Pairings: John Walker X Reader Cw: Smut, Afab Reader, Heavy Details On Bodily Fluids (cum), Dry Humping,
pairings: john walker x reader cw: smut, afab reader, heavy details on bodily fluids (cum), dry humping, pain play-ish, reader and walker are both kind of switches (mostly dom!walker though), very faint non-con. translations: знал, что это дерьмо случится → 'knew this shit was going to happen'
you woke up in a pissy mood.
maybe it’s because you woke up late. you let the thought plant itself in the garden of your mind as you make up the bed, tripping over your phone charger in the process—cursing as the plastic brick snags your toe like it has a personal vendetta against you. or maybe it’s because alexei had eaten all the pancakes when you went downstairs for breakfast, plate licked clean and stacked with crumbs like a taunt. bob had given you that same apologetic smile he always did when things went wrong—soft and sunny like butter melting on hot toast—murmuring that there hadn’t been any more mix left for him to make you any.
maybe it was the fucking weather in new york. the gentle splatter of rain against the glass panes of the tower had started out soft, like a lullaby, but now it just sounded annoying. like the world was chewing with its mouth open.
or maybe it was because it was wednesday.
training.
val’s orders.
mandatory hand-to-hand sparring. because she liked everyone nice and angry and bruised up. and sure, you had training every day, but today? today was the one day of the week where you were paired with walker.
so when he purposely bumped into you in the hallway outside the gym—his shoulder knocking against your bicep hard enough to make your teeth click—you didn’t throw a punch, even though the thought crossed your mind like a reflex. he was taller than you, broader too, all chest and attitude and smug american confidence. so maybe it wasn’t your shoulder. maybe it was your whole goddamn side that he nudged like a dog staking territory.
“who pissed in your cereal this morning?” he asked, voice low and conversational, like he didn’t just bump you hard enough to jostle your spine.
you didn’t say it was him, even though it was. even though his voice made your skin itch and your jaw lock.
“woke up on the wrong side of the bed, walker,” you said instead, brushing past him, not waiting for the inevitable comeback. you could feel his smirk behind you like static.
the tower’s gym was unruly-huge. it felt like it echoed your mood back at you. equipment you couldn’t name lined the walls in tight, militaristic rows, all matte black and heavy metal, and the smell of rubber and sweat lingered in the air like a stain. a few punching bags hung lazily near the corners, one still swaying from when bucky had kicked it clean across the room last week.
“it’s too weak,” he’d said.
(you’d made a mental note never to spar with him again.)
and in the center of it all was the ring. four corner posts, padded ropes, and too much room for bad decisions.
it wasn’t required that the whole team show up—and even though you’d begged yelena to join, she’d refused, laughing into her smoothie. said she didn’t want to be “stuck watching you two dry hump like deranged squirrels again.” you’d told her to fuck off. but now, standing in the gym with only the distant hum of the a/c for company, you wished she’d been there just to cut the tension. or at least pass you a weapon.
you took a swig of lukewarm water from your bottle and turned to face walker, forcing yourself not to stare at how his compression shirt clung to him. it wasn’t tight—it was painted on. every line of muscle was on full display, shoulder to waist. you could practically hear the fabric stretch when he moved.
“do you… want to do some warm-ups first?” you asked, making a conscious effort to keep your tone neutral. maybe even disinterested. you didn’t want him here. this wasn’t voluntary. this was an obligation. mandatory misery.
“let’s get this over with,” he said. “three rounds. best out of three.”
you raised a brow. “and for the rules?”
he smirked—of course he did. “we don’t need rules.”
“we kinda do,” you replied, already feeling the irritation twist under your ribs. “because last time you dropped me on my ass so hard i had a bruise for a week.”
walker stepped into the ring first, ducking under the ropes. “maybe you should’ve blocked.”
“maybe you should stop fighting like you’ve got something to prove.”
that earned a glare from him, which you ignored—attempted to.
you climbed in, shaking out your arms, your boots hitting the mat with soft thuds. the padding underfoot felt springy—too bouncy, too reactive. you hated it. or maybe you just hated that you were here, facing him, already sweating despite the cold air.
he circled you lazily. like a goddamn lion. you mirrored the motion, bouncing slightly on the balls of your feet, trying not to get distracted by how his eyes tracked your hips rather than your stance.
you both moved at the same time.
the first few exchanges were quick—jab, parry, dodge. the rhythm came easily. it always did. as much as you hated to admit it, you were well-matched. you could read each other’s timing, counter without thinking. the frustration came not from the fighting, but from everything else—the way his hands lingered too long when you grappled, how his chest would brush yours if you got too close. you hated how your body noticed.
and then it happened.
a misstep—your heel caught slightly on the edge of the mat, enough to tip your balance, and walker lunged to take advantage of the opening. except instead of pinning you, the two of you collided—not forcefully, but clumsily, almost chest to chest. you let out a sharp exhale as your thighs tangled, knees bending instinctively to catch the fall.
but he was already halfway crouched, one arm wrapping instinctively around your waist to steady you, the other pressed to the small of your back. your weight shifted forward—too close, too warm—and suddenly you were halfway in his lap.
“shit—sorry,” you breathed, trying to shove off him, except—
except his thigh was right between yours, and your hips—
fuck.
you didn’t mean to move, but the balance was off and the mat was soft and your legs shifted on instinct—and suddenly, unmistakably, your core dragged against the muscle of his thigh in a way that was so subtle and accidental and deeply not.
both of you froze.
your breath caught. his eyes were already locked on yours, stunned for a half second—then unreadable. his hand was still on your back. you weren’t sure if it tightened or if you imagined it. you weren’t sure if you moved again or if the air conditioning just kicked on. you weren’t sure why your thighs clenched.
“uh…” you started, but your voice sounded weird. hoarse. too close to a moan.
his gaze flicked to your mouth, then away, fast. “you okay?”
you nodded too fast. “fine. just… awkward footing.”
he didn’t move his hand. neither did you.
your legs still straddled his thigh in a way that felt like the world’s worst balancing act. or the start of a very different kind of training session. there was a beat of silence—like the air itself was watching.
“you sure?” he asked again, quieter this time.
and it wasn’t even the words—it was the way he looked at you. like he wasn’t talking about the stumble at all. like he felt that exact moment too. the press of your pelvis. the grind. the breath you tried to swallow.
you nodded again, slower this time. “yeah. just… caught me off guard.”
you pushed off him, finally, but it was too late. the air had shifted. you could feel it between you, clinging like static. his hands fell away, but your skin still burned where they’d been. you turned back to face him, but the next round didn’t come right away. he was still watching you.
and your body? your traitorous, terrible body?
your thighs were still clenched.
fuck wednesday.
“again?” you asked, voice too level for how shaky you felt inside.
walker nodded once, that cocky little tilt of his mouth returning like it never left. you circled again, sweat already clinging in places it shouldn’t—your lower back, your neck, the inside of your thighs. the room felt hotter than before, too hot for the a/c’s dull drone.
you launched first this time—an elbow aimed high, followed by a sweep low that he sidestepped with infuriating ease.
“you’re getting predictable,” he said with a grin.
you lunged. “so are you.”
he blocked. his palm slammed against your forearm, then he turned his body and shoved. the motion was clean, rehearsed. you fell back onto the mat with a thud that wasn’t entirely painless.
before you could roll, he was on you.
a forearm pressed against your collarbone, his weight straddling your hips, one thigh locked between your legs like a goddamn puzzle piece. his free hand pinned your wrist down beside your head.
the heat of his body sunk into yours instantly.
you squirmed. “walker—fuck—”
“hurts?” he murmured, his voice rough, amused—condescending.
the way he said it—hurts?—like he already knew the answer. like he knew it didn’t.
“yeah?” he pushed again, voice dropping lower this time, something smug curling around the edge of the word like smoke. “right there?”
and fuck, you hated the way your body responded to that tone. you hated that your thighs instinctively squeezed around the leg slotted between them. you hated that your hips bucked up, just once, hard enough that your pelvis grazed his in a motion too slow to be mistaken.
your ass dragged against the hard ridge in his pants and he whined, a fully on whine you sweat—barely—but you heard it. felt it in the tension of his thigh. his hips jerked forward, subtle but deliberate, a shallow grind that answered your body without permission.
you sucked in a breath. “get off—”
“you first,” he said, and dipped his hips again, just to feel the friction. he’s desperate now, you can tell.
it was a war now. a different kind of sparring.
you twisted under him, trying to gain leverage, but he only adjusted his grip on your wrists, forearms flexing as he kept you pinned. you shifted your hips to throw him off—but the motion only made things worse.
your core ground against his thigh again, heat blooming under your waistband, obscene in how clothed you both still were. the contact was friction, soft and aggressive, the kind that sent sparks up your spine.
you bit back a noise. it didn’t sound angry. it didn’t sound like protest.
“fuck—get—off—me—” you tried again, but you weren’t moving to escape anymore. not really.
you arched again, more desperate this time. maybe to get him off. maybe to get more.
walker’s breath caught. he bucked into you again, this time slow. deliberate. testing.
you gasped. “don’t—”
“then stop moving,” he groans which broke off into another whimper.
but neither of you stopped.
he leaned in close, face hovering over yours, and you could smell the sweat and laundry soap and faint bite of cologne coming off him. his breath was hot against your cheek.
you surged up again—this time forcing him to lose some of his balance, your knee coming up to knock his side. he grunted, twisted, but still didn’t move off you.
instead, the shift made him rut against you harder, this time with a quiet, breathless curse.
“goddamn it—” he muttered.
you moaned before you could stop yourself. not loud. just a little choked noise in your throat.
walker froze. then slowly, he ground his hips down again. testing pressure. the thick line of his cock pressed through both your pants, dragging across the exact spot that was already aching.
“you’re not helping your case,” he murmured.
“shut the fuck up—” but it sounded breathy. weak. your thighs clenched again.
you twisted your wrist free and shoved at his chest, but he caught your hand and pinned it down again. the struggle only brought you closer, your hips meeting in another mindless grind that made both of you gasp.
it wasn’t smooth. it wasn’t graceful.
he rutted into you, clothed, thick denim grinding down against your leggings, and your hips met his like you needed it. you did. every part of you felt like it was humming now. frustration and arousal tangled into something reckless. every motion made it worse—more heat, more friction, more of your body giving away things your mouth would never say.
walker leaned down again, chest nearly flush against yours, his hips working in slow, rhythmless pushes. “say you want it,” he said, low.
“i don’t,” you lied.
he ground harder, your clit catching against the crease of your waistband, and your back arched off the mat in response.
“you sure?” he whispered.
you weren’t.
your hands gripped the mat, desperate for stability, but he was dragging against you just right, his thigh rocking into your core and making your cunt throb. your hips moved again—this time without thinking—and now you were the one rutting into him. your core pulsed against the friction of his jeans, every scrape of the fabric sending heat flooding low through your stomach.
his hands fisted in the mat on either side of your head. his biceps bracketed your face. he looked down at you like he didn’t know whether to tease you or fuck you into the floor.
you rolled your hips again, your leg wrapping slightly around his as you chased the next wave of contact. you weren’t pretending anymore. he wasn’t either. this wasn’t a spar—it was a dry fuck in slow motion.
and he gave in.
he bucked forward, hard, and his cock pressed along your clothed heat, grinding with rough, eager friction. the motion dragged a moan out of you you couldn’t swallow. your head tipped back. your neck arched.
your clit caught again on the seam of your leggings and your hips jolted. he rutted into the motion—again, then again—shallow thrusts that barely moved you on the mat, but each one made your breath catch. your body burned. you could feel the heat soaking through the cotton. your thighs trembled.
“you gonna come like this?” he asked roughly, mouth right near your jaw. “grinding on my thigh like a brat?”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t.
you only bucked your hips harder, clit catching again, again, your mouth falling open as a whimper slipped out. you were so fucking close now. you could feel it—low and tight and searing, the edge of something hot and humiliating and real.
“you like that?” he hissed, fucking into you now with full-bodied thrusts. “yeah—fuck—you do—”
you squeezed your eyes shut, choking on your own breath, your body arching into his. every grind pushed you closer. your hands gripped his shirt now, pulling him closer, keeping him there. his name slipped out of your mouth like a secret.
and walker—he didn’t stop. didn’t pull away.
if anything, he moved faster.
he wasn’t teasing anymore. he was chasing it. so were you. two enemies humping each other to the brink in the middle of the fucking training mat, slick with sweat and frustration, and god, you could feel it building again—hot, slick pressure, dragging through your core like a live wire—
“fuck—fuck—don’t stop—” you gasped, and his hips answered with another rough grind.
“come on, then,” he growled. “do it. come on my fuckin’ thigh, princess.”
and you did.
your hips jerked, breath tearing from your lungs, thighs clenching as a flood of wet heat soaked your panties. you came with a whimper, your back arching, every inch of you trembling.
walker groaned through his teeth and fucked into your convulsing body once more, riding it out, like he wanted to memorize the way you clenched under him. his own breath was ragged, jaw tight, hands still gripping your wrists like he couldn’t trust himself to let go.
when you finally opened your eyes again, he was still above you. still hard. still watching.
and you still hadn’t moved.
not until you heard the creak of the gym door open.
even then, it wasn’t really movement so much as tension—your entire body flinching under john’s just as your head snapped up, breath still ragged, hips still twitching faintly from what just happened.
yelena stood half in the doorway, smoothie in hand—half-drunk, the straw still perched between her fingers like she’d just stepped out of the kitchen.
she didn’t even blink. her eyes dropped to the sight of you pinned beneath walker—your thighs still spread around one of his, your hands twisted in his shirt, your expression frozen somewhere between post-orgasmic haze and absolute horror.
he didn’t move either. maybe didn’t know how to.
yelena arched an eyebrow.
didn’t really take a genius to figure out what was happening. what just happened.
she let the moment hang for maximum effect. her lip twitched—so subtle you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.
and then, with a casual sip from her smoothie, she muttered under her breath, voice thick with dry russian amusement “знал, что это дерьмо случится.”
she turnd without waiting for a reply, braid swinging behind her as she walked off with that same bored strut she used after throwing knives at a man’s groin.
the door creaked shut again.
silence.
you were still staring at it.
walker finally exhaled, a breath that sounded half-laugh, half-regret. his forehead dropped to your shoulder.
you groaned, hand dragging down your face. “we’re never living this down.”
“not a chance,” he muttered into your collarbone.
neither of you moved for another full minute. maybe two.
you were still too wet. he was still too hard.
and neither of you wanted to be the first to stand up.
More Posts from Ladyoftheworm and Others
✩°⋆｡Masterlist ⋆｡°✩
Started: 22/01/25
Last Updated: 29/05/25
Total works: 46
₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊
The Wheel of Time
x Reader
Rand al'Thor
— Flowers for Bel Tine
— Love and Arrows
— The Boy Is Mine
— Always
— One Bed, Three Ta'veren
Mat Cauthon
— Keep Up
— One Bed, Three Ta'veren
— Wetlander
Lan Mandragoran
— Protection
— When I Met You
— No Longer Yours
Perrin Aybara
— Falling For You
Lanfear
— The Boy Is Mine
Cruel Intentions (TV)
x Reader
Lucien Belmont
— Good Girls Go Bad
— Make It Up To Me
— Trust Me
— let's play a love game
— Blanket Burrito
Caroline Merteuil
— let's play a love game
Marvel
x Reader
Bob Reynolds
— Something Special
— Loving You Is Easy
— Kitchen Hazard
— that's what i like
— my emotions have been sanded off
— Insomniacs with a z
John Walker
— my kid is better than your kid
— need that
— Insomniacs with a z
Yelena Belova
— Kitchen Hazard
Anora
x Reader
Ivan "Vanya" Zakharov
— i don't want to fix him
— Good Boy
— Addicted to You
— Play Too Much
— Watch Me
Ships
Igor/Ivan "Vanya" Zakharov
— Daddy Says So
The White Lotus
x Reader
Lochlan Ratliff
— Mommy Dearest (Part 1)
— Family Affair (Part 2)
— Pretty Lips
— quite a people pleaser, if only i could please her
— I Learned French For You
— Birthday Girl
Saxon Ratliff
— Mommy Dearest (Part 1)
— Family Affair (Part 2)
Valentin
— Talking Body
True Blood
x Reader
Jason Stackhouse
— Close To You
Carême
x Reader
Antonin Carême
— Take A Bite
— Savour It
Yellowjackets
Ships
Lottie Matthews/Natalie Scatorccio
— Way Cool Baby Love
Scream
Ships
Stu Macher/Sidney Prescott
— A Guy That I'd Kinda Be Into
Ethan Landry/Chad Meeks-Martin
— i don't want to miss you (like i do)
Teen Wolf
Ships
Stiles Stilinski/Isaac Lahey
— I Hate Your Stupid Face
The Hunger Games
Ships
Coriolanus Snow/Sejanus Plinth
— I Would Follow Him Anywhere
Misc.
The Selection - Maxon Schreave/Aspen Leger
— Waltz For Sweatpants
The Strange Case of Jekyll and Hyde - Henry Jekyll/John Utterson/Edward Hyde
— Affections Like Ivy
DIY ~ rop!elrond x reader
so I have no excuse here
I promised myself that when Breathe got to 400 notes I would post another elrond fic I have hidden away (there's thousands of words of the stuff) and that happened yesterday! so have this!
modern au
word count: 806 words (a baby)
warnings: elrond is doing diy. need I say more
(not my image but I can't remember who's it is)
“Do you want a cup of tea, love?”
“Isn’t it a bit-” you cut yourself off as you look up from your book, seeing your fiancé Elrond leaning against the doorframe, “… hot.” He smiles softly at you which does nothing to help the butterflies stirring in your stomach, and sways a little where he stands with one arm holding onto the top beam of the frame. At some point he’d taken his flannel shirt off, obviously too warm in the current heatwave, so he’s just in the white vest he’d put on underneath. You try not to stare too much at his arms that are very much on show (the way he’s holding onto the doorframe does everything to make his muscles look more defined), and try to remember what his question was.
“Maybe,” he says, pushing off the doorframe to stand just inside the living room and shoving his hands in his trouser pockets. You’re grateful that he’s moved, but it’s almost as though you’ve gone from the frying pan and into the fire. The way he’s slightly slouched with his curls out of place (they’d previously been hidden by the low height of the door) has your breath hitching in your throat. “I can get you something else if you like, my love?”
“Uh…” you swallow thickly, pretending your throat is dry from the heat of the weather and not from the way your fiancé is looking at you. “Water would be good?”
“Yeah?” He’s noticed that you’re not quite your normal self and steps towards you, pulling a hand out of his pocket to drag it through his mess of curls. You know that he is fully aware of what that action does to you, and you catch his stupid grin as he stops at your feet and sinks down to one knee. You’re reminded of the last time you were in this position: you sat on your favourite bench in the park, secluded while he proposes. This time he’s got a different look in his eyes though, and when he takes your hand to press a kiss to the back of it he doesn’t break your gaze. “Anything else?” Christ, his voice has gone low.
“Just- just the water.”
“Alright,” he murmurs, turning your hand in his so he can kiss the inside of your wrist.
“How’s the table?” Elrond lifts his head but doesn’t let go of your hand, and you almost wish you’d just asked him to get the water because you’re growing warmer by the second.
“It’s getting there, it just got a bit hot working out in the sun so I thought I’d take a break. I’m nearly done now though.” You can tell he’s warm from the sweat on his forehead, the sheen covering his arms, and the little bit of chest exposed by the low neckline of the vest, and it makes the butterflies stir even more.
“Are you sure it’s gonna be stable?” You’re teasing him, trying to get a reaction. You know that his DIY skills are actually really good; it’s why you get him to do so many (and definitely not so you can linger near him and stare).
“Well, we can always test it,” he says, trailing his fingers a little further up your wrist. Being engaged has clearly altered Elrond’s confidence levels, because his tone tells you that he’s insinuating something other than just putting heavy books on it.
“Test?” You properly close your book now, manoeuvring the one free hand you have to put your bookmark in and placing it to the side so that you can lean forward. “Test it how?” You reach up to tuck a stray curl back, letting your fingers linger in his hair.
“Well I imagine if it can hold your sewing machine and all your craft supplies it should be alright.” It’s not the answer you were expecting, but you can’t think properly now that he’s sat forward close enough that you can start counting the freckles on his cheeks. His free hand comes to your knee, resting on the fabric of your thin skirt and slowly moving his hand higher. “We wouldn’t want the legs to give out, would we?”
Your breath hitches and you know he hears it from the way his hand on your leg tightens slightly, and you inch your head forward a little. “Elrond, I-”
“I should grab your water,” he says suddenly, pulling back and standing. You stare up at him in incredulity as he heads to the kitchen, and scoff.
“You’re an arsehole, Elrond,” you call after him, throwing yourself back against the pillows. You hear him laugh and mutter something and lay there for a moment more before following him, wrapping your arms around him until he gives in and plants a kiss on your mouth.
REBEL COWBOY
18+ account - minors do not interact
jack abbot x f!reader Word Count: 6.5K Rating: E
Summary: You are a lawyer representing Jack after a patient's mother files a lawsuit on claims of misrepresentation and ethical misconduct. Initially, your focus is solely on ensuring that your client’s reputation remains intact. However, over time, the lines start to blur between your objectivity—and personal attachment to your client.
Warning: minor spoilers for 1x4-1x7 (Kristi—teen girl medical abortion storyline), slow burn (forbidden romance vibes?), mentions of abortion, workplace stress, reader is friends with Frank (they have know each other since college), implied age gap, frustration with healthcare system, angst (emotional argument), yearning, language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation (f), mutual pining, flirting, feelings, did i mention sexual tension?
A/N: This is going to be a quick 2-parter. The amount of research I had to do to write this was actually insane. Reminder, I am not a lawyer, so blame Google if any of this is inaccurate. A lot of people always say that they were fascinated by Jack fudging the numbers for the teen girl, and I thought writing a fic about the aftermath could be interesting. Lastly, I know those episodes are about a sensitive and controversial topic between the debate on medical ethics and whatever a viewer's feelings may be about abortion in general—so my intention was to handle this with the utmost care and respect. However, feel free to just keep scrolling if this just ain’t it for you because of the topic at hand.
Forehead smooches to @ozarkthedog, who made this story possible with gifting me the above GIF.
Jack Abbot Masterlist
IN THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE WESTERN DISTRICT OF PENNSYLVANIA
Eloise Wheeler, Plaintiff, v. Dr. Jack Abbott, M.D., and Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, Defendants.
Case No.: 2025-CV-785431
COMPLAINT FOR MISREPRESENTATION AND ETHICAL MISCONDUCT
Eloise Wheeler, on behalf of her minor daughter Kristi Wheeler, alleges that Dr. Jack Abbot, a physician employed at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center engaged in misrepresentation and ethical misconduct concerning the medical diagnosis and treatment of Kristi. Specifically, Kristi was pregnant, and ultrasound measurements conducted at the facility indicated that she was past the gestational limit for medical abortion procedures in the State of Pennsylvania. Despite this, Dr. Abbot purportedly falsified or manipulated the ultrasound data for the medical abortion to proceed. The plaintiff claims that these actions constitute a breach of medical ethics, patient trust, and professional standards, and have caused significant emotional distress and potential health risks to Kristi Wheeler. The lawsuit seeks appropriate remedies for the alleged misconduct, including damages and injunctive relief.
"Would your firm pick up this case?" Frank asked you, taking a long swig from his beer as you both sat at your usual booth at his favorite dive bar.
You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the thick stack of papers in front of you. "Frank, I need to finish reading this. The complaint’s about a million pages long—give or take."
Frank rolled his eyes slightly, a hint of impatience crossing his face. "That’s not answering my question."
"Why this case? You’ve told me about lawsuits at the hospital before, but never once have you come to me about my firm providing legal representation for anyone."
He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I know. It’s just… this guy, Dr. Abbot, he’s a good guy. I’ve known him for years, and he’s my mentor’s best friend. But I’m worried hospital leadership might throw him under the bus if this blows up. I don’t want him to get ruined over this."
You took a sip from your beer, considering.
"Well, if this complaint is accurate, then Dr. Abbot could be liable for misrepresentation, ethical misconduct, and medical malpractice. And the hospital might even be vicariously liable for his actions. That’s a serious situation, Frank." You paused, your tone turning more analytical. "If the allegations hold up, there’s a lot at stake for this guy."
"Come by the hospital tomorrow. Just…meet him and the board."
You hesitated.
"Frank, I need to review all the details first. I can't just jump into anything without knowing the full scope."
He nodded, sensing your reluctance but eager to push the point. "I get it, I get it. Just… consider it. No commitments, okay? But the sooner, the better. This thing’s moving fast."
You took a deep breath, weighing your options.
"Alright, I’ll come by tomorrow. But I’m not promising anything,"
"Next round’s on me," he said, pushing his chair back with a slight groan.
You watched him go, then reached into the folder of papers in front of you. Carefully, you began flipping through the twenty-page complaint, your eyes scanning the detailed allegations.
Lowballing measurements to help a teen girl get an abortion?
Well, you couldn’t lie—you were definitely intrigued.
Count I: Fraudulent Misrepresentation
A week had passed since that night at the bar, and you had taken the case after meeting with Dr. Abbot and the hospital board. You had gone through the complaint thoroughly.
Every detail.
Every allegation.
"Dr. Abbot," you began, sitting across from him in some hospital conference room, "I want you to know I’ve reviewed everything. The complaint is structured into several counts, but for now, I want to focus on the first one." You paused, making sure he was following. "This count alleges that you provided falsified ultrasound data indicating a smaller gestational age, thereby enabling Kristi to qualify for the medical procedure. Therefore, her mother is claiming the falsification of your data led to Kristi receiving an abortion under false pretenses."
