🕸 Your Web, I’m Caught (the 1st) 🕸

I call him Joey, just to feel something

so there we go.

Eddie Munson fanfiction (updated 29 December 2024)

Only Now - 18+ angst, lil smutty Summary: Eddie needs time off from fame, touring, fans, groupies - it all eats him alive and makes him something else if he’s not careful. He needs Hawkins, needs his old friends, needs you to ground him, so he visits every couple of months. It’s the middle of December when he stops by for a few days and lets all of you pretend you’re momentarily back in ’88, and it’s beautiful, but it hurts. A lot.  Wordcount: 9.5K

Over Now - 18+ angst, lil smutty Summary: A sequel to “Only Now” in which you have moved away from Hawkins which, you find out fast enough, is something you should have done much sooner. When Eddie comes to visit Hawkins once more, and you're not there? Oof. Wordcount: 9.6K

Then Again - 18+ angst, lil smutty Summary: This part follows “Only Now” and “Over Now”. Since your last visit, Eddie spiraled, and Eddie spiraled hard. An exciting event brings all of you, the whole gang, back into a room together and even though time has passed, and everyone seems to have moved on… have you? Wordcount: 9.8K

Never Over - 18+ angst Summary: This is the fourth installment of this story, following “Only Now”, “Over Now” and “Then Again”. You agreed to have coffee with Eddie, because Eddie needs to speak to you. Sure, he wrote that letter, but he needs to have an actual conversation. You do, and then, afterwards, it sort of… all just, goes to shit. Wordcount: 10.7K

--- Not Enough - 18+ angst Summary: Eddie’s hauled you off to LA because, turns out, when you’re not throwing your life away on booze and drugs, opportunities tend to lead to more opportunities. LA’s amazing, and Eddie’s amazing, and suddenly life is all about sun-freckles and exciting accomplishments but… something’s missing. Wordcount: 5.2K

One More - 18+ angst Summary: Steve’s there, in LA, and something’s terribly wrong. Instead of being the adults that you are, you decide it’s more fun to pretend to be twenty-one again, but… Eddie’s not as amused. Wordcount: 5.3K

That's It - 18+ fluff mostly, mentions of smut Summary: Steve is there to stay, and you fall into a new routine together, the three of you, old buddies back to their old ways. Except, no, this is actually nothing like your old ways, is it? Wordcount: 6.2K

No Regrets - 18+ angsty, fluffy, lil smutty Summary: Steve’s figuring it out, and Eddie flies Robin in to help. To speak some sense into the ether, to be the true voice of reason that you all need. Some things just come in threes, don’t they? Wordcount: 4.7K

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Let's Go Home - angsty, hurt/comfort Summary: It's getting close to Christmas, and Eddie finds himself in a seasonal depression that feels different. Worse. Unfixable. You do what you can to help, some measures more drastic than others. Wordcount: 6.2K

-> full masterlist ♥ -> back to home ♥

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freaks, creeps, and weirdos - chapter one

eddie munson x fem!reader

fic summary: y/n escaped hawkins lab years ago, and teame dup with the crew to help them take down every monstrosity they've faced so far. with the threat of vecna looming over hawkins, yours and el's powers will be needed more than ever. for now, you have to blend in with the rest of town. but everything you think you know about living a normal life gets turned upside-down when you meet eddie munson.

chapter summary: it's your first day of school. ever. like, ever ever. all you want to do is focus on getting through the day. but among all those giving you a hard time, you make a new friend who is anything but normal.

warnings: sfw. soft! naive! reader. bullying, teasing, reader doesn't understand social cues. she/her pronouns for reader. hopper is basically reader's adoptive dad, though technically she's 18. steve is her bestie.

a/n: this chapter makes me ache. i was bullied a lot in school. undiagnosed autism and being a geek will do that to you, yk? i wish i had someone like eddie to help me out! this is the first part of an ongoing series that takes place during '85-'86, with a happier ending for eddie (pinky swear!). this is a slow-burn, sweet and sexy romance. and enjoy!

chapter one: take a seat

"If you change your mind and want me to pick you up, just call me, okay?" Steve told you for the billionth time that morning. "The phone is in the front office. You know where that is?"

"No, but neither do Mike, Lucas, Max, or Dustin." You look at him with a knowing glare. "And their parents are not talking to them like this."

"Okay, enough with the snark," he said, tongue poking the inside of his cheek. That meant he was kidding, but he was getting tired of the parent joke.

You'd learned how to read Steve like that, the same way you'd learned how to understand that Nancy's tight smile meant something was wrong that she didn't want to talk about. You'd learned it all through time and their graciousness. Robin and Jonathan had been kind enough to let you know when you'd misread a situation, or what a figure of speech meant, or when Max was being sarcastic. Ugh. Sarcasm. You still hadn't mastered that yet.

And now you had a school full of people to learn how to read. You hoped they would be patient with you.

Despite your nerves -- despite Steve giving you a much safer option -- you opened up the passenger side door and stepped out. You were parked right out front, cars and busses rolling by. You felt like a rock in a stream, students coursing around you like water.

Voices crashed over you like waves. Loud, invasive, like pins pricking at your brain. Your grasped your backpack straps, trying to ground yourself. You glanced back at Steve. His head was bent, peeking out the window at you over his sunglasses, hands on the wheel. He lifted his fingers in a small wave. You waved back, forcing a smile, then returned your grip to your backpack straps.

You took a deep breath and made your way up the steps. As you went, you put up a mental barrier, like Papa had taught you. The voices that stung you like barbs fell away. Reading minds was, as Steve had put it, "useful, but a little creepy." Who knew being around so many people thinking so many thoughts at once would hurt? You'd only found that out when Steve had dragged you to Starcourt Mall on opening day and you had a panic attack. You'd spent the next two days at Hopper's cabin in a dark room, nursing a migraine.

But since that day, you'd become better at blocking out everyone's thoughts. You read minds only when it suited you. Moved objects with your gaze alone. That was simple. It was the rest of being a normal teenager that scared you.

It took you ten minutes to find your classroom, and another five to figure out how to open your locker. For a second, you panicked, worried you'd be late, and nearly used your abilities to bust the thing open. But then you spotted Nancy in a nearby cluster of students. She gave you a smile, but her eyes were dark with concern. You didn't want to disappoint her, or make her worry over nothing. Finally, you relaxed and got it open.

She and Robin had promised to look after you, but there wasn't much they could do about adjusting your timetable. That meant you only had one class with each of them, and the others you would spend alone -- including your homeroom class. You gnawed at your lower lip as you stepped into the classroom and took a seat. Everyone was chattering. Tossing wadded up balls of paper, discussing their summers, comparing timetables. They were all so different. Some girls had skirts and lipstick and bows, others wore all black with torn jeans and painted nails. There were tall, muscled guys in green-and-gold jackets, while others wore smart dress shirts and glasses or had plain tees with long, messy hair.

"That's my seat."

You looked up and saw the most beautiful girl you'd ever seen. She looked like she could be on a magazine cover, with her teased blond hair and bright, poppy clothes. She carried a pink handbag instead of a backpack, and her lips were the same vibrant colour.

"Uhm, hell-o? Did you hear me?"

You blinked. "Oh, uh. This is your seat?" You didn't know they assigned seats. You looked around, searching for your name on the other seats. "Sorry. Where is mine?"

The girl scoffed, her brows pulling together. "What did you just say to me?"

"Where is my seat?" you repeated, gathering your bag and standing. You walked up and down the row, searching for some sign. The girl slid into her official seat, and two others sat down beside and behind her. They were all so glamourous, dressed brightly and made up like models. They whispered frantically, giggling.

A bell rang. Everyone in the classroom watched you, probably wondering why you were wandering around so much. Your cheeks were hot. Why hadn't Robin and Nancy warned you about this?

"Ahem."

You looked over your shoulder. An adult, the teacher you assumed, stood at the head of the class. Her eyes were on you, her foot tapping. Impatience.

"What's your name?"

"Y/N." You'd picked it out of a magazine a few years ago, after learning 'Three' wasn't an ideal name for a normal teenager to have.

"Well, Y/N, would you kindly take your seat so we can begin class?"

You looked around again. There were still a couple seats empty. "W-Which one?"

A collective snicker rippled through the classroom. Everyone was smirking, except for the teacher; her smile was tight, like Nancy's. She swept her hand across the sea of seats.

"Whichever you'd prefer."

To save yourself further embarrassment, you picked the closest one and plunked down. The teacher introduced herself as Ms. Clarke, and class began just as everyone had told you it would. You kept stealing glances at the girls -- especially the one in your old seat. They looked back at you, too, then they'd laugh and whisper something to each other.

It made no sense. All you could understand was that you'd done something wrong. You resolved to ask Robin in your next class, and tried to pay attention. Nancy had taught you how to take notes, so you did that. But every so often, your mind would wander back to that transaction. The girls obviously knew what happened. So did everyone else in the class. All you had to do was reach out with your mind and do a little prodding...

No. That was wrong. Everyone had told you to not do that. (Well, Max said it might be fun.) But Hopper and Joyce had told you to respect everyone's privacy and keep out of their heads. So you stopped yourself, though curiosity nearly killed you before finally the bell rang, dismissing you.

\

"I still do not understand," you said to Robin as you walked to the cafeteria together. "What was so funny?"

You had filled her in on the transaction with the girls in class -- the one who had spoken to you was called Jennifer, you'd learned, and Robin had just called the others the Clones.

She lifted her shoulders. "I mean, maybe the fact that you didn't know? Which is terrible, I know, but they're idiots; they laugh at awful things."

"Should I... apologize?"

"No! Ew, no, don't apologize to any of them. You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then what do I do?" You couldn't imagine spending the rest of the semester, each and every day, sitting in class with them laughing at you. At how... stupid you were.

"Ignore them. They'll forget all about it by tomorrow, and then you can just leave them alone."

