was when you finally spoke. “You know…”

He froze. Not dramatically. Just enough. His hand stopped mid-motion, and for a second, the entire room seemed to go still.

“There are people whose entire job is helping with that.”

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder. The expression on his face was like he had been caught doing something he knew he shouldn't have been doing.

“I was almost done.”

You looked at the untouched supplies beside him.

“You haven't even opened the antiseptic.”

His eyes flickered briefly toward the small packet.

“I was getting there.”

You folded your arms, unable to stop the small smile forming.

“You weren't able to.”

A quiet sigh escaped him. It was almost amused. Almost.

“It doesn't need a nurse.”

“It needs two hands.”

That made him pause, because he knew you were right. You could see the brief calculation in his expression, the instinct to argue, followed by the realisation that arguing would only make him look more stubborn.

Which, unfortunately for him, he was.

You walked into the room, already reaching for a pair of gloves from the nearby station.

“Sit.”

The command came out more naturally than you expected. Maybe it was the nurse training, or maybe it was simply the fact that you'd spent years telling people to stop making their injuries worse by pretending they weren't there.

Either way, Bucky looked at you for a moment, as though he wasn't quite used to people speaking to him that way.

Then, after a quiet second, he obeyed. He sat on the edge of the examination table while you prepared the supplies, and as you moved closer, you found yourself noticing details about him that you usually didn't have the opportunity to see this closely.

The faint exhaustion around his eyes. The small tension he carried even when he was perfectly still. The way he watched everything around him out of habit, always aware, always prepared. Even here. Even with you.

You cleaned the wound carefully, explaining what you were doing only when necessary. The graze wasn't severe, but it had collected dirt and needed proper attention before it became a bigger problem.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Then,

"You've done this before."

You glanced up.

A small smile appeared on your face. "I've been studying nursing for years."

"I meant..." He paused, choosing his words. "...with stubborn patients."

You laughed quietly. "Occupational hazard."

The corner of his mouth lifted. Only slightly. But enough.

You smoothed the last strip of medical tape over the fresh dressing, pressing gently along the edges to make sure it would stay in place. Satisfied, you let your hands linger for only a second before beginning to pull away.

That was when you looked up. He was already looking at you.

The fluorescent lights softened the blue of his eyes, making them seem quieter somehow. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze wasn't. It rested on you with a calm, almost searching kind of attention that made the room suddenly feel much smaller than it had a moment ago.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

His vibranium hand still held the hem of his shirt out of the way, the dark metal contrasting sharply against the worn fabric. His flesh hand rested loosely on his thigh, relaxed now that you had finished, the fingers slightly curled as though they had finally stopped expecting to do the work themselves.

You became acutely aware of how close you were.

Close enough to notice the faint scent of antiseptic mixed with whatever soap he used.

Close enough to hear his steady breathing.

Close enough that, if you didn't step back now, it might become awkward.

Your eyes dropped for the briefest moment. The dressing sat neatly against the hard lines of his torso, your own gloved hands still hovering near his ribs. You cleared your throat and finally took a step back.

"Try to keep the dressing dry for the next twenty-four hours," you said, slipping naturally back into your professional voice. "If it starts bleeding through or the edges lift, change it. Otherwise, clean it gently tomorrow before putting on a fresh dressing."

His eyes never really left yours. After a quiet beat, he finally released the hem of his shirt from his metal hand and carefully pulled it back into place, his movements unhurried, as though neither of you was in any rush to break the moment.

"I know the drill."

Of course he did.

You smiled, pulling off your gloves. "I figured."

Then, after the smallest pause, you added with a hint of frustration,

"Doesn't mean you're actually going to follow it."

That earned another almost-smile. He looked down at the bandage, thumb brushing absentmindedly over the edge of the dressing.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’s time I stopped overthinking things.”

The words caught you off guard.

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. Finally, you thought. Maybe he’d decided to stop carrying the weight of every life he couldn’t save. Maybe he’d finally let himself believe he deserved more than isolation and endless punishment.

“That’s… probably a good place to start,” you said softly.

"Thanks." But there was something about the way he said it that made it feel heavier than it should have. As though he wasn't only thanking you for cleaning a wound or the interaction you just had.

You smiled. "You're welcome, James."

His head tilted ever so slightly, and that familiar flicker crossed his face again, the same one you had caught outside the elevator days ago.

"It's Bucky."

You blinked. "Oh. I mean…"

He waited patiently, watching you stumble over the correction.

You smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, James."

For a moment, he simply stared at you. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "...You did that on purpose."

You tried to look innocent. "Maybe." The corners of your lips curled despite your best effort.

A sharper smile appeared this time, quick and undeniably cheeky. It reached only one corner of his mouth, but there was something quietly playful about it, as though he had accepted your challenge without saying the words.

You turned away before he could catch your own smile growing any wider and busied yourself clearing the trolley. Used cotton swabs disappeared into the clinical waste bin, empty antiseptic packets followed, and you folded the discarded wrapping into a neat pile almost absentmindedly. 

"So..."

You glanced over your shoulder.

"Successful mission?"

His expression settled again. He had slid off the examination table, reaching for his jacket.

"As successful as they usually are."

"Meaning?"

"We came back."

Something about the answer made you smile. 

“That’s a remarkably low standard.”

“It keeps expectations realistic.”

You nodded, sealing the waste bag.

"Well... try to get some rest tonight."

A faint breath of amusement escaped him.

"I'll try."

"And maybe..." you added, glancing back at him, "...a warm cup of herbal tea before bed. It helps."

He slipped his tactical jacket over one shoulder before answering. "I don't do tea."

"No?"

"I like coffee."

"At night?"

"Yes, especially at midnight."

You laughed.

"I suppose that's one way to recover."

He shrugged into his jacket.

"What are you going to do now?" 

"My shift's almost over." You washed your hands, drying them carefully. "I've just got to collect my bag, finish my notes, and then I'm heading home."

He gave a small nod.

“I was thinking of going to the canteen. Grab a coffee, maybe something to eat.”

The words were spoken so casually that you almost missed them altogether. He wasn't looking directly at you anymore, just adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as though the thought had simply crossed his mind.

“The canteen coffee?” You smiled sympathetically.

“Mhm.”

“I tried it on my second day.”

“And?”

“I've been carrying instant coffee sachets in my locker ever since.”

For a second, he simply looked at you. Then he laughed, a quiet, genuine sound that escaped before he could stop it, accompanied by the smallest shake of his head.

“If you ever want to try something better, there's a café down the road. They have the best cheesecake.” You added.

“I'll keep that in mind.”

You smiled, oddly pleased that you'd managed to introduce him to a decent place so close to headquarters.

"I should probably get going." 

He nodded. "How're you getting home?"

"Paul."

Another small nod. "Right."

You walked towards the door. Just before stepping out, you glanced back.

"See you around..." You caught yourself. "...Bucky."

His expression softened. The smile this time wasn't any bigger than the last, but it reached his eyes.

"See you."

It wasn't until you were sitting in the car that you found yourself replaying the evening, particularly his casual mention of grabbing something to eat after your shift. In hindsight, it seemed painfully obvious. He'd been giving you an opening, and you'd responded by warning him the coffee was terrible.

The following morning began like every other.

You arrived a little before your shift, clipping your ID into place as you stepped into the elevator. When the doors opened, you stepped into the corridor, adjusting the strap of your bag as you headed toward the nurses' station. You'd barely made it a few steps before you noticed someone standing farther down the hall.

Bucky.

He stood with one shoulder resting lightly against the wall, already dressed for the day in dark tactical clothing, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. At first, you thought he was simply waiting for someone else.

Then he looked up. His expression softened ever so slightly when he saw you. Without a word, he held out a takeaway coffee cup.

You slowed to a stop.

"...What's this?"

"Coffee."

"I can see that."

For a second, he almost looked uncertain. Then he shrugged one shoulder.

“You said the canteen’s was terrible. Said this place was good.”

You looked down at the cup. It wasn't from the canteen. The logo belonged to the café you'd recommended yesterday.

"You got one for me too?"

Bucky shrugged again, still trying very hard to look casual about it.

You looked back at him, still trying to understand. "...Why?"

He was quiet for a moment, almost as though the answer should have been obvious.

"You patched me up."

The words were simple. Matter-of-fact. Like, in his mind, that explained everything. 

You couldn't help smiling. "I was just doing my job."

"I know." Another small pause. "I'm saying thank you."

Something warm settled quietly in your chest. You accepted the cup. The paper was still warm against your hands.

"Thank you... Bucky."

The corner of his mouth lifted. 

You took a sip and smiled. Somehow, it tasted better than you remembered.

The next few days settled into a routine that neither of you ever acknowledged aloud.

Every morning you were scheduled to work, you would find Bucky somewhere around the elevator before your shift. One day, you casually mentioned your days off, mostly so he wouldn't end up waiting for you on a morning you wouldn't be there. Your days off passed uneventfully without him, and you found yourself missing the coffees and, more than you cared to admit, the conversations that came with them.

On your workdays, you began arriving ten minutes earlier than usual, giving yourself more time to walk with him before your shift. Somehow, even then, Bucky was always already there.

Never in quite the same place. Sometimes he leaned against the wall, other times he sat on a nearby bench, phone in hand, or stood by the security doors pretending to be interested in the access panel.

Without fail, there were always two coffees.

There was never any ceremony to it. He would simply hold the second cup out as though it had always belonged there, and you would take it with an easy “thank you” before the two of you started walking toward the nurses’ station.

The conversations came just as naturally. At first, they were little more than questions about his injuries, your shift, or what either of you had planned for the day. Gradually, though, they wandered elsewhere, coffee preferences, terrible canteen food, the strangest things you'd seen since arriving, bits of his work he could actually talk about.

Sometimes, they were completely ridiculous.

“I don’t believe you,” you said one morning, laughing.

“It's true.”

“Bucky, Australia did not actually lose a war to birds.”

He gave you a look. “They did.”

You pulled out your phone. “Seriously?”

“Go ahead.”

You opened Google, already convinced you'd prove him wrong. A few seconds later, your expression fell.

Bucky glanced at you. “So, what does Google say?”

His voice was unbearably smug. You shoved your phone back into your pocket.

“I don't like you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

Some mornings, you did most of the talking while he listened. Other mornings, you managed to get a surprisingly long answer out of him before he seemed to realise how much he'd said.

The walk to the nurses’ station was barely two minutes, but somehow, you always seemed to take the long way around or at least walk a little slower than necessary, stretching those few minutes into something neither of you seemed eager to end.

You also learned quickly that Bucky had an incredibly dry sense of humour. He never smiled before the punchline. Sometimes, he barely smiled afterwards. More than once, your laughter came several seconds after the joke, usually earning you a faint, knowing look that suggested he'd expected exactly that.

One morning, you were telling him about a couple who had come in together, both agents, both injured, and apparently both determined to spend the entire appointment arguing.

“They were fighting the whole time,” you said.

“About everything. He said she never listens. She said he only talks when he's wrong. At one point, they started arguing about who had started the argument.”

Bucky glanced at you. “Sounds healthy.”

“It gets better. One of the nurses finally looked at them and said, ‘Have you two considered couples therapy?’”

Bucky snorted quietly.

“You should've seen their faces.”

“I'm guessing they weren't thrilled.”

“They looked genuinely offended.” You laughed. “I mean, she wasn't exactly wrong.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment.

Then, completely matter-of-factly,  “Sam and I did couples therapy once.”

You stopped. Bucky kept walking.

“…What?”

He glanced over his shoulder, completely straight-faced. “Couples therapy.”

You hurried to catch up. “Why?”

“Don't know.”

“Bucky.”

“Communication issues.”

You stared at him. “I'm sorry, you and Sam went to couples therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“Like..actually?”

“We had to sit really close and stare into each other's eyes.”

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Bucky's mouth twitched. “It was awful.”

By the end of the week, those few minutes before work had quietly become your favourite part of the morning.

The following Monday morning, he wasn't there.

You didn't think much of it at first. Missions happened. Projects ran longer than expected. Sometimes people were simply needed elsewhere. That was life inside the compound.

Still, as you accepted an overly sweet coffee from the vending machine near the nurses' station, you caught yourself glancing towards the corridor where he usually appeared.

It remained empty.

Your morning carried on exactly as it always did. You attended handover, checked patient charts, assisted with admissions, learned how to calibrate one of the medical wing's new portable imaging scanners capable of producing three-dimensional skeletal projections in seconds, and spent the better part of an hour shadowing one of the senior trauma nurses during an emergency transfer from the training facility.

The work was demanding enough that the hours slipped past almost unnoticed.

Almost.

Every now and then, usually when you reached for the coffee sitting beside your workstation or found yourself walking the familiar route towards the nurses’ station, you realised you had expected to see him.

You told yourself it was only because routines were easy to miss once they disappeared.

Nothing more.

By the time your shift finally ended, your shoulders ached pleasantly from hours spent on your feet, and all you could think about was getting home, showering, and collapsing into bed.

You collected your bag from the locker room, exchanged goodbyes with the night staff taking over, and stepped out into the main corridor.

Someone was waiting.

Bucky stood in his usual spot, one shoulder resting lightly against the wall, his hands tucked into the pockets of the dark jacket he'd changed into after the morning's tactical gear. There was still a trace of fatigue around his eyes, but his posture eased the moment he noticed you.

In one hand, he held a small paper bag from the same café. When you reached him, he held it out.

"I'm making up for this morning."

You looked down, opening the top just enough to peek inside. Two slices of cheesecake. You looked back up at him, unable to stop the smile spreading across your face.

"You didn't have to do this."

"I know." He shrugged almost self-consciously. "I wanted to."

Something about how simply he said it made your chest tighten.

"Thank you."

"You survived the canteen coffee."

"Barely."

That earned a quiet laugh.

"I figured you deserved better."

Together, the two of you began walking towards the exit.

You talked for only a few minutes, mostly about ordinary things. A stubborn trainee who had somehow managed to sprain his wrist during a simulation exercise. The engineering project that had kept Bucky occupied since before sunrise. The weather, which had finally begun cooling after several days of relentless heat.

Nothing important.

Everything important.

By the time the compound's glass entrance slid open ahead of you, the evening sun had settled lower over the city, washing everything outside in warm amber light.

The car was waiting exactly where you'd left it that morning. You stopped beside the driver's door, turning back towards Bucky.

"Thanks."

You lifted the paper bag slightly. "For this."

"And..."

You hesitated, your fingers tightening just a little around your keys.

"...for waiting."

"It wasn't much of a wait."

You suspected that wasn't entirely true.

“Still.”

A small pause.

“You didn't have to.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

He looked at you for a second before his own smile appeared, small and effortless. His eyes had that same steady, unhurried warmth you had begun recognising over the past week, and for the smallest fraction of a second, it felt as though he was considering saying something more.

Something that lingered just behind his expression. Instead, the thought seemed to pass.

“Get home safe.”

“You too.”

You opened the car door, then glanced back.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

The answer came a little too quickly.

You smiled to yourself as you climbed into the driver's seat, placing the paper bag carefully on the passenger seat beside you before fastening your seatbelt.

As you pulled out of the parking space and merged onto the road leading away from the compound, you glanced once in the rear-view mirror.

He was still standing where you had left him. Hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. 

Watching until your car disappeared through the security gates. Only then did he finally turn and head back inside.

You smiled to yourself, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel while the other reached over to steady the paper bag as the car rounded the first corner.

By the time your shift finally ended the next day, your head ached in that familiar way it had started to after long days in the medical wing.

The morning had started with coffee with Bucky, routine observations, and dressing changes before you were pulled into the simulation suite. By the third simulation, you were barely noticing the technology, focused entirely on the patient in front of you. That, one of the senior nurses had told you, was the whole point.

The afternoon had been busier.

When you finally finished your shift and reached the main waiting lounge, exhaustion had settled comfortably into your shoulders.

Paul had insisted you wait for him.

It wasn't as though you needed to. Your apartment wasn't far from HQ, and you could easily walk back on your own. But after you'd made the mistake of doing exactly that after a particularly long shift the week before, Paul had apparently decided he'd been given one more reason to worry about you.

He'd been stuck in meetings that evening and hadn't answered his phone for nearly forty minutes. By the time he finally called and found out you'd walked home alone after dark, he'd given you the same lecture he'd given you a dozen times before, only this time with considerably more emphasis.

Neither of you had shouted. You rarely did. But by the end of the conversation, Paul had asked (far more quietly than angrily) that you wait for him next time, even if it meant sitting in the lounge for another half hour.