He nodded slowly.
"Now," you continued, "her mother, has demanded a trial by jury on all issues so triable. I’m going to fight like hell to make sure that doesn’t happen. But, if it does. That means this case is heading toward a full courtroom confrontation, with witnesses, evidence, and the chance to challenge every aspect of the allegations." You paused, letting that sink in for him. "So, we need to prepare for a serious fight, especially if a jury is involved."
"A jury, huh?" he said nonchalantly.
You leaned forward slightly, your elbows resting on the table, giving him a no-nonsense look.
Sharp.
Direct.
Eyes locked on his.
"Dr. Abbot," you said, voice measured but unwavering, "before we go any further, I need to remind you of client-attorney confidentiality. Everything you tell me is protected under law. It’s crucial for me to do my job right. So, I need honesty—full disclosure. Now, tell me—was the ultrasound data manipulated?"
He hesitated, his brow creasing.
Thinking.
Weighing.
You didn’t rush him.
Just kept your gaze steady, the kind of look that left no room for games.
After a beat, you pressed gently but with purpose. "Remember, clear and honest communication is what gets you the best defense. I need the truth."
Finally, he looked up, eyes cautious, "Yeah," he said softly. "That’s what happened. What she’s saying is correct."
"Good," you said, my voice level and confident.
He blinked, puzzled. "Good?"
You gave a small, deliberate smile—nothing showy, just enough to let him know you meant business. "Yes, I’ve had clients who lie, and it doesn’t work if you lie to me. Transparency is key. We can only build your defense if I know exactly what went down."
He exhaled slowly.
"Start from the beginning," you said, reaching into your bag and pulling out your laptop. As you powered it on and typed, you kept your focus on Dr. Abbot, whose words began to flow. His hands rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly—almost subconsciously—as he recounted what happened.
His posture was upright, shoulders squared, a stance that spoke of discipline—a trait no doubt honed during his military service. Every now and then, he glanced down briefly, eyes narrowing in thought.
You kept your fingers moving swiftly over the keyboard, capturing every detail, every nuance, every flicker of emotion that flashed across his face. You noticed his features—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a hint of stubble—he was handsome in a way that was almost distracting. In fact, at one point, you didn’t realize that he had finished speaking.
Dr. Abbot took a steadying breath, his Adam's apple bobbing as he cleared his throat softly.
"So… what do you think?" he asked, his eyes searching yours for some sort of reassurance. Then, with a hint of concern, he added, "Am I in complete shit here?"
You bit your lip. "I think… you didn’t intentionally falsify ultrasound data—any discrepancies could be due to genuine measurement errors or technical issues."
He raised his eyebrows at you.
You continued. "And we can present expert testimony from radiologists or medical professionals who can testify that ultrasound measurements can vary and that any inaccuracies can occur—unintentionally."
He looked at you.
Really looked at you.
With eye contact you had never really experienced before.
The attention was driving you crazy.
"In fact, I think you acted in good faith, believing your measurements were accurate and within legal limits."
He fell silent, and you could tell that he was gathering his thoughts and planning his words carefully.
"Are you being sarcastic?" he said maintaining, eye contact.
"No. I’m being your lawyer. And the strategy here is that you relied on standard medical procedures and that any conflicting data was a result of an honest mistake, not ethical misconduct. You have historically shown adherence to hospital policies—" he scoffed when you said that, "and you acted within the scope of your authority and professional standards."
He muttered something under his breath.
"What was that?"
He smirked. "That’s an interesting interpretation."
"Well, things aren’t always black and white, Dr. Abbot. You should know that better than anyone,"
"Jack’s fine, by the way," he grunted, his eyes never leaving yours.
You decided to break the tension with a bit of lighthearted honesty. "You know, Jack," you said, tilting your head with a small smile, "I feel like doctors usually prefer when people use their titles. Like, it’s a sign of respect or something."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah," you nodded. "When Frank graduated from medical school, he was insufferable about it. Still is. He loves telling everyone he's Dr. Langdon."
Jack chuckled softly, a warm sound that didn’t quite fit the serious tone of the conversation. "Well, I only need my patients calling me that." Then his brows tilted slightly, his gaze shifting away, and he swallowed nervously. "Fuck, they may not be calling me that by the end of all of this."
"You’re not going to lose your medical license," you assured him. "That’s not going to happen."
He opened his mouth to speak, then annoyance flickered across his face.
"And, how do you know that?" Jack finally asked, breaking the silence.
"Because I’m damn good at my job. Didn’t Dr. Langdon—" you rolled your eyes, "tell you that."
The corner of his mouth twitched.
"So, how do you know Langdon?"
You closed your eyes and thought back to the first frat party you ever attended, and the moment you came face-to-face with Frank for the first time.
"Since freshman year of college. Frank kind of… helped me out when one of his friends asked me to do a keg stand," you snickered.
"Well, did you do the keg stand?"
You couldn't help it, you giggled. That hadn't been at all what you were expecting to share about yourself. "No, I was too chicken shit." You admitted.
He lifted one shoulder. "Or maybe you were just smart,"
A few moments of awkward silence passed as you stared at each other. Your heart rate had slightly picked up now. You looked away while your fingers traced a pattern on the surface of the table.
Jesus, this man was good-looking.
"You know, I shouldn’t say this—" You swallowed tightly, "But, I wish more people were more willing to challenge the status quo," you whispered. "Kristi traveled from another state, likely due to restrictions, lack of resources, or limited access to reproductive health services. And you chose to prioritize Kristi’s autonomy and well-being. You helped a patient in a vulnerable position. That’s fucking brave."
As the words left your mouth, a subtle pause settled between you and Jack. The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the weight of your admission lingering in the air.
His eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t speak, his tongue running over his bottom lip.
"The line between right and wrong often blurs. And sometimes, the hardest part is accepting that. It’s an uncomfortable reality. But—" you stopped yourself short and cleared your throat awkwardly before continuing, "you’re a good man."
Jack’s eyes burned holes into you. "I’m fucking not."
You frowned and pursed your lips. "You are."
Jack’s eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher whether you were offering him sympathy, understanding, or perhaps a shared sense of the moral gray area you’d just acknowledged.
Count II: Ethical Misconduct and Medical Malpractice
A few months had passed since your initial consultation with Jack, and during that time, you had been meticulously building your case. You knew that a straightforward motion to dismiss on the grounds of insufficient evidence would likely be too weak—especially given the gravity of the allegations and the stakes involved. Instead, you completed a comprehensive investigation: interviewing hospital staff, reviewing medical records and policies, and securing expert testimony to support Jack and the hospital's claims.
Everything was going well… until it wasn’t.
After Dr. Collins interview, you realized that you needed to explore settlement options with the opposing counsel.
She disclosed that her fetal measurements did not match the measurements recorded by Jack.
This was new fucking information to you.
You had reviewed Dr. Robby’s ultrasound images and logs, which corresponded closely with Jack’s original notes—suggesting that Dr. Robby’s independent measurements aligned with the official data.
Yet, given Dr. Collins’ discrepancies, it strongly implied that Dr. Robby’s re-measurements were performed specifically to confirm or 'fit' the official reports that Jack had previously documented.
Which meant that Dr. Robby had committed an illegal act.
If this went to trial—he and Dr. Collins would be put on the stand.
And, lying under oath just wasn’t a fucking option.
So, you were engaging in negotiations with opposing counsel aimed at resolving the dispute amicably, seeking to avoid the uncertainties of a courtroom.
Opposing counsel was being downright stubborn, refusing to budge on the settlement and insisting they were ready to take this to trial. Their refusal to consider a reasonable resolution was making your stomach knot up—every day that dragged on felt like walking a tightrope, and you were starting to feel the weight of the stress piling up.
Honestly, you were fucking overwhelmed.
You had never cared this much about the outcome of a case before.
Why did this one matter to you so much?
The pressure to handle this delicately, to avoid a disastrous courtroom showdown, was getting to you. So, you found yourself at a bar after work, just trying to drown out the chaos for a little while. Frank was there, chatting away, asking questions about the case—probably trying to get a sense of what was really going on. You had to remind him, firmly, that you couldn’t tell him anything.
You couldn’t tell Frank that his mentor had committed a crime, too.
Fuck.
So, it didn’t take long before you were back to pounding back drinks and stressing over what the hell was going to happen next.
"Abby wants a Birkin for her birthday," Frank told you, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.
A smile tugged at your lips. "Birkin bags have an average annual increase in value of 14.2%, outperforming the S&P 500."
He sighed. "I could buy a small island with that kind of money, or at least a really nice used car."
You glanced at your watch, the faint glow of the dim bar light reflecting off the face. It was already nearing 11:00 PM. You grimaced slightly, realizing you had an early meeting tomorrow, and the last thing you needed was to drag yourself into the office exhausted.
"Alright, dude," you said, pushing your chair back and gathering your purse. "I should probably head out. Got an early start tomorrow."
You reached for your wallet, sliding a few bills across the table to cover both your drinks. "On me tonight. You need to save up for a Birkin," you teased.
He grinned as you gathered your things. "You good? You don’t usually drink this much."
"I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all. Nothing to worry about," you quickly waved him off, a little too casually.
You didn’t feel drunk.
Tipsy at most.
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he nodded and gave you a quick hug. "See you at Tanner’s birthday this weekend, then?"
"Definitely," you replied, forcing a smile.
As you stepped out of the bar, the cool night air hit you, and you instinctively reached into your purse for your phone to order an Uber. The city hummed softly around you—distant car horns, footsteps on the sidewalk, the faint glow of streetlights. You were just about to tap your screen when a voice stopped you, and you heard your name.
You blinked, turning toward the sound. Standing a few feet away was Jack. He was dressed in his black scrubs.
Your eyes narrowed slightly, a little surprised to see him here, especially at this hour. "Jack," you said, "What are you doing here?"
He didn’t answer you.
Instead, he took a slow, steady step closer, his tone even and calm. "How’re you getting home?"
You gestured to your phone. "Uber. I’m just waiting for the ride."
He studied you for a beat.
"I’ll drop you off."
"No, that’s okay. I’ve got it—"
He gently raised his hand, cutting you off.
"Let me take you home," he said softly but firmly.
You hesitated, glancing at his scrubs, then back at him. "You just got off—"
Jack reached out, his hand taking yours.
His grip was firm but not aggressive.
It was reassuring.
His eyes met yours. "Let’s go."
Without waiting for a response, he motioned with his head toward his car—a sleek, clean vehicle parked just a few feet away. He was already walking ahead. When you followed, he opened the passenger door smoothly and gestured for you to get in.
"Thanks," you mumbled, climbing into the seat.
Jack closed the door gently, then moved around to the driver’s side with a composed grace. He slid into his seat, his eyes already focused on the road ahead. As he started the car, he looked over with a slight, smirk. "So, where do you live?"
You gave him your address.
As Jack navigated the car through the dark streets, he cleared his throat softly, a subtle but deliberate sound that drew your attention. He glanced over briefly, his eyes flickering with a hint of hesitance before he spoke.
"You look nice," he said. There was a pause, and then he added. "Were you on a date?"
You blinked, caught off guard by the question. A slow, genuine laugh escaped your lips before you could stop it. "A date?" you echoed, shaking your head with a chuckle. "Come on, Jack. I don’t really have a life like that. How would I even find the time?"
You looked down at your outfit—business professional, as always—your blazer, crisp blouse, and tailored skirt. For a moment, a wave of insecurity washed over you.
Did he think you dressed like this for dates?
Or was it just habit?
You couldn’t help but wonder if he thought you were boring.
Predictable even.
Your cheeks warmed slightly as you shifted in your seat, your eyes briefly dropping to your clothes again. Maybe he thought someone like you was the kind of person who’d wear this kind of outfit out on a romantic evening.
Or maybe he just thought you never had fun.
Why did you care what he thought?
"I was with Frank."
Jack scratched his chin, his gaze scanning in front of him.
"Langdon's been pretty concerned about you," Jack said softly, glancing over. "He told me you’re up for partner. Said he thinks you’re running yourself into the ground."
"What?" you snapped, a surge of anger rising. "He told you that?"
"Yeah. He’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. You’ve been pushing too hard, working crazy hours, not taking care of yourself."
A flicker of bitterness crept into your chest as Jack’s words sank in. His concern sounded genuine, but it felt hypocritical coming from him—especially knowing how often Jack worked long, grueling hours. He was always at the hospital, late into the night, running on empty, just like you.
Your jaw tightened. You feel a flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or frustration. "So that’s your way of saying I look like shit?" Your voice cracked slightly, bitter. "What, you think I don’t see it? You think I don’t know I’m burning out?"
His eyes widened in alarm. "That’s not what I’m saying—"
You cut him off sharply, voice rising. "Then what the hell are you saying? Because I know what’s running me into the ground. This fucking case. Because Frank tells me about the shit you’ve been doing recently in the OR—bending rules, cutting corners, doing whatever the fuck like some arrogant man. I just don’t get it. Why? You literally have a fucking lawsuit on your hands."
He pulled the car to a stop in front of your house. The engine idled as he turned to face you fully. "Look—"
"No," you cut him off again, voice sharp. "You don’t get it. You’re worried about me? Well, when you’re deciding to play 'rebel cowboy', it just makes my job harder. If this case goes to trial, they are going to analyze everything you’ve done. They will scrutinize everything—everything that happened before Kristi’s case and everything that came after. They’ll dig up every mistake, every misstep, every questionable decision, in an attempt to find anything they can use to disqualify you or pin something on you. They won’t stop until they’ve torn apart your record and left you with nothing. So right now, you need to be doing everything strictly by the fucking book."
You were breathing heavily.
Your head was throbbing.
Your chest ached.
Your throat felt tight.
His brows knit together like he was in pain, and it broke your heart a little. "Look—if you’re telling me to stop being a doctor, I can’t do that."
"That’s not what I’m asking. I’m telling you, there’s a way to push back against the system, to challenge it, while still respecting authority and the law and—"
He scoffed, frustration boiling over. "That’s bullshit. You either follow the rules or you don’t—there’s no in-between." His voice was sharp, angry now. "You think the system cares about fairness? About justice? All they care about is making sure they win—by any means necessary. Just last week, I had to tell two parents that their insurance wouldn't cover the surgery their daughter needs to stay alive. A simple procedure that could save her life, but the hospital won’t do it pro bono, and the insurance company refuses to pay."
Jack’s eyes suddenly grew glossy, the shimmer of unshed tears gathering at the edges but never spilling over. His gaze flicked away for a moment, as if he couldn’t bear to meet yours fully. Then, voice trembling with quiet despair, he whispered, "That little girl is going to die. And I can’t fucking do anything about it."
He paused, swallowing hard. "So…if sometimes I 'bend a rule' or 'cut a corner' when I can, it’s because I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t."
His words hit you like a punch to the gut.
Jack was a man who’d weathered storms and still stood tall.
"I’m sorry," you said after a long, tense moment. "I’ve been drinking tonight. My outburst was totally uncalled for."
"Don’t apologize," he said while licking his bottom lip. "Even though, I have to admit, there's something about seeing you all riled up that’s really entertaining," he said with a playful tone, causing your cheeks to flare with heat.
"Well, I’m glad you find this side of me entertaining. Maybe I’ll have to show you more of it sometime," you replied with a sly smile.
"I would love that," he breathed. His expression suddenly was unreadable, his eyes dark and intense. "Listen, if this goes to trial—then it goes to trial. I’ve made my peace with that. I did what I did, and I would do it all over again."
"Aren’t you nervous at all?"
You looked into Jack’s eyes, a mixture of curiosity and vulnerability flickering across your face.
He smirked, leaning in just a little closer, his hand lightly brushing against your arm. His voice was confident but teasing. "No," he replied with a grin. "I’ve got a damn good lawyer, haven’t you heard?"
You smiled back, a little shy but flattered by his words. He grinned wider, leaning even closer, his hand now gently pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering briefly against your cheek, and he looked like he was about to kiss you.
But just as that moment seemed to tip toward something more intimate, a wave of clarity washed over you. Your senses sharpened, and reality snapped into focus. You gently placed your hands on his shoulders, your breath catching in your throat as you steadied yourself.
"Wait," you whispered, your voice filled with longing yet tinged with regret. Your eyes searched his, pleading silently for him to understand. "We can’t do this. You’re my client."
He paused, a flicker of disappointment passing over his face. His hand slowly rose, fingers gently clasping yours, "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, voice heavy with frustration, as if he too knew that crossing this line was dangerous.
He breathed roughly, lifting one of his hands to your cheek. "You know at first, when Robby told me Langdon had a recommendation for a lawyer, I didn’t think much of it. Just another name to add to the list. But then you walked into the room."
He paused, a small smile tugging at his lips as he remembered.
"The moment you stepped in, I swear, I thought, god, who is that beautiful woman? There was something about you—how you carried yourself, the way you spoke with confidence but also kindness."
His eyes softened, and he pinched your chin between his fingers.
"And I realized it was more than just beauty. You’re incredibly smart—sharp as a fucking blade. You listen, you think, and you don’t just speak to fill the silence. The hospital board, they were visibly intimidated by you. Their egos—mostly male, of course—couldn’t handle someone like you challenging them, questioning everything. They tried to keep you at bay, but you just pushed through, unshaken."
His voice grew warmer.
"You know, it might sound crazy, but one of the reasons I don’t regret what I did—what I had to do—is because it led me to you. And honestly? That’s a fucking privilege. Just having you in my life, even amidst the chaos and the mess, it means more than I can put into words."
You felt him hum, the sound rumbling against his broad chest. "You’re not just someone I hired. You’re someone I want to get to know better. Someone I want to trust with everything. And I hope I get that chance one day."
Then he was silent.
His breath slowing, chest rising.
It was the nicest thing somebody had ever said to you.
And you knew he meant it. Every single word.
It was the first time you had ever seen him look truly vulnerable—just in that achingly human, overwhelmed way that made you want to kiss every inch of him.
Even though you didn’t say a word in response.
You could feel the weight of his words lingering between you.
Your silence wasn’t indifference.
It was an acknowledgment.
A silent understanding that his words had reached you deeply.
You traced his jaw with your finger, your touch delicate and loving, and his muscles tensed like he was bracing for something catastrophic.
You leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot."
Jack’s eyes lingered on you. He nodded softly, a small, genuine smile curling his lips. "Goodnight, counselor,"
You stepped out of the car, the cool night air brushing against your skin. As you closed the door behind you, you hesitated for a moment, then turned back toward him.
Your eyes met his across the distance. The sight of his flushed face and heated stare had you feeling something down there, and it took every ounce of strength you had to not invite him inside.
"For the record," you called softly. "I want to get to know you better, too."
A slow, hopeful smile spread across Jack’s face as he watched you walk inside your home.
Count III: Breach of Medical Duty and Standard of Care
The room was tense.
Eloise Wheeler and her lawyer, Robert, sat stiffly around a long conference table at the hospital.
Jack was right there beside you.
Quiet but alert, like a coiled spring.
Frank had been correct—in the beginning, the hospital board was trying to throw Jack under the bus. They fucking sucked. You reminded them that the hospital was being sued for vicarious liability. That meant, at the end of the day, the hospital was responsible for Jack’s actions. So, instead of trying to distance themselves from him, they needed to support him. Because if they didn’t, they were only hurting themselves. The allegations were about more than just data manipulation. They were also about the health and emotional well-being of Kristi.
"Objection," Robert said, cutting in, voice a little too quick. "That’s irrelevant to this case."
You shot him a sharp look, cutting him off before he could get any more snippy. "With all due respect, Robert, what’s relevant is the way Kristi’s health risks aren’t being communicated. You refuse to let us speak directly to Kristi or consult independent medical experts who can testify about her current condition. That’s telling—it’s retaliation, plain and simple. This isn’t about Kristi’s health; it’s about punishing Dr. Abbot."
Robert's eyes narrowed slightly, and his tone hardened. "Kristi hasn't been seen because she's choosing to keep her distance. She’s a minor, and she's under a lot of emotional distress right now, and I think we should respect her privacy."
Jack stared straight ahead, patiently waiting for the argument to settle.
"You don’t want us to speak with her because you know she’ll say that Dr. Abbot and this hospital did nothing wrong." You turned directly to Eloise. "Eloise, I have to ask—what is your end goal here? You say you’re concerned about your daughter’s well-being? Yet, you’re blocking access to unbiased medical opinions. Why? Is it because acknowledging that Kristi is healthy, alive, and safe, because this hospital performed a procedure you approved, undermines your narrative of misconduct?"
Before Eloise could respond, Robert quickly raised his hand, signaling her to hold back. "Eloise, I advise you not to respond," he said sharply.
"This case isn’t about medical malpractice—it’s about control… and regret," you pressed on.
Eloise’s eyes narrowed, and she opened her mouth to respond. "My concern is for my daughter’s well-being. We’re concerned about possible risks—"
You quickly interrupted. "Risks that you refuse to fully understand or disclose. Kristi made her choice, and Dr. Abbot followed the standard protocols designed to safeguard her. Unsafe abortions happen across this country every day—women seek them, sometimes in dangerous, unregulated environments. Kristi trusted this hospital, trusted her doctors, and she made her decision with your consent. Now, you want to tear Dr. Abbot down because you’re unhappy with her choice?"
Eloise finally broke.
Shouting at Jack with raw emotion.
"I want my grandchild back!"
The room plunged into an unsettling silence.
Her words hanging heavily in the air.
For a moment, not a single sound broke the stillness, and everyone in the room seemed to freeze.
Even Jack.
His gaze was fixed on Eloise as if trying to process what she’d just said.
Robert’s eyes flicked to hers, a sharp warning flashing in his gaze—she had said too much. He quickly straightened, standing up abruptly. Gathering his papers, he cleared his throat, his tone firm but tinged with urgency.
"Eloise, that’s enough. Don’t say anything else." Robert said, voice steady but commanding. "We’re done here. We’re leaving," signaling them to gather their things. Without waiting for further discussion, he turned and strode swiftly toward the exit.
Jack slowly pushed himself to his feet, his eyes on Eloise as she hesitated in the doorway. With a quiet, expression, he looked at her and softly said, "I'm sorry."
Eloise, her cheeks streaked with tears, reached up with trembling fingers to wipe them away.
Then she simply nodded once and exited the room without a word.
You watched Jack carefully, then rose to your feet as well. He turned toward you, concern shadowing his face. "Are you okay?" he asked gently.
You paused for a moment before replying, "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Frustration edged into your voice as you continued, "Also, why did you apologize? Apologizing shows fault."
He took a slow step forward.
"Just because I don’t agree with her," he said, "doesn’t mean she isn’t hurting. She’s allowed to feel what she feels. Sometimes, the most honest thing we can do is just acknowledge that people are hurting, even if we see things differently."
You felt a strange flutter in your chest.
The sudden quickening of your heartbeat caught you off guard.
He was so genuine.
Unguarded.
You just stood there, realizing how rare and precious that kind of understanding truly was.
His hand twitched subtly, a telltale sign that he was holding himself back from acting on an impulse—perhaps from reaching out, touching your arm, or closing the space between you.
"Want to grab lunch?" he asked.
You glanced at your watch. “I wish I could, but I’ve got to get back to the office.”
He nodded.
But it was clear he was disappointed.
It had been a few weeks since he dropped you off after what almost happened. You hadn’t intended to be standoffish. But you had been less frequent in stopping by the hospital, fewer phone calls, less of the casual contact that once felt so natural. It was just... easier to keep a bit of distance.
That night, after he almost kissed you, you did something you honestly hadn’t done in a while. You laid in bed and dipped two fingers inside of you as you touched yourself and circled your clit. You fell off the edge quickly because you imagined his fingers inside of you. Coming down from your orgasm, you realized that your feelings for Jack were dangerous.
Engaging in any form of sexual activity with a client was a violation of professional conduct.
His unrelenting gaze seemed to size you up. "Haven’t seen you in a while."
"I’ve been busy," you said, looking down at your shoes, unable to look him in the eye
He clicked his tongue, frustration flashing in his expression. "You’ve been avoiding me."
You looked up and were overwhelmed by his stare.
Blood pounded in your ears. "I’ve just been busy," you repeated.
His expression hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. "Bullshit."
He slowly closed the distance between you. His tall frame loomed over yours, each step deliberate, almost predatory. The room seemed to shrink around him, the air thickening with unspoken tension.
You could barely breathe. You needed to say something, but unfortunately, he spoke first. "Give in already."
His face was just inches from yours now.
You hesitated, your breath hitching as your mind screamed at you to resist, to keep your professionalism intact. You knew if you did what you wanted, there would be no going back. But the pull was undeniable, and your lips parted slightly as you considered his words. Your body tensed, then relaxed just a fraction.
"Just give in," Jack pleaded, his eyes dark pools of lust. "It’ll feel good."
You opened your mouth to respond—maybe to push back, maybe to accept—but suddenly, a sharp, commanding voice cut through the charged atmosphere.
You heard your name as the door swung open. Standing in the doorway was the hospital’s legal counsel, a composed figure in a tailored suit, clipboard in hand. "How did it go?"
You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, then quickly composed yourself. "It went well," you said, clearing your throat. "I think there’s a very good chance we can negotiate a settlement after today's events. The hospital and Dr. Abbot’s position is strong, and I believe we’re on the verge of resolving this without going to trial."
The legal counsel nodded, extending a hand. "Good to hear. I’ll let the hospital chair know. Thanks for the update."