You fought back a frown as you joined the food line. You knew it was wrong for them to laugh at you, but you wanted to be accepted at school. In the movies at Steve and Robin's job, girls like Jennifer were in charge of the social scene. You wanted to get on her good side.

"I guess," you sighed.

You stepped into the cafeteria and quickly spied Nancy sitting with a group of well-dressed students. They looked kind of nerdy, if you were to quote the movies. Robin was called over by members of the band. Every other table was filled with all sorts of people, and just like in the classroom, you had no idea where to sit.

"You can come with me," Robin whispered. "My friends would love you! Or you can sit with Nancy, if you want."

You weren't sure. Before you could make a decision, someone stood up. He was wearing a green-and-gold jacket with a tiger's face on it, and had shiny, blond hair. He shot you a white smile as he approached.

"Y/N, right? You're Chief Hopper's niece."

You didn't know what to say, so you just nodded.

"I'm Jason. Jason Carver." He offered you his hand to shake. "I'm captain of the basketball team, and you may have met Chrissy, my girlfriend." He stepped aside a little, and you looked past him to see his table. Among his friends, all of them clad in green-and-gold as well, you saw a petite girl with bangs in a cheerleader uniform. She gave you a soft smile and a wave.

"N-Not yet," you stammered out, shaking his hand. His grasp was warm and firm.

"Why not meet her now? Come and sit with us." He gave you another winning smile. "We want you to feel welcome here."

You glanced at Robin, as if for permission. She nodded.

"Go on. I'll see you after school."

You let Jason lead you over to the table, which was already crowded. Chrissy shifted a little, allowing you space beside her. When you sat, you were bombarded with more names and smiles. They all flew over you head. All that mattered was that you were sitting with the cool people, the pretty people, and -- most importantly -- the nice people. They took your timetable and passed it around, searching for classes you had together.

"So, Y/N, where are you from?" Chrissy asked.

"Canada," you replied. You'd rehearsed everything. Your name, your age, you place of birth, why you had transferred, your plans after high school. They could ask you any question, and you knew the answer.

"Where did you get that shirt?"

Except that one.

The one who had asked you sat across from you. She was in a cheerleader outfit, too, with hair black as oil. Her hand reached out, perfectly manicured fingers brushing the long, plaid sleeve of your shirt.

"Uh... A shop."

"A charity shop?"

"Yeah," you nodded, clinging to the suggestion. A few people smirked. Chrissy rolled her eyes.

"Mary, please."

"I was just asking! I think it looks nice on you, Y/N. You look like a lumberjack. Fitting, since you're from Canada."

You pursed your lips. You didn't know much, but you could understand some insults. Everyone had a chuckle at that. Even Jason snorted, but Chrissy smacked his arm.

"Oh, would you look at that!"

A familiar voice came from behind you, shrill and coddling. You turned to see Jennifer flouncing up with her Clones. She shot you a smirk with a wrinkled nose, as if she were cooing at a baby.

"Aw, she found her seat! Good job." She accentuated the last two words with a couple claps.

You felt eyes on you, more eyes than you were comfortable with. You needed to fix this. You had a chance at befriending the popular kids, sealing the deal and ensuring that your first and last year in high school would be fun. You tipped your chin up, proud.

"Jennifer, right? I like your purse."

Her cool gaze shifted to her bag, then back to you. "O...kay?"

"I think maybe we should hang out some time."

Jennifer's Clones scoffed, while Jennifer took a cautionary step back.

"Why would I ever want to hang out with you? What are you, slow?"

"She is in the slow class next period," Mary said, waving your timetable. Chrissy snatched it away and slid it into your backpack.

Jennifer's mouth shifted to a big O shape. "That explains so much. Awh, she's a dumbass!"

"Excuse you!" you snapped. "That was so rude! Say you are sorry, right now."

"Or what? Gonna cry?" Jennifer pouted.

You felt Chrissy's hands on your shoulders. "Jen, that's enough."

Tears pricked at your eyes. This was all wrong. Your first day was supposed to be fun. You were supposed to make friends. But instead, Jennifer had her hands on her knees, bending to laugh in your face.

"Oh my God. She's crying."

Most of the cafeteria had turned to look at the commotion. A tear escaped and ran down your cheek, but you swiped it away with your sleeve. The sleeve of your stupid, ugly shirt. You'd just wanted to look like Joyce or Max, but instead you looked like an idiot.

You could feel your mental barrier cracking. Breaking away, piece by piece. You grasped at it, but it slipped from your control, and suddenly the voices came over you in a great wave.

She's so weird. She's such a freak. Ugh, math next period. Who is she? Jennifer, not again. She's in the fucking slow class, this is too much. I wonder what's for lunch tomorrow. Is that girl crying? Oh my God, is she staring, do I look okay? What a freak.

You sucked in a breath and, your lunch tray abandoned, stood up and made for the door. On your way, you bumped into one of the Clones. It wasn't very hard of a bump, but she went down, crying out dramatically.

"She pushed me! You saw her, she shoved me!"

"N-No I didn't." Panic rose in your chest.

Chrissy said something to you, but you couldn't hear her. Jason was on his feet. Mary was laughing, but Jennifer and her other Clone surrounded their friend, fawning over her. You could hear Robin's voice, and saw Nancy making her way to you.

Ew, gross. Does she have a nosebleed?

You swiped your hand under your nose, and it came back bright red. Your mental barrier was completely down. You scrambled to the doors. You just needed some fresh air.

"Whoa!"

You bumped right into someone's chest, nearly going down again. They hands grasped your upper arms, keeping you upright.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

You looked up to meet their eyes. They were big, soft, brown eyes, poring into yours with genuine concern and a little twinkle of amusement. He had long, brown hair, unruly curls. He still grasped you, his fingers decorated with silver rings that dug into your arms. He was all torn denim and leather, and he smelled of cigarettes. You knew his kind from the movies, too: trouble.

His gaze dipped over you, brow furrowing. "Hey, you okay? You're bleeding."

His grip on you loosened, and you stepped around him with a mumbled apology. You could barely untangle your own thoughts from the crowd, and were amazed that you found your way outside. The sun was hot, but the breeze had a sharp edge to it that helped clear your mind. Little by little, the roar of voices faded and left behind a pounding headache. You sank onto the pavement, your back against the building's hot bricks.

Nancy and Robin found you a few minutes later. Another miracle. Nancy assured you that she had told the monitoring teacher that it had all been an accident, and everyone at her table backed you up. Robin regaled you with how Chrissy snapped at Mary and Jason after you were gone. After Nancy gave you a pill to help ease the growing pressure in your head, you started to feel a little better.

That's what you told yourself, anyway. The day was almost over. You had Robin in your final period, and she'd look after you. All you had to do was get through one class. The slow class. You groaned inwardly. When Joyce had helped enroll you in school, they'd found out that while you were fine in math and science, you were way behind in English. They promised they would catch you up, and you hadn't thought anything of it. But now that Mary and Jennifer had made fun of you, you weren't so sure.

Into the classroom you walked, your head still aching, eyes downcast so you wouldn't meet anyone's gaze. Your other classes had at least twenty students. This one had only twelve, including you. You quickly found you seat (it could be any seat, Robin had assured you) far in the back of the room. Away from everyone else. The pill made everyone's inner voices hazy enough that you didn't feel guilty for spying in on them. You let your barrier fall, tuned the sound out so the roar of everyone's minds was a gentle hum, and waited for the bell to ring. When it did, the teacher at the front introduced himself as Mr. Wong. He was an older man, with soft edges and a gentle smile. He spoke slowly, looking you each in the eyes as he explained how class would go. You nodded along whenever he looked at you, and --

"Sorry I'm late, Mr. Wong."

You looked up to find the boy you'd ran into in the cafeteria standing in the doorway. He was red-cheeked, breathless, with his backpack slung over one shoulder. Mr. Wong's face creased with his frown.

"I thought you'd graduated, Mr. Munson."

"So did I," he laughed. "But then I realized I'd miss you too much."

Mr. Wong's frown only deepened. Sarcasm. You could catch that one. The boy slunk into the classroom and sat down right beside you. He brought along with him the stench of... skunk? You wrinkled your nose and tried to keep your focus on the lesson.

"Hey."

You pursed your lips and kept writing. The eraser end of a pencil poked you in the arm.

"Hey."

You looked over to find the boy had scooted closer to you.

"Yes?"

"I'm Eddie."

"I'm Y/N."

"Excuse me, Ms. Y/L/N, Mr. Munson." Mr. Wong gestured at both of you with a piece of chalk. "If you're going to be like this from day one, maybe I should separate you."

"S-Sorry," you stumbled, turning your focus back onto the lesson.

A few more minutes passed. Then, two ringed fingers slid a piece of paper onto your desk. You peeked over at Eddie. He had his gaze on the chalkboard, rapping his fingers against his knee.

You opened the paper. His writing was awful, but you could make out the message. Saw what happened at lunch. You okay?

You frowned. Great. Did everyone at school know what had happened? I am fine, you scribbled down. Then, Thanks.

You passed the note back. Surely, he wouldn't write anything el--

He slid another paper over. His eyes flickered to you, then back to the chalkboard. You looked around, finding a few people staring at you. Was he trying to get you in trouble? You opened the note.

Don't pay attention to those girls. If you need someone to sit with, you can sit with me and my friends.

You couldn't help but smile a little. You scrawled a quick thanks back to him, and that was it.

To his credit, Mr. Wong had a captivating way of teaching. He made sure to look everyone in the eyes, and only continued when he felt everyone understood the subject. And, to your credit, you did try to pay attention. You knew that Joyce would be disappointed if you failed, and you wanted to prove to everyone that you could succeed.

But every time your eyes drifted to your right, and you saw Eddie scribbling away beside you, you felt a flutter in your stomach. Maybe it was because you didn't have time to eat lunch. And taking a pill on an empty stomach was never a good idea. But at one point, Eddie caught your glance and smiled. It wasn't a glamourous, award-winning smile like Jason had given you. Eddie had this crooked grin, which he hid behind a lock of hair that he grabbed and pulled over his mouth. He looked like a little kid.