You'd agreed.

So here you were, sitting in the waiting lounge with a medical journal balanced across your lap, skimming an article on post-traumatic complications while agents around you slowly packed up for the evening. You'd already read the same paragraph twice without absorbing much of it.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

Paul was already halfway across the lounge, still fastening one of the straps on his tactical vest as he made his way toward you. The usual calm expression he wore around headquarters was slightly different now, not panicked, but focused. The kind of look that appeared whenever work got in the way of whatever plans he'd made.

“I'm so sorry.”

You immediately closed the journal, before setting it aside.

"What happened?" You said, standing up 

"I'll have to go to the site. There's an urgent surveillance review they need me for."

His eyes shifted briefly toward the exit as he spoke.

Through the glass doors of the lounge, you could see John already waiting by the car, leaning against the side with his arms crossed. From the look on his face, he had clearly accepted that he was involved in whatever last-minute situation had appeared, but he was not particularly happy about how quickly it had happened.

John caught Paul's glance and simply lifted a hand in acknowledgement, the universal expression of someone saying yes, I know, I’m already here, stop explaining.

Apparently, Paul had already decided to take the car, which meant you were officially without a ride home. Since the two of you shared it, his sudden change of plans had left you with very few options besides waiting around for him or finding another way back.

Paul looked back at you, his expression softening slightly.

"It's okay. I'll walk."

The answer came automatically. You had already started gathering your things when Paul shook his head.

"No."

"Paul—"

"It'll only take me a minute to sort you a cab."

He pulled out his phone, already opening an app while his eyes kept flicking between the screen and the exit. You could almost see him trying to balance two thoughts at once, getting where he needed to be and making sure you got home safely.

Before either of you could continue the conversation, another voice drifted across the lounge.

"You heading out?"

Both of you turned.

Bucky stood at the entrance of the lounge, his hands resting loosely by his side as he looked between you and Paul.

He looked much the same as he always did, just softer around the edges. He'd traded his usual tactical gear for a deep blue henley, the sleeves pushed casually up his forearms, the collar sitting slightly open at his throat. The shirt fit comfortably across his shoulders and chest without looking like he'd made any effort to dress up. His hair was slightly mussed from a long day, and there was a faint tiredness around his eyes that somehow suited him.

Paul looked relieved the moment he saw him.

“Finished the surveillance rotation?” Paul asked.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

“Any updates?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Nothing worth mentioning. Just the usual patterns. A few things that needed watching. No field work.”

Then he smiled, glancing over at you.

You smiled back. “So, no jumping out of planes tonight?”

“Not tonight.”

You chuckled. “Shame.”

Bucky smiled back, but your attention shifted to Paul as another notification appeared on his phone. Whatever brief calm Bucky’s arrival had brought him disappeared almost immediately.

“I really have to go.”

Bucky’s gaze left you and settled on him.

Paul hesitated for a second, his eyes moving briefly toward the exit before returning to you. He seemed to be working through his options, probably trying to figure out how to get you home without making himself even later.

You were about to tell him you'd just get a cab yourself when Bucky spoke.

“I can take her.”

The words were simple, almost casual. Like he was offering to do something completely ordinary. And judging by the way Paul’s shoulders relaxed, it was exactly the solution he’d been looking for.

“You sure?”

Bucky nodded once. “It’s no problem.”

Paul looked at you. “You okay with that?”

Your eyes flicked toward Bucky.

He was already willing to help. That much was obvious. But he wasn't moving closer or speaking for you. He simply waited, leaving the choice entirely in your hands.

For some reason, that small consideration made it harder to say no. Your heart gave one embarrassing little stumble.

You ignored it and nodded. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

"Okay.”

Paul slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Text me when you get home.”

“I always do.”

A small smile appeared on his face, relief finally easing some of the tension that had been sitting there since he walked into the lounge.

“Thanks.” Paul said.

The word was directed at Bucky, who answered with a small nod, as though thanks weren't necessary.

Paul was already turning toward the exit, calling a quick goodbye over his shoulder as he crossed the lounge at a pace that was almost a run.

You watched him disappear through the glass doors and hurry toward the waiting car. John was already behind the wheel. Paul barely had time to throw open the passenger door and climb in before John pulled away, the car already moving as he slammed the door shut.

The lounge felt noticeably quieter once Paul was gone. You glanced toward Bucky, only to find him already looking at you.

“He really can't stop worrying about you,” he said, a quiet chuckle slipping into his voice.

You glanced toward the doors. “Apparently not.”

"Ready?"

“Yeah,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you walked toward him, a smile already pulling at your lips.

Your gaze drifted over him as you walked, catching on the sleeve he'd rolled up to his forearm, exposing the smooth titanium of his arm beneath the bright lights of the HQ.

It reminded you of something.

“Oh, by the way,” you said. “I saw this really cute kitten on my feed the other day.”

Bucky looked over. “Yeah?”

“He had this little marking on his front leg that looked almost like your arm.” You smiled at the memory. “And apparently the person who adopted him named him Bucky. Bucky the cat.”

That earned a proper smile from him.

You'd learned early on that Bucky had a soft spot for cats. He'd once told you about the ones he'd fed in the alley behind his place in Brooklyn before he'd been drafted, and you had never quite forgotten the way his expression had changed when he talked about them.

“That sounds adorable,” he said. “Do you have a picture?”

You were almost at the car by then. “Oh, no. I was just doom-scrolling when I saw it.”

“Of course you were.”

You stopped beside the passenger door. “I'll save it next time I see it.”

“Right. Save it.”

He said it almost absently, already opening the driver's door. Then he chuckled to himself, as though something had just occurred to him, and got in.

You stood there for a second before opening the passenger door yourself and getting in.

“So, what’s your plan for tomorrow?” Bucky asked as he started the car.

You looked at him, realizing he remembered that tomorrow was your day off. A small smile pulled at your mouth as you settled into the seat.

“Nothing much. Sleeping through the alarm I set for the morning, ordering takeout, finding a show I've already watched three times, and, if they're free, maybe spending some time with my friends.”

“Sounds fun.”

You smiled, looking out the window as the car pulled away from HQ. “It is.” 

“So how do you spend your days off?” You asked, turning toward him.

Bucky drove carefully, his attention focused on the road ahead, his movements controlled and steady. His left hand rested on the steering wheel, the vibranium catching the passing lights outside, the dark metal reflecting faint glimmers with every turn.

“I usually just sleep them off. Or maybe grab a drink with Sam.”

You nodded. “Must be difficult, though. Being famous in public.”

Bucky glanced at you briefly.

“You know,” you continued, “having people recognise you everywhere, or taking pictures, or suddenly deciding they need to tell everyone that Bucky Barnes is sitting three tables away.” Your voice softened slightly. “It doesn't sound like you get much privacy.”

“It's usually better than people who don't like you recognising you and then saying something that just sticks with you.”

There was a tiredness to his voice that made you pause. You hadn't expected that answer.

“Well,” you said after a moment, “I suppose that's one of the occupational hazards of being a superhero.”

Bucky gave you a sideways look.

“Along with getting shot, thrown through buildings, and never really getting to have an ordinary day,” you added.

That pulled a small laugh from him.

“Something like that.”

“You should get hazard pay.”

“I'll bring it up.”

“Please do. I have several suggestions for the Avengers' employee benefits package.”

His smile lingered for a moment, and you were glad you'd managed to pull it out of him.

The car fell quiet again, comfortable this time.

After a moment, Bucky said, “Wakanda was probably the closest I ever got to having any of that.”

You turned toward him. “Having what?”

“Privacy.”

There was a slight pause.

“I spent a lot of time there.”

His expression changed almost imperceptibly. You didn't push further, but Bucky seemed willing to keep going.

“It was strange at first,” he said. “I'd spent so long with someone else deciding where I went, what I did, who I was supposed to be. Then I got to Wakanda and nobody needed anything from me.”

You listened.

“I didn't really know what to do with that.”

“You had to learn how to be a person again.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Something like that.”

You smiled, but his expression had grown thoughtful again.

“Wakanda was the place where I wasn't someone's weapon,” he continued. “But being free and knowing what to do with that freedom aren't necessarily the same thing.”

You just looked at him, letting the silence sit for a moment.

“Did you ever figure it out?” you asked. “What to do with the freedom, I mean.”

Bucky glanced at you before returning his eyes to the road. “I'm still working on it.”

There was something almost self-deprecating in the way he said it.

“That's fair.” You smiled, trying to reassure him.

“Yeah, well.” His mouth twitched. “I've had a few attempts.”

“Attempts?”

He gave you a look. “You're going to make me say it?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Sure.”

You smiled innocently.

Bucky sighed, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “I tried politics.”

Your eyebrows lifted. You'd expected him to say that, and judging by the way his eyes immediately flicked toward your expression, he caught it.

“What?”

You laughed. “I'm just trying to picture you at a campaign fundraiser.”

“Don't.”

That only made you laugh harder.

Bucky shook his head, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.

“I thought it'd be a way to do something useful. Change things from the inside. Get close to people and information I wouldn't otherwise have access to.”

“And?”

“Too many meetings. Too much reading. Turns out I don't have the patience for twelve people arguing about something that could've been solved in ten minutes.”

“So you quit.”

“Eventually.”

“And went back to being an Avenger.”

His fingers shifted slightly against the steering wheel.

“Something like that. Although I don't really appreciate the paperwork that came with being one full-time.”

You laughed softly. “I suppose saving the world comes with some administrative responsibilities.”

His mouth twitched.

“Being an Avenger is strange when you've spent most of your life believing you're the thing everyone needs protecting from.”

The words were delivered matter-of-factly, but they landed heavier than he'd probably intended.

You didn't know what to say to that, so you didn't try to fix it.

Instead, you said quietly, “For what it's worth, I think you're doing a pretty good job of being the other kind of person.”

His eyes flicked toward you for half a second before returning to the road. The car was already slowing as you approached your apartment building.

“The other kind?”

“The kind people are glad is around.”

The car came to a stop outside your building. The silence that followed felt different. The almost amused expression he'd worn earlier was gone, replaced by something else. Something you couldn't quite place.

It wasn't anger. It wasn't disbelief. It was something heavier.

Your smile softened. “I just think you're looking for proof that you're a good man in all the wrong places.”

“And where should I be looking?” he asked, turning toward you. There was something almost painfully hopeful in his eyes.

You looked at him for a long moment.

“The people whose lives are better because you were there.”

His eyes softened, but there was a sadness behind them that hadn't been there before. Like your words had reached somewhere deeper than you intended.

For a second, you wondered if you'd said the wrong thing. But then you noticed the way he looked away. Not dismissively. Almost like he needed a moment.

His right hand, resting on his lap, slowly curled into a loose fist. The tension in his fingers was subtle, but you noticed it. Like he was trying to hold himself together without letting you see how much your words had affected him.

And for the briefest second, as the headlights of a passing car swept across his face, you thought you saw his eyes glisten.

That couldn't be right.

Bucky Barnes did not seem like someone who cried easily.

But maybe he wasn't used to someone saying those things to him.

Maybe he had spent so long looking at himself through the worst moments of his life that he'd forgotten other people could see something different. 

Maybe he wasn't used to hearing himself described that way.

The thought stayed with you. Because, in a way, you understood.

You didn't remember enough of your own life to know who you'd been before the accident. You knew things about yourself because people had told you. That you'd studied nursing. That Paul was your brother. That you'd had friends, routines, places you loved, things you cared about.

You knew the facts.

But the feelings attached to them were gone.

Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to remember yourself properly, not the person everyone told you that you were, but the person you'd actually been before everything went missing. What had you been like when no one was there to explain you to yourself? Why was there so much about your own life that seemed to have no answer, so many gaps that everyone around you treated as unfortunate consequences of the accident, even when some of them didn't quite feel like they belonged there? And then there were the stranger things you couldn't explain at all, the way your body sometimes seemed to recover from injuries faster than it should, the little details you noticed and filed away because there was never quite enough of an explanation to make them worth asking about.

You had learned, eventually, not to pull too hard at those loose threads.

Maybe that was why you found yourself saying it.

“I don't remember any of it.” you said quietly.

Bucky's gaze returned to you.

“Any of what?”

“My life.” The words sounded strangely simple once they were out. You swallowed.

“I know I went to college. I know I studied nursing. I know Paul is my brother.” You paused. “But I don't remember choosing any of it.”

Bucky didn't interrupt.

“I don't remember being a kid. My friends. What I wanted to be when I grew up. Even what kind of person I was.”

You gave a small shrug, trying to make it sound less significant than it felt.

“Sometimes it feels like I'm living in someone else's life. Everyone else remembers me. I just have to take their word for it.”

Something in Bucky's expression tightened.

You looked toward the windshield. “It's strange, knowing there was a whole person there before me.”

“And not knowing who she was.”

“How far back?” His voice was quiet, almost careful, like he was trying to understand without pushing too hard. 

You looked at him. “Right after the Snap.”

Your fingers tightened together.

“I got into an accident. The chaos of people disappearing had something to do with it. Paul said the car that hit mine crashed because the driver vanished.”

Bucky's attention sharpened.

“I woke up weeks later with no memories of who I was.” You paused.

“Just a blank slate.”

He stared at you for a moment. He didn't look shocked. He didn't look pitying. If anything, he looked too focused.

You looked down at your hands. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh.

“It's weird that I'm telling you this.”

Bucky's expression softened slightly.

“I don't usually talk about it,” you admitted.

“I don't know. I just…”

You shrugged. “I felt like you should know.”

You looked out through the windshield again. When you glanced back, Bucky was still watching you. Something unreadable crossed his face.

“I'm glad you told me.” His voice was quiet, matter-of-fact. The simplicity of it caught you off guard. Your heart did something embarrassingly stupid.

“And anyway, it doesn't change anything.”

You frowned. “What?”

“You.”

You stared at him.

“You were already three years into nursing when the accident happened.” His fingers shifted slightly against the steering wheel. “You lost your memories, had to start your life over, and somehow you still ended up choosing the same thing.”

A pause.

“Maybe some things are just… you.”

A small smile pulled at your mouth. You just looked at him, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

There was something quiet in the way he looked at you now, something warm enough to make your chest feel strangely tight. You couldn't quite tell what he was thinking, but you found yourself holding his gaze anyway.

For a few seconds, the rest of the car seemed to disappear.

Then Bucky looked away first. You blinked, suddenly aware of yourself again. He shifted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat.

“Anyway…” He glanced toward the road ahead. “I should probably let you get back.”

The change in subject caught you off guard.

“I've got some unfinished work waiting for me, and I have early training tomorrow.”

“Right. Then I should take my leave now.” 

He was quiet for a moment before adding, “And I reckon Paul will be back tonight.”

“Lock your door, okay?”

You smiled. “I know how to stay safe, Bucky.”

A faint smile appeared on his face. "I'm just saying."

You shook your head, but the smile remained.

Before you could respond, he held out his hand. For a second, your brain completely stopped working. You looked at his hand.

Open. Careful. Waiting.

And, for one ridiculous moment, all you could think about was how easy it would be to place your hand in his. How warm his palm would probably be against yours. How strange it was that the same hand that could probably break through a wall could be held out to you with such quiet gentleness.

You looked up at him. Bucky was watching you. Your stomach gave an embarrassing little flip. Then you noticed the faint amusement in his eyes.

You blinked. "What do you—"

“Your phone.” His smile widened slightly.

You immediately looked away, hoping he hadn't noticed the heat creeping into your face.

“Oh.”

You handed it to him. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, lingering for barely a second before he looked down at the screen. “No lock?”

You glanced at him. “I don't think it's necessary.”

His eyebrows lifted.

You shrugged. “What? I trust the people around me.”

Something about that made his expression soften.

“Right.”

He unlocked your phone and typed in his number, then called himself. A moment later, his own phone lit up.

“There.” He handed yours back. “Now you have my number.”

He glanced down at his screen and saved your contact.

“And I have yours.”

You looked at him.

It was such a small thing. People exchanged numbers every day. There was nothing particularly significant about it.

And yet, watching his number appear on your phone made something warm settle low in your chest.

You looked up, and found him already watching you. The faint smile on his face made your stomach flutter. You were probably staring. And judging by the way his eyes flickered briefly toward your flushed cheeks, he'd noticed.

Bucky cleared his throat.

“I mean…”

His gaze shifted toward the windshield.

“I just don't want to miss another meme.”

You bit back a smile. “Of course.”