You shook his hand briefly, then looked around, realizing Jack had already stepped back from you, his posture reverting to neutral, almost as if nothing had happened. You caught a fleeting glimpse of the door closing behind the legal counsel as Jack exited the conference room without looking at you.
You drove to work with hot tears finally trailing down your cheeks.
You couldn't shake the ache of frustration that settled deep in your chest.
It felt so unfair.
Why him?
Why Jack Abbot, with his intense eyes and his dangerous charm?
You hated how easily you’d been drawn in, how your mind replayed his words, his touch, as if they’d etched themselves into your memory with cruel precision.
You wondered why he couldn’t just be some guy you met at a bar.
Someone ordinary.
Why couldn’t he be a stranger in a crowded room, someone you wouldn't have to analyze, second-guess, or worry about?
He was chaos and complication.
You remembered your mother once telling you that sometimes feelings could sprout in the most unlikely, inappropriate places.
And no matter how much you wished it, you couldn’t unfeel what had already taken root.
You stepped out of your car, your heels clicking softly against the pavement as you headed toward the building. Going up the elevator, you pressed the button and waited briefly, then greeted the janitor along the way with a friendly smile. Upon reaching your floor, you stepped out and made your way down the corridor, and pushed open the door to your office.
Inside, you settled into your chair, sighed deeply, rubbing your temples as you scrolled through the latest updates on your cases. As you sat amidst the clutter of papers and flickering screen, your mind drifted to another case that had been weighing on you all day—you needed to check in with Alex, your junior associate on the case.
Frowning slightly, you reached for my phone and pulled up his contact, then tapped the message: Hey, just wanted to confirm you filed the paperwork for the Johnson case. Let me know when it's done.
A few moments later, your phone buzzed with a reply from Alex: Yes, I submitted the paperwork this morning. All set on my end.
You read the message and nodded slightly, feeling a bit of relief. You quickly typed back: Thanks, appreciate it.
With that confirmed, you turned your attention to the upcoming court prep for another case. You pulled out the relevant files, spread them out on your desk, and began reviewing your notes.
A few hours later, the office was almost deserted. The only sound was the quiet tapping of your fingers on the keyboard. Just as you were about to wrap up, there was a soft knock on your door. You looked up, blinking tiredly.
"Come in," you called out.
The door opened, and your boss, stepped in. He was also the partner on Jack’s case, and he was holding a piece of paper in his hand. His face was serious but controlled.
"Hey," he began. "I know it’s late, but I wanted to let you know—Wheeler’s lawyer just faxed over something. Thought you’d want to see it before you headed out."
You sat up straighter. "A fax? Who even faxes anything anymore?"
He smirked faintly. "Apparently, some people still do. Anyway, you probably want to look at this."
He handed you the piece of paper. You took it, glanced at the top—your eyes narrowed as you read the hurriedly typed heading. Then, you unfolded it and started reading, your brow furrowing deeper with every line.
"Holy fucking shit," you whispered under your breath.
dividers by @saradika-graphics
If you are interested in part 2, comment below, and I’ll tag you! Feel free to reblog your thots 😘
the complete knock (ii) — bob reynolds
⟢ synopsis. joaquín convinced you to stay in new york as a chance to regroup... and maybe look into who the hell this bob guy is. and just when things could not get any worse, john walker finds you both under the ruse of wanting to talk.
⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, sequel to this fic right here! a lot of plot. reader is described as female. reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :( joaquín is sooo baby brother. a bit of stalking happens, walker is a punching bag (i love him tho), reader is crazy stubborn, #justiceforsamwilson.
⟢ wc: 21.2k+
⟢ author’s note. bob wears bunny slippers. that is all i had to say.
You should’ve been halfway back to Washington by now. Maybe already unpacking your bag in your bedroom, or sitting shoulder to shoulder with Joaquín on the couch while Sam paced in front of you both, jaw clenched, hands on his hips and brow furrowed like he was about to crack the floor with how hard he was pacing back and forth. He’d be muttering something about how disappointed he was, how you went behind his back and dragged yourself into this morning’s breaking news cycle.
Instead, you were still in New York, sitting across from Joaquín in a café that toed the line between ‘upscale diner’ and ‘hipster brunch spot.’ Somewhere in Mid-Manhattan, near enough to the buzz of the city, but tucked just far enough to feel like a secret. Still, it was too close to the watchtower for your liking, just down the street.
The café had all the trimmings of old New York: polished floors, and red leather booths, but filtered through the lens of reclaimed wood walls and Edison bulbs.
It was early enough that there were only a handful of people occupying the other booths. Old soul music hummed softly from the speakers overhead, and a couple of waitresses bustled between tables, laughing in Spanish. There was a white man across from you who was poking into his own breakfast with a strange mannerism only filthy rich people would have.
The mug of coffee in your hands had gone lukewarm. The latte art was so nice that it made you hesitate even to drink it, but you also wondered if you could force yourself to have an appetite after last night.
Joaquín had convinced you to stay just a little longer; said it might help you feel better. He sat in front of you in the booth, wearing an I LOVE NYC shirt, sipping from his cold brew as if he hadn’t dragged you out of bed at five in the morning for a run around Central Park that took an hour and then saw the sunrise. Which then became a detour to Times Square before it got crowded. Which then became breakfast out, because apparently, room service wasn’t “authentically New York enough.”
And now? Now you were here. Staring into a latte you didn’t ask for, stomach coiled too tight to even think about food, wishing you could leave the city already.
You hadn’t said much since leaving the gala. Not in the van, not in the elevator ride up to your hotel room, not even when Joaquín offered to stay. You’d nodded, locked the door behind him, and then downed whatever overpriced minibar bottle of tequila you could find. Maybe two.
You kept replaying it all. The way the crowd went quiet when the cameras caught you with Valentina. The fake smile politeness as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and whispered poison in your ear.
The words still echoed: What’s loyalty really worth?
She wanted you to betray Sam, as if enough people hadn’t already done that.
And then there was Bob.
Fuck that guy.
Fuck Bob.
You went back to nursing your coffee, eyes glazed, ears barely catching the low hum of the voice of the lawyer Joaquín had hired as he explained your legal options. You weren’t sure what he was saying. Something about image rights, team misrepresentation, staying away from De Fontaine and possible lawsuits: you nodded because it was easier than arguing.
Joaquín said you would stay just until noon like this city hadn’t already taken enough energy from you. And you agreed because part of you still hadn’t figured out what to do next.
Besides, it was only eight-thirty in the morning by the time you both got your drinks.
“…And those are just a few steps I’d recommend moving forward,” the lawyer said smoothly, adjusting his glasses as he sat back. “I’ll be honest, this isn’t exactly my usual wheelhouse, but I think we’ve got a decent case if we frame the whole thing as a misunderstanding. Especially if De Fontaine keeps using ‘Avengers’ without clearance.”
His tone was calm. Unbothered. Confident, even. You couldn’t tell if that made you feel better or worse. You probably could have avoided this entire situation if you had stayed home and told Congressman Gary to suck it.
“Yeah, thanks,” Joaquín said brightly, finally glancing up from his laptop.
The man stood, reaching for the sleek red cane that rested against the booth. “Well, you’ve got my number,” he said. “Call if you need anything. I’m happy to keep looking into it.”
“Thanks, Matt,” Joaquín said again, giving him a grateful smile.
“Seriously,” you added, your voice a touch warmer now. Maybe it was the way Matt had actually made the whole mess sound… manageable. “Thank you.”
Matt turned in your direction, that easy smile not fading. “Don’t worry. If you want to push the misunderstanding narrative, you’ll be fine. And if Valentina keeps branding this team as Avengers, there’s a solid case for misrepresentation, especially if your likeness is being used to imply endorsement.”
You nodded. “Right. Yeah. Got it. Thanks.”
Matt paused, as if catching the hesitation in your voice. “You’ll be okay,” he said, then offered a small wave as he made his way toward the door.
Joaquín watched him leave, the bell above the café door giving a soft chime as it swung shut behind him. Then he turned back to you with a grin that was way too proud for someone who’d just hired a lawyer from a newspaper ad. “He seems nice.”
You narrowed your eyes over the rim of your coffee mug. “Where’d you find that guy?”
He pursed his lips, “You said we needed a lawyer. I got us a lawyer. He has really good reviews on Yelp. One of the best in Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Hell’s Kitchen? You made that pour man come all the way down here for us?”
“He offered,” Joaquín said defensively, “Matt said he preferred to meet in person anyway. Besides, we need someone who’s not scared of Valentina. The man literally sues billionaires in his spare time.”
You set your mug down a little too hard, making it clink against the saucer. “We have lawyers. Sam knows people. Actual governmental legal teams. With offices. Why didn’t you call one of them?”
“I didn’t realize we needed the god of lawyers to step in,” he muttered, exasperated as he rolled his eyes. “Relax. We’ve got more than enough to blow this thing wide open. The press photos alone are enough to raise suspicion, and the way Valentina keeps parading that ‘New Avengers’ name around? That’s grounds for a cease and desist.”
You leaned back in the booth, rubbing your temple as you exhaled. “We don’t have as much as you think.”
“But we will.”
You didn’t respond, you just turned your head and focused out the window again. Outside, the city moved on without you. Pedestrians marched by in layers of spring coats and scarves, dodging puddles and taxis like it was all muscle memory. There was something comforting about how oblivious they all were, how none of them had been at that gala last night or had their name blasted across every trending tag before noon.
Inside, the warm smell of eggs and expensive coffee lingered in the air, but you couldn’t shake the sourness sitting in your stomach.
Joaquín, thankfully, didn’t push. He went back to typing on his laptop, though you could tell the silence was killing him. His foot bounced under the table. Occasionally, he muttered something to himself, probably reviewing the security cam footage from the gala again, probably rewatching the exact moment Valentina draped an arm over your shoulders like she owned you.
The two of you were dressed down, in civilian clothes (if Joaquín’s tourist merch would count as such), and baseball caps pulled low. Your sunglasses sat folded beside the ketchup bottle and sugar packets, next to the fresh copy of this morning’s Daily Bugle. Your photo was front-page centre. The shot of you in the dress, frozen between Valentina and Yelena, half-turning like you weren’t sure if you wanted to be there or bolt.
At least you looked pretty.
You wondered if Bob had seen it.
The thought hit you suddenly, out of nowhere, and lodged itself in your chest like a splinter. You hadn’t even realized you were still thinking about him, not actively, anyway, but the memory of his face lingered stubbornly. The way he’d looked at you like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go. The way he’d said your name, low and careful. Like it mattered. He felt like a scent on your jacket or a song stuck in your teeth. Something stupid and soft that wouldn’t let go.
You pressed a hand against your thigh under the table, grounding yourself. It wasn’t the time.
A waitress approached not long after, balancing two plates in her arms with the practiced grace of someone who’d been doing it since before either of you were born. Her hair was tied up in a neat bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and she gave your table a friendly smile.
“Three pancakes, three eggs, and three sausages?”
Joaquín perked up immediately, pulling down his headphones and sliding his laptop to the side like he hadn’t been glued to it for the past twenty minutes. “That’s me, thank you.”
“Berry waffles?”
You raised your hand, and she set the plate down gently in front of you before asking if there was anything else either of you wanted. You both politely declined, and she left.
Joaquín didn’t waste a second. He picked up his fork and immediately began cutting into his mountain of food. Syrup pooled fast over his eggs and sausages.
You just stared at your plate. The waffles were warm, the fruit arranged in neat little clusters, but your stomach still felt like it had been twisted into knots. You poked at a strawberry without much commitment.
“So,” Joaquín said between bites, reaching for his cold brew and sipping loudly from the straw just to get your attention like a child.
You didn’t look up, just stabbed a strawberry on your plate.
He tried again. “Do you… Do you wanna talk about it?”
That time, you met his eyes. His smile was soft and a little tentative, but he was holding himself like he expected you to throw your drink in his face. His shoulders were hunched, eyes flicking between you and his plate like he was bracing for impact.
“Talk about what?”
He blinked at you, then gave a pointed look. “Last night.”
You frowned, “We already debriefed.”
“I—I know that,” he said, fork mid-air. “I meant, like, talk about it to me. As friends. Just… me and you. Like we usually do.”
You didn’t answer right away. The quiet between you stretched long enough for the sounds of the diner to filter in again; the clatter of dishes, the sizzle from the kitchen, someone laughing faintly three booths over. Then you sighed, setting your fork down with a metallic clink against the ceramic.
“It’s just...” Joaquín tried again, not looking at you now, like the words would land better if he said them sideways. “You’ve been kinda like… a pain in the ass. To put it nicely.”
That drew a faint grin from you, brief, reluctant, but real. No one could needle you quite like him. Maybe that’s why you both worked. Maybe that’s why it always worked. You rolled your eyes, not quite ready to give in.
“I just don’t understand why you got us a lawyer off Yelp.”
Joaquín pulled a face, somewhere between defensive and done-with-you. “It’s not about the lawyer, man.”
“It kinda is, though.”
“No, it’s not. I’m talking about what Valentina said to you.” His voice dipped low, more careful now. “And… y’know. That Bob guy.”
“Can we not?” you muttered. The words left your mouth too quickly. “Not here, Quín.”
He didn’t say anything. Just watched you for a second longer, his fork hovering above his plate like he was debating whether to say more. Then he dipped his head, gave a short nod, and went back to his food.
You cut another piece of waffle and chewed slowly. It was good, golden and fluffy, the syrup pooling around the edges—but it didn’t warm you the way it should’ve. Didn’t ease the dull pressure blooming in your chest.
Across from you, Joaquín had only taken a few more bites before he set his fork down and wiped his hands on a napkin. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a little quieter this time. More careful.
“We’ve done a lot of missions together, right?”
You glanced at him, wary. “Right.”
He nodded, like you’d confirmed something only he knew how to track. “And we’ve both done our fair share of flirting here and there. You know… for the job. Sometimes not for the job.”
You gave him a look, already spotting the slow grin building on his face. “Not this again.”
“I’m just saying, we do pretty well for ourselves. I do especially well.” He smiled. “Like, remember that Peruvian girl from last month—?”
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, spotting that dumb smile on his face he only has when he's about to say something stupid. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, remember how I—”
You didn’t even let him finish. “Oh my god,” you groaned, putting your fork down again. “Is there a point to this story? Because I really don’t think I can stomach hearing about that one again.”
He had the decency to look mildly sheepish—just a flush rising to the tips of his ears—but it didn’t stop him from doubling down.
“It was good sex.”
You snorted. “Mediocre at best.”
“You weren’t even there.”
“And yet, I know you need to get laid more. You talk about this girl like she changed your life, and then you follow it up with ‘she liked my jacket.’ That’s it. That’s the story. You slept with her, and she left the next morning.”
“She did like my jacket,” he muttered defensively, half under his breath.
“You need to get laid more.” You repeated into your coffee.
“I need to get laid more?” he scoffed, eyes narrowing. “You need to get laid more.”
You leaned forward just slightly, squinting at him like you dared him to double down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He blinked at you, deadpan. “You know what it means.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It means,” he said, drawing the words out slowly for dramatic effect, “you need to get laid.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. “I get laid.”
“Not enough,” he shot back, mimicking your tone with a mockery of concern in his voice.
You jabbed your fork in his direction. “More than you.”
“Sure.” He waved his hand dismissively, like he’d already let you win for the sake of moving on. He tugged the brim of his cap lower over his forehead, leaning back into the booth. “Can we circle back to the actual point here?”
“Whatever,” you muttered, voice low, flat. You stabbed at your waffles again, syrup pooling under your fork.
He pointed at you then, vaguely, as if trying to name something intangible. “See, this is what I’m talking about.”
You didn’t look at him, but he kept going.
“You’re off. Last night, you took a few hits—I mean, emotionally. I’ve never seen you like that before. Not really.” He scratched at the side of his jaw. “Valentina was just trying to get in your head, you know that, right?”
You let out a bitter, breathy laugh and grabbed the newspaper from beside the salt shaker. “It’s working.” You held it up with both hands and shook it for emphasis. “‘Reformed or Recruited? Meet the New Face at The New Avengers’ Table.’” You slapped it down in front of him, the headline side up. “I could kill her.”
“Okay,” Joaquín said, glancing around the café, lifting both brows. “Maybe don’t say that so loudly in public?”
You ignored him, still staring at the article. “It’s just—she talks like she’s already won. Every word out of her mouth is loaded. Like no matter what you say, she’s already said it in her head and spun it into something smarter. It’s so fucking frustrating.”
Joaquín didn’t interrupt. You kept going.
“She knows things. Things she shouldn’t. About me. About you. About everyone. And the way she talked about Bucky—” Your voice dipped again. “She’s got him on a leash. She has to be blackmailing him. There’s no other reason he’d stick around a group like that. You remember how long it took for him to even trust us? How much work Sam put in for us? And now she’s got him sitting next to Walker and a bunch government rejects that should be facing lifetimes in jail.”
Joaquín was quiet for a second, stirring his drink with the tip of his straw. “I know. I’ve been thinking the same thing. Maybe she’s got something from his Winter Soldier days. Something buried.”
“Maybe,” you murmured. “But I don’t know. He made peace with all that. Or he was trying to.”
Joaquín nodded solemnly. Then, with perfect timing and a shit-eating grin, he added, “She probably found his butt pics or something.”
You recoiled, immediately groaning, “Ugh, gross, Joaquín. Come on—I’m eating.”
He laughed into his straw, biting it. “I’m just saying. It would explain a lot.”
You tried to keep your glare steady, but your mouth twitched, the corner threatening to pull upward. You hated that he could do that, break through the spiral with the dumbest thing imaginable. But maybe that’s why he was still your first call every time things went to shit.
Joaquín’s voice softened a little. “You know she doesn’t win just because she made the headlines first, right? She wants you rattled. She wants you to think she’s got it all figured out. But she doesn’t. You’re better than her.”
You looked down at your plate, the fruit now limp and soaked through with syrup, and slowly pushed it aside.
“I just hate not knowing,” you said quietly. “Not knowing what she’s playing at. Not knowing what Bucky’s really thinking. Not knowing if any of this is going to matter.”
“It matters,” Joaquín said without hesitation. “And if it doesn’t yet, we’ll make sure it does.”
That finally made you look at him.
He gave you a lopsided smile, stupid, warm, stubbornly sure of you in a way you weren’t even sure of yourself right now.
“You’re not alone in this,” he added. “You’ve got me. And Sam. And probably, like, three semi-legal encrypted files Matt just handed over.”
You huffed out a soft, reluctant laugh. “God, you’re annoying.”
“Yeah, but I’m right.”
You didn’t say it out loud—but maybe, just this once, you didn’t disagree.
Your phone buzzed against the table, and both you and Joaquín froze, mid-sentence, mid-chew. His fork hovered halfway to his mouth. Your eyes locked on the screen.
The display lit up, just enough for you both to see the name.
Captain Sammy!
Neither of you said anything at first.
You’d been waiting for this. Dreading it, really. That’s why your phone had been sitting so close to your plate all morning, screen facing up, volume on for messages only, buzz setting maxed out. Every scrape of cutlery, every breath between words had you waiting for this.
Joaquín leaned in slightly, eyes scanning your face. “Is it Sam?”
You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”
“What’s he saying?”
You didn’t move right away. Your hand hovered over the phone like it might burn you. “I don’t know. I’m… too scared to open it.”
His brows pulled together, and he leaned further across the booth, trying to read the message upside down. “Why hasn’t he messaged me yet?”
“I don’t know,” you repeated, this time quieter, and your thumb swiped across the screen like muscle memory. You tapped into your messages.
Your stomach twisted before your eyes could even process the text.
Call me soon. We need to talk.
You winced.
“Well?” Joaquín asked, watching you too closely. “What’d he say?”
You turned the phone toward him.
He read it, then leaned back slowly. “Woah.”
“I know.”
“No emojis?”
“No.”
“He used proper punctuation.”
“Yeah. Caps. Periods.”
Joaquín let out a long whistle and slouched deeper into the booth like the air had been sucked out of him too. “Shit. He’s so pissed.”
You exhaled hard and tossed the phone facedown onto the table like it might accuse you of something else if you looked at it any longer. Your shoulders slumped, and you dropped your head into your hands, the motion knocking your cap off in the process. It hit the seat with a soft thump.
“God, I’m so fucked,” you groaned into your palms.
“Hey…” Joaquín’s voice softened. No teasing now. Just warmth. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing your wrist. Gently, he coaxed your hands away from your face. “We’re fucked. We’re a team. We both get fucked together.”
You stared at him for a second.
Then winced. “...Dude.”
He blinked, mouth twitching, and then his expression crumpled into a wince of his own. “Yeah, yeah. I heard it as I said it.”
You shoved his hand away, and he laughed. It was the kind of laugh that let you breathe again, even if only for a second.
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Do you wanna book a plane home or should we just drive back?”
“Let’s drive,” he said without missing a beat, already pulling his laptop closer. “The longer it takes to get back, the better. We need time to stall.”
“I’ll rent a car.” You thumbed open the app, scrolling through the available options. “Any preferences?”
“I’m not picky.”
You nodded absently, letting the words pass between you like background noise. Your finger moved down the screen, but your mind wasn’t really following. Each name—Toyota, Chevy, Honda—blurred past you.
The pressure had started to settle beneath your ribs now, a slow-building ache that hadn’t let up since last night. It pulsed quietly with every breath. You tried to ignore it, tried to act like you were okay, like you weren’t picturing the message on your phone or imagining the conversation that would come when you finally called Sam.
But you weren’t okay. Not really. You hadn’t been okay since that tower. Since Valentina’s voice crawled into your skull and made a home there.
The sound of Joaquín tapping at his keyboard pulled you back to the present.
“Hey,” he said, his tone cautious, like he already expected you to roll your eyes again. “I know you said you didn’t want to talk about last night anymore, but that guy you were talking to—Bob? I managed to get a voice match, and I did some digging for you.”
You didn’t look up. Your thumb hovered over a rental listing. “I really don’t care. Do you want a Honda or—”
“Well,” he cut in, “his full name is Robert Reynolds.”
You froze, just for a second. Just long enough for Joaquín to notice.
“Jesus,” he added, grinning like he couldn’t help himself, “you were flirting with a guy named Robert.”
You lifted your gaze, flat but not without bite. “Shut the fuck up.”
He laughed, light and triumphant. “There’s not much on him. He’s kind of a nobody, to be honest. Valentina must have wiped him or something. He’s got an old Instagram account but hasn’t updated it since before the Blip. Mostly middle school, high school stuff. A couple of mirror selfies. Not much else.”
You didn’t mean to be interested. Not really. But your head perked up anyway.
“Let me see.”
He angled the laptop your way without a word, thankfully.
The screen showed a grid of filtered, slightly overexposed images, pictures that fit from the time they were taken and posted. Group shots at what looked like house parties. Underage drinking and smoking. A photo of a dog. One of the sunset, blurry and underwhelming, captioned ‘summer’ with a cute emoji of the sun. Most of the posts were book covers, titles you vaguely recognized; a few you’d read yourself. The kind of things people share, not for anyone else, but just to remind themselves they were still here.
He didn’t post himself often.
But one picture stopped you.
A younger version of him stood beside someone in a graduation gown. His hair was shorter, his face leaner, his body thinner. He wasn’t wearing a gown himself. Just a hand shoved awkwardly into a hoodie pocket, the other slung around the person beside him. Still, he was smiling—kind of half-hearted, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his face. It was the same mouth, same sharp features. But softer.
You stared at it a moment too long.
You weren’t sure what you were looking for. Maybe something to prove he wasn’t a threat. Or maybe something else entirely.
You could still hear the way he said family, like he believed it, like he needed to.
You hated how easily he’d gotten under your skin. How, even now, some part of him was curling its way around your thoughts, threading through your brain like smoke through a vent. He was weird, and there was something about him that felt too big to look at directly. Like if you focused too hard, he might burn a hole through you.
You tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything. You tried to tell yourself he didn’t matter.
But your hand was already resting on the corner of Joaquín’s laptop, scrolling gently through the next photo. And the one after that.
And you didn’t stop.
You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until Joaquín cleared his throat.
“He never graduated,” he said, “Dropped out.”
You blinked, sitting up a little straighter, “What?”
Joaquín tilted the screen back toward himself. “I couldn’t find any school records past sophomore year. No GED either. He just kinda... worked odd jobs before disappearing.”
Your eyes scanned what was left of Bob’s social media feed. Just ten posts in total. Ten fragments of a person whose edges were too slippery to pin down. Still, that didn’t stop the strange kick in your chest, like your body knew something your brain hadn’t caught up with yet.
“Disappearing?”
“Yeah. And it gets weirder.”
He clicked over to another tab. The brightness of a mugshot hit you instantly.
“There’s a criminal record,” Joaquín said. “Not sealed, surprisingly. Valentina’s people probably missed it—or didn’t care enough to clean it up.”
You leaned closer as he continued.
“An assault charge from one of his part-time jobs years ago. He attacked a civilian.”
“At work?”
“Yeah,” he said grimly. He tapped the keyboard again, and up came a police scan. Bob, older than in the Instagram posts, but still younger than last night, sat facing the camera with a vacant expression. His cheeks looked hollow, his eyes rimmed with red and shiny with unshed tears. Sweat slicked his forehead, and his lips were split as if he’d been grinding his teeth on them.
“He was on drugs,” Joaquín said, his voice a little quieter. “Methamphetamine.”
You vaguely remember him mentioning he was sober.
“…Jesus.”
“And,” He continued, hesitating only slightly, “he was wearing a chicken costume when he got arrested. Like, full mascot getup. Worked at Alfredo’s Bail Bonds. I don’t even know what that is.”