Your stomach tightened at his expression. He was just so... nice. And people like him, who dressed like him, were never nice in the movies. Then again, people like Steve were usually mean, and Steve was probably one of your best friends in the world. A guy like Hopper would be jaded and cold, but he had actually been soft and sweet in his own way. And you expected Nancy to be prissy and prude, but there was nothing prissy about the way she handled a shotgun. Almost everyone you'd met so far had been contradictory to what they seemed on the outside. Maybe this Eddie guy was different.

But you'd thought that about Jennifer, and Mary, and Jason. They even tried to take you in, to be nice to you. But that had all been a ploy to get you close only for them to snap the trap shut when you least expected it. What if this was a trick, too?

Eddie left straight after the bell rang, so you didn't have a chance to gauge his true intentions. You might have followed him out to the parking lot, if your head wasn't still pounding. Instead, you stepped out to find Steve sitting right where you'd left him. Did he even drive off after you went inside?

"Well? How was it?"

You hesitated. If you told him what had happened, he would never let you go back there again. But you hated lying to Steve.

So you shrugged. "It was good. The classes were sometimes boring. But it was not as scary as I thought, and I only got lost twice."

Steve grinned and started the car. "That's great! Everyone was nice, right?"

Robin was nice. Nancy was nice. Chrissy was nice. Eddie was nice. Who cared about anyone else? You nodded.

"And you made friends?"

You nodded again. At least, you thought you'd made friends. Steve's hands tapped away at the wheel, excited.

"That means you're okay to take the bus tomorrow, right? 'Cause I got an early shift at Family Video and I won't be able to drop you off."

"I guess so." You didn't see what the big deal was. But your hesitant answer had Steve's eyes on you as he backtracked.

"I mean, I can call Keith and ask him to switch my shift."

"No, I will," you said. It was part of the experience, right? You wanted to be a normal kid, and normal kids took the bus.

And they didn't wear oversized plaid shirts, apparently. You'd go through your closet when you got home to see if you had anything more appropriate. Maybe you'd lay out some magazines and compare outfits.

Not that you had any time. Joyce called you all the way from California, everyone there wondering how your first day went. She said that El's first day was great, and that Will looked out for her. "I'm so proud of you, sweetie," she kept saying. "You're gonna do great." Jonathan said the same thing, when he took the phone from his mom. "It'll be a piece of cake. Just stay away from the weirdos and you'll be fine."

They were all so excited for you, how were you supposed to tell them that there was nothing to be proud of? That you were the weirdo? Well, that didn't matter. You had messed up a little -- the clothes, the seating. But you would do better tomorrow.

Besides, you had someone to sit with. If he'd meant it, that is.

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18+ hoes (rough shiii)

Dom Eddie has a special place in my heart. Rough Eddie. Mean Eddie. His hand gripping your jaw so fucking tight it hurts. His fingers hooking over your bottom lip forcing your mouth open so he can spit right in it and make you swallow. His ringed fingers squeezing your throat until you see stars. Forceful and strong. Handprints across your ass. Yanking your hair back as he pounds your pussy. Welts and little bruises litter your skin. Because he knows that’s how you like it. It’s what you beg him for. But my favorite part is picturing Eddie after your ‘rough’ times. Goofy Eddie, sweet Eddie, always making sure to clean you up and take care of you. Making sure you know how good you were for him. How much you mean to him. It’s like a character he plays. I picture it almost like a switch. One second he can be fucking you until you can’t see straight and then it’s like normal Eddie is there and he’s just like “Holy fuck, sweetheart. Who was that in there? That guy’s a fucking freak.” while pouring you both a glass of chocolate milk.

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SPILL YOUR GUTS

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

practice boyfriend! eddie x fem! reader

summary: eddie’s your practice boyfriend. you’re positive he’s upset at you and you’re waiting for him to get mad. however, he has a different response in mind.

cw: references/allusions to past child abuse but extremely vague, references/allusions to bad relationships (also pretty vague), reader acts on a learned response and assumes the worst about Eddie, anxiety

tags/tropes: angst, hurt/comfort (my brand!) sappy sappy romantic idiots, they kiss and figure their mess out at the end

a/n: this came to me in a vision

summary makes this sound smutty but i promise it’s not. this accidentally became disgustingly romantic. read at your own risk :)

࣪˖ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

You’re positive Eddie’s mad at you.

Okay. Maybe positive is a strong word. But still.

You’ve only been fake/pretend/practice dating Eddie for about two weeks now. He’s the one who approached you with the offer— when you were in the Upside Down together, you’d made an off-hand comment about how you might die without ever having a real boyfriend- not one that mattered, anyway. It’s always kind of been a sore spot for you for a good portion of your life. Growing up, you didn’t really have the best relationship with your dad (Robin likes to call that “The understatement of the year, and we almost died.”) and out of the incredibly small handful of guys you’ve gone out with, none stuck around longer than a month and all ended in such equally, specifically, and uniquely horrific ways, you finally came to the conclusion you had to be fucking something up. What are the chances of all them ended so completely horribly?

After you all had decidedly not died in the Upside Down, Eddie approached you with an offer: pretend date him. You’re popular and well known enough that it’ll help get people off his back about the whole Chrissy/murders thing —even though he’s been absolved of all charges, the people of Hawkins hold grudges— and in exchange, you get a trial run of a relationship that won’t end unless you both agree too— you get to figure out what you’re doing wrong.

You feel bad about it, because even though you spend so much time together, you feel like a nervous wreck. All. The. Time.

You’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop— waiting for him to tell you that you’re too weird, that you’re not considerate enough, that you’re selfish, or that you talk too much.

But he never says any of it. All he ever tells you is the good things. He tells you how sympathetic you are, how kind you are, how good you are at remembering little details that matter. He tells you that you’re a good kisser.

(Yeah. Your first kiss, even after those failed relationships, ended up being with Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson. You’re not quite sure you’ll ever forget how you felt when his lips —just a little cracked, but not rough— met yours; when his hair tickled your face and you could faintly smell the cigarette smoke that stubbornly clings to all of his clothes, no matter how many times he washes them. You didn’t tell him he was your first. That’s something you decided you couldn’t bear to share.

You kind of have a feeling he knows anyway, though.)

It all sets you on edge. You’re under no reassurance that you’re perfect. You’re currently questioning if you’re tolerable, from a romantic standpoint.

You know how you are. You’re clinging and you drink up reassurance like a dying man in the desert. You linger in his casual touches like it’s the first and last time you’ll ever feel them. You know you’re a lot. You know. You know that guys in a relationship don’t want ‘a lot’, they want a pretty thing to hang off their arm and laugh at what they say.

But you just… can’t.

You tried, and you tried, and you tried. But you always ended up being too much, or it didn’t work out for some other reason. You want more. You want to feel safe, and happy, and cherished and loved and all those things that only happen in the movies.

The ironic part of all of this is that when you first started setting out terms for your arrangement, Eddie had told you flat out: “This will only work if you are completely and one-hundred percent yourself. You gotta lay it all on me, angel.”

And so you had, and now you regret it because he’s upset about something.

You’d come over to his trailer at his request to ‘hang out’ while he went over DND stuff for his next campaign. Eddie does this a lot— he calls them ‘Neutral Dates’ where you’re not really doing anything in particular- most of the time, you’re both doing seperate things, but still just being in each other’s presence.

It’s nice. The majority of your friend circle consists of everyone involved with the Upside Down and that entire mess. You two are no Steve and Robin (you’re convinced those two have the kind of bond no one can replicate or break. Like the kind of bond stray cats get and then they have to be adopted together) but it’s still nice. To just be with someone.

Even if you feel like you’re walking on eggshells.

It’s not always eggshells. Sometimes, for a a few moments, you forget. You forget it’s all pretend. You forget he’s just a friend helping a friend fulfill a goal. That’s all.

You’ve almost forgotten just now, too— you’re too concerned about what you might’ve done.

He’s not acting angry, per-se, but he’s definitely upset. You tend to pick up on this kind of thing: small changes in someone’s personality or body language. Most of the time it’s not a conscious habit.

Most of the time.

Right now, he’s run his hands through his hair about a million times. It’s become a frizzy mess behind him, and when you’d made an offhand joke about it —an attempt to lighten the mood— all he’d done was scowl. Not at you, really, but the message was there. You’d snapped your jaw shut so fast you’re pretty sure he heard your teeth click.

After that he’d frustratedly made tea for the both of you, which consisted of opening the cupboards faster than he usually did, closing them slightly louder than he usually does, and drumming his fingers impatiently on the stove-top while he waited for the kettle to boil.

All of this you observed from the corner of your eye while ‘reading’ on the couch.

And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, when you’d finally mustered up the courage to speak again, a little joke about a part in the book you were reading, all he’d said was a flat:

“That’s great, babe.”

You’re starting to get antsy. Nervous. Maybe you should go? Unless he gets upset at you leaving. That would be bad. But he’s clearly upset with you being here, so maybe you should go.

While you’re debating the pros and cons of leaving, you try to remain as still and silent as possible. No need to upset him anymore by moving too much or being too loud.

You flip a page in the book you’re no longer reading (he might notice you’re not paying attention to it anymore) and decide to test the waters again.

“The author just spelled restaurant wrong. That’s the third spelling mistake I’ve caught in this book.”

“Hmm.”

Okay. So that was worse. Talking to him is out of the question, then. It must be something you did, to warrant this kind of reaction.

You wrack your brain, trying to think of anything you could’ve done in recent hours to make him upset, but you can’t think of anything.

You glance slightly to the right— not far enough that he’ll see you looking at him, but far enough to get a better look at him in your peripheral. He’s glaring down at his campaign notebook. Shit, he looks so angry.

Unbidden, tears begin to well in your eyes and you try to shift, trying to angle yourself away from him enough that he can’t see the tears in your eyes.

But your hand shifts, knocking into his leg.