His eyes came back to you. There was a beat. Then he smiled.

You realised you were staring, again. Before it could get any more awkward, you quickly reached for the door handle.

“Okay. I should probably go. Good night.”

Bucky's smile lingered. “Good night.”

You stepped out of the car, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but at him. The cool air did absolutely nothing to settle the warmth still creeping into your cheeks, and you shut the door a little more quickly than necessary before taking a few steps toward the building.

When you glanced back, Bucky was still there, waiting. You lifted your hand in a small wave, and he waved back, a quiet smile resting on his face. Not the polite one you'd seen him give people at HQ, but something warmer, softer, something that seemed meant only for you.

It made your stomach twist in a way you were becoming increasingly certain was going to become a problem.

You waited for him to drive off, but instead he gestured toward the building.

“Go in first.” He mouthed.

You rolled your eyes slightly. Of course. You turned toward the lobby, shaking your head with a smile you couldn't quite get rid of, but glanced back once more before the doors closed behind you. He was still watching, still wearing that soft, almost unfairly sweet smile.

You kept walking, resisting the ridiculous urge to look back again, and only when you were completely out of sight did you hear the car finally pull away.

It wasn't until you reached your apartment door that you stopped. Your hand hovered near the handle as the realization slowly caught up with you. You'd never actually told Bucky your address.

Then, almost immediately, your brain supplied the easiest explanation. Paul. Of course. Paul must have told him. There was nothing strange about that. Nothing worth thinking about. 

Your day off had been exactly what you'd needed: takeout ordered without a second thought, several episodes of the new show everyone seemed to be talking about, and absolutely no intention of doing anything productive.

Well, almost nothing. You'd spent a surprisingly decent portion of the day texting Bucky whenever he had a spare moment, which, considering he was still working, wasn't particularly often. Still, he'd kept you updated in little pieces throughout the day - Briefing is running long, followed a few hours later by Yelena has decided the briefing is boring and is now making faces at everyone, and then, much later, We're done. It could have been worse.

You'd sent him memes in return, as promised, carefully choosing the ones you thought he'd actually find funny. He'd responded to some with a simple Jesus, others with a thumbs-up, and one with I don't understand this one, but I feel like I should.

At some point during the afternoon, Bucky had mentioned that he and Paul were heading out on an extraction mission around midnight. He'd said it casually, like it was another item on an already crowded schedule, but you'd still immediately told him to be careful and come back in one piece. A few minutes later, Paul had called you, and you'd repeated almost exactly what you'd told Bucky, earning a laugh and a promise that he'd be fine.

The next morning, you were back at work again.

You were halfway through reviewing a patient's chart when your phone buzzed against the desk. You glanced down and found a message from Bucky.

Bucky: Morning.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

You: You're alive.

Bucky: Barely.

You: What happened?

Bucky: John tried to convince everyone that his plan was better.

You: Was it?

Bucky: No.

Bucky: He didn't let the facts get in the way.

You shook your head, smiling down at your phone. 

You: I'm sure he meant well

You were just putting your phone away when someone appeared at the entrance of the small staff lounge off the medical wing.

Paul.

Your face immediately brightened. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He walked over, looking tired but otherwise perfectly fine. Except there was something different about him. A little too much energy in his step. A faint smile that hadn't quite left his face.

You immediately looked him over.

He noticed. “I'm fine.”

“I didn't ask.”

“You were about to.”

“I wasn't.”

Paul gave you a look.

You smiled innocently. Then your eyes narrowed slightly. “What's with you?”

“What?”

“You look happy.”

For a second, his smile grew before he seemed to remember himself. He cleared his throat and glanced away.

“I'm just going for a coffee.”

You stared at him. “That's it?”

“That's it.”

“Paul.”

He laughed under his breath. You knew that laugh. It was the one he used when he was trying very hard not to tell you something.

“You asked Ava, didn't you?”

His eyes flicked back to you.

There.

You pointed at him. “You did.”

“It's not a big deal.”

“You asked her?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Paul's smile returned despite himself. “I asked her if she wanted coffee.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “And?”

“She said yes.”

You stared at him.

Paul immediately looked away, suddenly very interested in the room around him.

“You're happy.”

“Can we not do this?”

You grinned. Paul shook his head, but he was still smiling as he pulled out the chair beside your desk and sat down.

“Anyway,” he said, clearly attempting to move on, “we're having dinner tonight.”

You blinked. “We?”

“The team.”

“Oh.”

“And I want you to join.”

You frowned. “Why so sudden?”

Paul shrugged. “A few of their friends are coming too. Everyone's been asking about you, so I thought I'd invite you.”

You glanced toward the chart you'd left open, then back at him.

Paul's expression softened. “Come on. It'll be fun. You like them.”

You considered it. You could probably finish up your shift and head there straight from HQ. You had something clean to wear in your locker, anyway.

“Okay.” you said.

“Okay. See you at eight.”

And he was already walking away before you'd even had a chance to say anything else. You watched him disappear through the doorway, already making a mental note to corner him later and get the full story about his little coffee date with Ava.

Your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Paul made it to you yet?

You: He just left.

The reply came almost immediately.

Bucky: I see.

Bucky: Did he happen to mention what he did?

You: Asked Ava out for coffee?

Bucky: That he did.

Bucky: Right before they fought their way out. Over the comms. Everyone heard.

You: omg

Bucky: At three in the morning.

You: OMG.

You: He couldn't have waited until the mission was over?

Bucky: That's what I asked him.

You laughed softly. Apparently, Paul had left out one rather important detail.

Bucky: Also, come to dinner tonight.

You stared at the message for a second. Then another appeared.

Bucky: Apparently I'm being told you're invited.

You: Is that your official invitation?

Bucky: No.

You waited.

Bucky: Official invitation: please come.

Bucky: I need someone there who won't let Alexei choose what I eat.

You laughed softly.

You: Does he really get that much say in what you eat?

Bucky: Don't you know him by now?

You: Fair enough.

And somehow, despite having spent the entire day yesterday doing absolutely nothing, you found yourself already looking forward to getting off work.

When your shift finally ended, you changed out of your scrubs, grabbed your things, and checked your phone one last time. Paul had texted earlier, telling you to just come straight upstairs afterward, so you made your way toward the lounge.

The room was already loud when you stepped inside.

Yelena spotted you first. “There she is!”

You barely had time to react before she waved you over, and you laughed as you made your way toward the table.

“You are late,” she said.

You frowned. “I was working.”

Yelena considered this for a moment before nodding solemnly. “Excuses.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you greeted the others in the group. Paul was already settled at the table with Bucky, John, and a few familiar faces from the team, along with a couple of their friends you'd crossed paths with around HQ before but had never really had the chance to sit down and talk to.

Bucky noticed you almost immediately. His eyes found yours across the table, and something in his expression softened as soon as they did.

You smiled at him.

Paul looked up next. “How was work?”

“Long.” You pulled a face, glancing around the table. “Where’s Ava?"

“She’s just opening the wine.” Paul nodded toward the other side of the room, where Ava was doing exactly that.

“Oh.” You lowered your voice slightly. “How'd it go?”

“Went well.” Paul smiled, but there was something in his expression that made it clear he was leaving out a few details.

Alexei, who was busy setting wine glasses around the table, looked up with a pleased expression. “The Thunderbolts are uniting like never before.”

Bucky sighed and shook his head.

John groaned. “Please don't.”

Alexei ignored him, continuing to arrange the glasses. “One successful mission, and suddenly we are becoming family.”

You shook your head, glancing around for somewhere to sit. Most of the chairs were already taken, but before you could decide where to squeeze in, Bucky reached for the empty chair beside him and pulled it out.

“Here.”

You looked at him.

He nodded toward the seat, already making room for you. Paul noticed. So did Alexei.

You decided not to acknowledge either of them and walked over, dropping into the chair beside Bucky.

Bucky turned slightly toward you. “Long day?”

“Very,” you said, setting your bag beside your chair.

“Thought you were going to be late,” he said.

“I got off five minutes ago.”

“Still.”

You looked at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Then stop complaining.” 

Bucky's mouth twitched beside you.

Ava returned with the wine and gave you a small smile. “Hey, glad you made it.”

She pulled out a chair beside Paul and sat down. Your eyes flicked from him to her, then back again, and Paul caught the look immediately, giving you a warning glance that told you exactly what he thought you were thinking.

You smiled innocently and reached for your glass. The ship had officially sailed.

Dinner itself was easy. The people you already knew slipped naturally back into familiar conversations with you, while the few friends they'd brought along made themselves comfortable around the group. You knew everyone well enough by now that you didn't have to spend the first hour making conversation or answering questions about yourself. You could simply settle into the noise of them.

At some point, Alexei started telling a story. You were halfway through taking a bite when Bucky quietly said, “Don't encourage him.”

You looked at him. “I'm not doing anything.”

“You're listening.”

“That's generally how conversations work.”

“Not with Alexei.”

You bit back a smile, but when you glanced across the table, you caught Yelena watching the two of you. Her eyes moved from you to Bucky and back again, and then a slow, knowing smile appeared on her face.

You immediately knew that look.

You turned back to your food, pointedly ignoring her, though that didn't stop you from becoming increasingly aware of the little things Bucky seemed to do throughout the rest of dinner. Whenever the conversation moved too quickly for you to follow, he filled you in quietly. When someone across the table started talking over you, he waited until you finished. Every so often, he'd lean toward you with some dry comment about whatever was happening, as though making sure you were still part of the conversation was the most natural thing in the world.

Yelena's occasional smirks didn't help.

Neither did the fact that, once you started noticing it, you couldn't seem to stop. At one point, you both reached for something in the middle of the table at the same time, and your fingers brushed.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“It's fine.”

Neither of you moved for half a second. It was barely anything, just the briefest touch before you both pulled away, but you found yourself looking down at your plate afterward with a sudden, inexplicable interest in your food.

Across the table, Yelena's expression had become deeply entertained.

You ignored her.

Later, when people started getting up and moving around, you found Paul near the kitchen, helping clear a few things from the table.

You leaned against the counter beside him.

“So,” you said casually. “How was your date?”

Paul glanced at you. Then a small smile appeared.

“Good.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Just good?”

“Yeah. Good.” He paused, looking far too pleased with himself. “We're probably going to go out a few more times before we make anything official.”

Your smile widened. “Look at you.”

“Don't.”

You laughed, reaching for one of the glasses he was carrying.

Paul shook his head, but he was still smiling. “It's nice, though. Having a normal night like this.”

You glanced toward the lounge. Most of the group was still there, scattered around the room in smaller conversations.

“Yeah. It was fun.”

“You've really gotten comfortable with them.”

You looked at him. “I have.”

“I noticed.” There was something almost fond in his voice.

You smiled. “What?”

“Nothing.” He picked up another glass. “Just… you seem happy here.”

The words caught you slightly off guard. You looked back toward the lounge. “I am.”

Paul nodded, seemingly satisfied with that answer. Then he glanced at you again.

“I've also noticed something else.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That sounds ominous.”

“It's not.”

“That's exactly what someone says before saying something ominous.”

Paul laughed quietly. Then his expression shifted, becoming a little more serious. “I know.”

You blinked. “What?”

Paul stared at you. You stared back. Then you realised. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes immediately flicked toward Bucky. He was talking to one of the others, apparently unaware of the conversation happening behind him.

Paul lowered his voice. “If you like him, I mean, I'm not going to make it weird.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “I don't—”

“I'm not asking.”

You stopped. Paul's expression softened.

“I've seen you two together. You like him.”

You looked away, suddenly very interested in whatever was happening across the room.

“I like him as a friend.”

“Sure.”

“Paul.”

“I'm just saying.”

You crossed your arms.

He sighed. “Look, I respect the guy. He's good to you. So if something happens, I'm not going to have a problem with it.”

You looked at him again.

“That was surprisingly mature.”

“Don't ruin it.”

You smiled.

Paul pointed at you. “But.”

You immediately knew there was going to be a but.

“But what?”

“He still has to ask me.”

You stared at him. “Ask you what?”

Paul looked genuinely offended that you had to ask. “To date my little sister.”

You blinked. Then laughed. “Paul, I'm an adult.”

“I know.”

“I don't need your permission.”

“I know.”

“Then why does he have to ask?”

Paul shrugged. “He doesn't but he should.”

You stared at him. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

“I'm your older brother. It doesn't have to.”

You rolled your eyes. 

Paul's mouth twitched. “Besides, I'd say yes.”

You stared at him for a second before shaking your head. “You're ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

Then Paul added, more quietly, “Seriously, though. If you like him, I'm happy for you.”

You paused. The teasing had disappeared from his voice. He gave your shoulder a small squeeze. 

“Just don't tell him I said he can date you. I'd like to see him sweat a little.”

You laughed. “Paul.”

“What? He can handle it.”

You shook your head and walked back into the lounge.

The rest of the evening passed without Paul bringing it up again, thankfully. Some of the group had started playing pool, somehow, there was a pool table in the lounge and you ended up catching up with Bob, who had settled beside you on one of the couches. 

He told you about the new book he was reading and how he'd been getting better at controlling Sentry, especially with the smaller things. Apparently, he could now make objects levitate in front of him without the other guy immediately taking over, which he seemed strangely proud of. You listened, asking questions whenever he paused, and it was nice seeing him talk about something that wasn't missions or everything he'd been through.

Bob was halfway through telling you about something that had happened during training when he paused, his attention briefly shifting toward the pool table.

Bucky had just missed a shot.

“You know,” Bob said, watching him for a moment, “he's been in a pretty good mood tonight.”

You glanced toward Bucky. “Has he?”

“Yeah.” Bob nodded, looking back at you. “Usually after a mission like that, he's quieter.”

You watched Bucky laugh at something John said, the sound low but unmistakably genuine.

“Maybe he's just relaxed, you know? The mission's over,” you offered.

Bob gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite buy that. Then his eyes moved back toward Bucky.

“He looks happier when you're here.”

You blinked. “What?”

Bob turned back to you, his expression completely matter-of-fact, as though he'd simply pointed out something neither of you had noticed.

“He does,” he added.

You didn't quite know what to say to that.

Bob gave you a small, almost knowing smile before returning to his story as though he hadn't just said anything particularly interesting.

“Anyway,” he continued, picking up exactly where he'd left off, “during training, I accidentally made the entire equipment rack float.”

You stared at him for a second. Then you laughed softly. “You did not.”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“Everyone started yelling.”

That pulled your attention back to him, and Bob launched into the story, demonstrating with his hands exactly how the equipment had apparently lifted several inches off the ground before he'd managed to bring it back down.

You listened. You laughed in the right places. You asked questions.

But every now and then, without meaning to, your eyes wandered across the room toward Bucky. And each time, you wondered if Bob was right.

Eventually, people began leaving in twos and threes, the noise of the room slowly fading as everyone got tired. Yelena insisted you stay rather than go back to your apartment so late, and after a brief argument, with Paul ultimately agreeing that you should stay, you finally gave in. Before heading to her room, you said goodnight to Bucky. He looked exhausted, but somehow still hadn't gone off to his room to sleep. He gave you a tired smile and told you to get some rest before you followed Yelena.

You were exhausted enough to think you'd fall asleep the second your head hit the pillow, between the long shift and the dinner.

You were wrong. Sleep never came.

You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling while the digital clock on Yelena's bedside table quietly counted the minutes past two in the morning. Beside you, Yelena had somehow managed to occupy almost the entire bed, one leg half tangled in the duvet, breathing with the unmistakable contentment of someone who had fallen asleep less than three minutes after saying, “Wake me if the building explodes.”

You had smiled at the time. Now, nearly an hour later, you were beginning to think even that wouldn't wake her. You turned onto your side for what had to be the twentieth time.

The evening replayed itself over and over again. The moments with Bucky. How comfortable you'd felt around him. Paul's sudden confrontation and, somehow, his equally sudden acceptance of Bucky. Yelena throwing you those knowing looks whenever you and Bucky happened to be talking. Bob casually pointing out how much happier Bucky seemed when you were around.

Somehow, none of it felt embarrassing. If anything, it felt strangely... nice. With a quiet sigh, you slipped carefully out of bed.

Yelena mumbled something unintelligible into her pillow before immediately falling back into complete silence. You smiled to yourself. “Goodnight to you too.”

You quietly slipped out of the room, deciding you could at least grab some water, or maybe make yourself a cup of tea, if they had any, and then go back to sleep. You did have work in the morning, after all.