You frowned. The ache in your chest curled tighter as if the image on the screen weighed something you couldn’t name. Bob didn’t look dangerous in that photo. He didn’t look angry or unhinged.
He looked lost. Like he’d already been falling long before anyone ever thought to arrest him.
“It’s not funny, Joaquín.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” Joaquín glanced at you. And even though the grin tugged at his lips, he raised one hand in surrender. But the humour was still there. You know he didn’t mean anything by it, not really. You could tell he was just trying to lift the mood. “But like… come on. A chicken costume? It’s objectively a little funny.”
You scoffed, reached across the table and closed his laptop with two fingers, giving him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”
“Shut up,” Joaquín said, flashing you that stupid grin again as he tugged the laptop back toward him. “You love me.”
The warm morning sun was finally starting to cast a glow through the window and onto your half-eaten plate of waffles.
Joaquín opened his laptop again and tapped a few keys, lips pressed together now. “I still don’t get what he was doing in that tower last night.”
“He knows Valentina to some extent. We know that much,” you murmured, watching him out of the corner of your eye. He nodded, gaze fixed on the screen, but your voice dropped with the weight of what you were about to say next.
“…He called Bucky family.”
That made him pause. He turned toward you fully, his brows lifted. “Family?”
“Yeah,” you said, quietly. “Like Walker. Starr. Belova. He said they saved him.”
You watched Joaquín’s expression shift, his usual spirit tempered by something more focused, sharper around the edges. He leaned forward a little, propping his elbow on the booth table again as if the change in posture could help him wrap his head around it.
“Saved him from what?” he asked. “When?”
You shook your head. “I don’t know.”
He frowned. “You didn’t ask?”
“I didn’t really get the chance,” you said, your voice catching for half a second. Then you exhaled. “Or—I don’t know. I just freaked out.”
“You freaked out? You?”
You gave a dry, humourless laugh, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your napkin. “You haven’t met him. He just… he threw me off.”
Your voice was quieter now, almost drowned out by the soft rumble of a waitress rolling a cart past your booth.
“I was already on edge after everything Valentina said. Then he shows up, out of nowhere... and he acts... he was really sweet, actually. And I know it’s stupid but I let my gaurd down. Then he said Bucky’s his family, and I—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? ‘Cool, same’? I don’t even know if Bucky considers us family.”
Joaquín rested his chin in one hand, looking thoughtful. “I mean… I probably would’ve asked him more questions. Try to figure out who he is before jumping to conclusions.”
You shot him a look.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, hands up in defence. “The idea of them saving him could be legit. Like—it could go back to what happened in New York a few months ago. The whole Darkness or Void incident. That was a mess. Maybe he got caught in all that and they pulled him out or something.”
“Maybe,” you said, still not convinced. “Lot’s of people got caught up in that. What makes him so special?”
Joaquín exhaled through his nose. “Could’ve been one of those publicity saves. You know how they’ve been staging those lately.”
Your lips pressed into a thin line. You hated the thought of that being true. That Bob was just another pawn in Valentina’s carefully calculated optics campaign. But there was something else in your gut. That didn’t feel like the whole truth. Bob had looked at you like he knew something. Like he’d seen something you hadn’t yet.
You rubbed at your eyes. “Are there any records of that?”
“No,” Joaquín said, tapping his finger against the side of his laptop. “Not really.”
You sank back into the booth, staring at the streaks of syrup on your plate.
“It doesn’t matter now,” you said after a long breath. “We’ll probably never see him again. Or Bucky, for that matter.”
Joaquín shook his head, his expression tightening. “Don’t say that. He’ll come back.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah,” he said without missing a beat. “He can’t stay away from Sam for too long. Those two go into, like, withdrawals if they spend enough time apart. Sam starts getting all twitchy. It’s weird.”
You let out a soft laugh, “Yeah, right.”
Joaquín grinned, kicking you from under the table. “Hey. Fun fact. Bob’s from Florida.”
You raised a brow, skeptical. “What, you think he’s from Miami too?”
“Sarasota Springs.” He said, “Makes sense, I guess… with his criminal record, it kinda tracks. Rich, by the coast, drugged-up suburbia. Perfect place to arrest a meth-head chicken.”
You shot him another glare. “That’s not funny, Joaquín.”
“I’m sorry!” he shrieked when your foot connected with his shin under the table.
He was not sorry—his laugh betrayed him. He kicked you back with zero remorse. The table wobbled with the weight of your childish back-and-forth, your drink nearly toppling as Joaquín banged his knee into the edge, cursing. You stopped before either of you caused a spill.
But then, he froze.
Not the usual kind of still, either. He stopped laughing mid-breath, spine straightening with a jolt, and his eyes cut toward the window in a way that immediately froze your blood. The humour drained off him like a tide pulling back to sea.
Your own posture tightened. “What?” you whispered.
He didn’t answer; he just grabbed his sunglasses and slapped them on, even though you were indoors. That alone told you how bad it was.
“Get down,” he muttered, reaching across the table and sliding the newspaper to you. “Look casual.”
You snatched it without a word, unfolding the pages like you cared about the stock market. Your heart beat too loudly in your ears, and your eyes scanned the ink without registering a single word. Still, you followed his lead, the two of you falling into sync like clockwork.
You tried to guess what had set him off. Your brain jumped straight to Sam, storming through the front entrance, arms crossed like a disappointed dad at parent-teacher night. But no. He was still in Washington, right?
You glanced over the paper’s edge. “What is it?” you hissed.
Joaquín didn’t move much—just lowered his voice to a whisper through clenched teeth. “It’s Walker.”
You blinked, lips parting in disbelief. “What?”
“Shhh. Shut the fuck up.”
You straightened up ever so slightly, trying to look calm, normal, bored, but you angled your head toward the door.
“Where?” you whispered, barely moving your lips.
“By the entrance,” Joaquín murmured, adjusting his cap lower. “With the ghost girl.”
You squinted subtly. “Ghost gi—?”
Ava Starr. You caught sight of her instantly, despite Joaquín not needing to say her name. She stood like someone perpetually mid-departure, her hair pulled back and jaw set tight as she waited at the counter. Her arms were folded, and she was already halfway through her order. Beside her, unmistakable in his broad, self-assured posture, stood John Walker. He wore a sun-bleached military jacket and—God help you—that stupid beret. His eyes weren’t scanning the room yet, just the menu above the barista, but that could change at any moment.
You ducked back behind your newspaper like it might physically protect you. “We should just… lay low until they leave,” you said under your breath, acting like it was all casual. “The last thing we need is getting caught with them. Especially now. If anyone sees us here with them, it’s gonna look real convenient.”
“Okay,” Joaquín murmured, fingers tightening around his coffee cup. “But I’m telling you, if Walker starts walking this way, I’m crawling under this booth.”
You almost laughed, but it didn’t quite make it out. Instead, you focused your gaze on your plate, trying to pretend your nerves weren’t crawling all over your skin.
The seconds ticked by with unbearable slowness. Joaquín took a sip of his drink, eyes still hidden behind his glasses and the screen of his computer. For one full, glorious moment, it seemed like maybe—maybe—they’d leave without seeing you.
“Hey, guys,” came a voice behind you. Too familiar. Too smug.
Your stomach dropped.
“Funny seeing you here in New York.”
Your spine stiffened like a board. Across from you, Joaquín let out what had to be the quietest groan of his life, a barely audible sigh that still managed to scream you’ve got to be kidding me.
You didn’t look right away. You already knew who it was. But slowly, cautiously, you turned in your seat, past the half-finished plate of fruits and the folded newspaper still clutched in your hand, to find John Walker standing at the edge of your table.
Hands on his hips, back straight like a soldier reporting for duty. That signature smugness twisted his mouth into a grin that looked about ninety percent forced and ten percent calculated. A politician’s smile, one he’d probably been coached on.
Ava Starr stood just behind him, half-shielded by the oversized sweater and black trench coat she was wearing, and her baseball cap pulled low like you were. She sipped from a takeout cup like none of this had anything to do with her. Still, her eyes flicked over the two of you, sharp and curious. There was intrigue there, and something else. Something like suspicion.
“Walker,” Joaquín said, dragging his sunglasses off and trying on a smile that was just a little too wide to be natural. He leaned back against the booth like he wasn’t one second away from bolting. “Long time no see, man. When—when was the last time we saw each other?”
Walker didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know, Torres.” He tilted his head, pretending to think about it with mock sincerity. “I think it was about two, three years ago? When you pled against me in court.”
Joaquín blinked, just once, then let out a breathy, “Right, right.” A stiff nod followed, and you caught the colour blooming in his cheeks before he turned back to Walker, trying to recover. “Wow. Time flies. How’s Olivia?”
Walker’s jaw flexed, the grin faltering just slightly. “She’s fine,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Happy wife, happy life, am I right?”
“Ex-wife, actually,” Ava said casually, her voice cool and clipped—and British, you noted, catching you a bit off guard. It was the first time you’d heard her speak. “She took the kid and left him.”
A sip. Deadpan. Not even a blink.
Joaquín flinched like she’d hit him. “Oh—uh. Sorry.”
Walker sighed, running a hand down his face, but he didn’t look particularly angry at her for saying it. If anything, he just looked annoyed, maybe even tired. Like someone who didn’t have the energy to defend himself anymore.
You cleared your throat, eyes narrowing just enough. “Who’s your friend?” You asked it knowing full well who she was. You had files on every single New Avenger. The question was less about gaining information and more about playing the game. Buying yourself time. Pretending this conversation was normal when every instinct in your body said otherwise.
“This is Ava,” Walker said, gesturing toward her with a lazy flick of his wrist.
Ava offered a faint smile, small, and polite, but with an unmistakable edge of sarcasm. It was a smile that said she knew exactly how uncomfortable you were, and she probably felt the same way.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi.” You nodded once, tight-lipped.
Joaquín, ever the icebreaker, leaned forward in what was possibly the worst possible moment. “I gotta say—your powers are so cool. Like, if I could have powers, I’d want something like yours.”
You didn’t even have time to stop him.
Ava blinked, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Thanks. The cells inside my body are tearing themselves apart every second. Chronic pain. Constantly.”
He deflated like a balloon with a hole in it, sinking back into the booth. “Oh.”
“Sorry about him,” you said, giving Ava a small shrug. “He never knows when to speak or what to say.”
Ava gave a short, amused nod. “It’s alright. I’m better now, anyway. My cells only tear apart on my command.”
“That’s nice.” You tried not to show it, but the offhandedness of that statement—how someone could say something so gruesome with such ease—did something to your stomach.
Then Walker turned back to you.
“See, I thought I saw you last night,” he said, voice casual in the most deliberately uncasual way. He scratched at his beard.
Your jaw tightened.
Of course he saw you last night. You saw him too. He knew it. You knew it. And the fact that he was pretending like this was just now dawning on him made your teeth itch. Especially since your photos from that gala were currently trending on half the internet. The press had already decided what it meant. You didn’t need Walker playing coy.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling sweetly. “I saw you too. Then you turned and walked the other way before I could say hi.”
Ava snorted into her drink, reaching over to smack Walker’s arm. “You ran off?”
“No—” Walker started, but you cut him off with a tilt of your head and a raised brow.
“You did.”
“I didn’t run off,” he said, defensive now. “I just had business to attend to.”
You didn’t bother replying. He was still talking, but his words blurred into the background as your phone buzzed once again on the table beside you. Sam. Probably asking when you'd be ready to talk or when you were coming home.
You caught Joaquín glancing at the screen, and a silent understanding passed between you both. Time to wrap this up.
You turned back to Walker with a pleasant enough smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Did you need something, Walker? I mean, it’s great to see you—” (lie) “—but we were just trying to have some breakfast before we went home.”
“Home? You’re leaving so soon?”
“We’ve got things to do. It’s a long drive back.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “We can fly you back to Washington. No problem. You’d be home before sunset.”
You blinked once. “No thanks.”
Walker chuckled, a low, dry sound that barely passed for humour. “You should come by the tower anyway. We’ll show you around. It’ll be fun.”
You couldn’t think of anything that had to do with John Walker being described as ‘fun’.
Also, he wasn’t exactly subtle with the way he asked the two of you to go to the tower with them. You didn’t know what was up there waiting for you, and you didn’t want to find out. You just wanted to go home.
“Really,” you said, the word coming out like dead weight. “We’re good. We’ll just get the bill and go.”
Right on cue, the waitress showed up, sliding the receipt onto the table with a bright smile that faltered the second she noticed Walker and Ava still hovering beside your booth. She glanced between all four of you, sensing something off, the way people do when they walk into a conversation that’s gone a degree too cold. Without a word, she walked off, her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum.
The table went still for a beat. Then Ava finally spoke.
“We know you talked to Bob last night.”
That shut you up. Just like that, your posture went a little rigid, shoulders tensing into steel as the name settled like a stone in your gut. It landed like a trigger pull. You tried not to be too obvious but you were failing.
Joaquín was worse, he froze mid-bite, his fork hovering just an inch from his lips before he slowly set it down. His eyes darted to you, then back to Ava.
Ava shifted slightly, her voice calmer now, but precise. “We also know you asked about Barnes.”
That got you. You didn’t respond; you didn’t need to. The fact you were suddenly locked in, gaze narrowed, said enough. She had your attention. And she knew it.
Ava scanned the café. Her eyes didn’t linger too long on anything, but you recognized the sweep, measured, tactical. The way a person looks when they’ve been taught to watch for threats before they come through the door.
“We’re not with Val,” she said. “Not in the way you think. Just… give us a chance to talk. Somewhere private.”
You nearly laughed. Or maybe you wanted to. Or maybe you wanted to scream. Somewhere private? As if that didn’t set off every alarm in your body.
You didn’t know Ava Starr beyond what you and Joaquín had pulled from the files: taken by S.H.E.I.L.D. as a child, quantum instability, a near-lethal skill set. You didn’t know John Walker beyond the courtroom footage, the headlines, and everything you watched from the sidelines, a man who still believed he deserved redemption without ever earning it. You also knew he had taken a dangerous dose of the super soldier serum, making him violent and twitchy.
But you definitely didn’t know them well enough to follow them into a quiet place with no exits or no witnesses.
And you definitely did not want to be caught walking around New York City with them. The last thing you needed was another headline featuring your face beside the likes of John Walker. And Joaquín? You weren’t about to drag him deeper into a mess that wasn’t his.
But before you could say any of that, before you could even start lining up all the reasons this was a terrible idea, you heard: “Okay, sure.”
Your head snapped around. “Quín?”
Joaquín had turned his hat backward, that familiar nervous tell masked behind the casual flip. He was already sliding his laptop into his bag, fingers moving with a kind of focused ease that suggested he’d been waiting for this the whole time. Like part of him had been waiting for someone to finally offer an answer, any answer, and now that it was on the table, he couldn’t bring himself to hesitate.
“What?” he asked.
“You can’t just—”
“What?” he said again with a little more attitude, zipping the bag closed. “You’re always saying how much you hate being in the dark. They’re offering answers.”
“They could be lying,” you shot back, sharper than you meant. “This could be a trap, or another setup.”
You said it like they weren’t standing right there, and you didn’t care if they heard. They could take the hint or choke on it.
He shrugged, cool, easy, frustratingly calm. “Then we’ll find out.”
You stared at him, your chest tight all over again. He meant that. You could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way he shouldered his bag like it didn’t weigh a damn thing. That unbearable sincerity, that same stubborn belief in people that made you trust him, was now steering him straight into a situation you didn’t trust at all.
You wanted to snap. Wanted to grab his arm, drag him out of the café and into daylight, anywhere but here. A bitter remark rose in your throat, hot and ready to be thrown—about the last time he leapt before looking, the last time he decided to be a hero and ended up flatlined for two full minutes on a hospital table, blood-soaked and broken and somehow still apologizing for it afterward.
But the words caught in your chest.
You didn’t say it. You didn’t even whisper it.
You just looked at him. Tried to say it with your eyes, with the hard, silent glare you shot across the table—don’t do this.
He didn’t meet your gaze.
Instead, you turned, eyes locking onto Walker and Ava, your voice low and sharp. “How’d you find us?”
Walker raised both hands, a placating gesture you didn’t buy for a second. “We didn’t follow you or anything. Personally, I couldn’t care less about what you two are up to.”
You bristled at the you two, and you hated how they started to drag Joaquín into it.
“But,” Walker went on, “Yelena’s been tracking you since the gala.”
Your blood ran cold. “What?”
He said it casually like it was nothing.
You blinked, stomach lurching. There’d been no tag, no weight in your coat, no itch along your back where something might’ve been placed. You’d showered. Slept. Walked half the city this morning without even realizing it. And that was the point, wasn’t it? You never saw her. Never felt it. Never even noticed.
Because Yelena Belova didn’t need a tracker when she was one of the best Red Room assassins. You only couldn’t understand why she hadn’t killed you when she had the chance.
Unease coiled at the base of your spine. You felt exposed. Like someone had peeled back your skin and left it raw in the open air.
“Please,” Ava said again. Her voice was quiet, almost too calm, but there was something underneath it, something tense and taut like she hated begging for trust. “Just hear us out.”
Your stomach continued twisting, hard. Every instinct screamed don’t go. Don’t let them get you alone. Don’t let Joaquín near whatever this is. But you could already feel the decision slipping away from you.
The elevator couldn't have been any fucking slower.
You swore you could hear the grind of the gears behind the panelling, dragging each second out like a countdown to something awful. The small screen above the door blinked from floors 37 to 38 to 39 with glacial slowness.
You thought this building had state-of-the-art technology remodelled. Why the fuck was their elevator so damn slow?
Your chest was caving in on itself, a familiar panic clawing up your throat and settling behind your ribs like a second heartbeat. Every inch of this place felt too polished. You hadn’t forgotten how sharp the Watchtower felt—like walking into a wolf’s mouth made of steel and luxury.
Your brain spiralled—clawing through every possible worst-case scenario like it was trying to prepare you for all of them at once. You hadn’t even gotten to the part where Valentina might be standing on the other side of the doors. You could already see it: that smug, all-knowing smile she wore like lipstick, arms crossed, voice dripping with venomous delight. She’d say something like “Took you long enough,” and you’d want to punch her in the teeth, even as you walked willingly into the trap.
Matt would kill you.
Your lawyer had explicitly warned you to stay away from anything remotely connected to Valentina. Wait it out. Stay clean until the dust settles. This was the very opposite of that.
You rubbed a thumb across your phone screen, opening and closing your texts with Sam. The messages were still left unanswered. You had typed seven different versions of a reply: “I’m okay”, “Just give me a second”, “Long story, I’ll explain later” and deleted them all.
You couldn’t leave him in the dark. You didn’t want to be like Bucky. But how the fuck were you supposed to explain this?
‘Call you soon, busy talking to John fucking Walker’?
Joaquín shifted beside you, close enough that you could feel the low heat radiating off his arm. He wasn’t saying anything, but his tension mirrored yours—jaw clenched, eyes locked on the doors, hands flexing at his side. You could see it in the way his fingers curled and uncurled at his thigh like he was ready to move, run, or punch someone if needed.
If you were to die, at least you could blame it on him.
Behind you, Walker and Ava stood just a little too casually; coffee cups in hand, speaking in quiet tones you couldn’t catch. Not that you tried. Every nerve in your body was too loud already, the soft hum of the elevator music a scream in your ears.
They were calm. You weren’t. That alone was reason enough to worry.
You glanced at the elevator buttons. No emergency stop. No backup plan. You weren’t sure what you’d even do if you had to fight. You couldn’t land a hit on Ava unless she let you. She could phase her entire body into atoms and probably rip your spine out if she wanted to. Walker? He definitely had a gun. And he was superhuman. You’d go down in minutes. Joaquín too.
No. Fighting was not an option.
But running? That window was already gone. You’d known that the moment they cornered you at the diner. There hadn’t really been a choice. They would’ve followed you all the way back to D.C. if they had to.
So here you were. In a box of steel, crawling toward confrontation, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The air was too still. Too thick. Your reflection in the brushed metal doors looked sick. Unsteady. Tired.
Joaquín glanced at you from the side, like he could sense what was happening in your head without you saying a word. His hand hovered near yours, not touching, but there. Just in case.
You should’ve just gone home. Should’ve skipped breakfast, told Joaquín to let it go, and gotten on the first flight out of New York before any of this spiralled.
Your spine ached from tension as you shifted in place, uncomfortably aware that you were still wearing the same clothes you’d gone running in earlier that morning—damp with city sweat and stale adrenaline, clinging wrong to your skin. No time to change, no time to breathe. They hadn’t given you the chance.
The elevator slowed. You felt it before you saw it—an unnatural stillness as it glided to a halt on a floor you didn’t recognize. One that hadn’t been accessible during the party last night.
Your pulse ramped into overdrive. You braced yourself, watching the doors split open with agonizing slowness, and for a split second, you were sure something was about to go horribly wrong.
Because something was there.
A long, black cylinder slipped between the doors just before they finished opening. You didn’t wait. Instinct took over—you lunged back, grabbing Joaquín and yanking him behind you as your heart rocketed into your throat.
“What the hell—?” Ava started to say, already stepping forward, but you weren’t listening.
You were listening for an explosion.
And it came.
A loud pop! cracked through the elevator like a gunshot, sharp and close. Joaquín jumped, slamming into your shoulder, and your breath caught, chest tightening as you threw your arms up. You were ready for anything—smoke, gas, flashbang, worse.
The four of you stood frozen, fists clenched, muscles coiled, every instinct screaming fight.
Then… something fluttered.
Light. Soft. A delicate brush against your cheek.
You opened your eyes slowly, blinked once, twice, and saw colour drifting down around you. Red. Gold. Silver.
Confetti.
Tiny scraps of shimmering paper were falling in slow spirals over your head, clinging to your sleeves, catching in Joaquín’s curls. You glanced down and realized you were still gripping the front of his shirt like a lifeline, your knuckles tight in the fabric. He looked just as stunned as you did, eyes wide, jaw slack.
Behind you, Walker groaned loudly, swearing under his breath. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
You finally looked up. And there, standing just outside the elevator, was Alexei Shostakov grinning like a child with a confetti cannon in his hand.
“Surprise!” he boomed, shouting your name, his voice echoing off the high ceilings.
You blinked at him in disbelief. Your body hadn’t quite caught the memo that you weren’t about to be murdered (which could still happen), it was still locked in a battle stance, heart trying to punch its way out of your ribs.
Sunlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows lining the lounge beyond, bouncing off the glossy, marbled floors and catching in the confetti still drifting down like ashes from a very sparkly apocalypse. The room stretched wide and open—modern, luxurious.
Alexei took a triumphant step forward, tossing the cannon aside with a clatter and reaching for your hand like he hadn’t just given you a heart attack.
You didn’t take it, your fingers were still trembling, but he didn’t seem to notice as he tugged you into the room. He waved his arm grandly toward the entryway, where a crooked banner hung overhead: WELCOME TO THE AVENGERS! The lettering was large and smudged, still drying in places, and the fabric sagged slightly in the middle.
Paint-streaked fingerprints decorated the edges, and sure enough, Alexei’s hands were splotched in red and blue. He must’ve made it himself. That realization made your head spin harder than the confetti had.
Your mouth parted, trying to find words, but before anything could come out, Walker stormed forward and beat you to it.
“What the fuck is all this?”
Alexei dropped his hand, puffing out his chest with dramatic offence. “It is party!” he declared, gesturing at you with a broad, proud smile. “For our new member! Did you not read the news?”
He turned to you again and slapped a heavy hand against your back, nearly knocking the air from your lungs. “Congratulations, my friend. We are very happy to have you on our awesome team.”
“No. No, no, no,” Walker muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was already exhausted. He stomped up beside Alexei and grabbed his arm, pulling him gently, but insistently, away from you. “No party.”
“What do you mean no party?” Alexei protested, wide-eyed. “This calls for… what is word? Celebration! She has joined the Avengers!”
“No. We do not need to celebrate, there’s nothing to celebrate.” Walker hissed, his voice strained as he pointed back at you. “This isn’t—she’s not joining the team.”
Alexei looked at you, expression falling. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“Oh,” he said.
Walker guided him off toward the far end of the lounge—a massive open-concept kitchen with gleaming appliances and a dining area you were certain had hosted at least one illegal meeting in the past month.
“Sorry about him,” Ava said, stepping beside you now. Her tone was breezy but fond like she was used to this. “I’d say he’s not usually like that, but I’d be lying.”
She reached over and gently plucked a curl of confetti from Joaquín’s hair. He blushed, mumbling something under his breath that made her grin wider when he tugged his cap back on again.
“I’m gonna go find Yelena,” she added, stepping away. “She’s around here somewhere. Make yourselves at home.”
“Wait—” Joaquín called after her, taking a cautious half-step forward. “Valentina’s not… here, right?”
Ava laughed without turning back. “God, no. She’s probably halfway across the country by now. Besides, she can’t hurt you if you’re with us.”
You weren’t sure if that was comforting or worse. You tried to make sense of what that even meant as she disappeared up a set of spiralling steel stairs toward the upper floor.
The silence that followed made you acutely aware of your surroundings for the first time. This wasn’t just another floor in the tower. This was where they lived.
The room you stood in opened into what looked like a shared lounge and rec space. Through the transparent panels of frosted glass, you could see a massive sunken living room just ahead—an enormous circular couch built into the floor like a pit, all pointed toward a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall.
Through the windows, the whole upper side of Manhattan was seen and Central Park stretched out in the distance, green and gold beneath the morning sun.