Fuck. “Sorry!”

You yank you arm back as if burned, jolting back on the couch so you’re in no danger of touching him. “I’m sorry!”

He sits up, immediately snapping to attention at the desperation coloring your voice. “Woah woah, hey. Hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

You take a steadying breath. “Did I do something wrong?”

He blinks blankly at you. Oh shit, you’re supposed to know that you’ve done something wrong.

“I mean,” You hurry to correct, “I know I— Can you tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it?”

Understanding floods his features and you brace yourself, ready for the reprimand.

“Can I touch you?”

Now it’s your turn to stare with confusion. You nod once, briefly thinking about how weird it is to ask for permission first.

He sits up on the couch, facing you with his legs crossed, the couch springs squeaking loudly at his movement. You resist the urge to wince. He reaches out with a slow hand, taking the hand that’s still clenched, held away from him and up near your chest.

He stares down at your hand, holding it with his left hand and tracing delicate shapes on it with his right. His ringed fingers drag lines around your knuckles and veins, lingering occasionally over the odd, old scar.

“How long did you think I was upset with you?”

Your heart is racing, muscles tensed and ready to bolt. “Um. A few hours? Maybe?”

You’re hyper-aware of the grip he has on your hand, and how quickly and easy it could become crushing.

It doesn’t.

“Bug,” He says slowly after a moment. At first he used to use pet names as a joke— it was something you’d laugh at, between the two of you, since the relationship wasn’t real.

But recently, he’s been saying them with a different inflection in his tone. A little less teasing, a lot more fond.

“Have you spent the past few hours afraid that I was mad at you?”

He sounds… sad. Which is confusing. It doesn’t— he was. He was.

“But you were,” You say, suddenly unsure about anything and everything. “You were upset.”

“I was upset because I couldn’t work this part of the campaign out, and i’m dramatic. I was never mad at you, honey. I was never mad at you.”

You frown, gears turning in your head. “When I made that joke about your hair, you glared at me. And then when I tried to talk to you, you were upset. You didn’t want to talk.”

“I was jokingly glaring at you, I’m so sorry you thought I was serious. I wasn’t, I promise. I didn’t mean to be dismissive, I was really focusing on writing.”

You’re both silent for a moment. A beat too long. You want to squirm in the unwelcome space the silence has created.

“What did you think I was going to do?”

That is a loaded question.

“I don’t know,” You pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “I don’t— I don’t know. That’s the problem. You don’t yell at me, or get angry, or tell me when i’ve made you upset. I don’t know what you’ll do.”

He makes a wounded noise in his throat.

“I know you get angry,” You bulldoze on, “I’ve seen it. You’re so… loud, in everything you do. I know you get angry. But you never get that same kind of loud angry at me and I don’t know what to do because that means that I upset you and you don’t tell me about it and then I don’t know how to fix it. I have to fix it, Eddie.”

His eyes, deep and brown, search your face. He reaches up a hand, painfully slow, to cup your face. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you tip your head to the side, leaning into the job.

“I’m gonna tell you something, Bug. Are you listening?” He waits for you to hum in confirmation before continuing. “You’re not responsible for my moods. Or anyone else’s for that matter. That’s not your job. You don’t have to fix it.”

He reaches his second hand up to cup the other side of your face. “You know why I don’t get angry at you? Not all loud and dramatic like that? Because I’ve seen how you react when people do. And I never, ever want to be the reason you get that look in your eye. I never want to make you afraid. I never want you to believe, with proof and confidence, that I’ve grown sick of you.”

You open your eyes, eyes darting across the planes of his face. Searching for even the smallest hint, the smallest giveaway that he might be lying.

You can’t find any. In its place, you find eyes, shining with pure determination. You find lips parted ever so slightly, a sad-sort of smile being etched into being. You find two hands on your face, thumbs delicately sweeping across the skin of your under-eye, of your cheekbone. Smoothing away the steady tears that had begun falling, wiping away the hot trails they leave on your face.

And you realize all at once that love isn’t like the movies. It isn’t picture-perfect kisses. It isn’t ball gowns and dresses and kisses in the rain. It isn’t like the love you thought you were supposed to have: empty and hollow; a life of hanging off of arms and praying your next slip-up didn’t cost you your relationship.

It was this.

It was just being. Just being and knowing the other person is there for just that— for you. It was not raising your voice. It was carrying extra hair-ties. It was making two cups of coffee. It was steeping tea for an extra couple of minutes, just the way he liked it. It was playing your favorite music in the car, and looking over at each other during the bridge, belting the lyrics with the same, toothy-smile. So full and so happy you just keep screaming the lyrics, because you’re filled with so much you don’t know where to put it all.

Your tears begin to fall in earnest now. Your heart is thudding in your chest, but for a different reason now. You’re struck with the need to convey all of this to him— to tell him you understand, you know, you feel the same.

“These hair ties,” You shove your wrist up to his eye-line. “They’re for you. Because you always forget your own. And— and I steep the tea for a few extra minutes, because you like your tea strong, and you didn’t just find that tape in your van, I bought it ‘cause I know you lost the old one in the Upside Down, ‘cause it felt out of your pocket.”

You’re babbling, nearly choking on your tears and your words, rushing them all out of your mouth in an aching wish to be understood, in this very moment.

“I know,” He says, voice a little hysteric and eyes a little too bright. His lip wobbles. He presses your face tighter in his hands. “I know. I know. I see you. I see you.”

You stay like that for a little while. At some point, your hands find his wrists, and then you’re just two fools, smiling like idiots with tears streaming down your faces, staring into each others eyes.

Eventually, Eddie clears his throat. “The next time you think I’m upset at you, you tell me, okay? You can ask. You can ask me and I pinky promise I won’t get mad.”

You giggle wetly. “Pinky swear?”

“Pinky swear,” He says, taking his left hand away from your face to hold up his pinky. You intertwine yours and his together, the both of you laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

He gets quiet for a moment; removes his hands from your face and instead clasps, your hands together, resting in your lap.

“You know why I never tell you when you’re being a bad practice girlfriend?” He says, his voice low and soft.

“How come?”

He smiles, full and good. “Because you’re not. You’re so sweet and kind and loving. And if you’d let me, I’d really like to kiss you right now.”

You furrow your brows. “The real kind? The I-love-you kind?”

Your face flushes over the words ‘I love you.’

“I’ve always kissed you for real,” He says, words laden with fondness. “Ever since the day we met and you slapped the shit out of me for being stupid. I’ve been hopelessly obsessed ever since. I’ve just been waiting for you to notice.”

You suck in a breath. “So all of this— the, the dates and the hanging out and the kissing— that’s all been real?”

“Every last bit.”

“Then in that case,” You say, squeezing his hands. “I would very much like you to kiss me.”

He leans in, slotting your lips together and everything just clicks. Like this is where you’re meant to be. Maybe it’s puppy love. Maybe it’s not.

All you know is that Eddie Munson is kissing you for real, and he always has been. You couldn’t ask for anything better.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

---

The Soldier and His Mission

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.

You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.

One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.

Bucky Barnes was gone.

The Winter Soldier stood in his place.

And yet—he didn’t hurt you.

Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.

Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.

A shield.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.

But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.

Not to eliminate.

To protect.

At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.

“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”

“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.

“Yet,” Tony shot back.

You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.

Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.

The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.

Bucky was on you instantly.

His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.

“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.

Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.

He was still in there.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.

Unless they posed a threat to you.

That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.

“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”

Bucky wasn’t convinced.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.

“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.

“No,” he replied flatly.

“Bucky—” you tried.

“The room is secure.”

“That’s not the—”

“She does not require assistance.”

“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”

Bucky didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly.

“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”

That got his attention.

“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”

His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—

“…Understood.”

Progress.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.

There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.

Just a moment of quiet.

You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.

And then you heard it—his breath hitching.

A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.

You blinked sleepily, looking up.

Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.

His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.

“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.

You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”

His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.

He just buried his face in your neck and held on.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.

“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.

“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”

“…Yeah.”

“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

A laugh. Quiet, but real.

And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.

---

High Water | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: 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, and it’s almost too late to pull you back.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: self-destructive behavior, implied suicidal ideation, self-injury, trauma responses, PTSD, medical neglect, emotional suppression, therapy, recovery/healing themes, canon violence, referenced eating irregularities.

Word Count: 12.9k

Author’s Note: hi friends—this one started as a simple request, and it ended up becoming much more than i originally intended, something much bigger, heavier, darker, and more vulnerable so please take care while reading and only engage with this if and when you're in the right headspace! there are helpful links and resources on the original request here if you need them <3

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Bucky didn’t like working with new people.

It wasn’t personal. He just didn’t trust the way most of them moved—too fast, too loud, too cocky in the spaces between orders. The ones who’d never had a knife held to their gut didn’t flinch when doors slammed. The ones who hadn’t been broken thought everything could be fixed.

You were different.

You came in quiet, already carrying whatever past had earned you the clearance to stand beside him. Torres had said you burned out in intel. Too good at your job. Too bad at pretending it didn’t eat you alive.

You hadn’t confirmed or denied it, and he hadn’t asked. He didn’t need the backstory. He could read it in your shoulders—how they tensed before anyone entered a room. How you always tracked the exits. How gunfire didn’t phase you, but the clang of a dropped fork sent a shudder down your spine.

More than that, you didn’t try to fill the silence. Not the thick, awkward kind, but the heavy kind. The kind that settled after the adrenaline wore off and the ghosts came out to stretch their legs. That kind of quiet made most people talk just to drown it.

You let it sit. Let it breathe.

He respected that. Maybe too much.

Your last mission had been nothing special. Your seventeenth time working together, not that he was counting.

It was a low-stakes intel grab that went a little sideways thanks to a hot-headed contact and a busted comm. You handled yourself fine—better than fine. You moved like someone used to ducking and fought like someone who wasn’t scared of getting hurt. That last part always stuck with him. 

You never really avoided damage. You just treated it like something inevitable. Routine.