You wandered quietly toward the kitchen. The lights above the island had been left on at their dimmest setting, casting a warm golden glow across the room while the rest of the floor remained comfortably dark.

That was when you noticed him. Bucky sat at the far end of the kitchen island. Not looking out over the city. Not doing anything particularly dramatic. Just Sitting.

An untouched mug rested between both hands, though the steam rising from it had long since disappeared. His elbows rested against the countertop, shoulders slightly rounded, his head lowered enough that loose strands of hair had fallen across his forehead.

He looked exhausted, significantly more than he had a few hours ago, as though sleep had found everyone else on the floor except him.

For a moment, you considered quietly turning around and giving him some privacy. Then the floor creaked softly beneath your foot.

His head lifted, and his blue eyes met yours. For the briefest second, surprise crossed his face. Not because you were there, but because he had been so lost in thought that he genuinely hadn't heard you approach.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asked.

His voice sounded rough, tired in a way that went beyond simple exhaustion.

You walked a little closer. “Neither could you.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Guess not.”

Your eyes dropped to the mug in his hand. “You made coffee?”

He glanced down at it, as though he'd forgotten he was holding it. “Yeah. I like coffee at midnight.”

The answer sounded strangely familiar.

A faint smile pulled at your mouth. “Looks like it.”

For just a second, genuine amusement softened his expression before disappearing again.

You pulled out the stool beside him and sat down, leaving a comfortable amount of space between you. You were simply sitting beside him.

The kitchen settled back into silence. The refrigerator hummed quietly in the background, and somewhere further down the corridor, pipes shifted softly as someone turned on a shower.

Neither of you felt any need to fill the silence.

You weren't sure how much time had passed before you noticed his fingers wrapped around the ceramic mug. They trembled almost imperceptibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you.

Your eyes lifted carefully to his face. Only then did you realise that his breathing hadn't settled either. It was a little too quick, a little too shallow. His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the kitchen cabinets, though you had the distinct impression that he wasn't really seeing anything in front of him.

“Bad dream?” You asked it so quietly that you almost wondered whether he'd heard you.

His jaw tightened. For several seconds, he remained perfectly still. Then he nodded once, small and almost reluctant.

Your chest tightened. Not because of the nightmare itself, but because he hadn't denied it. He hadn't hidden it or brushed it aside with a joke.

You remembered Paul mentioning, months ago, that some mornings Bucky simply looked tired. Now, you understood what he had meant.

You looked back down at the countertop. You wanted to ask what had happened, whether it had been HYDRA, the Winter Soldier, or something tonight that had brought it all back.

But looking at him now, you realised those questions weren't yours to ask.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So instead, you simply stayed. Minutes passed without either of you speaking.

Eventually, without consciously deciding to, you shifted your stool a few inches closer, until you were close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his.

He noticed. You saw it in the way his eyes flickered toward you for barely half a heartbeat.

But he didn't move away. His breathing remained uneven, as though he were still fighting whatever memories had followed him out of sleep.

Your gaze drifted once more to his hands. His flesh hand rested beside the mug now, open. As though he'd unconsciously given up on trying to steady it.

Before you could lose your nerve, you reached across the narrow space between you, slowly and carefully, not wanting to startle him.

Your fingers settled lightly over the back of his hand. Warm. Calloused.

Immediately, he stopped breathing. Not literally. Just for a moment, everything inside him seemed to freeze. His eyes dropped to where your hand rested over his. His eyes lifted slowly from your hand to your face.

You didn't say anything. You weren't entirely sure there was anything to say.

Your thumb moved once across his knuckles, small and gentle. It was an instinct more than a decision, the sort of reassurance you'd offered frightened patients countless times without even thinking about it.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, almost too subtly to notice, his shoulders lowered by a fraction. His breathing slowly lengthened, and the tightness around his eyes began to ease.

His hand turned and his fingers curled beneath yours until they carefully wrapped around your hand. Not tightly. Never demanding. Almost questioning, as though he still wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to hold on.

You answered by turning your hand slightly, letting your fingers settle naturally between his.

Only then did he finally look at you properly.

Your heart hurt. Not because he looked broken, but because, for the first time since you'd met him, he looked like someone allowing another person to see the pieces he'd spent years hiding.

You smiled at him, soft and quiet, letting him know he didn't have to hide them from you.

“Better?”

His lips parted, and a faint breath escaped him before he gave the smallest nod.

“Yeah.” The word was barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

You held his gaze for another moment before giving his hand the gentlest squeeze.

“You don't have to thank me.”

His eyes lingered on yours. “They usually leave.”

The words were so quiet that you almost missed them. Your heart broke a little.

“I wasn't planning to.”

He smiled. It wasn't big, but it was real.

Neither of you spoke again for a long while. 

Your hands remained loosely intertwined where they rested between you on the kitchen island, neither of you acknowledging it anymore, as though drawing attention to it might somehow disturb the fragile calm that had slowly settled over the room.

You weren't sure how much time had passed. Five minutes. Maybe twenty. Time had become strangely unimportant.

Eventually, your eyes drifted downward, and you looked at your fingers still loosely curled around his hand. The longer you looked at it, the more you became aware of the warmth creeping steadily into your cheeks.

Bucky's gaze followed yours. He looked down at your joined hands, and for the briefest moment, the smallest smile touched the corner of his mouth before fading again.

“I should probably let you sleep.”

His voice was quiet, almost reluctant, as though he wasn't entirely convinced by his own suggestion. You glanced toward the discreet clock mounted above one of the kitchen cabinets. It was well past three in the morning.

“You should probably take your own advice.”

A soft breath of amusement escaped him.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

The realisation made you laugh under your breath. “We're both terrible at ending conversations.”

He seemed to consider that for a moment before looking back at you.

“I think we stopped talking half an hour ago.”

That earned another quiet laugh from you.

Reluctantly, you began to withdraw your hand.

For the briefest moment, you felt his fingers tighten almost instinctively around yours, so subtle that you weren't even sure it had happened. Then, just as quickly, the tension disappeared, and his hand slipped gently from yours. The absence of its warmth surprised you more than you expected.

You stood first, smoothing imaginary creases from the oversized sweatshirt Yelena had lent you, mostly because it gave your suddenly restless hands something to do.

Bucky stood a heartbeat later. For a moment, the two of you simply faced each other beneath the soft pendant lights above the kitchen island, neither quite seeming to know what to do with the sudden space between you.

“Try to get some sleep,” you said quietly.

“I will.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Promise?”

A faint smile appeared on his face. “I'll try.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “That's not the same thing.”

“No,” he admitted after a moment. “It isn't.”

He paused, then added, “But it's the best I can do.”

You studied him for another second before finally giving in with a small nod. “I'll accept it.”

“Good.”

You took a few steps backward into the corridor before stopping again.

“…Goodnight, Bucky.”

His expression softened in that quiet, almost imperceptible way you'd started recognising over the past couple of weeks. “Goodnight.”

You turned and began making your way back through the dimly lit corridor toward Yelena's room, your footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath you.

When you reached the corner, curiosity got the better of you, and you glanced back.

He was still standing exactly where you'd left him. Watching you.

The second your eyes met again, something almost boyish crossed his expression, as though he'd been caught doing something he hadn't realised he was doing.

You smiled to yourself before disappearing around the corner. 

The next morning, you woke to the sound of your alarm.

Yelena had already left the bed, leaving you with a few quiet minutes before you had to get up. You stayed there for another ten minutes, staring at the ceiling and letting the memories of the night before drift through your mind.

The kitchen. His hand around yours. The way he'd looked at you afterward. A small flutter moved through your stomach. You finally forced yourself out of bed.

After getting ready, you made your way toward the living room, where Yelena and Bob were already awake and putting together breakfast.

“I'm running late,” you said, grabbing your things. “I'll get something from the canteen.”

Yelena gave you a suspicious look, but you ignored it.

You made it a few steps before the thought crossed your mind again. You could knock on Bucky's door before leaving, just to check on him and say goodbye properly after everything that had happened during the night.

But you hesitated. He had barely slept, and the last thing you wanted was to wake him when he'd finally managed to get some rest. You could always text him later, once you knew he was awake. That seemed like the better choice.

You headed toward the lifts, still thinking about it as you pressed the button to call one.  A few seconds later, the familiar ding sounded, and the doors slid open to reveal Bucky standing inside.

With two cups of coffee.

You smiled immediately. “Good morning.”

His eyes found yours, and for a moment, something warm and quietly pleased softened his expression, easing the tiredness that still lingered around his eyes. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run a hand through it one too many times and he wore a simple dark T-shirt beneath his familiar black jacket, paired with dark jeans and boots.

“Morning.”

You stepped inside, and Bucky shifted slightly to the side to make room for you before pressing the button for the ground floor. Apparently, he was still going to walk with you as usual, all the way to the nurse's station before you started your shift.

Then he held one of the cups out toward you.

You took it without hesitation. “Thanks.”

You took a sip and immediately felt warmth spread through you from the coffee and something else you didn't want to name.

“How'd you sleep?” you asked.

Bucky's eyes flicked toward you. “Eventually.”

You smiled faintly. “That's something.”

“How about you?”

You hesitated for half a second, remembering how you'd spent far too much of the night lying awake with your thoughts. “Eventually.”

He looked at you, and you looked back.

“Guess we're both doing great,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

You took another sip of your coffee before glancing at him. “I've got a simulation today.”

“A medical one?”

“Yeah. Mass-casualty response. They're running us through a whole scenario, triage, emergency treatment, evacuation. The whole thing.”

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds fun.”

“I'm apparently supposed to be one of the people running it.”

“You'll be good.”

You looked at him. “You sound very confident.”

“I've seen you work.”

Has he? you wondered. You couldn't remember him actually seeing you handle anything particularly difficult, but something about the simple certainty in his voice made you believe him anyway.

You smiled. “Well, now I have to be good.”

His eyes stayed on you for a second longer before he looked toward the elevator doors. They opened, and the two of you stepped out into the corridor, heading toward Elevator C together.

“What about you?” you asked. “What's on your schedule?”

“Training this morning. Some of the newer people need a little work on close-quarters stuff, so I'll be with them for a few hours.”

“Teaching?”

“Apparently.”

“You seem like you'd be a good teacher.”

He glanced at you. “That's a compliment before eight.”

You smiled. “Don't get used to it.”

“Too late.”

You looked at him, and the faint smile on his face made it difficult not to smile back. By the time you reached the next elevator, the easy rhythm between you had already settled back into place, as though neither of you had spent the previous night sitting together in a quiet kitchen at three in the morning.

You both stepped inside, and Bucky pressed the button for the medical wing.

“And after training?” you asked.

“I've got a case I'm working on. There's some information we haven't been able to track down yet, so I need to go through a few old files, some online archives, and see if I can find anything useful.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It probably won't be.”

“You could always come by the medical wing. We have paperwork too.”

Bucky looked at you. “Is that an invitation?”

You paused, suddenly aware of how easily the words had come out.

“I was just offering you some company.”

“Sure.”

You shook your head, though you couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

When the lift opened onto the entrance of the medical wing, Bucky gestured for you to step out first, holding the elevator door open with his hand until you had cleared the threshold before following after you.

He adjusted his jacket as you walked, but the movement pulled the collar slightly out of place, leaving the fabric folded awkwardly beneath the strap crossing his shoulder.

You noticed it immediately. Before you could think better of it, you reached up and caught the edge of his collar between your fingers.

Bucky stopped.

You barely seemed to notice his reaction as you gently fixed the fabric, smoothing it back into place and brushing away the small crease that had formed beneath the strap. It was such a small, familiar gesture that you didn't think twice about doing it until you realised he was standing completely still beneath your hands.

“There,” you murmured, smoothing the collar down once more before finally letting your hand fall back to your side.

Bucky looked at you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. His eyes dropped briefly toward your hand before returning to your face, and something soft settled into his expression.

“Thanks.”

You smiled. “You're welcome.”

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. The hallway continued around you as though nothing had happened; people walked past with their own destinations in mind, phones rang somewhere further down the corridor, and the occasional announcement echoed faintly overhead. Somehow, though, the two of you seemed to exist in a small pocket of stillness in the middle of it all.

Then Bucky glanced down at the coffee in his hand, turning the cup slightly between his fingers before looking back at you.

“Can I tell you something?”

You studied his face for a moment before nodding. “Of course.”

He hesitated.

“I've been trying to figure something out.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the coffee cup, and you noticed the small movement immediately. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully, as though he'd been carrying the thought around for a while without quite knowing how to say it.

“I don't know when it started or why.”

You stayed silent, giving him the space to continue.

“I think, at first, I told myself it was because you were kind. Because you felt familiar in a way I couldn't explain.” His eyes lifted to yours. “I told myself I appreciated that you didn't treat me differently. That I just liked you as a person. You were fun to be around. Caring. Easy to talk to.”

A faint smile touched his mouth, but it disappeared almost immediately.

“I thought that was all it was.”

He paused.

“Then somewhere along the way, I started looking for you without meaning to.”

He paused, his gaze lingering on your face.

Your heartbeat shifted slightly. Not faster, exactly. Just more noticeable, as though suddenly you were aware of every beat.

“I look forward to seeing you.”

The simple honesty of the sentence left you momentarily unsure of what to say.

“I look forward to these mornings.” A small, almost embarrassed smile appeared. “The coffee is good.”

You smiled, but you couldn't quite find the words to speak. His gaze dropped briefly to the coffee in his hand before he continued.

“I spent a long time believing I wasn't allowed to want things.”

The softness in his voice made your expression change.

“But then you came along, and somehow you made ordinary things feel…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Easy.”

Your chest tightened.

His eyes met yours again, and there was something almost vulnerable in the way he held your gaze now.

“I know I don't want to keep pretending it doesn't matter.”

A silence followed.

“I don't think you're just someone I like having around anymore.”

The words came simply this time, without any attempt to disguise what he meant.

His gaze didn't leave yours.

“You're someone I want.”

He finally opens his eyes, glances at the clock on the bedside table, before shaking his head at you. “It’s eight o’clock. Considering we were still awake well after two in the morning, neither of us have met the recommended-“

“Baby?” You cut him off, and he raises his eyebrows curiously. “What if I just missed you?”

Heat flashes to his cheeks at your tone, despite him being shirtless under you. The sunlight streams gilded beams over your skin. “That, that would be an okay reason to wake me.”

You smile, leaning down until your lips graze his. “Good,” you kiss him once. “Plus, I didn’t think you were complaining about staying up so late last night.”

“Not at all.” He shakes his head again, his hand sliding under your shirt as he pulls you closer and deepens the kiss.

—

Giggling, you jump into the passenger seat, bunching up your drenched jacket in your lap. He closes your door, rushing to the drivers side before trapping himself in the vehicle with you.

He plops his head back against the headrest, both of you breathing heavily after running through the downpour. He looks over to you as you wipe away the droplets from your face. Your eyes glowing golden from the light above the mirror. “You’re so beautiful.”

You look stunned at his words, just for moment, before you laugh again. “I look like a soaked rat.” You’re always so quick to dismiss any compliments he gives you. No matter how frequent, or honest they are. Your self deprecation always wins in your mind.

“No, you don’t.” He doesn’t feel clever enough to quip back at you, so he settles on disagreeing. “I’ve seen plenty rats, in varying degrees of dryness. None of them are beautiful.”

You’re quiet for a moment, your eyes taking him in now. Even after all this time, he’s still not used to having your undivided attention and adoration. A cold drop of water falls down his face, having escaped a clump of hair plastered to his temple. You reach up, pushing the curls away and back. “You’re beautiful, too.”

He leans into your warmth, kissing your palm. Once, twice. Before pulling away, and putting the car in reverse.

—

Tap-tap-tap-tap

Derek’s hands are heavy over his shoulders, smoothing out wrinkles Spencer knows aren’t there. He spent two hours steaming his jacket, before making sure it laid just right while in transit, and steaming it again after he arrived.

Tap-tap-tap-tap

He goes over it all, the timeframe, the menu, the pacing, the music. The guests. His lines.

He swallows loudly.

Tap-tap-tap-tap

“Reid.” Morgan steps back, tilting his head with a smirk. “You’re gonna fly away if you keep that up.”

Immediately the tapping stops. His hands stilling on his thighs before curling into fists. “Sorry. Although, it is completely normal to be nervous, you know.” It’s said as a fact, but it’s really just a verbal reminder to himself.