The marble floors gleamed beneath your shoes. A massive, shaggy rug near the couch looked warm and strangely lived-in. The entire space looked lived-in now that you got a better look at it, cluttered with mismatched mugs, throwing knives, forgotten jackets, guns, socks and someone’s boot kicked off to the side. It was the kind of mess that told you, yes—this was where they really stayed. A home, despite how cold and glossy it looked at first.
“Bet you’ve never been greeted into a home like that,” Joaquín said quietly, almost hopeful.
You turned on him so fast he barely had time to register it before your hand smacked the back of his head, knocking his hat off.
“Joaquín. What the fuck are you thinking?!” you hissed, voice low and sharp, even though you were sure no one was listening. “We shouldn’t be here. We can’t trust these people.”
He rubbed the spot you hit, wincing and bending down to pick up his cap from the floor. “I know. Okay? I know. I’m sorry. I just—I really think we should hear them out.”
“Hear them out?” You blinked at him, disbelief carving out your words like broken glass. “What?”
He stepped closer, voice dropping lower, more urgent. “Listen,” he said, eyes flicking around like he was afraid someone might actually be listening. “I don’t think John Walker would willingly try to talk to us if it didn’t mean something. Think about it—that guy fucking hates us. And Bucky doesn’t mess around. If he’s even entertaining working with Walker, it’s gotta be for a reason.”
You stared at him like he’d just lost his mind.
“Are you hearing yourself right now?” you snapped. “No, seriously, are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth? Did you not understand anything that happened last night? Bucky’s—he’s not doing this—Valentina said—we already know—he’s being blackmailed—” You struggled to find the words because you really weren’t sure if he even was. “This?” you waved your arms around frantically, “this is literally the one thing Matt told us not to do. He told us to stay clear of anything even remotely tied to Valentina and this fucking tower—”
“Okay, okay—”
“—And now we’re here. Willingly. Jesus Christ, Joaquín. We are putting ourselves in a worse situation by the minute. We need to leave. Now.”
Your fingers closed around his arm as you spun toward the elevator, dragging him with you before anyone could return. The urgency prickled along your spine like static.
Joaquín tried to pull free. “Wait—just wait a second—”
But then your phone started ringing. The sharp, sudden sound sliced through the moment. You flinched, instinctively reaching for it.
You didn’t need to check the screen to know. You already knew. Still, when you looked, your chest clenched anyway.
It was Sam.
His contact photo filled the display—an old picture from last summer’s cookout, blurry and sun-drenched. He had an arm around your shoulders, the both of you mid-laugh, framed by folding chairs, paper plates, and the golden glow of fireworks behind you. Bucky had taken the picture, you could see his thumb in the corner. You could also see Joaquín cut off on the side, the photo taken seconds before he tried to bomb it.
“Shit,” you muttered under your breath.
“You gotta answer that,” Joaquín said.
“I’ll answer it later.”
“I think you should answer it now.”
You turned your glare on him so fast that he almost took a step back. “I could kill you.”
He raised both hands in surrender. “I’m just saying.”
You flipped him off as you turned away, stalking into the nearest hallway. You didn’t want to go far, you didn’t trust this place enough for that, but you needed space. Air. Somewhere quieter to breathe.
The hallway stretched narrower than expected, cooler too. The light dimmed as you moved in, shadows creeping in like something alive. The apartment’s polished glamour fell away here, replaced with something colder. Raw concrete walls. Steel framing.
You slowed when you noticed what was displayed along the wall.
Glass cases lined the corridor like a gallery—each one holding weapons. Blades, a shield, and a blackened skull mask with a hollow stare. Scorch marks bloomed along the gear like they’d been found in a fire. The plaque caught your eye:
Antonia Dreykov.
You didn’t know who Antonia Dreykov was. But you knew how people treated the dead when they didn’t know how to let go. This seemed something like it.
Your hand drifted to the case before you could stop yourself. One of the smaller knives had been left slightly off-centre, the glass not fully locked. You slipped it free, weighing it in your palm. The metal was cold but familiar. Comforting in a way that made you hate yourself.
You tucked it into your pocket, then took another. Not because you planned on using them. Just... in case. You couldn’t afford to be the only unarmed person in the apartment.
You kept your back to the wall, thumb hovering over the green Accept Call button on Sam’s contact. You weren’t ready. Not for the sound of his voice. Not for the questions. Not for the disappointment he wouldn’t bother hiding.
Because no matter how reckless Joaquín had been to get you here—you still came.
You bit the bullet and answered, bringing the phone to your ear with a shaky breath. “Hey.”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me.”
His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. Not anger, but the obvious disappointment you expected. Concern, tight and braced behind his words like he was afraid of what you’d say next.
“Sam…”
“Do you wanna talk or should I?” he cut in firmly. “Because I need a very good explanation as to why your face is all over the damn news.”
You exhaled, slow and uneven, pressing the heel of your palm to your forehead.
You knew he wasn’t trying to berate you. Sam wasn’t like that. His voice didn’t carry malice, not even now, when he had every right to be furious. You knew it looked like you’d gone behind his back the same way Bucky had. And while your intentions had been good, that didn’t matter, not when Valentina had twisted it, splashing your name across every headline like you were some kind of defector.
“I’ll talk,” you said quickly. “I’ll talk. Just… let me talk, okay?”
A dozen excuses lined up behind your teeth. Every one of them was flimsy and easy to knock over. But lying to Sam? You couldn’t stomach it. Not after everything. Not after he’d trusted you.
“I fucked up,” you whispered. The admission stung worse than you expected. “I thought… maybe I could talk to Bucky.”
There was silence on the other end. A pause, heavy with surprise. “Talk to Bucky?” Sam echoed, more cautious than confused now.
“Yeah.” You rubbed at your face, suddenly cold despite the weight of your spring jacket. “I got invited to their black tie event. Congressman Gary sent the invite, and I was going to say no—I swear—but then I thought, maybe… maybe Bucky would be there. And if he was, maybe I could corner him. Ask him what the hell he was thinking. Why he left. Why would he join them after what Ross offered you? And he knew. Bucky knew and I just couldn’t understand why he would... leave.”
You leaned back against the cool wall of the hallway, careful to keep your voice steady. Just far enough from Joaquín’s line of sight. Just close enough to watch him, still poking curiously at things he definitely shouldn’t be touching.
“I just…” You shook your head. “Things haven’t felt right, Sam. None of it makes sense. One minute Bucky’s fighting to get Valentina impeached, the next he’s... working under her? The fuck? He shuts you out and I thought maybe... I could find out why. Maybe I could fix it.”
On the other end of the line, you heard him sigh. He murmured your name, and it made your chest ache.
“You were right, by the way. Valentina’s a total snake,” you said quietly, trying to fill the silence because it made you feel more uneasy. “I came in looking for Bucky and walked out with half the press calling me her newest toy.”
“She really played you, huh?”
“Like I’m her bitch on a leash.”
Sam let out a short, dry laugh that made you feel a little better. “Yeah. She does that.”
“We think she did the same thing to Bucky. Joaquín and I, I mean. Got in his head.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Sam murmured. “But listen… I don’t want you carrying my mess, alright? I’ll deal with Bucky. That’s on me.”
“I just wanted to help.”
“I know, kid. I know. And I know your heart was in the right place. But next time… just talk to me first. Please.”
There was no guilt in his voice. Just a quiet exhaustion. A gentleness that somehow made it worse.
You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Okay.”
A pause stretched across the line. Then, softer: “Are you two okay?”
Your hand tightened around the phone, glancing down the hallway like the sound of his voice might give something away. You caught sight of the display again—the glass case, the weapons, the skull-like helmet and the burnt suit. You didn’t even know who it belonged to. But you’d still taken the knives.
That probably said something about where your head was at. Obviously not good.
You cleared your throat. “Yeah. We’re okay.”
“Good,” Sam said. “When do you think you’ll be back?”
You hesitated. “Tonight, for sure.”
There was another small beat. “Alright. We’ll talk more then. Maybe we can clean up this mess of yours, yeah?”
“Okay.”
“Stay out of any more trouble.”
You broke a smile, frankly a little panicked. “We’ll try.”
The call ended with a soft click, and you stood there for a second longer, your thumb still resting against your phone as if it might ring again.
You did feel better. Not safe, but... better. Like you’d finally caught your breath after running too long on adrenaline and guilt. The tightness in your chest had lessened, the weight of what you’d said to Sam lifting enough for you to think clearly again.
You slid your phone back into your jacket pocket, already piecing together an escape route in your head. Get Joaquín. Get out of this tower. Back to the hotel and then home, away from politicians and new-age Avengers and whatever the hell this place really was.
But when you turned around, someone was already waiting for you.
Yelena Belova stood by the mouth of the hallway you’d come in from, arms at her sides, not moving. Her blonde hair was loose now, falling messily around her face, not the slicked-back style from last night. She wore a worn grey hoodie and loose pants, a silver chain glinting at her collarbone, and faint smudges of yesterday’s eyeliner still clung stubbornly beneath her eyes. Her hands were tucked deep into the kangaroo pocket of her sweater, shoulders propped casually against the wall like she’d been there a while.
“Hey,” she said, nodding once.
You froze, your entire body tensing instinctively. “Uh… hi.”
You didn’t move toward her. The space between you was the only thing keeping your pulse from skyrocketing. It wasn’t fear, not really—not the kind you’d feel around someone like Walker. It was more like wariness. The same kind you’d feel staring down a loaded gun with the safety off.
She straightened slowly like she could sense your unease. Her hands slipped from her pocket, fingers spread slightly, palms open like a silent I’m-not-here-to-fight gesture.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt or anything,” she said carefully, her voice thick with a Russian accent, stepping forward just once. “Sorry.”
You didn’t reply. Didn’t flinch either, though your muscles stayed tight. There was something different about her, something calmer than the confusion of last night. Something that made you hesitate before writing her off completely. She was a lot shorter than you expected now that you had a better look.
She pointed vaguely to herself. “I’m Yelena.”
“I know,” you said.
“Oh.” She gave a slight nod. “I know you too, then.”
“You were spying on us.” The accusation left your mouth before you could stop it, sharp as a blade. She had been, her eyes on you the moment you’d stepped out of that gala, leading Walker and Ava right to your heels. You decided to leave out the part that you and Joaquín had been spying on them too, before the gala.
Yelena winced, visibly. “They told you about that?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry,” she said again, and this time she took another step forward. You didn’t move back. She noticed. “It wasn’t personal. Everything happened so fast…” she trailed off, not bothering to lie.
You remembered the brief, icy introduction last night. The short nod. The way she kept her distance but still watched. You remembered the moment she looked at you like she already knew what mistake you made by just being there.
“And sorry about my dad,” she added, nodding toward the lounge. Confetti still clung to the floor. “I tried to tell him. But he’s, you know… dense.”
You stared at her for a second, “It’s fine.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly, as though your words had released a little pressure she’d been holding in.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
You narrowed your eyes. “About what?”
She hesitated—just for a second. Then: “Valentina.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want your help,” she said, voice low now, the trace of her accent curling around each word. “To take her down.”
If someone had told you two hours ago that you’d willingly be sitting in the residential level of the New Avengers Tower—with John Walker of all people—you probably would’ve laughed, then punched them in the throat for saying something so profoundly stupid.
But here you were.
Your footsteps echoed on polished floors as you followed Yelena into the common space, sunlight spilling in through massive, floor-to-ceiling windows that made the entire room glow. The city stretched far below in every direction. The furniture was modern and the air smelled like lemon polish.
You didn’t sit right away. You stood behind the couch with your arms crossed as Yelena handed Joaquín a small USB stick like it was a grenade. You were halfway through convincing yourself to walk out when he plugged it in. And then… you stayed. Not because you trusted them. Not because they’d earned anything. But because if what they were saying about Valentina was true, if this was the crack in her foundation, you needed to see it for yourself.
So now you were seated stiffly on a sprawling U-shaped couch, the leather cool against your legs. Joaquín sat beside you, his knee brushing yours every now and then as the two of you leaned in toward his laptop screen, silent. He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowing at every pixelated image, every fragmented document. Your jaw ached from clenching it too long.
“Holy shit,” Joaquín muttered under his breath. “How did you get this?”
“Mel left her laptop open and I snooped,” Yelena said casually, shrugging.
There wasn’t much—a few blacked-out files with top-secret headers, jagged audio clips spliced together, blurry footage from surveillance drones and security cams—but it was enough. Enough to start mapping connections between government disappearances and political scandals, between untraceable funding and medical supply routes that didn’t quite add up. The FBI had been speculating De Fontaine’s place in the CIA for years.
“This confirms it,” Joaquín said quietly, glancing back at the others. “Valentina’s the chairwoman behind the O.X.E. Everything Bucky said… about human experimentation, black-site trials, illegal trafficking, missing personnel…”
Yelena stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her posture was tense and Ava sat on the armrest beside her, fingers curled tightly into her knee, expression locked somewhere between guilt and resolve. Walker hovered by the window, pretending to be disinterested as he squished a stress ball, probably taken from a therapy office.
At least you hoped he was going to therapy. You hoped all of them were, actually. They peculiar group with a lot of... problems. You did not have to be a genius to know that.
The tension between them all was heavy, but not disorderly. Rehearsed, maybe. Like they’d already had this conversation among themselves a hundred times, and now they were looping you in it.
“Great,” Yelena said, straight to the point. “So you’ll give it to Sam Wilson? Say a friend slipped it to you?”
You and Joaquín exchanged a look. Just one. That was all it took. If you handed this over, if you made it official, if Sam went public, it would burn everything down, this false sense of security Valentina had built to the press, this twisted team parading as heroes. This was it. The key. The proof.
And even though part of you wanted to spit in every face in this room and walk away, you also wanted Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to fall. To rot for what she’d done and gotten away with.
“Sure,” you said slowly, “we could.”
“But,” Joaquín added, eyes narrowing, “if we turn this in, you’re all going down with her.”
Walker straightened from where he was loitering, his arms dropping to his sides. “How’s that?”
You glanced at him, your patience thinning. You figured he would understand the most since he was in the Army, a decorated officer at that. But then again, all he ever knew how to do was take orders from someone else, no questions asked.
“Because you didn’t just work under Valentina. You were her operatives. Whether you realized it or not, you were complicit. You consented to all of this. You willingly helped execute illegal missions. You helped bury all traces of O.X.E.. Mind you, an illegal corporatization.”
Walk huffed bitterly, “Thought I was doing the right thing.”
“By stealing? Hiding evidence? Killing people?”
Ava shifted uncomfortably, and Walker’s stress ball nearly popped.
“We were her clean-up crew,” Yelena said finally.
“Right,” you replied, the corner of your mouth lifting bitterly. “Clean-up crew. Wiping traces. Silencing threats. Tying off loose ends. If someone tried to go public with O.X.E., whistleblow, or even just poked their head into the wrong corridor—what then?”
Ava spoke up, quiet and dry. “We were sent in.”
“Exactly,” Joaquín said. “What you’re describing? That’s illegal black ops. Domestic and international interference. Unregistered kill orders. You were running operations that not even the Pentagon would dare put in writing.”
Walker frowned. “Okay, but—”
“You don’t understand,” you cut in, voice tightening. “You show up in these files, in this footage. As long as you're in it, you’re leverage.”
Joaquín leaned back slightly, arms crossed now. “We could have you arrested right now. Everything you just gave us is enough for a military tribunal. Long-term sentences. Treason, obstruction, conspiracy. Pick your flavour.”
Yelena didn’t flinch. “But you won’t.”
You couldn’t help but frown at such confidence. “Is that a threat?”
She let out a snort. “No. You would know if I was making a threat. I’m very clear. You also won’t arrest us.”
“You sure about that?”
She nodded once. “I’m willing to be. Because if you’re sitting here, reading this, it means you care about stopping Valentina... maybe helping new friends along the way. Because that is what you do. You help people, yes?”
You rolled your eyes, you could hardly consider them your friends.
“That’s what we’re trying to tell you, even if we help there isn’t much we can do to keep you out of trouble,” Joaquín said, “You think you’ve been using De Fontaine? This evidence goes both ways—and if she falls, she’s not going alone.”
“She probably knew you'd kill her if you could.” You said, “That’s why she gave you everything. The tower. The team. The illusion of purpose. Something that felt clean and heroic. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Across from you, the shift was subtle but telling.
For the first time since you stepped into the room, these guys looked… uncertain.
Ava glanced down, studying the tile beneath her boots like it might give her a way out. Walker crossed his arms and chewed at the inside of his cheek, jaw working, but saying nothing. Even Yelena, unmoving as a statue, had a muscle twitching along her jawline.
Silence settled in—tense and humming, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Then Walker broke it.
“If that’s the case,” he muttered, tone flat, “you might as well arrest Bucky too. Y’know—for his Winter Soldier days.”
You didn’t like that. Not just the deflection, but the name. It struck a nerve.
You hated that Walker brought Bucky into it now. Hated even more that the drive you’d been digging through for the last hour or so had nothing about him. No trail. Nothing to explain why he’d joined the team. No answer for why he was there the day everything went to hell—why he was helping them when the sky turned black and New York vanished into chaos for twenty agonizing minutes.
No one had explained a thing. No one had tried.
Joaquín’s mouth twitched. “Bucky was pardoned. Publicly.”
“So was I.”
“Yeah,” you said, “For killing a man in a public square three years ago. But we’re not talking about that. We’re talking about everything you’ve done since then. The black ops. The cover-ups. Evidence tampering. Political interference. Murder. Do you think a pardon protects you from three years of new crimes? Of acts of terrorism?”
Yelena scoffed, “Terrorism?”
“Did you or did you not bomb a building in Malaysia?”
“It was just one floor…” she muttered. “and Valentina owned it and the lab. Hardly an act of terror… or what you said.”
“Civilians were hurt.”
She didn’t say anything at that.
No one spoke.
Not because they didn’t have something to say, but because they weren’t sure how to say it anymore.
You could feel it now—how fragile the balance was. The way this whole thing had felt so certain when you walked in. Like the truth would be enough. Like justice could be clear-cut.
But now, it was murky.
You glanced back at the laptop, watching Joaquín continue to open new folders, skimming through them. One of the files showed grainy security footage from the vault they’d mentioned—one of Valentina’s archives. You could make out the three of them, half-lit in the shadows and red emergency lights, walking through sealed crates. Just behind them, in the back of the frame, was someone else. A body dressed in hospital scrubs.
You blinked. “Wait. What’s that?”
Ava followed your gaze, her expression unreadable. “It’s just a test dummy.”
“That looks like a man—”
“We need to focus,” Yelena interrupted, suddenly stepping forward, distracting your view of the screen. “If we waste time worrying about the wrong things, we’ll all lose.”
“You could try for a sympathy pardon,” Joaquín said eventually, eyes back on the drive.
Ava looked up, confused. “Sympathy pardon?”
You nodded. “If you turn yourselves in. Cooperate. Help take Valentina down, publicly and completely. There’s precedent for it. Limited sentencing in exchange for full debriefs. If you start working with the courts instead of hiding behind her money—”
Walker snorted. Loud and dismissive. “Turn ourselves in? For what—saving New York?”
“Congrats,” Joaquín said. “You’re heroes. You and every other vigilante in this city. The only thing that makes you different is that Valentina can market you. And you let her instead of coming clean right away.”
“You might see ten years,” you counted. “Maybe eight. Less with good behaviour. But keep hiding behind her... it’s just gonna get worse.”
Walker paced now, muttering something under his breath.
“Awesome,” he said louder. “Awesome. So this was a waste of time. Thanks a lot, Yelena. Now we’ve gotta worry about these two running off to Wilson with this. Then the press. Then all this?” he waved around the space surrounding you all, “All this is gone!”
Ava raised her voice carefully, almost hesitant, glancing at the short blonde. “What happens to… you know. If we do turn ourselves in? Where will he go?”
Yelena’s expression shifted for the first time.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, quiet now. Her hands drifted to her hips, fingertips twitching like she was resisting the urge to fold in on herself. Her head dipped low, eyes on the floor.
You weren’t sure who they meant. But it was clear from the way everyone avoided eye contact that whoever he was, he wasn’t just another asset.
Joaquín sat up straighter, eyebrows pinching. “What’s Project Sentry?”
Ava flinched. “Lena, I thought you cut that out.”
She moved fast, hand darting toward Joaquín’s laptop. He tried to pull it away, but she was faster—phasing into thin air and reappearing at his side, yanking the drive from the port and slipping it into her pocket like it hadn’t happened at all.
You never even got the chance to see what he was talking about.
You stood up, preparing for a fight. “You can’t pick and choose what gets turned in or not.”
“Are you serious right now?” Alexei’s voice boomed from the hallway as he stormed back in. He had disappeared a few minutes ago under the pretense of “getting snacks for the guests,” and now he returned with arms overflowing—half-crushed bags of potato chips, trail mix, something suspiciously resembling astronaut food.
He dumped the haul onto the coffee table and glared at Yelena.
“Lena, you said you wanted purpose. This—” He gestured around the room like it held meaning. “This is our purpose!”
But Yelena still wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“It’s built on lies, Dad.”
That made Alexei bark out a laugh, one with no humour in it—just tired frustration.
“Everything is. The whole country runs on lies. At least we did something good. We saved people. Because we’re the Avengers!”
The word Avengers didn’t sit right in your mouth anymore. It felt hollow coming from them like they’d tried to slap a fresh coat of paint over a burned-out house.
Joaquín’s tone was dry as he leaned forward again. “I mean, technically, there’s enough on the drive to bury De Fontaine for a long time without bringing you guys into it directly. But if any half-decent detective picks it apart, it’ll all start to unravel. Eventually, it’s going to lead back here.”
You saw the doubt flash behind Ava’s eyes.
“And even if Valentina is arrested,” Joaquín added, “then what? The funding still stands. The CIA owns the New Avengers. Someone else just like her will take her place. Same game, new face.”
You were just about to speak, something sharp about this group’s complete lack of accountability and morality, how their so-called heroism was held together by delusion and money when the elevator chimed.
A soft ding. Too soft to mean anything, and yet it sliced straight through the tension like a blade.
You stiffened on instinct.
Joaquín reacted just as fast, snapping his laptop shut with a harsh click that echoed louder than it should’ve. You didn’t move, couldn’t. Your breath caught in your throat as the rest of the room stilled. Not a sound. Not a single goddamn sound.
A slow, creeping dread tightened in your chest.
“Shit,” Yelena muttered under her breath, almost too quiet to catch.
And then chaos in silence: hands on your shoulders, your back, Ava’s voice in your ear, sharp and focused.
“Move. Now.”
The next second blurred. Joaquín was pulled off the couch beside you, your hands and knees hitting the expensive carpet before you fully processed what was happening. The couch loomed above you. Your back scraped along the base as you were shoved beneath it, knees pressed awkwardly into the floor, spine hunched to fit.
Your breath hitched as the space closed in, dim, and a little dusty, the underside of the furniture creaking against your weight. You could see the stretch of rug in front of you, Walker’s boots retreating as he kicked Joaquín’s bag under the coffee table. He shoved the laptop in after it with even less care.
Above you: Yelena’s fuzzy purple socks. Ava’s boots, planted like guards. Their stance wide. Ready.
The heels came first. A sharp, deliberate cadence—click-click-click—on the marble. The sound bounced through the space with the confidence of someone who had never once questioned their right to be heard.
And then the voice of the very woman you hated most at the moment. Familiar. Arrogant.
“Bob, what do you need a phone for?”
The name alone felt like a gut punch.
Bob?
Fucking Bob?
The shock didn’t register right away. It slid in sideways, a slow prickle along your spine before crashing into you all at once. You hadn’t even considered him—not since the whirlwind of last night, not in the scramble of digging through drives and false leads, not in the silent fear of what might still be buried. Bob Reynolds had slipped your mind entirely the moment Yelena showed you those files.
And now, here he was.
You twisted your head toward Joaquín, who was already looking at you. His jaw clenched tight. Eyes wide. Shoulders wound like a coiled spring. You could see the thought flash behind his stare—both of you thinking the same thing.
Holy shit.
Then you heard it. His voice confirmed that he was there, too. Low, quiet. Soft in that uncanny, almost youthful way. Still his.
“…to talk to people.” he said.
Your stomach sank. For a beat, you could only stare at the ground, your mind racing. An image flitters through your mind’s eye. A dark balcony. Warm fire light. Big suit. Dark, tussled hair. That nice smile of his.
Above you, the sharp click of stilettos came to a sudden halt at his words.
Through the sliver of space beneath the couch, you spotted the edge of Valentina’s pencil skirt. Sleek black, tailored to a blade-sharp silhouette. Her shoes were thin and spiked, gleaming slightly under the overhead lights. Beside her, a pair of soft bunny slippers, nearly swallowed by the cuffs of soft-looking, faded baby blue pyjama pants.
That was him.
Bob.
And someone else. A third pair of feet, neatly poised in polished flats. Pressed trousers. You couldn’t tell who, only that they stood slightly apart.
Valentina’s voice again, laced with sweet condescension. “To talk to people?”
Bob seemed to hesitate now, his voice smaller. “I just thought—”
“What’s all this?” she cut him off before he could finish. “Did someone give Alexei another confetti cannon? Seriously? You know the cleaners are going to start charging us combat pay. Just look at this place.”
A beat of silence.
Then the soft shuffling of someone stepping around the coffee table. You held your breath, instinctively pressing yourself flatter to the floor. Your shoulder brushed against Joaquín’s chest. You felt him suck in a quiet, sharp breath. You wondered what would happen if you were caught.
Above you, the room shifted.