There was something about the way you took a hit—clean, mechanical, almost practiced. No wince, no curse, no flinch. You had rolled your dislocated shoulder back into place like you were brushing lint off a jacket more times than he could count. 

Bucky had seen people trained out of pain responses before, had watched entire rooms of Hydra operatives bleed without blinking, but this was different. Yours wasn’t discipline. It was something else. Something harder to look at. Something all too familiar.

You had tells. Little ones. He’d started clocking them without meaning to a few months back. How you never reacted to shallow cuts but always stared a little too long at the deeper ones.

How you’d press a palm flat against bruises when you thought no one was watching, not to soothe them—but to feel them. 

Once, he saw you slam your hand against the edge of a crate when the briefing tech locked up. No outburst. No tantrum. Just one sharp motion, knuckles first, and then a blank look like you hadn’t even done it. The sound stayed with him the rest of the day.

He told himself not to keep track. That it wasn’t his job to take inventory of other people’s ghosts. But your file was getting thin. Too thin. And the pieces you left behind were starting to take shape.

You didn’t act like someone trying to survive. You acted like someone trying to burn off whatever was left. Quietly. Efficiently. Without leaving a mess.

That unsettled him more than anything else.

He hadn’t planned to check in on you after the mission. He just conveniently happened to be passing the med bay on the way to nowhere in particular, and paused. 

He told himself it was habit—old soldier instinct, routine perimeter checks, whatever excuse came easy. But then he saw the door ajar, the flicker of movement just beyond the frame. 

You never used the damn step stool.

That was the first thing Bucky thought when he found you half-balanced on the edge of the supply cabinet on the counter, rifling through gauze packs with your unwrapped wrist pressed tight against your chest like it wasn’t already swelling.

You didn’t look up but Bucky knew that you could sense his presence before saying a word.

“Don’t say it,” you said flatly.

He stopped just inside the door. Leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching you from beneath the heavy slope of his brow.

“I wasn’t gonna.”

“You were,” you said. “You were building to it.”

He should’ve walked away. Should’ve let the moment pass like all the others—but there was something in the way your shoulders hunched, spine curled forward like you were bracing for a blow that never came, that stopped him cold. 

The cabinet edge bit into your hip, your hand already trembling from the strain of holding yourself steady, but you stayed there like it meant something. You stood there like you knew exactly how far you'd have to lean to hit the floor from the counter. Like the fall wasn’t an accident waiting to happen, but a choice you’d already measured. He didn’t realize his jaw had locked until it ached.

“You’re gonna fall,” he said finally.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

There was no heat behind it—no bite. Just exhaustion, scraped raw and held together by whatever dry humor hadn’t abandoned you yet. 

Before Bucky could even begin to think about how to respond, you jumped down without ceremony, boots hitting the tile with a solid thunk. The movement jarred something in your side. He could tell. You didn’t flinch, but your jaw set just a little too tightly for it to be nothing.

You walked past him, dropped onto the bench without a word, and started tearing the gauze open with your teeth. Your wrist shook on the third pull. Barely. A twitch, maybe. Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

He did.

He didn’t ask before moving forward and taking the roll from your fingers—just reached out, gloved hand closing around it with quiet finality. You looked at him like you were weighing something before finally letting go.

“You're not a medic,” you said.

“You're not either.”

He sat across from you, your wrist already in his hands before you could protest. 

It was already red, swelling around the joint. He turned it gently, noting the way your knuckles twitched. You didn’t wince, but the tension in your shoulder gave you away. 

He worked in silence, measuring the wrap with muscle memory and years of being too careful. He was always too careful now. Always calculating how much pressure, how much distance, how much weight a person could take.

There was a part of him that hated how steady he was now. How easy the calm came when he needed it. He used to think that was what healing looked like—discipline, composure, control. But it felt more like taxidermy. All the danger still underneath, just frozen in place. Stuffed into the skin of a man who knew better than to be seen for what he really was.

He tightened the wrap. Your face didn’t flinch, but somewhere in the back of his mind, something scratched.

He’d seen people dissociate through pain. Seen it in the field, in trauma units, in mirrors. But the stillness in your body didn’t feel like shock. It never did.

It felt like practice.

“You didn’t log this.” His voice wasn’t accusatory—just quiet, like a loose thread he already knew would pull something loose. “You filed a full report. Debriefed like clockwork. But nothing about this.”

You didn’t answer.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, the skin there already darkening beneath the surface.  “What was it this time?” he asked, even though he already knew it wasn’t the mission. Not really.

“Doorframe. I think.”

“You think?”

You gave a small shrug, the kind that looked more like a concession than an answer.

“I was pissed off. The contact flaked. We almost lost the drop point. I...took it out on the wall.”

He didn’t say anything else, just wrapped your wrist slowly, evenly. 

He didn’t like how familiar your skin looked under his hands. Not in a way he could name, just in the way his gut clenched when he saw your bruises lining up with places he’d struck in another life. 

And maybe that’s why he kept his gaze fixed on the wrap, not on you, because something about your quiet made his own feel louder—like if he looked too long, he’d see himself in the stillness you wore like armor.

“You don’t have to do this,” you said eventually. Not bitter. Just quiet.

He kept working. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the same as before. It pressed in tighter. Less like space, more like weight.

He meant it. You didn’t ask for help, not once, not even when your wrist went limp trying to remove your jacket in the quinjet. You bit down on everything, discomfort, pain, maybe even gratitude, like it owed you rent. 

He couldn’t judge you for it. He just recognized it. The same way Sam had once looked at him, eyebrows low, mouth grim. The look that said: I know what you’re doing. I just don’t know why you think you have to.

When he finished the wrist, you didn’t pull back. You stayed seated, hands in your lap, body turned slightly away from him. The back of your shirt had risen when you sat, just enough for him to see a few inches of skin beneath.

He wasn’t looking for it. He wasn’t trying to notice. But it was there.

A bruise. Faded, old enough to be from another week, maybe longer. It was large enough that it likely reached along the edge of your ribs in a sickly spread of yellow-green, the kind of mark you only get from hitting something too hard and too fast.

Or hitting it more than once.

“You’ve had that one a while,” Bucky said, and the words landed heavier than he meant them to. He almost didn't even speak.

You stiffened. Subtle, but not nothing.

You shifted your shirt down, slow and unbothered. “Yeah. Couple days ago.”

He waited. Not because he expected honesty—he wasn’t naïve—but because part of him wanted to believe you might offer it anyway. That maybe the room was quiet enough, the moment still enough, for you to meet him halfway. 

But you didn’t. You just sat there, unreadable, like the bruise meant as little to you as the silence did.

“What happened?” he asked finally, the question leaving his mouth like it had to push through something on the way out.

“Table corner. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He nearly scoffed. He had heard better lies from Hydra agents. Worse ones, too. But never so... bored. Like you’d already had this conversation a hundred times, with yourself. With anyone else who tried.

“That’s a hell of a table.”

“I hit hard.”

There was something about the way you said it. Flat, mechanical, like the pain wasn’t worth the breath it would take to lie better, that needled under his skin. He’d known people who wore their wounds like armor. You didn’t. 

You wore them like afterthoughts. Like they weren’t worth tending. Like you didn’t think you were. And that did something to him he didn’t have language for.

It wasn't pity. Never that. But something close to anger, maybe, pressed tight behind his ribs—not at you, but at whatever kept teaching you this was normal. That damage could be shrugged off, that hurt meant nothing if it was quiet. 

He knew that logic. Had lived in it for years, let it hollow him out, let it keep him moving. And still, watching you now, he wanted to shake the silence out of you. Wanted to say your name like it might make you look at him. He hated how badly he wanted you to lie better. Hated that you didn’t even flinch at being caught.

But all he could manage was: “You ever get those checked out?”

You snorted. “You think I go to a doctor every time I get a bruise?”

“No,” he said. “I think you forget half of them are there.”

He didn’t mean to say it like that. Didn’t mean to show his hand, but it was too late. You looked at him then. Eyes sharp, not surprised. Just... measuring.

He met your stare, steady.

And beneath it all, that same thought clawed at the edge of his mind again. Familiar, but unwelcome. Like recognizing a song you didn’t want to remember the lyrics to.

Because there was something about the way you looked right through him—unafraid, unbothered, half-daring him to keep pressing—that felt like a challenge. Like you’d already decided he wouldn’t.

When you finally spoke, your voice was almost calm. “You don’t get to do that thing where you try to figure me out.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Too late.”

He moved before he could think better of it. Not away from you, just far enough to breathe. The ache in his jaw told him how tight he’d been clenching it. He reached for the cabinet with the same control he used in combat: not rushed, not casual. Just exact. Like precision might hide the fact that he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

The ice pack he grabbed crinkled in his hand as he turned and placed it in your palm, watching your fingers curl around it like they weren’t sure what to do. That hesitation again—so quick most people wouldn’t see it.

But he wasn’t most people.

It wasn’t even about the cold. It wasn’t even about the bruise. The swollen wrist. It was really giving you something to hold that wasn’t your own skin.

“Thanks,” you said, low.

He gave a single nod. “Use it this time.”

The words came out sharper than intended, but he didn’t walk them back. He just watched you press the cold to your ribs like you were trying to freeze the damage into place. Like maybe, if it stayed cold enough, it wouldn’t spread.

────────────────────────

Bucky had stopped leaving sharp-edged or blunt things in the briefing rooms.

Nobody noticed. Not Torres, not Sam, not any of the rotating agents who filtered through between assignments. Nobody noticed when the cracked tablet screen on the west wall stayed unrepaired so you couldn't break it again. Nobody mentioned the disappearance of the busted chair with the metal bar that dug into your side when you always sat in it too long. And if anyone wondered why the gym’s weighted slam balls had quietly replaced the old concrete-filled med balls, they didn’t say it out loud.

But Bucky noticed. Because Bucky put them there.