“Yeah I know, pretty boy. But you’re going to do fantastic.” Spencer can feel himself nodding, though he doesn’t fully believe him. His best man seems to catch that, because he continues in a softer tone. “I saw her, y’know?” He whistles lowly. “She really is a vision in white. It’s a good thing I’m gonna be right behind you, I think you’re gonna pass out when you see her.” He pats his cheek, laughing as Spencer pales.

He shoves him off, “that is not helping.”

He didn’t pass out. He was speechless for a moment too long after you walked down the aisle. Your smile turning just a bit concerned as he stared at you.

Derek was right, you were truly a vision.

Shining and radiant, breathless as he slipped a golden band on your finger. “I do,” his voice croaked, overcome with emotions as he finished his vows.

Beaming up at him as you began your own, you were eager after waiting your turn. The rest of the room had faded away, the itinerary he was so concerned about just hours before, suddenly unimportant. Your voice, your smile, your vows were the only thing that mattered.

He kissed you, like it may have been the last. One final first kiss. The first kiss as your husband. Still one of his favorites.

He tries to cling to that memory for just a moment longer. His eyes squeezed shut so tight sparks of silver flash behind his eyelids.

“Doctor Reid…” the singsong voice grates in his ears. “It’s time to wake up.”

The cold stone bites into his palms as he pushes his weak body up into a sitting position again. His head is throbbing, the wound at his temple must have reopened in his restless sleep, a nauseatingly warm droplet slides down his face.

“I have a little surprise for you.”

Spencer hardly finds the strength to look up, his capturer dragging something limp behind him, a person. Their head is covered by a white bag, uncannily clean in the dank room. He cannot see for sure, but his heart rate quickens, his scrambled mind trying to make sense of the devastating familiarity of you with him, here, after all this time.

He tosses the lifeless body at his feet.

“I heard she’s been missing you.”

Then the world changed.

During the incident everyone now referred to as the Void Crisis, Paul happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. While everyone else was running, he ran toward people who couldn't. He pulled collapsing concrete off trapped civilians, carried people to safety, and stayed until emergency responders arrived.

The videos spread across the internet before he even made it home.

Nobody could explain how one man had lifted pieces of a collapsed building with his bare hands.

You could.

Well... sort of.

Years ago, long before you remembered much of your own life, Paul had told you about an accident at work. He'd crossed paths with dangerous people, people he insisted were long gone now, and somehow walked away... different. Stronger. Faster. Harder to hurt.

Whenever you asked for more details, he'd simply shrug.

"Guess I got lucky."

You never believed that was the whole story. But it was the only story he was willing to tell.

A few weeks after the Void incident, Congresswoman Valentina Allegra de Fontaine knocked on your apartment door with an offer. The New Avengers Initiative. A new team. A new beginning. You remembered Paul laughing after she left.

"You know," he'd said, scratching the back of his neck, "I fix carburetors. I have no idea why she thinks I'd fit in with superheroes."

You'd laughed too. Then you'd watched him accept anyway.

Six months had passed since then. Life had settled into a strange rhythm. Paul disappeared for missions more often than either of you liked. You worried every single time he walked out the door, even if he always reminded you that he could handle himself.

"I'll be fine."

He always said it with that same reassuring smile. And somehow, it never made you worry any less.

In the meantime, you buried yourself in nursing school. It was your final-year and between lectures, clinical postings, late-night revision sessions and trying to catch up on everything you felt you had missed, you barely had time to think about anything else.

Which was probably a good thing.

Because whenever you weren't studying...

You were wondering if your brother would come home safe.

So when Paul insisted you take one evening off to attend a celebration for his team, you almost refused.

Almost.

After their successful mission, a months-long operation that ended with the dismantling of an international black-market network trafficking stolen Stark technology and Chitauri weaponry, Valentina wanted to showcase the New Avengers to the world. She wanted cameras. Headlines. Public approval. A chance to prove that she was not just another politician, but the visionary congresswoman who had brought together the next generation of heroes.

So she organised a massive celebration, a formal event filled with reporters, government officials, investors, and the general public. A night designed to introduce the world to the New Avengers.

Paul insisted on taking you.

"You deserve one evening to yourself after your exams," he'd said. "You'll officially start working as a nurse soon. Life's only going to get busier from there. So enjoy the break while you still can."

He wasn't wrong. Tonight was the first time in weeks you had spent more than ten minutes getting ready.

The moment the car stopped outside the venue, a strange feeling settled in your chest. You couldn't explain it.

A pull in your chest. A strange nervousness twisting in your stomach. You brushed it aside. You were just excited. After all, you were finally going to meet the people your brother had been talking about for months. You knew them almost as well as if you had met them before.

Ava was quiet, observant, and somehow always appearing exactly when someone needed her. She was also the one Paul talked about the most. According to him, she was impossible to sneak up on because, as he put it, “she’s literally a ghost.”

Yelena, who apparently had no concept of personal space, constantly teased everyone, and somehow managed to insult someone while also complimenting them. Paul had once told you she could turn a normal conversation into an interrogation within thirty seconds.

Alexei, loud, dramatic, and completely convinced that every story needed him as the main character. According to the stories, he spent more time talking about his past glory days than actually listening to anyone else.

Bob, gentle, awkward, and surprisingly kind. The one who seemed almost uncomfortable with how much attention came with being an Avenger. For now, Bob rarely went out on missions. Most of his work happened before and after them, research, planning, logistics, and recovery, while he continued training to better understand and control the Sentry's immense power.

John, outspoken, competitive, and had a habit of saying whatever came to mind. He admitted that John was a good soldier. But he carried the pressure of living up to a title that was never really meant for him, and it had a way of making him defensive.

And then there was Bucky.

James Barnes.

According to Paul, Bucky was the most dependable person on the team. He always showed up. Always had a plan. Always got people home. He also had a habit of risking his own life a little too easily.

Maybe it was Bucky's way of making peace with everything the Winter Soldier had done, like somewhere deep down, he still believed every person he saved could somehow make up for the innocent lives he'd been forced to take.

You weren't sure anyone could carry that kind of guilt forever.

After the Void crisis and his announcement as one of the new Avengers, Bucky had stepped away from politics too, leaving behind his position as a congressman and returning to the work he seemed to understand better than anything else: saving people.

And apparently, he was also... interesting.

Some days, he'd barely say ten words, sitting through an entire briefing in silence before disappearing without anyone noticing. Other days, according to Paul, he'd make the driest joke imaginable with such a straight face that half the room wouldn't realise he was kidding until five minutes later.

You frowned at yourself. It was a little strange, now that you thought about it. Somehow, over the past few months, you had learned more about James Barnes than anyone else on the team.

You looked over at Paul as he stepped out of the car.

Instead of walking toward the main entrance, he headed toward a smaller, quieter entrance on the side of the building. You followed him, raising an eyebrow.

"VIP entrance?" you asked.

"Something like that," he replied with a small smile.

The security guard checked his identification and invitation card before looking at you. Paul handed over your invitation. After a quick verification, the guard stepped aside. Together, you stepped into the waiting elevator.

"Have fun," Paul said as the elevator doors slid shut. "You deserve this."

You smiled softly, leaning back against the polished metal wall as the elevator began its ascent to the twenty-fifth floor.

"I will try my best," you whispered.

A soft chime echoed through the elevator as it came to a stop. The doors slid open, and you found yourself momentarily frozen. The long hallway led to the main hall.

And it was breathtaking.

The entire hall had been transformed into a perfect mix of luxury and modern technology. Massive glass walls overlooked the city skyline, reflecting the golden lights of the decorations inside. Elegant chandeliers hung from the ceiling, while holographic displays showed images of the New Avengers' recent missions. Tables covered in white cloth were scattered around the room, filled with food, drinks, and small displays celebrating the team's achievements.

It looked less like a superhero event and more like a declaration. A statement. The world was watching.

"There you are."

You turned at the voice.

Ava stood there, dressed in a sleek jumpsuit, her dark hair styled neatly. She had a small smile on her face, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes.

"Hey. You must be the sister." She approached and extended her hand.

You smiled and shook it.

"I'm—"

"I know," she interrupted gently. "I'm Ava. Or, as they like to call me, the ghost."

You laughed quietly.

"I know. My brother won't stop talking about you."

The smile on Ava's face flickered. Just slightly. And beside you, you felt Paul tense. You immediately realised what you had just said.

"Guys, you guys. The New Avengers. His team, of course."

You quickly corrected yourself.

Ava gave a small nod, though the awkwardness lingered for a moment.

"Right," she said. "Come on. Everyone's getting ready for the press briefing Valentina scheduled."

"Of course she scheduled a briefing," Paul muttered.

You smiled. "She seems like the type."

"You have no idea," Ava replied.

Paul sighed and took your hand, guiding you toward the group. You gave him an apologetic smile for the awkward comment. He only shook his head slightly, silently telling you it was fine.

The team was gathered around the table, and your brother introduced you to them. They welcomed you warmly, each of them offering their own version of a greeting. Despite the unusual circumstances, their easy familiarity made you feel less like an outsider and more like someone they had been expecting.

Before the conversation could settle, Valentina approached the table, quietly mumbling to herself as she reviewed the notes in her hand.

"We need to make sure the public understands the importance of this initiative," she said. "The New Avengers represent stability, cooperation, and a new era."

Yelena leaned closer to Alexei. "She has practiced that speech in the mirror."

Alexei nodded seriously. "Many times. Maybe thousands."

"I can hear you," Valentina said without looking up.

Yelena smiled innocently. "I know."

Bob looked down at the files in his hands, trying not to laugh. Ava shook her head.

"This is why we can't have normal meetings."

Your brother smiled slightly. You noticed that immediately. This was the first time you had seen him so relaxed around other people. These weren't just teammates. They were becoming his family too.

You took a drink from one of the passing servers, wrapping your fingers around the cool glass as you smiled to yourself. This felt nice. Maybe Paul had been right. Maybe you did need this.

Everything felt... alive.

Then...

The feeling returned. That strange pull in your chest. Your smile faltered. You frowned ever so slightly, instinctively rubbing your thumb against the cool glass in your hand.

Then you noticed someone walking toward the group.

James Barnes.

His head was lowered, attention completely focused on the file in his hands. He looked as though he was allergic to any conversation that did not involve work. He flipped through the pages carefully, checking every detail.

He was taller than he looked in photographs, broad-shouldered in a charcoal suit tailored well enough to hide nothing. A navy-blue tie rested neatly against a crisp white shirt, the color making his startling blue eyes seem even brighter despite the exhaustion they carried. His dark hair was trimmed shorter than in most of the pictures you'd seen, and the neatly kept beard framed a face that looked both impossibly young and unbearably tired.

The blazer stretched slightly across his shoulders and arms whenever he moved, hinting at years of relentless training beneath the formal attire. The only visible giveaway beneath the expensive suit was the sliver of silver metal peeking out from beneath his left shirt cuff, the unmistakable Vibranium arm that had become almost as famous as the man himself.

There was something quietly commanding about him.

He wasn't the loudest person in the room. He wasn't trying to draw anyone's attention. Yet the crowd seemed to part around him naturally, conversations dipping for a moment as he passed before resuming again.

You couldn't explain it.

Maybe it was everything you'd read about him.

Maybe it was the weight of his history.

Or maybe it was simply the sadness that lingered behind his eyes, the kind that made you wonder what someone had endured to carry it so silently.

You found yourself smiling without realizing it, hoping Paul would introduce you.

You wanted to speak with him.

“The extraction happened from the northwestern wall, not the western entrance,” he said as he approached the table. “And, just to make the report a little more inaccurate, John was extracted first. I activated the remote destruction sequence for the lab afterward. So, unless we’ve started rearranging events for dramatic effect, the report has it backwards.”

“Okay, let’s change it after the press briefing,” Yelena replied, casually taking another sip of champagne. You had a distinct feeling she was only saying that to get Bucky to relax and, more importantly, to stop him from talking about the report.

Your brother looked at him and smiled. He picked up a glass from the passing server and held it out to Bucky.

"Here. Relax before the press briefing."

Bucky closed the file, setting it carefully on the table before accepting the glass, looking more than happy to let the report go.

"Thanks." 

Then he looked up. His eyes met yours. And everything changed.

The movement was almost imperceptible at first. His hand tightened around the crystal glass so suddenly that the ice clinked loudly against the sides. You watched his shoulders stiffen beneath his suit jacket. He didn't blink. Not once.

His expression emptied so completely that, for a fleeting second, you wondered if he'd somehow forgotten where he was.

You instinctively looked behind you.

Maybe he is looking at someone else?

But there was no one there. When you looked back, his eyes were still fixed on you. Unmoving. Searching.

Your heartbeat quickened beneath the strange intensity of his gaze. It wasn't uncomfortable. It wasn't threatening.

It was heartbreaking.

There was something in his expression that you couldn't name. 

Disbelief? 

Relief? 

Grief? 

Or maybe all tangled together into something so raw that it almost made you feel guilty for witnessing it.

You'd never seen someone look at another person like that. Like they had just found something they'd spent a lifetime mourning.

A strange warmth spread through your chest. Not because you knew him. You didn't. At least, you were almost certain you didn't. But something about the way he looked at you made your own heart ache in response. As though some part of you was reacting before your mind had the chance to catch up.

You smiled instinctively.

Small. Friendly. The kind of smile you gave anyone you were meeting for the first time.

It didn't seem to help.

If anything, his expression crumpled even further.

His blue eyes glistened beneath the lights, and for one impossible second, you thought he might actually cry. The thought caught you completely off guard.

This was James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. The man you'd spent weeks reading about after Paul joined the team.

A decorated soldier.

An Avenger.

Someone who had survived more than most people could imagine.

Yet standing in front of you, he looked less like a legend and more like a man whose entire world had just been ripped out from beneath him.

Slowly, you offered him your hand, believing this might break the ice. That this might bring him back to reality and away from whatever distant place his mind had disappeared to.

"Hi," you said with an easy smile. "I'm _"

He never looked at your hand. He simply stared at your face, completely motionless. His lips parted ever so slightly. Like he wanted to say something.

A name.

A question.

Anything.

But no sound came out.

Your hand lingered awkwardly between the two of you before you slowly lowered it back to your side. Maybe he wasn't a handshake person. Maybe crowds overwhelmed him.

Or maybe...

Maybe something was wrong. Your concern quickly outweighed your embarrassment. The colour had drained from his face. His breathing had become shallow, almost imperceptible. He looked as though he were trying very hard not to fall apart.

"Bucky?" Paul's voice cut through the silence as he stepped beside him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. You looked away from him for a moment, only then noticing that everyone around the table had stopped talking. Yelena had raised an eyebrow, Ava watched him carefully, and even Alexei had gone unusually quiet. 

"You okay?"

The question seemed to pull him back into the room.

He blinked.

Once. Then again.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Yeah," he answered, his voice rough enough that it barely sounded like speech. "I'm fine."

He wasn't.

You didn't know him well enough to say why. But every instinct you had insisted on the same thing. Whatever had just happened, it had nothing to do with the press briefing. It had everything to do with you. And for reasons you couldn't begin to understand, that realisation made your chest feel impossibly heavy.

The silence stretched just a little too long.

It was Alexei who broke first.

"Well," he clapped his hands together once, far louder than necessary. "That was... incredibly awkward."

Yelena immediately shot him an unimpressed look.

"You are helping so much."

"I am trying," he defended himself, placing a hand over his chest dramatically before turning toward you with an apologetic smile. "Do not worry. Bucky is... strange."

"He gets worse when people are nice to him," Ava added dryly, folding her arms across her chest. "You get used to it."

Bob let out a nervous laugh. "Maybe he's just... overwhelmed? Or tired from the mission?" he offered. "I mean, he did take down fifty armed men all by himself."

That earned a small nod from some of the team. It was a reasonable explanation. At least, it was the easiest one to accept.

Valentina cleared her throat, gathering the scattered files from the table and straightening them with practiced efficiency.

"Enough. We have a press briefing in five minutes. I'm going to do the final checks. Avengers, please be ready to take your entry positions."

With that, she walked away from the table, moving toward the stage where the reporters and cameras were already waiting. You watched as she adjusted her expression into the confident, composed face she showed the public, quietly murmuring parts of her speech under her breath while reviewing the final details.

The conversation around you slowly picked back up, though it felt slightly forced now. Everyone returned to their preparations, accepting microphones and speech notes from Valentina's staff, reviewing the details one last time, and making small adjustments to their appearance as they waited for the cue to take the stage.