Yelena’s voice came first, Russian-rough and stripped of patience. “What are you doing here?”
There was a pause. Just long enough to feel it.
“I’m sorry?”
“We thought you were en route to California,” Ava chimed in. Her tone was light, but the edges were too clean. She was trying too hard. That alone made your stomach twist.
“Oh. Right. California. Mel—?”
“The jet will be ready in one hour,” a smooth, polished voice cut in. Feminine. A little anxious. Definitely not one of theirs. It must be the third person.
You turned your head slightly toward Joaquín, careful not to make a sound. He didn’t move—only lifted his brows, then mouthed: the assistant.
Of course. Mel.
You nodded once, your heart hammering.
“See?” Valentina said breezily. “We’ve got time. So tell me… what’s this mess about?”
A clumsy chorus followed:
“Oh, it’s nothing.”
“Just messing around.”
“Nothing?” Valentina echoed, with just enough doubt in her voice to rattle the moment.
And then, soft again, Bob.
“Val…?”
“Yes, Bob, honey. What is it?”
“The phone.”
“You want a phone?”
“…yes, please.”
“Okay. Fine. Mel, get him a phone. We have plenty.”
“What kind?” Mel asked.
Valentina exhaled. You could practically feel the irritation coming off the woman in waves, even though you couldn’t see her. “What kind—? Any kind. I don’t care.” There was a pause, and then her voice dipped again into that overly sweet register that set your teeth on edge. “Bob, what colour do you want?”
“Oh. Any colour’s fine. Thanks, Mel.”
“Sure thing, Bob.”
You heard Mel’s shoes retreating. Then the doors dinged again, distant, followed by the mechanical swoosh of the elevator sliding shut.
“So…” Valentina said, dragging the word. “Who’s the banner for?”
Alexei jumped in too fast. “Banner? What banner?”
“The big one. By the elevator.”
More shuffling. A murmur of uncomfortable voices scrambling for footing.
“Oh, that banner,” Yelena said.
“The one by the elevator, yes,” Alexei added, awkwardly.
“Missed it earlier,” Walker threw in, humming with forced casualness.
Your breath caught. They were bad liars. Terrible liars that were going to have you and Joaquín caught. You felt your body instinctively press closer to his, every part of you suddenly aware of how fragile this moment was. If one of them slipped up... shit.
“What’s the deal with that?” Valentina pressed.
Silence.
You could feel the group faltering. And for a moment, you were sure someone would fold.
Then Yelena’s voice again. “We thought… with the headlines today...”
“There might be a new addition,” Ava said, cutting in with a cleaner tone.
“A new team member,” Walker followed, steady, trying to cover the tracks.
Valentina laughed. A quiet little thing, amused and bitter all at once. “Oh, well isn’t that sweet.”
A pause.
Then Yelena pushed: “What’s… what’s the deal with that?”
“Nothing’s confirmed yet. It’s still in the air,” Valentina said. The click of her nails against a screen followed. You imagined her scrolling through messages, “She’s a tough cookie, isn’t she, Walker?”
His answer was dry. “Right.”
“I just thought this team could use someone a little less…” She trailed off, teeth behind her voice.
“Less what?” Ava asked, carefully.
“…like you guys.”
“Like us?” Walker repeated.
“Melodramatic,” Valentina said, and you could hear the malice in her voice. “No offence.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ava asked.
The sound of Valentina shifting again, heels clicking softly against the marble, the dull swish of her skirt brushing behind her. “Well, it’s not a secret that all of you have done some pretty messed up shit. People don’t trust you. And trust is branding. It’s everything. If we bring in someone tied to Wilson—one of Captain America’s right hands—suddenly, we’re legit. We’re palatable.”
You’d already suspected that was her idea, that selling you out had been nothing more than strategy. Calculated. Self-serving. You hadn’t believed a single word of the bullshit she fed you last night, not the part about being “special,” or the vague promises of a bigger purpose. It had all been smoke.
Still, something about hearing it confirmed, hearing her say it so plainly, like she was already pulling your strings, lit a fire low in your chest.
You weren’t her puppet.
You weren’t anyone’s.
And the fact that she thought you were that easy to bend, that she saw you as just another tool to wield when convenient, made your skin crawl.
“And how do you plan on pulling that off?” Yelena asked, her voice a notch sharper now. Less curious, more hostile. Defensive.
“Aren’t you full of questions today?” Valentina didn’t even try to mask the irritation in her tone. “That’s for me to worry about, hun. Not you. Why don’t you all relax? Enjoy yourselves. Kick your feet up. Make the most of it until the next villain of the week shows up.”
Her words lingered like a smirk in the air, condescending, smug, and venomous.
It was only then you realized how cold the floor had become beneath you. The chill was creeping into your skin, seeping through your clothes, biting at your joints. Your hands had curled into fists without meaning to, nails digging into your palms, the tension wound so tight in your chest it hurt to breathe. Beside you, Joaquín was breathing fast and shallow, barely audible, but enough that you could feel it.
You released your fist and your fingers started to move on instinct, brushing against the knife you’d taken from the display case earlier. You hadn’t even realized you’d been reaching for it. The cool metal kissed your fingertips, grounding you. You closed your hand around the hilt, the weight of it settling in your palm like muscle memory.
Across the room, Valentina’s heels clicked softly on the marble as she began to walk away, casual, unhurried. “Where are you guys keeping the liquor now?” she asked airily. “I can’t fly sober, and there hasn’t been a restock in the kitchen since last night…”
Her voice trailed off as she disappeared around the corner.
Then you heard the soft shuffle of slippers on tile, a nervous fidget. “W-wait. Who’s joining our team?”
Walker answered, bone-dry. “That girlfriend of yours from last night. You know, the one you scared off?”
There was a pause.
“Oh. No. It’s not—” Bob stammered, his voice flustered, uncertain. “We’re not… You think I scared her off?”
You hated that something about the way he asked that fluttered against your ribs, like a moth against a windowpane. Ridiculous, considering the circumstances. You bit down on the feeling.
He didn’t get an answer before Valentina returned, heels striking the floor like punctuation. “Found it,” she announced. You heard the clink of glass. “Alright, Mel and I will be gone for a few days. Don’t do anything stupid. And Bob, your phone will be downstairs.”
And just like that, she was heading back toward the elevator. You watched her feet vanish from view. Then the soft ding of the lift. The whisper of the doors sliding shut. Gone.
You exhaled for the first time in minutes. The pressure in your chest finally let go, but you still didn’t release the knife. Even when Joaquín began shifting beside you, his legs uncoiling. Yelena’s voice came from above, low but audible: “It’s clear.”
Joaquín started crawling out from under the couch, but you reached for his sleeve, grabbing him without thinking. Just for a second. He glanced back at you.
Then you nodded. He moved. You followed.
Your hand stayed in your pocket, curled tight around the blade.
“Were—were you there this whole time?” Bob asked, his voice cracking on the question. He stepped closer to the centre of the room, joining the others.
You finally looked at him.
Gone was the suit. Instead: a grey sweatshirt, soft and clean, and thrown over a pair of baby-blue pyjama pants. And on his feet, bunny slippers. Actual bunny slippers. You had thought maybe you made it up in your head. But no. You blinked. Then you looked back up at his face.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hi,” That same, dopey grin split his face and you almost felt your own lips move to return it. But you stopped yourself and pushed the feeling back down, “What are you doing here?” He had that same bemusement from yesterday as if he was just happy to be here. Wherever here is.
“We were just leaving,” you said, crouching to grab Joaquín’s bag and laptop from under the coffee table. You shoved them at him.
This time, he didn’t argue.
Maybe the brush with Valentina had knocked the fight out of him, or maybe he finally saw the writing on the wall. Either way, Joaquín was already jamming the laptop into the bag and pulling the strap over his shoulder.
“Leaving?” Yelena echoed, surprised.
“But I just woke up.” Bob frowned.
You didn’t answer.
You had heard enough.
Valentina was still a manipulative bitch, and now you had proof sitting on an old drive tucked into Ava Starr’s pocket. But this team? These people? They weren’t exactly running to stop her. Didn’t seem nearly as willing to hand over that evidence now that they knew it’d be trading their own freedom and newfound fame and luxury. You also knew they weren’t being entirely honest with most of it, so what was the point?
And Bucky?
He could eat shit for all you cared.
“You said you’d help us,” Yelena said, voice quieter now, tight, trembling at the edges like a thread pulled too taut.
“No,” you shot back, sharper than intended. “We said we’d listen.”
Joaquín stepped up beside you, his voice steadier. “Unless you hand over that drive, there’s nothing we can do for you.”
Ava’s stance hardened. Her hand flexed at her side. “You can leave,” she said. “But the drive stays here.”
That made Walker flinch. “Wait—what?” he barked, stepping forward. “You’re just gonna let them walk? After what they know? They’ll have us on The Raft by tomorrow.”
Alexei groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I can’t go back to prison.”
“Prison? Wait—what are we talking about?” Bob interjected, blinking between everyone.
“God forbid you ever take responsibility for anything, Walker,” you said coolly, your eyes on the blonde man. “That there are consqueneces for your actions.”
His jaw twitched. You could see the pressure building in him like steam behind glass, his shoulders shaking. “Don’t get smart with me. You think I don’t know about consequences?”
Your fingers curled tighter around the handle of the knife in your coat. Cold steel kissed your palm, grounding you. You didn’t flinch as Walker loomed over you, not even when the heat of his breath hit your face.
“I’m sure you were starting to get it once your wife left,” you murmured bitterly.
Walker squared his shoulders like he was about to make good on the threat behind his scowl, or maybe hit you hard enough to knock your teeth out.
“Woah, woah—no fights here!” Yelena suddenly launched herself over the couch, landing between you with a firm thud. Her socks scuffed slightly on the rug as she extended both arms, placing one hand on your chest,.
It was oddly gentle—so soft you almost forgot that those same hands had likely killed thousands. Her palm rested right over your heart. You wondered if she could feel how fast it was beating.
“No fights,” she said again, a note of pleading curling into her voice. “We can’t get blood on the carpet. It’s new.”
Her words were light, but her eyes weren’t. They were serious—tired, even. Like someone who’d already bled for too many causes and was still waiting to find one worth it.
“I don’t want this,” she said firmly, now addressing the whole room. “None of us do. We’re on the same side. We’re just… on different pages.”
“That’s generous,” Ava muttered.
“No. It’s the truth,” Yelena shot back. “Valentina wins when we fight. That’s how she does it—she divides, she confuses, she corrupts.”
You met her gaze. And there it was: the flicker of desperation she was too proud to hide. Not fear, just a weariness, like she was sick of surviving in a world built on grey lines and crossed wires.
“…She’s right,” Joaquín said reluctantly. There was a tightness to his jaw as if it pained him to agree with any of this.
A heavy pause settled. Dust hung in the sunlight pouring through the tall windows, undisturbed.
Then Yelena turned back to you, her voice softer this time, almost hollow. “Is there really no other way to stop her?”
You hesitated, your mouth opening before the words were fully formed. You wanted to have an answer, something solid, something certain. But all you could offer was the truth.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
Because you didn’t. You weren’t a strategist. You didn’t sit in war rooms or comb through legal loopholes. Your background was in the Navy—flying jets, executing orders, staying alive. Similar to the work of every other person in this room. The closest you’d ever come to investigative work was chasing the Flag Smashers, or trying to clear Isaiah’s name when the system nearly buried him for something he didn’t do.
Your grip on the knife loosened. You hadn’t realized how hard you’d been holding it until your fingers started to throb, blood returning like a warning. You let it fall back into your jacket pocket.
“We’re not lawyers,” you added.
Walker took a step back—not far, but enough. Just enough to mark the shift. His breathing was loud in the quiet, uneven. His fists were still balled tight at his sides, like tension waiting for an excuse to spark again.
But he didn’t come closer. You almost felt bad for bringing up his wife.
Yelena nodded slowly, “Do you think Sam Wilson could help?”
That question hung in the room. It was different from the others. More personal.
You caught it in her voice first, a crack in her composure. Distress, raw and unpolished. Her eyes searched yours, not for strategy, but for hope. She was asking you to believe in something, even if she couldn’t anymore.
And the others were watching too—Ava, still guarded but listening; Alexei, wringing his hands; even Bob, with wide, unknowing eyes.
You looked at Joaquín. He met your gaze and nodded once.
“He could,” he said.
“But will he?” Yelena pressed. She needed an answer that sounded like a promise.
You hesitated, shoulders sinking under the weight of everything unsaid. The silence stretched, heavy with reluctant hope, weak trust and a dozen unspoken things. Then finally, with a sigh that felt like it pulled from the base of your spine:
“…Yeah,” you murmured. “He’s pretty understanding.”
Yelena nodded once, slowly, like that alone was enough to make something shift. Then she extended her arm behind her, her fingers flicking in silent command.
“Ava.”
“What?” came the flat reply, bristling with suspicion.
“Give them the drive,” Yelena said, jerking her chin toward you and Joaquín.
Ava blinked, incredulous. “You can’t be serious.”
“Give it.” Yelena didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The words landed sharp and sure, heavy with a quiet authority. Whether it was her posture, the chill in her accent, or the way she stared Ava down without blinking, it worked.
Ava rolled her eyes hard enough that you were sure she saw her own brain. But still, she stomped over, pulling the small drive from her pocket and shoving it into Joaquín’s hand.
He took it wordlessly, slipping it into his jacket without fanfare.
Yelena turned back to you. “I trust you’ll do what’s right.” Her voice softened, “I just… I want to do good. Be good. Like my sister.”
You blinked. The honesty in her tone caught you off guard. You stared at her for a beat, the brows on your face knitting together. There hadn’t been a moment yet where you felt like you couldn’t trust Yelena—if anything, she was the only one in this dysfunctional little collective who seemed a little more grounded in reality than the others. Steady in her beliefs.
You nodded slowly. Not just to acknowledge her, but because you understood. You wanted to be good too. Like Sam.
“Sure,” you said.
“Unbelievable,” Walker muttered. He threw his hands up and stormed toward the spiral staircase, his boots thudding too loudly for the steps.
You met Yelena’s eyes one last time. She raised her brows at you funnily, a silent ignore him written across her face. That earned the smallest smile from you, which she returned, not quite warmly, but not unkindly either.
“Bye, guys,” Joaquín called, already moving past you toward the elevator with an urge to get the fuck out of this place.
“Bye,” Ava called back with a lazy wave.
Alexei flopped onto the couch like a man ready for retirement. “We will see you later, new friends,” he announced, already unlocking an iPad and flicking through apps with surprising focus. Only then did you notice the ridiculous shirt stretched across his chest—his own face beaming up at you.
Of course he owned a shirt like that.
Yelena gave you one final nod as if to say I’ll handle things here. You held her gaze a moment longer before turning toward the elevator.
And there was Bob.
Still standing there quietly by the steps of the sunken living room like he didn’t quite know where to go next. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, and when your eyes met, he gave you a shy little wave.
You raised your hand and waved back.
What a strange turn of events, you thought, stepping into the elevator beside Joaquín.
It felt like your world had been flipped upside down, spun sideways, and then set back upright—all before noon. Great. So much for Walker flying you back to D.C. Not that you were exactly heartbroken about it. At least you were finally getting out, and better yet, leaving with more than you'd hoped for. Thanks to Yelena.
Joaquín pressed the button to the lobby, his movements brisk but silent, like he was still trying to catch up to the emotional weight of the last hour or so.
You both stood in silence as the doors began to slide shut.
And then suddenly they didn’t.
Another body slipped through the narrowing space.
“Jesus!” Joaquín hissed, jerking half a step to the side. “What the hell—?”
“Sorry!” came the quick, sheepish yelp.
It was Bob.
His eyes were wide, hands lifted like he’d just stumbled into a hostage situation instead of an elevator. “Val said my phone’s downstairs…” he offered lamely, voice trailing as he glanced between the two of you. “Hey.”
“Hey, man, ”Joaquín huffed out a breathless sigh, “Scared the shit out of us.”
That made Bob crack a grin. He gestured toward himself like he was still catching up to the social rhythm. “I’m Bob.”
“Joaquín,” came the reply, quick and warm.
You couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. The three of you must’ve looked like the beginning of a joke: two randos and a guy in bunny slippers walk into an elevator. Bob’s pyjamas looked like they hadn’t seen the outside of a laundry basket in days, wrinkled in all places, but you thought the slippers were undeniably cute.
“Yeah, you’re the Falcon, right?” Bob asked, turning to Joaquín with a genuine light in his eyes.
Joaquín puffed up slightly, the pride flickering across his face before he nodded. “Yeah, I am.”
You rolled your eyes, but the fondness came easy.
“That’s cool,” Bob said, his grin stretching even wider—until it didn’t. Until it faltered just enough for you to catch the flicker of something behind it. He glanced at you again, eyes darting nervously before he dropped his gaze to the floor. “So um… I guess you know about me now.”
The elevator hummed beneath your feet, descending gradually.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he continued, voice quieter. “I wasn’t sure if… I was allowed. Or if I should. Are you… afraid of me now?”
Your heart thudded once, harder than expected.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Joaquín shift slightly, his body tense, watching, waiting to see what you’d say.
You drew in a breath, trying to steady yourself before you looked at Bob again. His posture had crumpled slightly under his own words. Shoulders curled in. Smile gone.
“Why would I be afraid of you, Bob?”
His gaze lifted, hopeful, but guarded.
“Because of what I did.”
That brought you up short.
You’d thought you’d had enough surprises for one day. Apparently not. Apparently Bob Reynolds had more where that came from, like some twisted magic trick where he kept pulling the rug out from under you, over and over again.
The elevator hummed. The floor numbers kept ticking down, steady and oblivious.
You swallowed. Almost afraid to ask.
“…What’d you do?”
He winced, rolling his shoulder like it physically pained him to answer. “That thing… in New York.”
You blinked, trying to process. When you didn’t respond, he looked at you, hesitant. “You read my file, right?”
“We didn’t… get that far,” you muttered.
But your brain was already scrambling to fill in the blanks. Every major incident in New York flashed behind your eyes—there were too many to count. Alien invasions. Robot uprisings. Sorcerer nonsense. But then you narrowed in. The one that had involved the New Avengers. The one the news had dubbed The Darkest Day. The terrifying grainy footage you’d seen during the hearings. The impossible collapse of light, sound, and structure. The city submerged in absolute darkness.
You stared at him.
“I’m sorry,” Joaquín said slowly, “You’re telling me you’re the one who turned New York into a black hole? You?”
Bob scratched the back of his neck, visibly squirming under the weight of it. Another awkward move, nervous, even. “…I didn’t mean to. I swear.”
And that was the kicker. That was when the full weight of who he was finally settled on your chest.
Bob. The Bob who tripped over your dress last night. The Bob who sat by a fireplace and made you smile until your face hurt. The Bob with an Instagram account full of second-hand paperbacks and soft, orange-pink Florida sunsets. That Bob—was the same man who apparently swallowed half of Manhattan into a void.
And now he was standing in the elevator, right between you and Joaquín, in bunny slippers.
It took all your effort not to show how much that messed you up. It set your heart racing, made it pound a tattoo against the underside of your ribs hard enough that you can feel it all the way up in your throat like it was trying to get your attention: this isn’t normal. This isn’t safe.
But then Bob gave you the exact same, uneasy, shy smile as before. Only this time, it’s much harder to meet it with one of your own. You forced a tiny twitch of your mouth upward, barely there, because Joaquín was right beside him too, and you were almost certain he was freaking out enough for the both of you.
You’d seen the footage. You’d read the transcripts. Sat in on court hearings. Heard survivors speak. The sheer level of devastation. The fear. The unanswerable questions.
And that was him. This man in the elevator. The man who smiled at you like he still hoped you didn’t hate him.
The elevator dinged, and the doors parted to reveal the glossy, open expanse of the lobby. Joaquín stepped out first, more hurried than usual. You followed on autopilot, your head still spinning.
The three of you drifted toward the grand lounge area, hovering near the secretary’s desk, not quite ready to separate. Like no one knew what to say next.
“So,” You begin awkwardly, “Bob. That’s... that’s pretty... uh, how’d that happen?”
He winced again, more out of embarrassment than pain. “Um. I don’t really know. My memory’s been foggy since I went through the experimental program,” he admitted slowly. “It… it comes back in pieces sometimes.”
Your brows rose. “Experimental program?”
“Project Sentry,” Joaquín muttered, eyes narrowing as if the puzzle was finally clicking together in his head.
You blinked. You’d known of De Fontaine’s side projects. Rumours of off-the-books enhancements and reconditioning efforts. Human experimentation. Yelena’s files had confirmed them, but you never knew the name of it. You never knew it was called Project Sentry.
You looked at Bob again. Jesus. Bob was one of Valentina’s experiments. That realization settled cold and sharp in your gut.
“Yeah, that one.” Bob nodded sheepishly. “But I don’t remember all of it. I get flashes. I remember getting injected with stuff... being blonde… getting killed.”
You stared, concerned, “You… remember dying?”
He blinked hard like he was trying to shake the static off his brain, or maybe trying to forget it. Then he looked at you—really looked—and something softened again in his expression.
The corners of his mouth twitched up and a blush grew on his cheeks.
“…Don’t worry, though,” he added, voice softer now, more tentative. “I remember you. Don’t think I’ll be able to forget you, actually.”
This time, you did manage a smile.
God. That line shouldn’t have hit the way it did, but it did. Somehow, it fractured the version of him you were just starting to piece together again. Mysterious World Ending Shadow Guy and Sweet Bob From Party were the same fucking person. And you weren’t sure if that was comforting or horrifying because you were growing flustered at his comment.
From the side, Joaquín snorted. “Smooth.”
You caught the way Bob’s blush deepened, the colour rising visibly along his cheekbones. He ducked his head, clearly flustered.
You shook yours gently. “Don’t listen to him.”
“…Okay,” he said earnestly. Then, after a beat: “So… you never got to the part about the experiments?”
You inhaled, slow and careful, trying to find the right words, trying not to sound like someone who’d had the wind knocked out of them several times over in the span of an hour.
“I don’t think your friends wanted us to know,” you admitted.
“Oh.”
Just that. One word. But it carried something heavy, something almost brittle underneath. A quiet, hollow kind of disappointment.
It stopped you cold.
Part of it was guilt. Upsetting Bob felt like kicking a puppy that didn’t even know what it had done wrong. But the other part, the more rational, still-on-edge part of your brain, reminded you of who you were talking to. Of what he’d done. And maybe it wasn’t a great idea to make someone who once tore a city in half feel unwanted.
“Bob?”
The sudden voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You flinched. Joaquín immediately straightened beside you—his hand half-rising on instinct. Both of you spun, the tension surging through your limbs once more.
A woman dressed in black was already walking toward you, shoes clicking lightly across the lobby floor. She faltered slightly when she took in the three of you together, but her smile held firm. Calm. Polite. Her hands extended a small box toward Bob.
“Um, here’s your new phone,” she said.
You recognized the voice. Mel. Valentina’s assistant. Which meant someone—likely everyone—was about to find out that you and Joaquín were here.
You returned her smile with one of your own, both of you sharing the kind of strained politeness that only came from being on opposite sides of a very expensive, very fragile chessboard.
“Thanks,” Bob said, taking the box carefully. Mel nodded once and turned, gliding away as quickly as she’d arrived.
Bob looked at the box like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. Then his gaze drifted to Joaquín—just a glance—but when his eyes found yours again, he was flushed and fidgeting, all over again.
“Phone,” he chuckled nervously, rubbing this thumb over the side of the box, “yeah, um… I asked for a phone because I—Walker said I should just ask you—uh,” he huffed, blinking hard as if to gather his thoughts. “I know you’re leaving and all, but… it was really nice to see you.”
He gave a kind of half-shrug like he wasn’t sure what he meant by that until it was already out.
“I honestly thought I wouldn’t—see you again, I mean,” he went on. “I thought I’d messed it up. Back when I brought up… uh. Bucky.”
Yeah. That moment had soured everything fast. You hadn’t thought you’d see Bob again either, not after that mess. For a while, you’d convinced yourself you didn’t want to. But you also knew that no matter how many hours the drive back to Washington took, you’d probably spend all of them scrolling through his old Instagram posts—those quiet book reviews, those blurry sunset photos, that one stupid post about jelly beans you think he posted when he was high.
You didn’t crush on people easily. Even less so on people tied to your work. But with Bob, it had happened fast, softly, then all at once.
His honesty caught you off guard again, and you felt a flush rise to your own cheeks. Joaquín’s head turned toward you, a little too quickly, a little too hopeful, and you could practically hear the gears in his nosy little brain turning. That bastard.
You ignored him.
“Yeah,” you said quietly, eyes on Bob. “It was nice to see you too.”
And God, wasn’t that the understatement of the year?
“Can I—um…” he shifted on his feet, thumb brushing over the edge of the box in his hands. “Do you think I could have your number? For when I finish setting up my phone. In case you… still want to talk.” His voice softened, almost hopeful. “I really did like talking to you yesterday. You can say no, that’s alright.”
You weren’t going to say no. And honestly? You doubted Joaquín would let you. He’d been silently rooting for this since he stepped on your dress—he was a hopeless romantic under all that tactical gear.
Still, that didn’t stop the soft, fluttery weight building in your chest. Like your stomach had filled with butterflies in mid-takeoff. It made you feel… like a teenager. God, when was the last time something had made you feel like that?
“Sure, Bob.”
You must’ve caught him off guard. His eyes widened a little. “Really?”
“Yeah.” You smiled. “Do you have a pen?”