He never said anything about it. Never drew attention to the way he started arriving early to training rooms, or the way his eyes tracked what your hands did when you thought no one was looking. You didn’t punch walls anymore, crack your knuckles too hard, or bite your lip until it bled, not while he was in the room. Maybe because the moment you twitched toward contact, his voice was already there—level, quiet, asking a question you’d have to answer out loud.

You were smart. You knew how to pivot.

But he knew that look. The way it simmered just beneath your skin, desperate for a release you didn’t have language for. So he gave it shape. Misdirected it. Rebuilt the landscape around it until it had fewer sharp corners to cut you on.

He started stocking the freezer. First it was one extra ice pack, then five. Then ten. Lined up behind the frozen stir-fry meals. There was always one ready. Always within reach. He never said anything about those either. Just made sure the stock rotated, that the seal wasn’t broken, that there was no excuse for a bruise or injury to go untreated.

Some nights he’d catch himself lingering in the hallway near the shared kitchen after missions. Listening for the hum of the freezer door. The low click of the pack drawer sliding open. If he heard it, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. If he didn’t, he lingered longer.

There were other things too. The black coffee you always left half-finished, now poured into a travel mug with a lid you couldn’t slap against the counter, material too thick to shatter. The reinforced strap he stitched into your field bag where the weight used to strain your shoulder when you refused to wear it normally. The tiny ceramic dish on your desk that hadn’t been there before—a place to put your rings, or your tension, or whatever else you’d started taking off at the end of the day.

He didn’t watch you use any of it. But his body tracked you anyway, across rooms, across shared mission floors, across the space between not-trusting and not-sure-how-to-care. His eyes would flick to your hands before your face. Always. Noticing. Counting. Waiting.

There were a dozen things he wanted to say. None of them came out right in his head. He didn’t know how to ask Are you okay? without sounding like a lie. Didn’t know how to say Don’t do what I did. Don’t go quiet the way I did. Don’t become a locked room nobody has the key to.

There was no blueprint for this. No mission protocol for how to keep someone from unraveling. He remembered what it was like to chase sensation—sharp, fast, punishing—because the silence underneath felt worse. Because numbness made a liar of the body, and pain, at least, was something you could feel happening.

He remembered walking out of Hydra cells with blood on his hands and not knowing whether it was his. Remembered slamming his fist into concrete until something gave, praying it would be bone. Remembered the look in Sam’s eyes the first time he said You’re not fine, and how it felt like someone opening a window in a room that had long since stopped needing air.

You hadn’t let anyone open yours.

So he did what he could. He changed the layout. Softened the noise. Kept your gloves clean and your path clear and the ice always stocked, like any of it might make the difference between a bruise that faded and one that you couldn’t stop tracing.

But the past few days had felt off.

You’d started pacing again. Not the usual kind, the kind you used to work through tension with your eyes half-closed and your hands stuffed in your jacket. No—this was sharper. Jittery. Your shoulders were too tight, your hands kept flexing like they needed to do something. Like your bones itched under your skin.

It was small things at first. The way you’d stopped wrapping your fingers before training. The way you skipped debrief and lingered too long in the equipment room, too interested in the shelves labeled discard. You were sleeping less. Eating less. Drinking your coffee like it was a dare.

It was almost enough to have Bucky pull you off the next mission. But they were short on bodies. Half the roster rerouted for a border raid in Belarus, and the rest grounded from a blown cover op in Cairo. You were the only one cleared who knew the terrain, the entry points, the grid rotation by heart.

And you’d volunteered before he could suggest otherwise.

They’d landed an hour before sundown, dropped low behind the industrial strip on the edge of the city where the power grid cut off and the roads turned to gravel. Intel had said six armed guards. Maybe seven. Standard perimeter for a black-market tech handoff. Small crew. Clean location. Nothing flashy. Get in, get the drive, get out.

But Bucky’s shoulder had been twitching since you stepped off the quinjet.

You didn’t say much during the brief. Just nodded once, already pulling your gloves on, jaw set in that way that meant don’t ask. Now, crouched beside the fence line with shadows bleeding up the length of your arms, you were vibrating with tension. 

Bucky clocked the way you gripped the chain-link, tight enough for the metal to groan, like you might try to tear it down with your bare hands. You didn’t. You just released it and gave him the signal.

Two fingers. Clear.

He moved up beside you, silent, crouching just behind your left flank. He always took your left. He didn’t know why. Just felt right.

The warehouse was twenty yards ahead—low, square, the windows blown out and tarped over. Lights flickered dim behind the stained-glass haze of the plastic wrap. One truck. Engine off. Two men visible through the broken slats of the door. Voices muffled, low and sharp. One of them laughing.

“Visual on the target?” Joaquin’s voice crackled in his ear.

Bucky pressed his comm gently. “Affirmative. Two outside. Might be more inside. Moving in three.” He glanced toward you, already moving. Too early. You didn’t wait for the count.

You darted low along the wall, shadow hugging shadow, not reckless but fast. Too fast. He followed, jaw tight, senses peeled raw as you reached the first guard and struck without hesitation. Quick elbow to the solar plexus. Heel to the knee. Knife to the collarbone, pressed just hard enough to drop him with a wheeze.

The second one turned. You could’ve waited for backup. Could’ve signaled.

You didn’t.

You ran straight at him.

Bucky cursed under his breath and moved, covering ground in a blink, but you were already on the guy, shoulder slamming him into the metal siding, fists snapping in sharp, surgical strikes. Not out of control. But close.

Too close.

He reached you just as the man dropped. You turned, panting through your nose, mouth drawn tight, not winded. Not even surprised. Like you expected him to be there, already cleaning up whatever you left behind.

“You good?” he asked.

You nodded once. Too quickly. “Peachy.”

Your voice didn’t match your eyes.

He wanted to stop. To grab your wrist. To say something—but the moment passed, and you were already signaling toward the next entry point.

“North entrance,” you said. “Should be unlocked.”

You didn’t wait for his reply.

He followed you in silence, teeth gritted, pulse ticking under the metal plate in his arm. Something was off. Worse than usual. And he didn’t like the way your shoulders moved, like you were chasing something you hadn’t found yet.

The two of you reached the door. You went to breach, but Bucky caught your wrist.

“Hold,” he murmured, voice just low enough to pin you in place. “You’re running hot.”

Your eyes snapped to his. Wide. Clear. Dangerous.

“I’m focused."

You pulled your wrist back—smooth, efficient, no heat behind it, like his hand had just been another obstacle to move through. And then you were gone, slipping into the dark.

Bucky followed, jaw locked tight, breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

The warehouse interior swallowed everything. No lights. Just the flicker of a dying bulb swinging at the far end of the room, casting erratic, ghostly shadows across pallets stacked in half-toppled rows. Machinery sat quiet, half-stripped for parts. The air tasted like rust and mold and something chemical under the surface. He could hear your boots ahead, controlled. Calculated. Coiled.

You didn’t move like you were tracking. You moved like you’d already made contact in your mind and were just catching up to it physically. He hated that he recognized it. Hated the way it twisted under his skin.

It wasn’t enough to make him call it. You’d run hot before. Moved like that before. You were sharp, reliable, relentless. You got the job done. And he’d gotten good at giving space when you needed it. At trusting his read. At trusting you. At trusting himself to cover your six if it came to that.

He passed through the entryway and hugged the wall, scanning. Your silhouette flashed ahead—knife drawn low, footsteps absorbed in the filth-clogged concrete. 

Static cracked in his ear, then Joaquin’s voice—tight. Focused. “Got movement ahead—cluster of heat signatures just lit up. Southeast corner. Looks like a nest. You two are headed straight for it.”

Bucky stopped just short of the next pallet stack, eyes tracking your back as you kept moving. “How many?” he asked, low into comms.

“Four, maybe five. Can’t get a clean count—they’re shifting.”

You didn’t wait. Didn’t respond. No hand signal. No check back. Just straight through the gap in the machinery like it was routine. Like walking into five heat signatures wasn’t worth a breath.

“Hey, hold up,” Bucky said. To you. To no one.

A shot rang out toward where he should’ve been if he hadn’t stopped two steps too far behind to respond to Joaquin.

Suppressor. East wall. Nest above the compressor vent. High ground.

“Contact, right!” Bucky snapped into comms, already moving—

But you didn’t duck. You ran. Toward the sound.

He nearly shouted your name. Held it in. Swallowed it like bile.

You vaulted the pallet stack, caught the edge of a rusted pipe, and swung up onto the adjacent platform like you’d rehearsed it.  His eyes swept the shadows, angles and cover points burning through muscle memory, but his focus was on your back—your speed, your silence. The way you didn’t wait.

“Hey—hey, Y/N, you’re moving too fast,” Joaquin cut in over comms, voice sharper now. “Pull back, you’re ahead of your flank—”

“I’ve got it,” you said, clipped. Calm. Like you weren’t running straight into something with a heartbeat.

Another shot. Closer.

You dropped down into a side corridor without checking what was waiting.

Bucky lunged, caught sight of movement to the left just as the barrel lifted from the shadow. Timing was too tight. You were too fast. Too exposed.

No time to yell.

So he moved.

His boots hit concrete with a crack that echoed too loud, too sharp—but you didn’t turn around. Didn’t look back to see who was behind you or how close danger was pressing in. You dropped into the corridor like you knew something was waiting for you.

The muzzle flash came before the sound. Clean burst. Controlled pattern. Not panic fire.

You ducked low, barely missing the first round as it shattered a pipe inches from your head, steam hissing out in a burning rush. You didn’t flinch. You rolled beneath it, came up in a crouch, and bolted forward, fast enough to make the shooter shift his stance. It was a kill zone. Exposed, tight, bad angles, no cover.

And you kept moving.

Bucky hit the far wall and pressed himself flat, gun raised. He tracked the shooter’s position just as the man shifted his aim. Not at him. At you.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered, breath catching sharp in his throat.

But you dodged again. Not random. Not sloppy. A calculated pivot just inside the arc of fire—fast enough to look like instinct, but it wasn’t.