Paul lingered for a moment, his eyes shifting toward Bucky with a quiet concern you couldn't quite understand. But before he could say anything, one of Valentina's staff members approached him with a last-minute update, pulling his attention away.

But your attention never truly left him.

He was still standing exactly where he had been.

The untouched drink remained in his hand, his fingers wrapped around the crystal glass so tightly that his knuckles had turned pale. His gaze had finally dropped from your face, settling on the table in front of him, as though looking at you for even another second was something he couldn't allow himself to do.

A strange knot formed in your stomach.

Have you done something wrong?

Embarrassed him somehow?

You replayed every word, every expression, every second of your interaction in your mind, searching for something, anything, that could explain his reaction.

But you found nothing.

You had simply introduced yourself.

You had smiled.

You had offered your hand.

Nothing about that should have caused someone to look at you like they had just seen a ghost. A strange thought crossed your mind, had you known him before the accident?

As though sensing your eyes on him, Bucky lifted his head for the briefest moment.

Your eyes met again.

This time, he was the first to look away. He exhaled quietly, rubbing a hand over his jaw before looking around the room.

"I'm... gonna head out."

John frowned immediately. "The briefing starts in a few minutes. Valentina is already on the stage."

"I know."

"You sure you're okay?"

Bucky gave the smallest nod.

"Yeah."

It was the same answer. Just as unconvincing.

Before anyone could question him further, he placed the untouched glass back onto the table and walked past the group. The crowd instinctively parted around him as he crossed the ballroom, his expression unreadable, his shoulders carrying a weight that seemed far heavier than the suit jacket resting over them.

Only when he was completely out of sight did you realize your eyes had followed him the entire way.

And somehow...

His leaving left the room feeling strangely empty.

"Valentina is not going to like this," Alexei chuckled, shaking his head as he watched the doors close behind Bucky.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The press briefing began shortly after.

You stood slightly away from the crowd, watching as the New Avengers walked onto the stage one by one. Cameras flashed. Reporters called out questions. Valentina stood confidently at the center, speaking with the ease of someone who had practiced every word.

When someone inevitably asked about Bucky's absence, Valentina didn't even hesitate.

"James Barnes had some unfinished business from the previous mission that required his immediate attention," she explained smoothly. "He is one of the most dedicated members of this team. If there is something left unresolved, he will make sure it is handled."

Her words painted his sudden disappearance as a strength rather than a problem.

A small smile appeared on her face as she continued.

"That level of commitment is exactly what makes him an exceptional Avenger."

You couldn't help but think there was a small trace of irritation hidden beneath her polished expression. She was clearly not pleased that one of her team members had walked away moments before a major public appearance.

But she handled it. That was what she seemed to do best. Turn chaos into something controlled.

The rest of the evening continued.

You tried.

You genuinely tried to enjoy yourself.

Yelena pulled you into conversations you barely expected to have. Alexei told exaggerated stories that made everyone roll their eyes. Bob apologised every time he interrupted someone. Ava quietly observed everything while occasionally adding comments that made you laugh when you least expected it.

Paul filled in the gaps whenever the team broke into laughter over inside jokes, explaining the stories behind them and sharing some of their more unbelievable missions. Bucky's name came up often, usually when they talked about the missions that had gone wrong but somehow ended with him saving the day.

And every now and then, your eyes drifted toward the doors.

Half expecting him to return.

Half wondering why you cared if he did.

On the drive back home, you found yourself asking Paul about the past again. About the people you'd known before the accident, again. About why no one had ever reached out to you, again.

His answer was simple, again.

“We moved.”

You knew that was true. You knew your entire life had changed after the accident. You knew you and Paul had started over somewhere new. But still, it didn't explain everything.

You didn't remember anything from before the Snap.

As far as you knew, the accident had happened sometime during all that chaos. The years before it were nothing but empty spaces, pieced together from stories Paul had told you and records you'd read yourself.

It was the only explanation you'd ever had.

You knew you didn't have parents. They'd passed away when you were young. You'd apparently been raised by your grandmother, though you didn't remember her either. You didn't remember the house you'd grown up in, the places you'd lived, the people you'd known, or even what your life had been like before everything supposedly changed.

You had always known Paul was hiding things from you. You weren't naive enough to believe otherwise. You saw it in the way he avoided certain questions, the way his expression changed whenever you got too close to something he didn't want to talk about.

But you never pushed too hard.

Because he was your brother.

And because whenever you asked about the past, he didn't get angry or defensive. He just... shut down.

He would go quiet, distant, like he was somewhere else entirely, somewhere you couldn't follow him no matter how many questions you asked.

You had tried to push once.

Really push.

It had ended in the biggest fight the two of you had ever had.

You had demanded answers. Who you'd been before the accident, why there were years of your life you couldn't remember, and why certain things about you had never quite felt... normal.

Like the healing.

Cuts that should have taken days sometimes disappeared within hours, bruises faded far too quickly, and injuries that should have left marks simply... didn't. It wasn't dramatic enough to call a superpower, but it was strange enough to make you wonder.

For the first time in your life, Paul had yelled back.

Not out of anger.

Out of desperation.

Then, just as suddenly, he broke.

You still remembered the way he had sunk into the couch, rubbing a hand over his face as though he was trying to hold himself together.

"It's best if you know as little as possible."

That was all he had managed to say.

You had waited for him to explain.

He never did.

Seeing your brother, your steady, dependable brother, fall apart like that had taken the fight out of you.

After that, you stopped asking so often.

Not because your questions had disappeared.

But because you couldn't bear to watch him carry whatever burden made those words sound like a plea rather than an excuse.

So instead, your thoughts returned to Bucky.

Maybe he was someone you'd known before the accident.

It was the only explanation that seemed remotely possible. Maybe you'd crossed paths somehow, been acquaintances, friends. But the thought fell apart almost immediately. You would've been in college back then. He was an Avenger. How could your lives have intersected?

And if they had, there should've been something—a photograph, a message, Paul mentioning his name, anything proving you'd once been close to a man the entire world knew.

Still, the Blip complicated things. He'd disappeared for five years, and even if he'd wanted to find you, he couldn't have. Maybe he'd looked for you after returning, found you living a new life without any memory of him, and decided it wasn't his place to interfere.

But that didn't explain the confusion in his eyes, or why he seemed just as lost as you were.

So you settled on the simplest explanation.

Maybe you just had a familiar face.

Maybe you reminded him of someone he'd once known.

Someone important.

Someone he'd loved.

Someone who wasn't you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The next morning, Paul was gone.

Something about Avengers life always seemed to involve paperwork, meetings, and things he described as "political bullshit." According to him, he was only going to the headquarters to submit some documents and deal with whatever endless requirements came with being part of the New Avengers.

You had learned not to question it too much.

There were days when he didn't come home, staying overnight at the tower because a mission briefing ran too late or because there was always something else that needed his attention. You never liked those nights, but Paul always made sure to call.

Lock your doors.

Keep your phone nearby.

Don't open the door for anyone.

The usual things a protective brother would say.

You decided to do something simple. Go grocery shopping, make yourself a warm dinner, and enjoy a quiet evening before returning to worrying about the future. Since Paul usually took the car for Avengers-related work, you decided to walk to the nearby grocery store. Having two cars was still not something either of you could justify, especially when one was already enough for most days.

Being part of the New Avengers came with a steady income, but Paul had never been interested in spending it on himself. Instead of saving up for a bigger house or rushing into a more comfortable lifestyle, he insisted on putting most of it toward your education and your future.

"You have worked too hard to start over again," he always told you.

So you stayed in the same rented home, close to the New Avengers headquarters, with a little less convenience but a lot more stability.

You moved through the grocery store aisles slowly, pushing your cart from one section to another, picking up ingredients while your mind wandered somewhere else entirely.

James Barnes.

You barely knew him.

And yet, you kept thinking about him, not because of the way he'd looked at you, but because of what that look might mean.

He had known you.

At least, that was what you'd started to suspect.

Maybe if you talked to him, he could tell you something Paul never would. Something about the person you'd been before the accident. Where you'd lived. Who you'd known. Maybe even who you'd been to him.

You were still lost in your thoughts when your cart caught against the edge of a display, sending a stack of cans tumbling onto the floor and rolling in every direction across the aisle.

"Shit," you muttered, immediately crouching down to pick them up.

A few people nearby glanced over, while others stepped forward to help. You thanked them quietly as you collected the cans one by one, trying to ignore the embarrassment creeping up your face.

As you reached for one of the last cans, another hand reached for it at the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

For a brief second, you felt the roughness of callused skin beneath a black glove. It was strange, something about the touch felt familiar, though you couldn't explain why.

You assumed he was just another person helping you clean up. Until you looked up.

A mask covered most of his face, hiding his identity, but you saw enough.

The blue eyes. The familiar intensity. The way he looked at you for a fraction of a second too long.

Your breath caught.

No.

It couldn't be.

But some part of you already knew.

Before you could say anything, before you could even ask what he was doing here, he stepped back and walked away quickly, disappearing between the aisles before you could follow.

You stood there, frozen, staring after him.

Your mind first told you it was impossible.

That you were imagining things.

That you were connecting two unrelated moments because you had been thinking about him too much.

But then you were pretty sure that was James Barnes.

You sighed and put back the last can back in the aisle, picked up your cart, finished your shopping, and tried to convince yourself that nothing unusual had happened.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The next time you saw Bucky, it was three days later.

That evening, you had planned to have dinner with Paul after he finished work. It had been three days since you last saw him, and you were looking forward to spending some normal time together. After dinner, he would probably have to return to the headquarters anyway. Valentina had already been breathing down their necks about a new mission, which meant the team was constantly being pulled into briefings and preparations.

At around six, you arrived at the New Avengers headquarters and settled into the lounge area, scrolling through hospital listings on your phone, looking for places where you could apply as a nurse while you waited for Paul to finish.

You had barely gotten through a page when your phone rang.

Paul.

"Hey," he said when you answered.

"Hey. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry. I'm going to be late."

You sighed softly.

"How late?"

There was a pause.

"Probably... a while."

Despite yourself, you smiled.

"What happened?"

"New information came in about a mission. The team needs to go over everything tonight."

You weren't surprised.

This had become a familiar pattern.

"I'm sorry about dinner," he added.

"It's okay."

"No, seriously. I owe you one."

You chuckled lightly.

Then he hesitated.

"Actually... why don't you come upstairs?"

You looked toward the elevators.

"Paul..."

"They are ordering takeout. You can grab something if you're comfortable with it. Everyone's here."

You knew you should probably say no. You didn't want to interrupt their work or make yourself feel like you were intruding.

But the truth was, you liked their company. Spending dinner with them didn't feel like an inconvenience.

And maybe...

Maybe there was another reason too.

A part of you wanted to see James Barnes again.

You wanted a chance to actually talk to him, to ask him what he'd known about you, and why he'd looked at you that way the first time you'd met.

Maybe, if you could get him alone long enough, he might finally tell you something about the life you'd forgotten.

And you wanted to know.

"Okay."

"Cool. I'll let the guards know to let you in.” He hung up, and a few minutes later, your phone buzzed with a message from him.

“Come up to the thirteenth floor.” 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌It was Bob who greeted you first. He looked up from the files scattered across the table and immediately gave you the gentlest smile you had ever seen. "Hey," he said, standing slightly. "You made it."

“I did, although I must say, it was a long way here.”

Bob laughed softly, glancing around at the mountain of documents, laptops, and empty coffee cups surrounding them. 

"Good to have you. I was starting to think this place was just going to be us staring at screens until we forgot what sunlight looked like." 

Beside him, Ava sat with earbuds in, quietly working through stacks of paperwork. She didn't look up immediately, only lifting a hand in a brief wave of acknowledgement before returning to the reports in front of her.

"Hi," she said absentmindedly, her eyes never leaving the page. "Sorry. Deadline."

You looked at the piles of files in front of them. "Five hours of paperwork?"

"Five hours and twelve minutes," he corrected seriously.

You raised your eyebrows. "That's concerningly specific."

"I have been counting."

You couldn't help but laugh. "So that's what being a superhero is really about?"

Bob sighed.

“Everyone talks about fighting and saving people. Nobody mentions how much paperwork comes with it. I don’t mind the work, but this much of it is starting to feel excessive.”

"He's been complaining about it for the last hour," Yelena added as she walked over.

Bob immediately looked offended. "I have not been complaining."

"You have been describing your suffering in great detail," she replied.

"...Now that is more accurate."

You smiled at their exchange. 

"How have you been?" Yelena asked, turning her attention back to you.

"Good. Tired, but good."

"You told us your exams were over," she said, pretending to sound disappointed. "So now you can stop by more often. Honestly, it's ridiculous that this is only our second time meeting when Paul has been an Avenger for months."

You laughed. "I will. Paul is just... a little secretive."

From beside Bob, Ava finally looked up from the file she had been reading. One earbud remained in her ear while she held the other between her fingers, clearly wanting to join the conversation now.

"He is," she said. "Half the time, we don't know what he's thinking either."

Yelena smirked. "Except apparently you."

Ava looked at the papers again. "Keep talking and I'll volunteer you for the paperwork."

"I know there is a reason he always sits next to you during briefings," Yelena muttered under her breath.

Ava simply rolled her eyes, slipped her earbud back in, and continued reading as if the conversation had never happened.

You smiled to yourself. It was clear that your brother's crush on Ava hadn't gone unnoticed. They obviously teased them about it whenever they got the chance. And maybe the feeling wasn't entirely one-sided.

Your eyes wandered around the room. Paul was sitting near the other side with John, Bucky, and two people you hadn't met before. Two laptops sat open between them, with files spread across the table. The two unfamiliar faces moved between the documents and screens, comparing information while Paul and John discussed something quietly with them.

Your attention lingered on Bucky for a moment.

He sat slightly apart from the others, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, his vibranium hand resting against the edge of the table while his other hand held onto the file in front of him. He listened more than he spoke, occasionally leaning forward to point out something on the pages or exchanging a few quiet words with the others before returning to his silence.

Even surrounded by people, there was something solitary about him.

Yelena noticed where you were looking.

"Oh," she said casually. "Paul's still working."

Then, just under her breath, "Or maybe you were looking at Bucky."

You caught it. You quickly looked away.

"What are they working on?"

"Hacking into a server or, as they would say, extracting information," she replied, making air quotes with her fingers. "Which is just a fancy way of saying they're breaking into someone's system legally."

You let out a small laugh.

"So, corporate-approved crime?"

"Exactly."

"So, we are ordering some burgers. Should we get you one too? With a french fries, of course."

"Yeah, that sounds perfect."

"No worries. We always order extra anyway."

Yelena laughed as she opened DoorDash on her phone. Apparently, everyone else had already added their orders because you saw eighteen cheeseburgers sitting in the cart. You stared at the screen for a moment.

"Eighteen?"

Yelena shrugged.

"You learn quickly that feeding superheroes is a full-time job."

You smiled at that. Your gaze drifted back toward Bucky without meaning to. This time, he was already looking at you. And for a moment, neither of you moved. The surprise on his face was impossible to miss. His expression softened almost instantly, as if he hadn't expected to find you looking back. There was a flicker of disbelief in his eyes, followed by something warmer, something almost like relief.

Then he seemed to realize he had been staring.

The softness disappeared behind the familiar guarded expression, his shoulders straightening slightly as he looked away and returned his attention to the file in front of him. His jaw tightened, like he was forcing himself back into control.

"Looking at Bucky?" You turned to find Yelena giving you a knowing look.

Your face warmed immediately. "What? No."

She smiled. "You can talk to him."

You frowned slightly. "I don't think he'd appreciate me interrupting whatever... this is."

Yelena glanced over at Bucky before looking back at you. "I think he’d enjoy your company."

But before you could answer, Alexei appeared beside you, looking far too interested in the conversation.

"I knew it!"

You blinked. "Knew what?"

He pointed dramatically between you and Bucky.

"The eyes. The staring. The mysterious soldier man looking like he has seen a ghost."

"Alexei.." Yelena warned.

"No, no, listen." He continued. "I saw it at the party. The way Barnes looked at you. Like man who found treasure after losing map."

You tried not to blush. "That's not exactly how I would describe it."

"I tried talking to him about it," Alexei continued. "Everyone tried. We all saw it. But he just says, 'I'm tired.'"

He shook his head dramatically.

"Tired? No. That was not tired. That was something else. Deeper. Rawer."

"Alexei," Yelena repeated.

"What? I am a romantic man. I understand these things."

You let out an awkward laugh, unsure where to look.