His whole face lit up in panic. “Uh—no. Wait, hold on—” He spun, glancing around frantically.
Joaquín, bless him, was already halfway to the secretary’s desk, digging through an Avengers-themed mug filled with pens. He came back triumphantly, tossing one to Bob, who fumbled it slightly before returning to you, grinning like an idiot.
“Here,” he said, holding it out.
You reached for it. Your fingers brushed his—warm, solid, and really soft—and the moment was small, fleeting, but it sent a pulse through your wrist all the same.
“Where can I write—?”
Bob didn’t hesitate. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater, tugging it past his elbow in one smooth motion before offering his bare arm to you.
You stared.
Not because you were trying to be weird. But holy shit.
He was built like a statue someone forgot to put on a pedestal. Long forearms, defined muscle, a vein trailing up the centre of his arm like it’d been drawn there on purpose. His skin was golden and warm and very, very nice to look at.
“My arm’s fine,” he offered casually, but his voice cracked just enough to betray him.
You blinked, pulling your gaze back up to his face. He looked away, sheepish. Maybe he caught you staring. Okay, he definitely caught you staring. But then again, he was also sneaking glances of his own. His eyes lingered on your mouth for a second too long. A tiny flick down your neck, then away.
He had more shame about it than you did.
“Alright,” you said, trying not to grin like a fool. “Don’t move.”
You stepped in, gently taking his wrist in one hand and steadying the pen with the other. The contact sent another flutter up your arm, but you focused, carefully writing your number across the warm stretch of skin.
One, two, three digits at a time.
By the time you finished, you felt a little breathless.
You let go, reluctantly, and stepped back.
Bob was red. Visibly, unapologetically flushed from his cheeks down to the base of his neck. Still, he gave a quick, grateful nod and tugged the sleeve back down, much to your disappointment.
He took the pen from you, fingers brushing again, and gave you a soft, “Thanks.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll, uh… I’ll text you. Once I figure this out.” He lifted the phone box with an amused smile. You realized you could have written your number on the box instead, but you refused to say anything about it. His voice was still quiet, but it held a kind of warmth you hadn’t expected to hear again so soon.
“I’ll be waiting,” you said.
He laughed under his breath. Then, almost like he didn’t trust himself to say anything else, he gave a short nod and turned away. You watched him cross the floor toward the elevators.
Halfway there, he paused. Turned slightly. You thought he was going to say something, another goodbye, maybe a joke, something. But he just gave you a little wave. Kind. A little bashful.
You waved back, lips still curved in a smile.
“And they say romance is dead,” Joaquín snorted into your ear, slinging an arm dramatically around your shoulders as soon as the elevator doors shut.
You groaned, but it came out more like a laugh. “Oh my God, shut up.”
He leaned all his weight onto you like an overgrown, smug barnacle. “You were totally about to kiss him. Don’t lie. I saw the look on your face. So did he. I’m kinda disappointed, actually. Was fully expecting a public display of—you know, soul-consuming makeout rage.”
“Shut. Up.”
“You’re smiling,” he said in a sing-song voice. “You like him.”
“I will kill you.”
“You like him.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. But your cheeks were warm, and the flutter in your chest hadn’t totally calmed down. You weren’t even that mad. Not like you had been this morning when your entire life felt like it was fracturing under the weight of secrets, lies, and political backstabbing.
Now? You were still exhausted. Still confused. But something about Bob—awkward, charming, possibly world-ending Bob—had given you a moment of quiet in the middle of all of it.
“I bet you’re glad we stayed longer.”
“I lost a few years of my life from stress,” you muttered. “But yeah. Sure. I’m glad.”
Joaquín finally stopped leaning on you, but he kept his arm there, resting it across your shoulders like a shield. You fell into step with him, the two of you weaving through the flow of people on the sidewalk, the city alive around you in a way that felt almost… normal again.
Then, softer, “So what now?”
You glanced sideways. His joking edge had slipped off somewhere between steps, and now you could see the fatigue settling over his face. He looked as drained as you felt—eyes tired, jaw clenched slightly like he was holding something unspoken just behind his teeth.
You didn’t blame him. You were both running on fumes.
“We get the fuck out of here,” you said simply.
He let out a hum of agreement, nodding once as if the idea itself was a balm. But then he hesitated, giving you a sidelong glance.
“We’re not telling Sam about any of this, right?” he asked. “Like, the whole… following Walker into the tower part.”
“God, no,” you said immediately. “We’ll tell him I found the drive last night.”
“Perfect.” He grinned, satisfied. “He doesn’t need to know you almost got swept off your feet by a guy in a chicken costume.”
“Joaquín.”
He laughed and pulled you a little closer, and the two of you kept walking, two specks swallowed by the sprawl of Manhattan at noon, leaving behind the kind of chaos you weren’t sure you could ever fully explain. But for now, you had your answer, and you’d get the hell out of here.
ALWAYS WITHIN REACH
Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader
divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.3k synopsis: Jason Todd doesn’t love loudly but he shows it with his constant presence and actions. a/n: To my anon who requested this, I love you and I loved writing this, but this made me feel so single. I need a man like Jason 😭
The first time you noticed it—really noticed it—was when you were heading out to grab a coffee.
You’d only grabbed your keys and a hoodie, ready to walk the two blocks to the corner store. The weather was mild, the streets quiet, and you hadn’t planned on being gone more than fifteen minutes. As you crouched to tie your laces, yawning mid-sentence, you called out lazily, “I’m gonna go grab a coffee. Want anything?”
Jason was sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, blanket twisted around his legs. He’d groaned not five minutes ago about needing a nap and you figured he’d be out cold by now.
But then you heard the couch creak. He was sitting up.
“I’ll come with you.”
You blinked. “You just said—”
“I’ll drive.” He was already pushing to his feet, reaching for his keys like it wasn’t up for debate.
You stared, baffled. “Jay, I’m literally going across the street.”
He didn’t seem to hear you—or more likely, chose not to. Shirt half-buttoned, boots barely tied, he grabbed his jacket in one hand and your fingers in the other, dragging you gently toward the door. You didn’t argue, mostly because you were still sleepy and not quite ready to match his brand of stubborn.
The drive took three minutes. He didn’t say much, just rested one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against your skin like he needed the contact more than the caffeine. Even when he pulled up to the drive-thru window, when you took the drink with a grateful smile and settled back in your seat, Jason didn’t let go. He shifted the wheel easily with one hand, the other still anchored to you, thumb still stroking your skin.
You didn’t think much of it at the time.
The next time it happened, it was at the grocery store.
You were pushing the cart down an aisle while Jason trailed just behind, his hand warm and steady on the small of your back. It stayed there for most of the trip—absentminded, comforting. Sometimes he’d give a gentle nudge when you paused too long comparing brands, or he’d slide his fingers up your spine for no reason at all except to feel you there.
At one point, somewhere between the produce section and the towering shelves of canned goods, Jason muttered that he needed more protein powder. His voice was low and distracted, already halfway turned toward the far end of the store. He didn’t look back, thinking you were following but instead, you nodded vaguely and veered off toward the ice cream aisle, figuring you could cover more ground that way.
You moved slowly, eyes scanning the frosty rows of half-gallons and pints. The doors of the freezer hissed quietly as you opened one, cool air spilling out as your reached for two pints, debating between cookie dough and mint chocolate chip.
You weren’t even half way through the aisle when you felt him behind you again.
His arms sliding around your waist and wrapping you up without a word. The warmth of him sank through your hoodie, his body pressing close to yours. A moment later, the weight of his head dropped gently onto your shoulder. His breath ghosted over the curve of your neck, soft and steady, the contrast to the chilled air in front of you making your skin prickle.
Leaning back into him just a little, you tilted your head, angling for a glimpse of his face, searching for something—an explanation, maybe. But all you found was the slope of his brow pressed close to your temple, his mouth relaxed, his lashes lowered like he might stay there forever if you let him.
“You okay?” you murmured.
He gave the smallest of nods, the movement brushing his cheek against yours. You stayed like that for a moment longer, Eventually, your fingers drifted toward the freezer door again, and you began to move. His arms loosened, but just enough to let you walk without pulling fully away. One of his hands slid down, fingers catching yours, while his other reached for the cart, reclaiming it without comment, guiding it forward to where you wanted to go.
And that’s when you started to see the pattern.
Jason always walked on the side closest to the street, his body subtly shifting until you were on the inside of the sidewalk, sheltered from traffic. Every single time. Even if it meant cutting mid-conversation to switch sides, or gently tugging you across with a hand to your waist or a brush of fingers against your wrist. It didn’t matter how casual the outing—he’d never let you walk street-side.
He held doors open without thinking, reaching out before you could even touch the handle. And whenever you were out together, his hand was never far. Sometimes laced through yours like second nature, your fingers intertwined as you walked in step. Other times, it rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through doorways, around corners, through crowds.
He insisted on coming with you for errands. Always. It didn’t matter how mundane the task or how quick the trip—Jason was already pulling on his jacket before you finished asking, sometimes you didn’t even have to. And he never complained. Not once. Didn’t check his phone or sigh impatiently. He carried the bags. He waited while you debated between brands of ice cream. Even standing in line, he’d hook a finger through your belt loop and tug you back against him, chin on your shoulder, arms looped loosely around your waist as you two waited.
At gas stations, he always got out with you—even if all you were doing was grabbing gum and a drink. He filled the tank, too, waving off your protests with a quiet, “I got it.” In bookstores, he trailed behind you with a hand on your back, the other juggling the growing stack of titles you kept passing him with a sheepish smile. He never complained about those either.
In crowded spaces, his arm always found its way around your waist or over your shoulders, pulling you into his side without a word.
And when you ran into people you knew—coworkers, old classmates, friends of friends—he didn’t interrupt or try to charm them. He didn’t puff up or shrink away, instead he seemed content to speak when spoken to. Otherwise he was content to stand at your side. One hand stayed low on your back, rubbing soothing circles.
They often stared at him warily—he was hard not to notice, after all. Tall, sharp-jawed, rough-edged. And yet, despite how intimidating everyone else found him, Jason was soft with you. Protective, yes. But never overbearing. He didn’t tell you what to do or try to keep you in a box made of fear. He just wanted to stay close.
It was subtle, but constant. And the truth was…you kind of loved it.
He was protective in the kind of way that didn’t feel like a cage—it felt like shelter. Like he needed to keep you close not because he didn’t trust you or because he thought you were weak. He stayed close because he knew what the world could be like. He didn’t want to control you. He just didn’t want to lose you.
And maybe that was it. Maybe that was why, no matter where you were or what you were doing, you never had to reach far to find him. In a room full of people, he was there. Even in sleep, he found you. Always.
Because while the world knew Jason as the Red Hood—fearless, violent, deadly—you knew this version. The one who always held your hand, who never let you walk alone, whose constant presence promised you that he was always there for you.
And in the spaces between who he was and how the world saw him, you found the truth of him. A man who had lived through hell, and loved you like it was his personal vow.
black coffee, no sugar (ja)
summary: when your son wants a slightly more expensive birthday present, you pull a double to earn the extra cash, but you're stuck working with his dad too.
pairing: jack abbot x fem!reader
word count: 4.8k
warnings: age gap (reader - 30s/jack - late 40s), the reader wears glasses but there are no other descriptions of how the reader looks, exes-ish (there's feelings there somewhere but not spoken about), boy dad!jack, co-parenting, jack being soft for the reader in his own little way, probably incorrect medical jargon because i make people feel better with food for a living - i am not a doctor/nurse, mentions of patient loss and off page death, one mention of a past sexual encounter between the reader and jack, food poisoning (sorry shen), like one joke about jack being older, not sure if that's everything but let me know
a/n: i had an idea and i tried my best to write it....but hey, look, my first abbot fic. i was hooked from the minute he said 'don't worry, you'll get there soon enough,' to mel. i don't like the ending but honestly didn't know how i wanted this to end. do we want more of these two??? feedback is always appreciated
6:28 PM
Heather stretches her arms, fingers wiggling as she unfurls her hands. “I can't wait to get home to my bed,” she says, and the sentiment is shared by the few nurses around you. You, however, had your head resting on your arm, trying your best to beat off the impending fatigue, a patient’s record - Mr Hernandez - up on the screen, waiting to be completed. “What about you?” She looks down, sharing the same tired expression.
“I wish,” you sit up, shoulders rolling back, “Shen's still out with food poisoning.” Bad sushi. You and Jack had laughed about it until your sides had hurt, you bent over, tucked into the warmth of his side, your couch becoming Jack's temporary bed for a quick nap, after swinging by that morning to see Auggie.
“You're pulling a double?” Her voice pulls you away from the warm memory, your body growing quickly cold as the sounds of heart monitors, the distant carnage of the overcrowded waiting room, and the chaos happening in Trauma 1 pounds your ears.
“I need the hours,” you mumble, inputting Mr Hernandez's last check up results. You tuck your fingers under your glasses and rub your eyes. A quick nap in an on-call room would be enough to get you through the night shift. And maybe a cup of coffee, or three. “Auggie’s already been with my mom all day, so she’s gonna take him tonight. It’s all sorted.”
Her arms fold. “And you're sure you want to work with Abbot?”
“You make it sound like we can't play nice.”
Trinity pops up beside Heather, appearing seemingly out of nowhere, making you both jump. “Wait,” she looks down at you, “the nurses were telling the truth about you and Doctor Abbot?”
Princess, Donnie and a young blonde named Anna all dart in different directions, not wanting to be on the receiving end of your hard stare. It was just as good as Jack's. Anna turns to her computer, pretending to read a chart. Princess had ducked behind a curtain, checking in on a patient. And Donnie made a break from the staff room. You shake your head, turning your lips up into a partial smile.
“So?” Trinity was still waiting for an answer. Her smile can only be described as wicked. “What's the story? Messy breakup? Did one of you cheat?”
“Dr Santos!” Heather clears her throat.
“Oh, come on,” Trinity sighs, slapping her hands down on the top. Heather glares hard at her and she turns and walks away, grumbling something under her breath.
“You got that mom stare down perfectly, by the way,” you log off and groan as you unfold from the chair, swearing you could hear at least three different joints cracking as you stretch.
She sighs. “Just missing the important thing.”
“You can have Auggie.”
“He's a good kid, but no thanks,” she shakes her head, turning with you as you take a steady walk through the Pitt, “it's like being around a miniature Abbot but pumped with aquarium facts.” You snort, but she was right. Loose, dark curls. The same eyes, hidden behind red framed glasses. Grumpy in the morning, chaos at night. Two perfect sides of the same coin. “But, seriously, you know he'll try to make you go home, don’t you?”
“Of course, I do,” you throw her a knowing smile and she rolls her eyes, “and it’ll be fun to tell him no.”
7:45 PM
A-U-G-G-I-E. You trace your thumb over each individual bead, the black lettering a little chipped from constantly wearing it. It was an amalgamation of reds and blues; for Spiderman, your five year old had mumbled, when you asked what colours he was going to use to make it.
“Mommy, are you listening?” Auggie's voice pulls you back to reality.
“Of course, bud.” You swap your phone between your hands, pressing it to your left ear. “Grandma took you to the aquarium, yeah?”
“Yep!” He pops the p. “The crabs were my favourite; they had a king crab, a snow crab, and spider crabs…” His words become a jumbled mess as he excitedly lists off each species of crab, probably remembering them all in less than five minutes, making sure he and your mom didn't move on to the next thing until he knew them all.
“The crabs were your favourite? Not the jellyfish?” He'd been bombarding you with jellyfish facts that morning before your mom came to pick him up.
“They were cool but they weren't as cool as the crabs,” Auggie mumbles, voice muffled like he had just put something in his mouth. Probably his thumb. He always chewed on it when he was getting tired. “Grandma got me a new book,” he tells you, “it's all about sharks!”
“Mom?” You sigh, dropping your head into your hand. This kid had everyone wrapped around his little finger. If it wasn't your mom buying him a gift every weekend they spent together, it was Dana sneaking him sweet treats, Robby giving him piggyback rides around the Pitt, or Jack agreeing that he could have a puppy.
“What?” Your mom dismisses you. “I can't say no to this gorgeous face!” Auggie giggles. “It's one of his birthday presents.”
“One?” You ask, arching your eyebrows. “How many are you buying him?”
“As many as the kid wants.”
“Well, there goes my inheritance,” you joke.
Auggie yarns down the phone. “When are you coming home, Mommy?”
A spear of guilt lodges itself beside your heart. There was still time. You could go home, not get yourself involved in any more cases, leave the next twelve hours to the night shift. But Auggie wanted a specific bike for his birthday and you would give anything to see his face light up in six weeks. That would be worth the price tag and the extra hours.
“I'm sorry, bud,” you sigh, already picturing the droop of his mouth. “There's a lot of sick people who need mommy's help tonight, but you and Grandma are gonna have a sleepover. That sounds like fun, right?”
“Are you helping them with Daddy?”
You hum, nodding your head to no one. “I will. Want me to say hi for you?”
“Please!”
“Why don't you go clean up and get ready for bed?” Your mom's voice comes from the other end. “Huh, wait, not so fast, little man. Say goodnight to Mommy.”
“Goodnight, Mommy!” Auggie shouts, and you smile to yourself, listening to his footsteps hurrying away from the phone.
“I'm sorry about this,” you mumble, shoulders sagging as you slump back against the wall.
“Don't apologise for giving me more time with my grandbaby, but you know, sweetie, August will be fine with any red bike.”
“I know, but remember the birthday present you got me when I was his age?”
“Yeah, I remember.” It was a beautifully handcrafted, Victorian style dollhouse, with powered blue walls, white accents and three floors. You were obsessed with it. That was until your baby cousin got jealous one day and broke two of the windows. “Your father worked more hours than he should've to save up for it, but it was worth it seeing that look on your face.”
“I want that with Auggie, Mom.”
“So why not ask Jack-”
“No, Mom,” you cut her off, nudging your glasses back up your nose, “I’m not asking Jack for money.”
“You're stubborn, just like your father,” she laughs, and you could only agree.
Saying goodbye, you pocket your phone, fix your scrubs, and step out of the stairwell and back into the Pitt. It was no calmer than you had left it, the patient in 19 was still screaming, despite already being given something to help with the pain, an elderly man waiting on a bed upstairs had been moved into the hallway, and Jack's intense stare met you from the opposite side of the room, like a hawk watching its prey. It would've made anyone else crumble, but not you. You stare back with the same intensity and wait for him to make the first move.
“What are you still doing here?”
“Working,” you mumble, looking up to check the board. Mr Singh in 13 could be discharged and told to come back in the morning if the pain in his stomach persisted, freeing up a bed. “The same as you.”
“But I haven't already just done a twelve hour shift,” Jack fires back, attempting to take the pad from you. You jerk your arm, giving him the same look you would give Auggie when he refuses to eat his greens. He sighs and slips his hand into his left front pocket. “What are you doing?”
“Discharing Mr Singh.”
9:57 PM
You rap your knuckles softly on the door, your runaway teen admitted this afternoon looking up from her spot on the gurney. One of the nurses had managed to get her to change into some clean clothes, but a quick search of her pockets came up with nothing. You had her first name, Cassie, but no idea where she had come from, or how long she had been unhoused. Longer than you could probably imagine.
“How are you doing, kid?” You slip your hands into your pockets, pulling out a granola bar. It wasn't much but hopefully an incentive to get her to trust. “Hungry?”
She lowers her eyes.
“It's not much, I know, but if you think you can stomach some hospital food, I can get you a sandwich.”
She tucks a messy strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “I don't like tuna,” she whispers, any quieter and you would've missed.
“Got it.” You smile. “No tuna.”
“What's her story?” Jack asks, waiting to catch you as you leave. He was leant up against the nurses’ station, arms folded, a to-go coffee cup sitting on the counter.
“You're like a bad smell.” His lips twitch, leaning into you as you saddle up next to him. His cologne was warm and earthy, like a hug you never knew you needed until it happened. “Cassie, fourteen, possibly older, came in this afternoon after she was found unconscious on a park bench.”
“Social services?”
“She wouldn't say much to Kiara.”
“What about missing persons?” You shake your head. “What are you thinking?”
“Foster kid, maybe,” you glance up out of the corner of your eyes. He was already looking at you, eyes intense but with a softness around the edges. “We've had a few cases come in before of kids running away from group homes, found sleeping rough in parks and the usual spots for the unhoused. All similar to Cassie.”
You shrug and nudge your glasses back up your nose. Earning Cassie's trust was more important to you. And these were the type of cases you couldn't jump to conclusions with. Doing so might just be the difference between Cassie going home to a bed and hot meals, and spending another night on the street.
“Keep her overnight and contact someone in the morning to see if they can identify her?” Jack suggests and you agree, nodding your head, before letting it fall against his shoulder. The left side of his mouth hitches and he reaches for the cup. “Here.”
“Black, no sugar?” You tiredly mumble.
“Always.” You take a sip and wince. Jack snorts. “It's not that bad.”
“This,” you gesture to the cup, “is disgusting.”
You take another sip. “And yet you're still drinking it.”
"It's this or crash in the break room.”
Jack unfolds his arms, the backs of his fingers brushing against your side, gooseflesh prickling your arms. “You could just go home.”
“Mateo’s pulling a double. You're not on his ass about it,” you grumble, drinking more coffee.
He leans down, his left temple pressing into your hair, fingers stretching to softly grasp at your scrubs. “Can I let you in on a secret? I don't care about Mateo the same way I care about you.” You turn your head deeper into his shoulder but Jack feels the smile you're trying to hide. His expression stays neutral, successfully hiding his own, but his chest is alive with a warm gooey goodness. “At least tell me you took a proper break?”
“I tried.”
You lift your head, absentmindedly using his shoulder to nudge your glasses up as you pull away. That had probably been enough to give the nurses something new to gossip about in the break room. You'd probably hear about it from Dana or Perlah when you return on Tuesday, followed by Heather pulling you to the side, asking you if there had suddenly been a change in yours and Jack's ‘relationship.’ Which was a no.
“Go take a twenty minute break.”
“Not a chance,” you step away from the nurses' station, his to-go cup still clutched in your hand, “I have to get Cassie some sandwiches, Mr Johnson's blood work is back, and…” You take a sip of his coffee. “...I need to add about five packets of sugar to this.”
“Do not tarnish my coffee with sugar!” Jack snorts as you stick your fingers in your ears, pretending not to hear him. At least now he knew who taught it to Auggie.
00:39 AM
“How are we doing, Mrs Simmons?”
“Gloria, please,” Mrs Simmons insists, a friendly smile beckoning you forward into an atmosphere of warmth. “I keep telling this one the same,” she points to Ellis, “but she won't listen.”
Ellis looks over her shoulder, Mrs Simmons's chart becoming a secondary focus. “Thought I saw you whizzing about earlier.” She offers you her friendliest smile, which isn't much, but you were one of the few to ever see it. “Pulling a double?”
“Need the money,” you simply tell her, shrugging your shoulders. “Auggie's got expensive taste.”
“Birthday present?” You nod. “Auggie's his kid too, remember? Get him to pay for some of it.”
“That's the thing, he would,” you glance at Mrs Simmons, who'd be flicking her eyes between you and Ellis, listening to every word, “but let's talk about this later.” Ellis nods and turns her attention back to the patient's record. “Gloria?”
“I'm okay,” she answers, folding her hands in front of herself. “I'd better in my own bed though. Can't I go home and come back later?”
“Unfortunately not, Mrs Simmons,” Ellis says looking up for a beat.
“How long on a bed being available upstairs?” Ellis shrugs.
They had the space upstairs for more beds. It wasn't a secret. There was an empty floor, ready to be filled with beds and nurses. But refusing to hire the staff meant more patients were waiting hours, if not days, for a space to open up. The lives of patients were being gambled with because those in charge refused to put the money where it was needed, and nothing made you more angry.
You force it down, the bubbles of frustration popping as you take a breath, calming yourself. Mrs Simmons didn't need to hear a lecture about the ways the system was failing those in need.
“Are you sure there's no one we can call?” You ask for the second time that night. “A husband? Children? Even just a friend?”
“I'm old, sweetie, most of my friends are either dead or close to being dead.” You awkwardly laugh, her bluntness surprising you. “My husband too.”
“I'm sorry to hear that,” you offer comfort and she accepts it with a kind smile. “What about children?”
“Just my son,” she quickly shakes her head, “but he lives in Italy now. It's just me, dear.”
You meet Ellis’s gaze. “What about leaving him a voicemail?” She asks, mirroring your stance on the opposite side of Gloria. “I'm sure your son would want to know you're in the hospital.” Gloria nods, unhappy to be defeated. “Good.”
“So, who's the dreamboat?” Gloria points and you follow her finger until it stops at Jack and Mateo. “Not the pretty one, the one on the left.”
“Dr Abbot,” you answer, ignoring Ellis and her smirk.
“I saw you two earlier.”
Ellis's eyebrows meet her hairline. “Oh?”
You look down at your pad, skimming your eyes over Gloria's notes. “Still keeping an eye on everyone?”
She shrugs. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Nurse?” Ellis asks.
“Thirty five years,” she says with pride, eyes brightening. “Looked pretty cozy, you and Doctor Dreamboat. What's the story?”
“No story-”
Ellis barks a sharp laugh. “Oh, there's a story there, alright,” she cuts in, the edges of her lips curving upwards. “Or was Auggie just an immaculate conception?”
“Either way, it's in the past,” you say tightly, and brush a hand down the front of your scrubs. “Don't you have other patients to see, Dr Ellis?” You didn't make it a habit to air out your dirty laundry to all your patients, and Ellis might just do so if you let her stay much longer. “I think there's a case of food poisoning with your name on it.”