Bucky fired once—center mass—dropped the man before he could realign. But by the time the body hit the floor, you were already moving again.

“Shit—guys, hold up,” Joaquin cut in, static spiking. “We’ve got more heat signatures. North end—five, no, six. That wasn’t in the schematics. They're shifting fast—looks like a flanking pattern.”

“Pull back,” he said, tighter now. “That’s not containment—it’s a box.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. “Copy. Redirecting. Fall back to extraction—”

But you were already halfway down the hall.

“Could be the handoff,” you said, too steady, eyes flicking ahead like you wanted the confirmation. “We don’t want to lose the buyer.”

“This op was recon, not pursuit,” Joaquin snapped. “Pull back. Regroup and reassess—”

“Just need eyes on the target,” you replied, already rounding the corner. Another door. Another unsecured hallway.

Bucky cursed under his breath. He hesitated a second too long before pushing off the wall and following.

You kicked the door open so hard it snapped off its bottom hinge and went clattering into the dark. The echo rang through the warehouse like a dinner bell. You stepped into it like you were stepping off a ledge.

Bucky followed, pulse howling in his ears now, lungs burning. 

“Got more heat lighting up the grid,” Joaquin barked in his ear. “East quadrant, converging on your position. Fall back, now—both of you.”

Three came out of the dark fast—one close, two on the flank. Bucky dropped the first with a clean shot between the eyes, spun, caught the next with a punch that cracked his helmet and sent him sprawling. He barely registered the scream as he turned, gun raised, out of rounds, and took a blade to the arm.

Metal met muscle. Pain flashed white, but he didn’t stop. He twisted, slammed the attacker’s head into the wall hard enough to leave a dent, then drove a boot into his chest to keep him down.

Another pop of gunfire. Not at him. Ahead.

You’d already dropped one, but another was already engaging you—and you hadn’t even pulled your weapon.

The man’s fist connected with your side hard enough to stagger you, but you didn’t go down. You turned with the momentum, used it to drive your elbow into his throat, then kneed him in the gut hard enough to buckle his legs. You caught his wrist when he fell and twisted—a sick snap of bone. He screamed once, then dropped.

You stood over him, breathing hard.

And Bucky saw it.

The way you rocked slightly on your heels, like you were waiting for someone else to come. Like the blood rushing in your ears hadn’t peaked yet. Like you hadn’t gotten what you were after.

His stomach twisted.

He turned—too late. Another three coming fast, one already firing. He dropped behind the nearest crate, reloaded and returned fire, clipped a shoulder, rolled and came up behind the second. He slammed the man into a pipe, heard the breath leave his lungs, but didn’t wait to confirm. 

A boot connected with his ribs, hard, and Bucky dropped to a knee, gritted his teeth, twisted, and drove a knife into the attacker’s thigh. The man screamed. He yanked it free and threw it, end over end, into the throat of the one aiming at your blind side. Blood sprayed.

Still not enough.

Still more.

A fourth surged from the dark, and Bucky barely caught his arm in time—metal hand crushing bone, human fist swinging wide, a sickening crunch somewhere in the scuffle.

His shoulder jarred, pain sparking down the length of his arm. He took a punch to the gut, then another to the jaw, sharp and high, right where the comm was fitted in his ear. The crack of it was drowned out by the static burst that followed.

Joaquin’s voice cut in mid-command—“You’ve got two more coming in from the—”

Then nothing.

By the time he got to his feet, breath ragged and vision swimming, you were already rushing forward, still fighting, and something was wrong.

You weren’t reckless, but you weren’t guarding. You met your next opponent with clean moves, efficient strikes, but you weren’t ducking fast enough. Not checking your flanks. You were exposing yourself between each hit.

You kicked one of the attackers square in the chest, sent him flying into a stack of crates, and didn’t reach for cover. You stood upright. Open. Breathing hard but not alert. 

Bucky’s chest seized as he landed a punch of his own on another attacker, barely parrying the blade slicing toward his throat. He slammed the man’s head against the wall until he went still, vision tunneling, ears ringing.

There was a wide stretch of open space ahead, scattered crates, broken shelving, a flickering light still buzzing weakly from its hanging cable. One doorway, half-collapsed. Poor cover. Shit visibility. 

And still, you kept going.

Bucky shouted something, he didn’t know what, but his voice ripped hoarse as he blocked another strike, caught a forearm, twisted until it snapped. He shoved the attacker into a rusted beam and kept moving, kept looking. 

Kept his eyes on you.

Because he knew these moves.

Not in theory. But in muscle. In memory. In the way you angled your body just a little too far from the nearest exit. The way your hand hovered near your hip but never reached for your gun. You weren’t preparing to defend. You were giving them time to aim.

His mouth opened again—this time, nothing came out.

You didn’t see the two from the side hall. Or maybe you did and just didn’t care. One with a knife. The other with a rifle half-raised, hesitation written in the slack of his stance but not enough to stop him. 

Bucky surged forward, but something slammed into him from the left. A body, heavy and fast, barreling him into a stack of old scaffolding that cracked and collapsed under their combined weight. He grunted, drove his elbow backward, felt the attacker’s jaw snap beneath the strike. 

But another was already on him before the first one hit the ground. Fists rained down, wild and clumsy. He blocked two, absorbed the third with his shoulder, and twisted, slamming his knee into the guy’s ribs until he dropped.

He caught a glimpse of you between bodies, just a flicker of your profile in the flickering light.

You weren’t running. Weren’t crouched. You were locked with one of the last men, close range, his hand fisted in your collar as he shoved you hard into a rack of rusted shelving. But you didn’t fight like you should’ve. You weren’t trying to break the hold. Your elbow came up late. Your balance was off. And for one sick second, it looked like you were letting him keep you there.

Something twisted in Bucky’s gut, deep and hot.

Another one grabbed at him from behind, arms like steel cables, trying to lock around his throat. Bucky dropped his weight, slammed backward into the nearest wall, heard a crack, but didn’t stop. 

He ripped the man off and flung him into the others just as another attacker charged from the side. Blade raised. Aim precise.

He ducked, caught the wrist mid-swing, and drove his metal arm into the man’s chest so hard it crunched through armor. Blood hit the air. Bucky shoved the body aside and turned—

And saw the rifle level at your chest.

Something shifted in the corner of his vision, movement too close. Another attacker, sprinting toward him, blade glinting under the flicker of the overhead light. 

Bucky didn’t break stride. He turned just enough to meet him mid-charge, metal arm snapping up and crashing into the attacker’s throat so hard the cartilage gave out with a wet, crunching collapse. The man crumpled before his body even registered the hit.

Bucky was already moving past him.

Boots pounded concrete, blood roaring in his ears, breath caught between a curse and a scream.  You were still locked with the man holding you, his grip pinning your upper arm, your weight tilted wrong.

Bucky could’ve used him. Could’ve let the bastard take the shot meant for you, just one more body between you and the barrel. But the angle was too tight. The shot was already coming. And Bucky didn’t risk things he couldn’t afford to lose.

He didn’t hesitate.

He closed the distance like the air had stopped resisting him, like gravity owed him one. His hand caught the edge of your jacket, and yanked hard. Ripped you clean from the other man’s grip with force that sent you both reeling.

Hard enough to twist your body out of line—just as the round fired and punched straight into his back.

He didn’t feel it right away.

Just the force. The hot pressure. The way his knees buckled as he used his weight to drive you both behind cover, shoulder-first into the busted scaffolding that exploded into splinters around you.

The floor came up fast. His back hit harder.

Pain bloomed wide. Viscous. Familiar.

Metal met blood. His breath caught. But his arms were already around you, dragging you flat against him, shielding you from the next volley before it ever came.

────────────────────────

Bucky hadn’t seen you in fifteen days. Not properly.

There were sightings—passing flashes in corridors, your voice down the hall in conference rooms he knew you were in. But the moment you caught sight of him, you disappeared. Not subtle. Not polite. Not passive.

Sam had benched you two days after the mission. You’d barely made it out of the med bay before it happened, barely had time to snap at the nurse trying to check the stitches Bucky had bled through. The report said you’d deviated from protocol. That your “judgment in the field had been compromised.” 

Joaquin had called for backup the second you pushed deeper into the warehouse. Said he didn’t like how quiet you’d gone. That you’d shut off your comms the minute you hit the second corridor. Said Bucky’s weren’t working either, not after the jaw hit, just open static until the exfil team found them both half-conscious under the scaffolding, Bucky still bleeding, you refusing to let anyone touch him until they confirmed they were friendlies.

You said it was a misread. A gap in the heat signature intel, faulty comms, fragmented chain of command. You said you pressed forward to confirm the buyer before exfil because the window was closing and it was a judgment call. Nothing more.

You said it all too calmly. Too clean.

Like you'd practiced it. Like it was easier to call it a tactical error.

Bucky hadn’t argued, hadn’t questioned. Couldn’t. Not with bruises still darkening along his back and the memory of his body nearly not moving fast enough still looping in his skull.

He remembered the weight of you beneath him. Not from the fall. From the way you’d gone still in his arms. Like you were waiting for the hit. Like you still thought it was coming anyway.

He hadn’t told Sam that part. Didn’t know how to.

Now, you spent your time down in logistics—sorting mission reports, filing armory requisitions, locking yourself in the comms tower at odd hours pretending to run diagnostics. You didn’t have to. Sam hadn’t assigned it. But you stayed at HQ, floating somewhere between idle and insubordinate, burying yourself in busywork and carving out the parts of the building Bucky wouldn’t be in.

Which wasn’t easy. But you were precise.

He’d find a fresh mug on the kitchen counter, the one only you used, still warm, and know he’d missed you by a minute. An open file drawer in the comms room with your notes, underlined sharp and angry. A single chair pulled out at the far table in the library, pages from an intake folder half-folded inside a book on tactical restraint.

You stayed busy. Stayed invisible. Stayed just far enough out of Bucky’s reach to make it clear it wasn’t an accident.