"I think maybe we should not analyse this too much," you said, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere else.

"Analyse?" Alexei looked offended. "I am simply observing."

"Alexei, please don't make this worse."

"Worse?" He looked genuinely confused. "This is beautiful. Like Romeo and Juliet."

Yelena immediately grabbed his arm."Dad, please stop comparing people to tragedies."

"Fine. But I am just saying, I see something."

You smiled awkwardly as Yelena guided him away.

"Ignore him," she said. "He thinks everything is a dramatic movie."

"I noticed." You gave Yelena a polite smile. In return Yelena pushed you gently toward one of the couches. 

"Come sit. Before he starts giving you relationship advice."

You sat down beside Bob, who had returned to reading the files, facing the direction where Paul was sitting. A few minutes later, Paul finally noticed you. His entire expression softened, and he immediately stood up, walking toward you.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm sorry about dinner."

You smiled. "Paul, it's fine."

He looked relieved. "Thanks for understanding."

"Of course I understand."

You glanced around the room, watching everyone working together. "Honestly, I don't mind."

Paul smiled.

"Really?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I like them."

His expression softened slightly. "I was worried you would feel out of place."

You smiled. "I think I'm likable enough for a group of superheroes to like me."

That made him laugh.

"I know. I just..." He shook his head slightly. "I wanted to make sure you were comfortable."

"I am."

For a moment, he simply smiled.

“Good.”

You smiled back. “Now stop looking so guilty. It’s a very annoying brother habit.”

He smiled and nodded once, then glanced back toward the group.

“I’ll wrap this up.”

With that, he turned and walked away, returning to the group he’d been working with.

You settled onto the couch beside Yelena and went back to your hospital research. Around you, the room gradually began to loosen as people reached the end of their files, closed their laptops, and started drifting into casual conversations and laughter.

One by one, the group began putting their work away, clearly ready for a break.

Everyone except Bucky.

He stayed where he was, continuing to type and scroll through whatever information was on his laptop.

But now that you were paying attention, you noticed something different.

He wasn’t actually relaxed.

Not completely.

His posture was calm, his expression unreadable, but there was a quiet tension in the way he moved. His fingers kept working, clicking through files and searching through information, yet it felt less like he was focused on the task and more like he needed something to do with his hands.

Like sitting still was harder than pretending to be busy.

He looked like if he stopped moving for even a moment, all the thoughts he was avoiding might catch up to him.

When the food arrived, everyone moved around the room to collect their meals. You took yours and looked toward Paul. He was still sitting with John and the others, talking between bites.

Your eyes moved again. Bucky was sitting alone at the dining table, his meal in front of him. Not far enough away to seem like he was avoiding everyone, but far enough that it felt intentional.

For the first time all evening, you saw a perfect opportunity to talk to him.

"I'll be back," you murmured to Yelena.

She was already eating and drinking from an opaque cup that you were fairly certain did not contain coffee.

She simply glanced at you with a knowing smile.

"Sure."

You ignored the tone and walked toward the dining table.

As you got closer, you noticed that he wasn't only eating. His burger sat mostly untouched while his attention remained fixed on the laptop beside him. He stared at the screen in-front of him, occasionally scrolling, his expression focused in a way that made the rest of the room disappear around him.

You hesitated for a second.

But before you could change your mind, he noticed you.

The reaction was immediate.

His hand stopped moving.

For a brief moment, his expression changed completely, surprise first, then something softer. Like he hadn't expected you to come over but some part of him had hoped you would. Then he seemed to remember himself. He closed the laptop screen with a quick motion before looking up at you.

It was almost like he had been caught doing something he didn't want anyone else to see.

"Hey," you said, giving him a small smile.

"Hey." His voice was quieter than usual.

You looked at the empty chair beside him.

"Is this seat taken?"

For a second, he looked almost startled by the question.

"No."

He moved his meal slightly, clearing some space on the table even though there was already plenty of room.

You sat down.

A small silence followed.

You stole a glance at him. His attention rested on the closed laptop, his expression distant, as though part of his mind was still caught up in whatever he'd been working on moments ago. Then your eyes drifted to his food.

"You're not actually eating, are you?"

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "I am."

You looked at the plate. "Really?."

He followed your gaze and seemed to realise he had barely touched it. "I'm eating slowly."

You smiled softly. “I can tell.”

For the smallest moment, you thought you saw the corner of his mouth move. Almost a smile. "I get distracted."

"Clearly."

You looked around the room. "So, is this normal?"

"What?"

"Everyone sitting around, working, arguing, eating together."

He glanced toward the others. "Most days."

"And you always sit here?"

The question came out more curious than you intended. His eyes flickered back to you.

"Sometimes." A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "When I want to miss out on the stupid."

"How's that working out for you?"

He looked around the room. "Poorly."

“I was going to say,” you replied with a soft laugh, glancing at the empty space around him before looking toward the group across the room. “Considering you basically live with them.”

He shrugged and nodded.

“You might enjoy your food a little more with some company,” you added.

He looked at you, slightly amused. "Is that your professional opinion?" 

"Actually, yes," you replied seriously. "As a future nurse, I can confirm that avoiding social interaction is probably not the healthiest lifestyle choice."

That earned a quiet laugh. "Future nurse?"

You nodded.

"So, have you started working with real people yet, or are you still practising on mannequins?"

The way he asked it made you narrow your eyes slightly.

"I don't know what that tone was."

"What tone?"

"The one where you sound like you think mannequins are easy."

A small smirk tugged at his mouth. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

You shook your head, smiling.

"You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to treat a plastic person. Honestly, I might argue it's harder than treating real patients sometimes. At least real people can tell you when you're hurting them."

For a moment, Bucky just stared at you. Then he smiled again, a little more this time.

“I believe that.”

You smiled back. Talking to him was easier than you'd expected.

“So…” You nodded toward the black mask folded beside him on the table. “Do you usually go grocery shopping dressed like that?”

A faint smile crossed his face. “Occupational hazard.”

“I figured.” You rested your elbows on the table, studying him for a moment. “So is disappearing from parties also part of the job?”

His eyes flickered up to yours.

“The party?”

“Yeah.” You tilted your head. “You left pretty quickly after you saw me.”

Something shifted in his expression, but it was gone almost immediately.

“I had somewhere to be.”

You watched him.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You weren't entirely convinced.

“You looked a little surprised to see me.”

Bucky's gaze held yours for a second before he glanced down at his laptop.

“I was surprised.”

Your heart gave a small, involuntary jump.

“Why?”

He paused.

“Because you looked familiar.”

You went still.

Bucky seemed to notice, because his expression softened slightly.

“But that's not exactly unusual,” he added. “I've been around for a long time. I've met a lot of people.”

You searched his face, trying to find something that would confirm the feeling you'd had that night, but there was nothing obvious there now.

“So you didn't actually know me?”

His eyes lifted to yours again.

“No.”

The answer came easily enough that, for the first time, you wondered if you'd simply imagined everything at the party, the recognition in his eyes, the way he'd frozen, the strange feeling that he'd been looking at someone he had known rather than someone he'd just met.

Maybe you'd read too much into it.

Maybe he really had just thought you looked familiar.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Bucky gave you a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Sorry if I made it weird.”

You shook your head. “You didn't.”

But you weren't sure you believed that either.

"So," you smiled, deciding to let him off the hook, "next time I see a mysterious masked man sprinting through the soup aisle in a grocery store, I'll know not to take it personally."

He gave a genuine, quiet laugh. The laugh that will melt the coldest hearts.

"I'd appreciate that."

Your eyes moved briefly to his plate. "You're really not eating."

He glanced down.

“I am.”

“You’ve been staring at your closed laptop for the last five minutes. I think you’re allowed to take a break.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You noticed that?”

You shrugged. “Hard not to.”

A faint smile crossed his face before he looked back down at his burger, slowly picking it up.

“You always wanted to be a nurse?”

You shrugged.

“Maybe. I don't know.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words.

“Medicine always felt like something I was supposed to do. Understanding what people were going through, helping when I could... it just made sense to me.”

“So, you like helping people.” He said, more to himself than to you.

You smiled slightly. “Yes.”

He looked at you for a little longer than necessary.  "I think they would like having you around."

The simple sincerity of it caught you off guard.

"That's a very nice thing to say."

He looked away almost immediately.

"Just telling the truth."

You smiled.

"You're less scary than people make you sound."

That surprised him. "People say I'm scary?"

"Not exactly."

You glanced toward the others. "They just make you sound very serious."

He looked across the room.

"They're not wrong."

"Maybe."

You tilted your head.

"But I think they also know you're the person they'll call when things go wrong."

His expression softened slightly.

"Yeah." A pause. "I guess they do."

And for some reason, the way he said it sounded less like pride and more like someone who still couldn't believe he had people who trusted him. You didn't know what to say to that. So you didn't.

And neither did he.

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.

It was just quiet.

A few minutes passed, and you finished your burger while he continued eating slowly, taking his time with every bite like he was finally remembering he had a meal in front of him.

You stood up and gave him a small, polite smile.

"I'll let you get back to your very important paperwork."

His eyes flickered briefly toward the untouched files. "Very important."

You smiled at the seriousness in his voice.

"Right. Wouldn't want to interrupt."

A faint hint of amusement appeared on his face. Along with something like disappointment 

You returned to the couch, where Yelena immediately glanced between you and Bucky.

"You survived."

You frowned.

"Survived what?"

"Conversation with Barnes."

"Is that supposed to be difficult?"

Yelena shrugged, glancing briefly in Bucky's direction.

"Not difficult. He just doesn't usually stay around unless he really wants to."

You looked at her curiously.

"What do you mean?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing."

Before you could ask or think about it further, she changed the subject.

Soon, everyone slowly returned to their own conversations. You talked with Yelena about random things, listened to Bob complain about another round of paperwork, and watched Alexei attempt to convince John that his training methods were "historically inspired."

Every now and then, you caught Bucky looking in your direction. Not staring. Not enough to be obvious. Just brief glances, like he was quietly observing without meaning to.

You ignored it. Old habits, you supposed. A man who had spent decades as a spy and assassin probably noticed things automatically. It didn't have to mean anything. 

Still, some part of you remained alert, replaying the conversation in your head and searching his answers for any little clue that might confirm what you suspected, that he'd known you before. But you found none.

Eventually, you realised it was getting late.

You gathered your things, saying your goodbyes to everyone as the room slowly began settling down. Yelena gave you a knowing smile when you thanked her for the evening, while Bob wished you luck with your future applications. Alexei, of course, insisted that next time you had to try his cooking, which earned him an immediate warning from Yelena that you should not agree to anything without supervision.

John simply gave you a polite nod before returning to his conversation.

Paul was also wrapping up, preparing to drop you home

Before walking out, your eyes moved briefly across the room.

Bucky was standing near the table, his attention no longer on the files in front of him. When your eyes met, he gave you a small nod.

“Goodnight,” he mouthed.

You smiled, nodding in response.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌It had been a week since you last stepped outside. Between finishing your exams, finally allowing yourself to rest, and researching everything you could find about Bucky, leaving the apartment had somehow become less urgent than staying in.

And eventually, you had to accept the most reasonable conclusion: James Barnes didn't know you.

You'd gone through everything you could find, old articles, interviews, photographs, records, and there was nothing. No connection, no shared history, nothing that suggested your lives had ever crossed before.

He had been telling the truth.

Whatever you'd seen in his expression that first night, you'd simply misunderstood it.

But on the bright side, your nursing results had arrived three days ago.

You'd passed.

Not just passed. You'd passed with flying colours.

You had celebrated the only way you and Paul ever really did, with takeaway food and your brother insisting that he had "always known" you would top the class.

Now came the difficult part.

Finding somewhere to start your career.

Your laptop had become permanently buried beneath tabs from different hospitals and teaching institutions across Virginia. Every morning started the same way.

Applications.

Requirements.

Residency programmes.

Trainee positions.

Somehow, you always got distracted. One search became another—an article about the Avengers, a charity event, an interview.

Then, before you knew it, you were reading an unnecessarily long discussion about whether James Barnes was actually as intimidating as the media claimed.

Half the comments called him terrifying.

The other half insisted he was secretly the sweetest Avenger, citing blurry photos of him carrying sleepy children after charity events or patiently helping elderly women across the street.

You smiled to yourself before closing the tab.

Again.

You really needed to stop doing that.

There is no connection.

Back to more applications.

Most of them wanted experience.

Which would have been incredibly helpful if someone had first given you a place to gain that experience.

You were halfway through comparing two hospitals when your apartment door unlocked.

"You alive?" Paul's voice echoed through the apartment.

"Barely."

He stepped inside, dropping a duffel bag by the couch before stretching his shoulders with an exhausted groan.

"You look terrible."

You looked up from your laptop.

"You've literally been on another continent."

"So?"

"You've slept... what, six hours in the last three days?"

He considered it. "...Maybe."

You pointed toward the bathroom. "Go shower."

"You sound like my mother."

"You should be grateful."

He laughed before disappearing down the hallway.

It wasn't until nearly forty minutes later, now dressed in a T-shirt and sweatpants instead of tactical gear, that he wandered back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch beside you.

"You smell like shampoo."

"I've been told that's an improvement."

"It is."

He leaned over, looking at your laptop.

"What are we looking at?"

"Hospitals."

He frowned.

"Still?"

"There are more hospitals in Virginia than I thought."

"Mm."

"I've narrowed it down to six."

Paul reached for one of the printed applications scattered across the coffee table. "Memorial Medical."

He picked up another.

"Fairfax."

Then another.

"You've really been doing this all week."

"I kind of have to."

"You'll get hired."

"I know."

You sighed.

"I just want somewhere that'll actually teach me. Not somewhere that'll throw me into a ward on day one because they're understaffed."

Paul nodded slowly.

"I get that."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

He kept reading through the papers before quietly asking,

"What exactly are you looking for?"

You thought about it.

"I want somewhere busy. Somewhere I'll actually learn. Good mentors. A decent trauma department."

You smiled faintly.

"And preferably somewhere that doesn't make new nurses cry on their first shift."

Paul chuckled.

"That's a high standard."

"I know."

He placed the papers back on the table.

"Let me see what I can do."

You looked at him. "What do you mean?"

He simply shrugged. "I'll ask around."

"You know hospital administrators now?"

"I know people."

"You always say that."

"And I'm usually right."

You narrowed your eyes. "I'm not taking special treatment."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not getting you a job. I'm getting you an interview. And there's a difference."

You weren't entirely convinced.

But before you could argue, his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it. "I've got to head back for a briefing."

"You just got home."

"I know."

He stood, pulling the duffel bag closer before unzipping it. "The Australia mission still has paperwork."

He began sorting through it with the efficiency of someone who had done this countless times. A few spare clothes were pulled out and tossed onto the couch. A half-empty medical kit followed. He shifted a stack of classified folders toward the top before rearranging what remained inside.

You caught a glimpse of tactical gear. A sidearm. Several sealed evidence bags.

Then, tucked beneath everything else, were bloodstained bandages.

Paul's hand paused for only a fraction of a second. He noticed where you were looking. Without a word, he pushed the bandages farther into the corner of the bag, covering them with the folders before zipping that compartment halfway shut.

"The press says you were chasing some government escapee." Your eyes never left the duffel.

Paul let out a quiet snort. "The press says a lot of things."

"So... were you?"

He looked up at you, one corner of his mouth lifting. "I'm legally obligated not to answer that."

You sighed, pushing yourself off the couch.

"Please get whatever injury you're hiding properly checked."

His eyes flickered toward the duffel before returning to you. "I'm fine."

"You literally just hid bloody bandages from me."

"They're old."

"You are a terrible liar."

A small laugh escaped him. "I've had worse."

"Paul."

"I'll get it looked at."

You weren't entirely convinced, but it was as much reassurance as you were going to get. He slung the duffel over his shoulder, then pointed a finger at you.

"Don't stay up until three in the morning filling out applications."

"No promises."

Shaking his head with an amused smile, he stepped out into the hallway, leaving the apartment quiet once again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌Two days later… 

You were still awake late at night. At some point, researching hospitals had turned into reading an article about the Avengers' latest humanitarian mission.

Which somehow became a video interview.

Which somehow became a YouTube channel called BuckyFanEdits.

You refused to question your life choices.

The edits were... surprisingly well made.