“Who is it? Shen?” She teases, making her exit, giving Gloria a sharp nod.
“Didn't look like it was in the past to me, sweetie,” Gloria continues, fixing her sheets. Eyes float to ‘Doctor Dreamboat,’ lingering for a beat, just long enough so he wouldn't feel you staring. Gloria watches you; her gaze not hard like Jack's, but soft with curiosity. “Have you told him how you feel?”
You suppress the laugh that bites at your throat, a flash of warmth hitting your cheeks, the memory feeling hot and fresh for something that was seven years ago. Heather's birthday, too many beers, and a recently broken heart had led you to a quick and awkward fumble in the back of Jack's truck. Your dress hadn't even been hitched up your waist when you had mumbled something about wanting to do this for a long time. Jack's agreement had been the thing that took it all from fantasy to reality.
“It's complicated,” you settle on, giving your patient a slight frown.
“That's love.”
3:55 AM
“You look different.” Bridget stirs sugar into her coffee, the nurse trying to work out for the last five minutes what was so different about you tonight. She leans back against the counter, narrowing her eyes and studying you. “Not pregnant again, are we?”
“I'm not sure immaculate conception is a real thing,” you nearly choke on your water, screwing the cap tight on your bottle. If you were lacking one thing in your life, it was definitely a sex life.
“She's wearing her glasses,” Jack mumbles, briefly looking up from the medical journal in front of him, occupying the space across from you at the table.
Bridget accepts his answer with no problem, sipping slowly on the hot coffee. It needed more sugar, and she grabbed another sugar packet, ripping it open.
“Coffee, anyone?” She offers to both of you. “Fresh pot.”
Jack taps the back of his finger against his cup, not the same one you walked off with earlier. “I'm good.”
“No, thanks,” you scrunch your nose, trying not to look too disgusted.
Jack closes the journal, marking the page with his thumb. “Why are you wearing your glasses?” He asks, curiosity getting the better of him. He knew you didn't need to have a reason to wear them. “Lose your contacts again? You didn’t fall asleep in them, did you?”
“I did that one time.” You roll your eyes. “And no, I didn't lose them. I’m wearing them for Auggie.”
“Why?” Jack straightens up. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing, not really.” You shake your head, trying to defuse the alarms ringing so clearly on his face. A sigh tumbles off your lips. “It's just the other day, he said he didn't want to wear his glasses anymore because they make him look stupid.”
He frowns. “He said that?”
“I think one of the other kids might have said it.”
“Whatever happened to kids just being nice?”
“Most kids are,” Bridget answers, taking the seat next to you, happy to rest her feet, even if it was just for a few seconds. You nod, agreeing with her. “But some just don't know how to play nice.”
“Doesn't explain why you're wearing yours.” Jack flicks his eyes away from Bridget, back to you.
“I'm thinking maybe if he sees me wearing mine, he won't feel as embarrassed to wear his,” you explain, unscrewing your water bottle. You take a sip, shrugging your shoulders. “It's not my most creative plan, but he didn't make a fuss when I asked him to put his glasses on this morning.”
Bridget touches your wrist. “It's a sweet plan, hun.”
“D’you think I should start wearing mine more around him?”
“You've already been mistaken for his grandpa once before,” you tease, giving his foot a soft tap under the table. “Might just happen a few more times if you go around in those old man frames.”
Jack grins, tapping your foot back.
“Y/L/N?” Mateo pokes his head around the break room door. You glance at him, eyebrows arching, not liking the droop of his mouth and the panic in his eyes. “It's your patient in 18. Mrs Simmons.”
4:48 AM
Jack finds you in your usual hiding spot, bottom of the stairwell, obscured by a potted plant, head in your hands, body hunched over to make yourself look as small as possible. It works. People pass by without acknowledging you. Or maybe they do, but decide not to. He approaches quietly, knees cracking as he lowers himself down to join you, a groan rolling easily off his mouth.
“It-”
“Don't,” you mumble, voice muffled and broken, “I don't want one of your motivational speeches right now.”
Jack snaps his jaw shut, lips pursed together tightly. He tips his head back, meeting the wall behind, and looks up at the ceiling.
He remembers the first time he found you here, two months into your residency, the first glimpse of what was really behind that stubborn exterior. Multiple deaths from a vehicle pile up would do that to you. There was no motivational speech that night. He just sat and waited with you until you were ready to go back to work.
A few months later, you would ask him why he did that, and he would just shrug and mumble something about it feeling right in the moment.
It's in this spot, that he found out you were pregnant. And for all of thirty seconds, his world came crumbling down.
He hadn't thought about a life that involved children. Not ever, not really. Was there even a justifiable reason to bring a kid into a word that couldn't get its shit together? His thirties mostly consisted of friends with kids asking when it was going to be his turn. It came down to him making the decision that if it didn't happen before he was forty, then it just wasn't meant to be. And then you stormed into the Pitt, all stubborn, not backing down from a challenge, matching his every step.
A drunken decision became his whole world and he wouldn't take it back.
“Can I talk yet?”
“No,” you gruff out, but know it won't be enough to stop him. He'll say whatever speech he has stored up and you would just have to listen.
“It wasn't your fault,” he says, voice soft, trying to comfort you. He hesitates, but reaches out, settling his hand on the back of your neck. “Come here,” is all he mumbles, cupping your head as you fall against his side. His thumb strokes slowly, making patterns in your hair. “It wasn't your fault,” he repeats, emphasizing each word.
Your fingers play with your scrubs, hands dropping from your face and into your lap. Jack tucks you beneath his chin, and you welcome his warmth and comfort in one big breath.
Your bottom lip wobbles. “It was.”
“No, it wasn't.” He trails his hand down your back and drapes his arm around your middle, holding you tighter. “You followed every procedure, this was just one of those things that snuck up on us.”
“It shouldn't have,” you disagree, always the hardest on yourself. “I should've caught it before it was too late. I'm better than that.”
“Look at me.” You do, chin turned upwards, sniffling as you fight to keep the tears away. “We're human, but we're not perfect, okay?” He dips his head, looking at you directly. “We try things. We make mistakes. We fall, we get hurt, but we always rise up again. This one thing doesn't make you a bad doctor. How many mistakes have you made with Auggie? Doesn't make you a bad mom doesn't it now?” His thumb brushes away the first tear, calloused pad rough against your cheek. “You're a damn good doctor. I'd tell you if I thought otherwise.”
A small smile plays on your lips. If Jack blinked he would miss it. “You can't just let me feel defeated once, can you?” You huff, feigning your annoyance.
He takes his arm from around you, letting you sit up. “I can't, I like your smile too much to see you upset.” You glance at him wide-eyed and he just chuckles. Catching you off guard with subtle and not-so-subtle admissions was always fun for him.
“I'm not the one who needs to smile more,” you say, pushing your hands into the floor and standing up. Jack takes your hand as you offer it to him, groaning as he slowly gets up. “People might think you're less of a grump.”
He shakes his head. “I save my smiles for my two favourite people.”
You tilt your head. “Auggie and the waitress at Frankie’s?” Frankie’s was a diner still stuck in the seventies and the only place that made pancakes good enough for your son to eat. Jack did take offence to that.
“Okay, three people.” He points to you and counts you off on his opposite hand, “Auggie and Bertha,” two more fingers go up.
“Bertha’s been happily married for forty three years.”
“What Bertha and I have goes beyond marriage.”
You snort. “She only has a soft spot for you because you saved her husband from choking on bacon that one time.”
“And now I get my coffee for free.” He reaches out to fix your glasses. “You good?”
You shrug, a crooked smile twisting your mouth. “Is that twenty minute break still on offer?”
“Go,” he nods. “I'll find you if we need you.”
7:28 AM
Jack waits for you, his army rucksack slung over his left shoulder, mouth tight, forming a smile as you exited the hospital. “Everything good?”
“All good,” you mumble, nodding. “Just needed to give something to Dana.”
He tips his head, fishing his keys from his cargo pocket. “Something important?”
“Depends on your definition of important. I wrote a letter to Mrs Simmons's son.”
“Taking a leaf out of my own book, huh?” Warmth blooms behind his ribs. “Said everything you needed to say?”
Just about. Letters to the patient's loved ones was more Jack's thing, so you were unsure at first what you wanted to say, but once you started, it was hard to stop. The general stuff was in there, how sorry you were for his loss and how you had done everything possible in your power to keep her alive. But you also included how she was a beautiful and kind woman, someone who he could be proud of.
“I think so,” you say, giving a glance back at the double doors. The next forty eight hours would be bliss compared to the last twenty four you just had. “I picked up the extra hours to pay for Auggie's birthday present,” you turn back to him.
“Huh?”
“Last night, you asked me what I was still doing here, and, well, that's why.” You fix the strap looped over your shoulder, the front dotted with badges with various aquatic animals. It was like carrying a piece of Auggie with you to work. “It's a bike that's stupidly expensive but it's the only thing he's asked me for this year and I really want him to have it.”
His lips twitch. “The red one, with the white stripes on it?”
“Kinda matches his glasses?”
He hugs his arm around your shoulders. “Yeah, I already have it in my garage.” You gasp and give his side a soft punch. “Hey!” He groans, clutching your shoulder tighter, pulling you against him. “I didn't know he had asked you for it too.”
“I'm gonna kill you Jack Abbot,” you grumble, spinning out of his arm.
He chuckles, lips perked at the corners. “No, you're not. Who else is gonna take you to breakfast?”
You playfully roll your eyes. “You only want to go Frankie’s so you can see Bertha, I have nothing to do with.”
He swings the loop of his key chain around his finger. “Yeah, you're right.”
tagging: @livinginastory
short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd
fandom: top gun
pairing: bob x reader
summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...
notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)
warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)
word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)
your callsign is vex
Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t.
Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t.
But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you.
You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.
And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering.
“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?”
Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?”
“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily.
Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.”
Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him.
“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.”
Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…”
There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you.
“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?”
Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.”
Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?”
Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer.
“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?”
Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.”
“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.”
“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.”
Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.”
Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.
Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone.
At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself.
“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.”
Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him.
It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business.
Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
God, it fucking matters—way more than it should.
Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy.
And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does.
He lives for it.
“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—”
“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.”
“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.”
Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing.
But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a—
“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer.
Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.”
“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly.
Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them.
The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you.
The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains.
And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.
-
“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck.
But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar.
Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy.
“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head.
“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.”
The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew.
“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!”
He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought.
You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is.
Where Bob is.
You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served.
“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar.
You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer.
“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.”
She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.”
You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure.
Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses.
You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing.
“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners.
You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.”
He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?”
You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask.
You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?”
His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.”
You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?”
He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more.
You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.”
“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases.
“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.”
“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses.
Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar.
“Wow,” he chuckles softly.
You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.”
Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest.
“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.”
You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?”
He blinks fast. “No.”
You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.”
He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.”
You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in.
“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.”
You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away.
He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.”
Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good.
You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.”
Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.”
“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.”
She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.”
You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong.
After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date?
-
Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides.
Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops.
It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive.
“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.”
You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee.
“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?”
Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.”
“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut.
Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?”
“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.”
Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.”
“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.”
He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely.
“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.”
You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?”
Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?”
“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee.
There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?”
Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side.
“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.”
Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.”
Your brows shoot up. “That so?”
He nods.
You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.”
His eyes snap open. “Huh?”
“Want to fuck me?”
He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?”
Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy.
Well... almost everyone.
Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank.
Which means he’s definitely listening.
You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes.
“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence.
Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?”
You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.”
“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees.
“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks.
Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.”
“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?”
Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?”
You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank.
“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails.
“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?”
“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?”
You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.”
After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob.
The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals.
Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up.
By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark.
Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there.
You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when—
“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.
You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet.
“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.”
You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show.
“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.”
“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close.
Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.”
Your heart stutters.
He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes.
“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea.
Bob stills for a beat. Just one.
Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.”
You swear your knees nearly give.
But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something.
“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?”
You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.”
He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word.
You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1.
It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him.
But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up.
You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check.
Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet.
“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.”
“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.”
“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.”
You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.”
His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating.
“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.”
Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?”
There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through.
“Yes. Because they do it quietly.”
Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!”
More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops.
“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.”
“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.”
You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order?
“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.”
You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.”
“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution.
“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest.
“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.”
You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature.
“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?”
“Copy,” Jake replies.
You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical.
You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn.
“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?”
“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved.
“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can.
“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.”
You and Jake return to formation without issue.
“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.”
There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel.
Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.”
“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.”
“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.”
Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs.
Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl.
The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground.
You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room.
By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed.
In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you.
“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.”
You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip.
“I didn’t mean to undermine you.”
“Sure felt like it,” you mutter.
“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.”
You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.”
“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—”
“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.”
His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”
You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice.
“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.”
“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.”
His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch.
Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch.
“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”
“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?”
Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses.
You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life.
“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?”
He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.”
Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.”
You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.”
Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?”
Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?”
He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.”
Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes.
“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?”
Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha.
You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?”
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.”
You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.”
“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.”
You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place.
“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.”
-
Unfortunately, later never comes.
You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home.
The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home.
The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down.
When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.
“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow.
You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?”
He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?”
You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place.
“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.”
Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?”
“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.”
Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable.
“Wow,” he mutters.
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.”
You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?”
“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”
You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—”
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.”
He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps.
And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him.
“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.”
“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”
“Trev!”
He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room.
Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling.
Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them.
But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest?
Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take.
All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance.
At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word.
The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot.
“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley.
Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.”
Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.”
“What am I?” she asks.
“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan.
Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?”
“Yep,” Bradley chuckles.
“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.”
You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?”
They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away.
You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes.
When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.”
“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?”
You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing.
“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence.
He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.”
There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over.
Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?”
You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest.
You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him.
“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.”
Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked.
You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs.
“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet.
The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex.
“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.”
Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame.
“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.”
“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?”
Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try.
“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.”
Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing.
“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.”
Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing.
Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing.
“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?”
Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside.
By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin.
“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.”
“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.”
You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.”
Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile.
You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.”
He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting.
“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.”
You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.”
There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins.
“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.”
There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t.
You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention.
Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder.
You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you.
When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather.
Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.”
Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.”
Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.”
Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.
You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him.
“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.”
You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.”
The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round.
You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night.
And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket.
You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return.
This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands.
You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.
You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.
And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?
Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you.
“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.”
You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is.
“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands.
You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.”
“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.”
Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?”
Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest.
“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.”
“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists.
His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch.
“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.”
Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale.
“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…”
You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering.
“That’s… yeah. Perfect.”
He freezes.
You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid.
And then you feel it.
Oh.
Oh.
You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted.
“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.”
You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg.
“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly.
Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.”
Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.”
You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast.
Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you.
“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh.
You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge.
“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters.
Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.”
Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.”
You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.”
They all look at you, confused.
“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply.
The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief.
You frown. “What?”
“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.”
You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look.
“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.”
“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.”
“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.”
Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?”
“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.”
Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?”
You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.”
“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?”
The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn.
“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug.
“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.”
Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you.
“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.”
“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.”
Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?”
You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.”
“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?”
“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.”
The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief.
“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group.
Everyone falls silent.
“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.”
Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.”
He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes.
Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place.
After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy.
You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone.
“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?”
He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.”
You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?”
His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—”
You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.”
He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face.
You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.”
He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra.
He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you.
“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?”
He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place.
“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?”
There’s a pause. An awkward pause.
The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists.
“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.”
Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor.
You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.”
Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut.
- Bob -
“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.
Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters.
“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.”
She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.”
Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat.
Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car.
As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him.
“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?”
Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.”
There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad.
“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in.
Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.”
“I know,” Bob huffs.
He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight.
“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?”
Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.”
“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.”
“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.”
Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.”
“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.”
Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.”
Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.”
Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.”
They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest.
He barely sleeps that night.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade.
He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick.
Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him.
After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’
An hour passes. Nothing.
And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you.
By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore.
The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings.
It’s worse—because it’s you.
You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately.
The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try.
Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.
And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now.
Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island.
He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric.
Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him…
He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times.
His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs.
The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you.
“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.”
His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
“I—uh, Trevor?”
Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead.
He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—”
“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep.
Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!”
“What?”
He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest.
Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now?
“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.”
Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down.
Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it?
But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait.
Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were.
God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted?
- You -
“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back.
You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.”
Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?”
You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.”
Trevor gasps—loudly.
“But he said no.”
He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?”
“Because he has laundry to do.”
Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.”
“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.”
He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?”
You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.”
Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought.
You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face.
“Trevor…”
He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?”
You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.”
He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.”
You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop.
You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all.
But deep down, you know the truth.
Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago.
And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd.
You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken.
The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift.
Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob.
The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down.
Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew.
“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room.
You give her a tight smile.
“Feeling any better?”
You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open.
Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you.
Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed.
Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry.
You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated.
It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers.
You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve.
“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.”
Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room.
You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule.
Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it.
Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves.
You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded.
Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before.
But still, your hands stay tight on the controls.
You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still.
Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike.
You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet.
Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.”
You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely.
“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.”
You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.”
You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration.
It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race.
You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle.
“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.”
You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it.
“Vex—” he tries again.
“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line.
Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams.
Your heart lurches.
Terrain. Too close. Too fast.
“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!”
You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur.
“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—”
“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!”
“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—"
Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest.
You’re not going to make it.
Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard.
The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below.
Then—freefall.
The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine.
But you’re too low. Far too low.
You don’t even have time to brace.
You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop.
White-hot pain detonates through you.
Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream.
And then… everything goes still.
Muted.
Quiet.
Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.
-
You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet.
It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it.
The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital.
The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture.
You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace.
“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible.
There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement.
A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier.
“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile.
He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.
He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button.
You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in.
“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
You clear your throat. “Thirsty.”
She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position.
“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now.
The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.”
You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets.
He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you.
“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?”
You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way.
Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?”
You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.”
He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting.
“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says.
You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.”
You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back.
“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.”
Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—”
“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.”
You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—”
“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—”
The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.”
Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.”
Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out.
His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back.
After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic.
Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air.
You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable.
But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist.
When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate.
The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse.
But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it.
Great. Another win.
Two whole days pass, and still no word.
You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t.
All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened.
At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it.
Even if it kills you.
By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands.
Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door.
You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining.
It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment.
You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you.
Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode.
It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk.
Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan.
And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait.
At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment.
Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding.
The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out.
Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction.
“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him.
He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together.
“What are you doing here?”
You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?”
He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches.
“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.”
You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.”
He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance.
“That all you came to talk about?” he asks.
You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?”
He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.”
The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible.
“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside.
He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place.
You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow.
“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you.
He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him.
“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips.
He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet.
“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance.
He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent.
“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen.
You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.”
He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient.
He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible.
“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?”
You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves.
“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.”
You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks.
Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.”
He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time.
“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—”
“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal.
You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?”
“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.”
He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso.
“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?”
You shake your head. “I know why you said no.”
His brow creases. “You do?”
You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—”
He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?”
You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.”
His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob.
“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?”
He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart.
“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.”
He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit.
“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?”
His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—”
He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back.
“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.”
He laughs again, broken this time.
“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?”
He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting.
You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head.
“Love?” you whisper.
He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath.
“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.”
Your heart lurches into your throat.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—”
“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to.
He blinks. “What?”
“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.”
Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out.
You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.”
The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence.
The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down.
“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly.
You nod. “Hangman.”
He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—”
“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?”
He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—”
“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?”
You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg.
“I know I had no right,” he mutters.
“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—”
His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.
It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.
His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second.
You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in.
And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos.
His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in.
You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half.
There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going.
Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.”
You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.”
“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering.
His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch.
Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg.
“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.”
He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling.
“I’m so sorry,” he gasps.
You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.”
He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue.
Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?”
You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.”
He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.”
Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?”
He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.”
“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.”
He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury.
Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?”
The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening.
“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire.
Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally.
So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”
END.
hello + welcome! i’m ash (she/they), fic writer in my mid 20s based in the pacific northwest. i mostly write marvel x reader fics—heavy on bucky barnes for now, but more to come!
my work contains everything from tragic endings and emotional gut punches to soft fluff and chaotic banter. i do tend to lean toward darker themes, but every piece is tagged with content warnings!
requests are currently closed!
see what i'm currently working on here
↓ masterlist below the cut ↓
bucky barnes x reader
drabbles/headcannons:
five times he almost did: five times bucky didn’t say ‘I love you’—and one time he did.
short reads (<6k):
margin of error: you skip the med bay after a mission that left you bruised and bleeding to keep bucky from finding out you’re hurt—not realizing he’s home early.
interim measures: (thunderbolts/bucky x reader) after officially moving into avengers tower, the team is still figuring out how to coexist. game night doesn’t help, but it does bring its own kind of messy, necessary magic.
something worth holding: you bring bucky flowers for his birthday—something no one has ever given him—and what starts as a simple gesture turns into something far more significant.
under the snowfall: snowed in at a safe house, you start a snowball fight with bucky, sam, and joaquin, and chaos quickly follows.
long reads (6k+):
a place to land: after a night out goes violently wrong, you call bucky—without knowing what you’re even asking for. he shows up anyway, staying long after the worst of it, until you finally start to believe you’re safe.
hold fast: a mission goes sideways, forcing you to cross a frozen lake. the ice doesn’t hold, and when you go under, Bucky is the only thing between you and the dark.
high water: you’ve stopped keeping track of the bruises. bucky hasn’t—and he doesn’t say anything, not until the patterns start looking too much like his own.
into the void: (THUNDERBOLTS SPOILERS) inside the void, nothing is real, but the trauma is. as memory turns to ruin, bucky is found by the only person who ever made him believe he could survive what was done to him.
fault lines: after getting laid off from your job, you're doing everything you can to keep it together. bucky—your partner, your constant—refuses to let you go through the unraveling alone.
the shape of a life: you didn’t plan to become a guardian overnight—and you never planned to ask bucky for help. he wants a future you’re not sure you believe in, and now you’re both standing at the edge of it.
no way but through: a snowstorm swallows the world whole, leaving you and bucky stranded in the middle of nowhere during a mission with no way out.
a love letter to stone: you were bucky’s fiancée, a love left unfinished by war, spending decades at his grave, never moving on. but when he finally comes home—broken, free, too late—you’re already gone.
salt in the blood: you live in a quiet fishing town far from the mess of politics, superheroes, and global conflicts. at least, you did, until a stranger with sharp eyes, a metal arm, and a haunted look shows up at your dock asking for a boat. (dark themes, slow burn)
series:
a seat at the table | congressman!bucky x journalist!reader
journalism was supposed to be about the truth. politics was supposed to be about power. when bucky barnes—former assassin, reluctant congressman—leaves you with more questions than answers, you find yourself caught in a different kind of story. leads into thunderbolts* part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5
point of impact | civil war!avengers/bucky x transported!reader
in your world, the avengers are fiction—comics, movies, nothing more. then a lab experiment goes wrong, and you wake up mid-civil war with no way out and no script to follow. part 1
it’s not what you think | avengers tower au
OLD FIC! you come to the avengers tower late at night with a black eye and bucky finds out it was caused by your abusive boyfriend. (old fic, beware of subpar writing!) part 1 | part 2 | rewrite coming soon???
steve rogers x reader
oneshots:
a place to burn: you and steve were lovers once—until the accords split the team and you chose tony. now three years after the snap, a failed mission forces you back into his orbit, where five years of silence finally demands an answer.
peter parker x reader
oneshots:
saudade: OLD FIC! you wait for your best friend peter to come back after heading towards a spaceship in the sky while on a field trip so you can tell him how you really feel.
Writing Worksheets & Templates
will update this every few weeks/months. alternatively, here are all my tagged Writing Worksheets & Templates
Chapter Outline ⚜ Character- or Plot-Driven Story
Death & Sacrifice ⚜ Magic & Rituals ⚜ Plot-Planning
Editing: Sentence Check ⚜ Writing Your Novel: 20 Questions
Tension ⚜ Thought Distortions ⚜ What's at Stake
Character Development
50 Questions ⚜ Backstory ⚜ Character Creation
Antagonist; Villain; Fighting ⚜ Protagonist & Antagonist
Character: Change; Adding Action; Conflict
Character: Creator; Name; Quirks; Flaws; Motivation
Character Profile (by Rick Riordan) ⚜ Character Sheet Template
Character Sketch & Bible ⚜ Interview your Character
Story-Worthy Hero ⚜ "Well-Rounded" Character Worksheet
Worldbuilding
20 Questions ⚜ Decisions & Categories ⚜ Worksheet
Setting ⚜ Dystopian World ⚜ Magic System (AALC Method)
Templates: Geography; World History; City; Fictional Plant
References: Worldbuilding ⚜ Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs
all posts are queued. send questions/requests here.
ask me and i'm there | masterlist
— summary: There's a shelf in Jack Abbot's head with all of the things he stores to deal with later. It's concerning how many of those things have to do with you.
— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but assumption is reader is late 20s and up while jack is mid-40s, not as pertinent to the plot but its there), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, grief, medical inaccuracies, eventual smut, mild sexual content, jack abbot and city girl being the best at doing everything but admitting feelings <3
*amount of chapters and titles are subject to change depending on my mood ;)
part one: bias
part two: where you are
part three: the lonely fight
part four: new faces in the dark
part five: holding on
part six: silver springs
part seven: into the feeling
extra:
Knicks in the playoffs (drabble)
a/n: the amount of love and support that this has gotten has been so mind-blowing. i read all of it and want you all to know that you have fueled my love for this story. thank you all for reading :)
this story is named after a fleetwood mac lyric, because he is so fleetwood mac coded to me.
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