One clip showed him helping an elderly woman carefully down a flight of stairs after a charity gala, carrying her handbag without seeming to realise someone was filming. Another caught him laughing at something Sam had said during an interview, only for the smile to disappear the second he noticed the cameras were still rolling. One edit had stitched together his painfully serious congressional hearing, cutting from him answering, “Very worrying,” with complete sincerity straight into footage of him crashing through a wall during a mission.

There were clips from missions, awkward public appearances, behind-the-scenes moments the media had somehow captured, and an embarrassing number of slow-motion edits set to dramatic music that probably gave him far more credit for looking mysterious than he deserved.

You rolled your eyes. And watched another one. You couldn't help it. It had been more than a week since you talked to him.

You hadn't seen him since. 

Then again, you hadn't really seen anyone.

Apart from Paul… And Luca, your DoorDash driver, who had delivered food often enough this week that the two of you were now on a first-name basis.

Your laptop was still open beside you when you heard the apartment door unlock.

Paul.

You glanced at the clock.

2:03 a.m.

You waited to hear his bedroom door close. Instead...

Three soft knocks landed against yours.

"You awake?"

You smiled despite yourself. "Barely."

He walked in holding a large envelope. "I have something for you."

You sat up. "What is it?"

Instead of answering, he handed it over. Across the front, embossed in dark silver lettering, were the words:

Avengers Medical Facility

Your eyebrows shot up.

"...Paul."

He leaned against the doorframe. "Open it."

You pulled out the letter inside. Your eyes skimmed the first paragraph.

Interview Invitation.

Graduate Nurse Trainee Programme.

Avengers Medical Facility.

You looked up so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "What?"

"You said you wanted somewhere you'd actually learn."

He folded his arms.

"They've got some of the best trauma surgeons, biomedical researchers, rehabilitation specialists and emergency physicians in the country."

You looked back at the letter.

"This..."

"...isn't a joke?"

"No."

"How?"

"I asked."

You stared at him.

"I told you. I know people."

"You got me an interview at the Avengers' hospital?"

"The medical facility." He corrected you. "It's attached to headquarters, but it's its own institution. They train military medics, trauma nurses, doctors, researchers..."

He smiled.

"You'll see things there that most hospitals won't see in ten years."

You looked down at the letter again. "But..."

"You'll also be close."

His voice softened.

"I know you can take care of yourself. But if something happens..."

He shrugged.

"I'll know you're somewhere safe."

Your chest tightened. "Paul..."

"It's just an interview.” He smiled. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You were still staring at the letter in your hands, too surprised to say anything.

"Good night." Paul said, quietly closing the door behind him.

Silence settled over your room once again. Your eyes slowly drifted toward the still-open laptop on your desk.

The tab at the top proudly read: BuckyFanEdits - Best James Barnes Moments (Part 17)

Yeah.

Those fan edits were probably not going to help you pass the interview.

With a reluctant sigh, you closed the tab.

"Back to studying," you muttered to yourself.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The morning of your interview arrived far sooner than you would have liked.

You had changed outfits three times, read through your notes one last time, checked your folder at least five times to make sure you hadn't forgotten anything... then checked it a sixth, just in case.

"Text me when you're done," Paul had reminded you for what felt like the third time that morning. "And take the car home."

You had tried to argue. He would probably need it more than you would, especially if he ended up working late.

"I'll get a ride."

That had been the end of the discussion.

Paul dropped you off outside the main reception entrance. After wishing you good luck one last time, he headed toward the secured elevators beyond reception, the same ones you had taken the day you first visited headquarters. He flashed his credentials to the guard stationed beside them before disappearing behind the closing doors.

You took a slow breath and looked up.

The Avengers Headquarters looked even more impressive in broad daylight.

After checking in at reception and presenting your identification, a woman behind the desk handed you a white visitor badge.

VISITOR

The word sat beneath your name in bold black letters.

"You'll be heading to the Medical Sciences Division," she explained. "Follow the blue line until you reach Elevator C."

You thanked her and clipped the badge onto your blazer. The corridors surprised you. You had expected something... flashier. Instead, they looked remarkably normal. Scientists hurried past carrying tablets. Engineers discussed something involving drone diagnostics. Someone in scrubs pushed a patient toward radiology.

It felt less like superhero headquarters...And more like a hospital attached to a research university.

The blue line eventually led you to a quieter corridor. At the end waited Elevator C. You stepped inside.

Instead of floors, the panel read:

Training.

Operations.

Ground.

Engineering.

Medical Sciences.

You pressed the final button and the elevator descended. The doors opened onto an entirely different world. The medical facility stretched farther than you expected.

Glass-walled rehabilitation rooms. Simulation labs. An emergency department. Operating theatres. Physical therapy suites. Teaching rooms filled with nursing students and residents. A trauma bay where a team was practising emergency procedures on a high-fidelity mannequin.

Your heart skipped.

This...

This was exactly where you wanted to be.

The interview lasted nearly an hour. There were four people on the panel. A trauma surgeon. The head nursing coordinator. A rehabilitation specialist. And the director of the facility.

Most of the questions weren't designed to catch you out.

They wanted to know how you thought. How you communicated. How you handled pressure.

You answered honestly. When you didn't know something, you admitted it.

When they presented difficult patient scenarios, you explained your reasoning instead of rushing to an answer.

By the end, you felt... Good. Not certain. But good.

As you gathered your papers to leave, one of the pages slipped from your folder. You reached down too quickly. The edge of the paper caught your finger while you were collecting the rest of your documents.

"Ow."

It was barely more than a sting.

You glanced down, expecting to see a small cut.

By the time you stood again, the pain had already disappeared.

You looked at your finger.

The cut was gone.

Completely.

Just like it always did.

You ignored it and stepped back into the corridor. 

Now where was the exit?

When you had first arrived, the facility had seemed simple enough. A few hallways, a clear direction from reception, an elevator that brought you straight down and signs that lead you towards Conference room 3. But now that you were leaving, the place somehow felt twice as large.

You turned left. Wrong.

The door ahead required clearance you definitely didn't have.

You turned around and tried another direction. Another restricted access area. 

"Project 890 personnel only."

You stared at the sign for a second.

"Okay."

You muttered under your breath.

"Not this way either."

You turned back again, taking another corridor that looked promising.

A few minutes later, you found yourself standing in front of a set of doors marked Men's Washroom. You quickly looked away, pretending you hadn't just accidentally wandered somewhere you absolutely weren't supposed to be.

The next corridor led to a large meeting room in the general ward area. Empty chairs surrounded a table covered with files and tablets, but there was still no sign of the elevator or the way back to reception.

You sighed, ready to admit defeat and ask someone for directions.

"Lost already?"

You turned around.

Bucky.

He stood a few feet away, a tablet tucked under one arm. The sleeves of his Henley were rolled to his forearms, the vibranium catching the overhead lights as he adjusted his grip. His expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

For a moment, you just stared at him.

Of all the people who could have found you wandering around the facility like you didn't belong there...

Of course it had to be him.

"I am absolutely…lost." You admitted

The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

"The lifts are this way."

He pointed toward the very corridor you had just come from.

You followed the direction with your eyes before letting out a quiet, embarrassed laugh.

"Oh."

Mercifully, he didn't tease you about it.

He simply turned and started walking, and after a moment, you fell into step beside him.

The corridor stretched ahead in comfortable silence, your footsteps echoing softly against the polished floor. The facility felt strangely peaceful now that the interview was over. The rush of doctors, trainees, and staff had settled into a quieter rhythm, broken only by the occasional voice drifting from behind closed doors.

"You work down here?" you asked, more to fill the silence than anything else.

"Sometimes. I was just leaving."

That was all he offered.

He reached the elevator first and pressed the call button. A second later, the familiar chime echoed through the corridor, and the doors slid open with a soft mechanical hum.

You expected him to walk in.

Instead, he stepped to one side.

His vibranium hand caught the edge of the elevator doors before they could begin closing again, holding them open.

He looked at you.

"Ladies first."

You blinked.

It was such an old-fashioned gesture that it caught you completely off guard.

You couldn't remember the last time anyone had done something so simple and yet so thoughtful.

"Thank you..."

You hesitated.

"...James."

For the briefest moment, something shifted in his expression.

It was subtle.

His eyes lingered on you for half a heartbeat longer than usual before he simply gave a small nod and followed you inside.

You pressed the button for the ground floor.

He selected another floor further up. Training

The doors slid shut.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The elevator hummed quietly as it climbed, the numbers above the door changing one by one. You found yourself watching them instead of looking at him, suddenly far more aware of how small the space felt.

Beside you, he shifted his weight almost imperceptibly.

You could hear the faint, absent rhythm of his boot tapping lightly against the floor.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Then he broke the silence.

"Interview?"

You looked over.

"Yeah."

"How'd it go?"

You let out a small breath.

"I think it went well."

His head tilted slightly.

"You think?"

A smile tugged at your lips.

"I didn't see anyone making concerned faces, so I'm choosing to be optimistic."

He considered that for a moment, his gaze settling on you with the same quiet attentiveness he'd carried throughout your conversation.

"I've met enough people to know when someone leaves a good impression."

His voice was calm and matter-of-fact. There wasn't a hint of exaggeration in it. No attempt to flatter you. He simply sounded... certain.

You looked at him, caught slightly off guard.

That wasn't the kind of compliment people usually gave. It sounded like an observation. Like he had looked at you, listened to you, and reached a conclusion.

For some reason, that made it mean far more.

A warmth settled quietly in your chest before you could stop it.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

The corner of his mouth lifted just enough for you to notice.

"You should."

A small pause followed.

"I meant it as one."

You smiled instinctively and lowered your eyes, suddenly finding the brushed steel floor of the elevator far more interesting than looking at him. You weren't entirely sure why those few words had affected you as much as they had.

The elevator chimed softly.

The doors slid open onto the reception floor.

You stepped out before turning back.

"Thanks again..."

You hesitated for the briefest second.

"...for rescuing me from getting lost in your headquarters."

A quiet huff of amusement escaped him.

His shoulders relaxed just a fraction, and the faint smile that appeared this time reached his eyes, softening them.

"Try not to get lost again."

You laughed.

"I'll do my best. No guarantees."

His smile lingered for another moment before he gave the smallest shake of his head, equal parts amused and resigned.

The elevator doors began sliding together.

He didn't immediately look away.

Instead, he held your gaze with the same quiet steadiness that somehow made the busy reception disappear around you.

"See you," he said.

Not goodbye.

See you.

The words were simple. Almost casual. Yet something about the certainty with which he said them made your heart skip in a way you chose not to examine too closely.

You found yourself smiling before you even realised you were.

"Yeah."

Your voice came out softer than you intended.

"See you."

The narrowing gap between the doors framed him for one last second, standing relaxed with one hand in his pocket, watching you with that same gentle expression that seemed so at odds with every intimidating headline you had ever read about James Barnes.

Then the doors met.

The elevator disappeared.

For a long moment, you remained exactly where you were, staring at your own reflection in the polished metal doors long after he was gone.

It was only when someone approached the elevator and called it that you remembered you were supposed to be leaving.

You let out a quiet breath you hadn't realised you were holding and started toward the exit. His words stayed with you the entire drive back to your apartment.

the prayer (which i should note, i made the fuck up in about 2 minutes):

"Our Father, blood in the roots, hallowed be thy name, thy forest grow, thy bring us home, in stars as we art in soil. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we feed those who trespass against us, and lead us not into your darkness, but deliver us from starvation"

Log Date 53498Willow5

Male subject released from quarantine. No harmful outburst observed toward female subject. Both subjects stabilizing in enclosure. Further observations to follow.

The boulder grew, stretched overnight. Like a dining room table set for the two of you.

Your meals appear with a quiet clunk-clunk for you both to dine before the glass. Side by side.

The cage disappeared, too. Your new roommate waking up on the soft ground where it once stood. The sign outside your window replaced by an avid crowd, ready to observe your interactions.

Kurt prods at the goo on his plate. An aggravated pinch in his jaw.

“Is everything okay?” you ask, nudging the nuggets of almost potato around your plate.

He sighs and drops his fork, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you call these?” He nods toward the plate.

You glance down at your own and point to each with your utensil. “Uh, potato rocks, purple fluffy stuff, and,” you pause to scoop some of the blue goo into your mouth, “gross blue gunk,” you say with a grimace. “Most of the time, they stop sending the nasty ones after a time or two.”

“What’s your favorite food?” he asks, tone somber as he stares at the alien food without touching it.

“Oh.” Of all the fascinating and delicious foods you’ve been given—your favorite? You take a moment to think before replying, “those flower things. And I think they know it. They always put them on my plate when they want me—”

“No,”Kurt interrupts. Your lips clamp shut. His tone harsh, gritting in his throat. “What’s your favorite food from home?”

Your lips pop as you think. Wondering whether it’s best to just leave it, or if bonding over your pasts will somehow make this experience easier.

“I, uh, I,” you clear your throat, “this noodle dish my mom invented, as far as I know. She only ever made it on my birthday.” You stop, turning your gaze down to the plate. The alien food. You don’t even know its real name. “It always made me feel at home,” you whisper more to yourself than Kurt.

“I always liked a nice massaman curry.” His fork prods at the blue gunk. His teeth grit, a tic in his jaw. You ignore the moisture that beads on his waterline. His throat clears. “And I miss the sun,” he says, head tilting back on his shoulders. The artificial light shines on his skin.

You stare, drinking in the angles of his form. The sharpness of his jawline. The slope of his throat. The width of his shoulders. And the long lashes that brush his cheeks. All accented by the art that paints his skin—flowers and fauna, real and abstract, hard and soft lines flowing across planes of muscle, reaching up his neck and down to his toes.

But you don’t know how to respond, utensil scraping against your plate.

“I’m sure they give us enough vitamins and nutrients to keep us healthy,” you finally say, tipping your head up to search for the ceiling you can never make out.

“Is that enough?”

Your lips seal, pressing together. He turns his eyes to you, the harsh edge of his stare cutting.

The utensil clinks softly as you set it down. Your fingers pop as they roll and twist together. “We don’t have much of a choice,” you admit in lowered tones. Your eyes flick to the window, the door. “We can’t escape from here.”

“We could—”

“We can’t,” you interrupt quickly. “I saw someone try. It hurt.” You rub the band of light around your arm. Head shaking, look to Kurt. His fierceness broken as he meets your eye. “At least they treat us well here.” You nod, more to convince yourself than him. Blinking a few times, you clear your head. With a steadying breath, you ask, “So, what was your favorite movie?”

He doesn’t respond right away, letting the silence stretch taut and uneasy.

“The Man From Goldenrod,” he finally relents.

You roll the title around in your head. “You mean that spy one?”

He nods and returns to his meal, finally shoveling a spoonful into his mouth with a grunt.

Kurt is content letting you ramble, comparing his favorite movie to one of yours. The space filling with your chatter. He even participates in the conversation, grumbling or responding in his way.

It’s one of the first real conversations you’ve had since your capture. You smile at him, a soft sweet press of your lips. Finding a companion in the person stuck here with you. Learning about his mom, his little sister. The life he has to leave behind.

After your shared meal, the tour of the enclosure is brief. A sweep of the layout, explaining the areas of privacy—the shower and the bed. Even as you wonder why there’s still only one. The sleeping surface the same as ever. The rest of the time, you spend watching him explore the platforms, hammocks, and lofts of rope high above. The thought of joining him up there enough to make your stomach flip with dread.

But you watch his muscles as he reaches. The strain of his inked skin sculpting around them. The furrow of his brow as he concentrates. Something about his features rough and uninviting, but, like this, in this light, he’s also kinda beautiful. You wonder why they took him.

He thumps to his feet behind you, the soil dipping to cushion his impact. His hand scratches through the shorn side of hair. Eyes tipping up as he gestures to the hammock.

“I can sleep up there tonight,” he says with a nod.

You hum in response, rolling the thought over in your head. Your perch is certainly more comfortable—you would know.

Which is how he ends up on it beside you. It took some convincing, sure, but you knew what you were talking about.

“Isn’t this better?” you ask, rolling to your side to face him.

He grumbles and shifts on his back. “I guess.”

You smile and tug the blanket over your body. “And you should be fine. They keep the temperature pretty steady at night.”

He rolls to face you. Shifting back at your close proximity. “And yet you’re still using a blanket.” He tucks it over your shoulder, eyes focused on his task and hands gentle.

You blink in surprise. A flutter in your stomach.

He looks up, his fingers lightly grasping the fabric at your shoulders. A crack in his surly demeanor. His eyelashes flutter as his eyes rove over your face. Something unspoken sparking to life in their grey depths.

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