And yet he felt you in every fucking hallway anyway.

You hadn’t texted. Hadn’t acknowledged the hit he took. Not the blood. Not the fact that he couldn’t raise his arm above his shoulder for three days after. Not the way his vision had whited out for a second when your weight hit him and he thought maybe, just maybe, he’d been too late.

And maybe that’s what gutted him.

Because you had been counting on that.

You hadn’t looked surprised. Not really. When he yanked you out of the way, when the shot slammed into his back, when you landed hard and scrambled to your knees with your hands still bloody—you didn’t look horrified. 

You looked stunned. Like you’d miscalculated. Like he was the mistake.

He kept replaying it. Over and over. The angles. The timing. Your body language. The fucking stillness in you when that rifle raised and you didn’t move, didn’t fight against the body holding you there. 

It hadn’t been shock. Not like he’d wanted to believe. It had been something closer to... acceptance. Or resolve. A kind of surrender he didn’t know how to look at without remembering how it used to feel in his own bones.

But the thought wouldn’t hold still.

Because his brain refused to believe that you’d wanted that—that you’d truly been hunting pain, no—death, something irreversible. That the person he’d come to watch as closely as his own pulse had stepped into the line of fire on purpose.

And yet, It made sense. Too much sense.

Which is probably why he’d been staring at the same half-finished mission report for the last hour, pen resting idle against the table while the rest of the building went quiet around him. 

He hadn’t meant to stay late. But his thoughts had been crawling too loud in his head, and the hum of the desk lamp had felt like the only thing tethering him to the present.

He closed the file without reading the last two lines. His hands were shaking again, just slightly. Just enough that he turned off the monitor before he could watch it. It was too quiet in the office. Too still in the air.

He needed out.

The corridor was cold and empty. Most lights dimmed to nighttime security mode. His boots echoed softer than usual as he made his way through the back wing and pushed open the glass door to the side balcony overlooking the north forest.

When he opened the balcony door, he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there.

But the second the cold hit his face, he saw movement—still, but unmistakable. Just a fraction ahead and to the left, someone already leaned against the railing. No, not leaning, exactly. Perched.

Your spine curved ever so slightly against the silver rail, one leg drawn up, boot resting on the edge, the other dangling loose over nothing. You sat like you weren’t afraid of falling. Like you didn’t even register the ten story drop. The light from the hallway behind him didn’t quite reach you. Just enough spill to catch on the edges of your boots. The rest of you was silhouette, cut sharp against the tree line.

Your head was tilted slightly back. Toward the sky. Toward the dark.

Bucky stilled.

One foot over the threshold, breath caught at the top of his throat, pulse kicking hard enough against his ribs that it almost felt like warning. His hand lingered on the doorframe longer than necessary.

The glass door clicked shut behind him.

Your shoulders jumped and your head snapped around so fast it looked like it hurt.

He hated himself for it. For coming out here. For disturbing you, even when he didn’t know you’d be out here. For being part of the reason you were like this to begin with.

For half a second, your eyes landed on him. Wide. Not surprised. Not afraid. Just sharp. Like you were deciding how fast you needed to leave.

He raised both hands a little, just enough to show they were empty. If that even mattered.

“Hey,” he said softly. Voice worn at the edges. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t look away immediately either.

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer before drifting back toward the trees. The forest stretched dark across the horizon, the sky hanging heavy and moonless above it. The only light came from the spill of windows behind him and the faint glint of your boots shifting against the metal.

Before he could psych himself out of it, he took a step forward. Careful. Intentional.

The wind pulled at the edge of his coat as he came to rest beside the railing, not close—he didn’t dare be close—but near enough that the chill coming off your body seemed to reach him before your voice ever would. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Let the quiet spread wide between you.

“You always come out here this late?” he asked eventually, but his voice barely carried.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t so much as tilt your head toward him. The forest below swallowed sound. Air too still. No bugs. No wind through the trees. Just silence and steel and the ache in his back where the rounds had gone in, still healing slow beneath the scar.

He folded his arms against the railing. Forearms pressed to the metal. Let his gaze drift out with yours, out over the black line of trees he couldn’t see past. He thought, stupidly, of how quiet your breathing was. How still you were. How if he hadn’t followed the wind out here, he might never have noticed you at all.

“You’re mad at me,” he said, quieter now. Not an accusation. Just a fact he’d been bleeding around for days.

You scoffed under your breath. Not loud. Just enough to let him know it wasn’t the right thing to say. But it wasn’t a no, either.

“You’re mad,” he said again. “And I get it.”

Still, no answer.

He swallowed, jaw twitching. His voice stayed low.

“You’ve barely looked at me. Haven’t said a word. Haven’t let me say one either.”

A beat passed. Another. Then your voice came, brittle and flat.

“You think there’s something to say?”

He turned his head. Not all the way. Just enough to see the line of your jaw in profile—the hollow under your cheekbone, the set of your mouth. 

“I think there’s a lot to say,” he replied.

You had barely moved since he’d come out here, but now, with the light behind you casting your face in angles, he could see it. The tiredness. Not exhaustion, not the kind that sleep fixes, but the kind that comes from being done. 

Worn out in the soul. Your eyes were dull in the way his had been once. Not empty. Just... disconnected.

There was a bruise, faint but sharp, just under your right eyebrow. Thin, purple-green. Not healing from the field. You hadn’t been on a mission in almost two weeks. 

He didn’t have to guess where it came from. The edge of a sink. A wall. The wrong angle of a door when you turned too fast and didn’t care whether you stopped. The kind of thing people brushed off with a lie they’d already rehearsed.

Bucky’s grip tightened around the railing. Not hard. Just steady. Too steady. Like the tension had nowhere else to go.

He should’ve said something. Weeks ago. Months ago. 

The first time he saw you press your palm into a bruise like you were checking it was still there. The first time you didn’t log an injury. The first time you bled without blinking and he just helped—quietly, silently—like that made him gentler, not complicit. 

He’d told himself words might push you further, that staying close without pressing was the better option. That if you didn’t flinch from him, it meant he hadn’t failed you yet. But watching you now, half-lit and barely holding yourself upright, fuck, he knew better. 

He’d waited too long. Let you burn slow beside him while pretending he wasn’t also holding the match.

His stomach turned. Something deep in his chest caved in on itself. You must’ve felt his gaze, because your fingers twitched against the railing and your jaw tightened. Then, without a word, you stepped down from your perch and turned from the edge, already moving.

His body moved before his brain did.

He reached out. Caught your wrist. Gentle. Certain.

You froze. Your spine straightened. And when you turned, your voice was sharp enough to cut through both of them.

“Don’t touch me.”

You tried to pull back. He held firm, but not rough, not controlling. Just there. Solid. Like a hand pressed against the door of a burning room.

“I can’t let you walk away.”

Your arm jerked, a reflex. He didn’t loosen his hold.

Not after the last time. Not after the image of you standing too still in that warehouse, breathless and wide open, had lodged behind his eyes like a round that never made contact.

You tried again. “You don’t get to decide—”

“You’re not okay.”

The words tasted like metal. Not because they were hard to say, but because they felt late. Like throwing water on a fire that’s already gone to ash.

You scoffed. That bitter kind of sound that pretends it’s anger, but Bucky had made that sound himself too many times not to recognize what lived underneath it.

“Jesus, Barnes, let go—”

“No.”

It came out quiet. Firmer now. Not from his throat but somewhere lower, heavier. His grip adjusted slightly, still gentle, but definite. Like he was anchoring you in place, like if he let go now, you’d drift so far he wouldn’t be able to find you again.

You didn’t look at him at first. Just breathed hard through your nose, like the air might burn less that way. He watched your throat work, the way your lashes flicked down. You always looked away when it got real. So did he.

“Why?” you said finally, voice thinner now, not quite cracking but close. “So we can have whatever conversation you’ve been rehearsing? So I can cry in the hallway and you can feel like you helped?”

The words landed harder than they should have. Harder than maybe you even meant them to. But they stuck. Sharp, sudden, true enough to hurt.

“I don’t want you to cry,” he said.

It was the only thing he could say. The only truth he had left that didn’t sound like a lie.

“Then what do you want?”

The words lashed between you, sharp enough that they left something splintered in the air. Your wrist was still in his grip, but the fight had gone out of it, not physically. Not all the way. But enough for him to feel the shift.

Something in you had already dropped. Fallen back.

He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, but the shape of the words wouldn’t come out clean. They sat there, behind his tongue, thick with everything he didn’t know how to explain. His jaw flexed, throat tight. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. But he couldn’t leave this one unsaid.

“I want you to stop hurting.”

You flinched. Not from the grip. From the way his voice sounded—like he meant it too much.

His fingers loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go.“I want to stop watching you walk into rooms like they’re loaded. Like you want them to be.”

You looked away, eyes glassy in the low light. Jaw clenched so hard it shook your whole face.

“I want you to stop doing that thing where you ask for the quietest seat before briefings so no one will notice if you leave early. I want you to stop skipping lunch and acting like coffee makes up for it. I want you to stop tying your boots too tight.”

Your breath caught, but you masked it with a scoff. It was weak. Brittle. You tried to yank your arm away again, but he held you fast, stepping in closer, his tone still low, still quiet, but firm now. The kind of quiet you couldn’t outrun.

“I want you to look me in the eye again without checking the floor first.” He exhaled slow, barely controlled. The kind of breath that had been sitting in his lungs for days, weeks. Long enough to rot.

“I want one goddamn day where I don’t have to wonder if I missed it—if this is the time you don’t come back and it’s my fault for not saying something sooner.”

That landed. Not in your chest, but your knees. They bent just enough for him to notice the shift in your stance, like something inside you had buckled under the weight of it.

He stepped forward once more. Close enough now that he could feel the tremor in your shoulders.

“But mostly,” he murmured, “I want you to stop pretending that none of this fucking matters. That you don’t matter.”

Your head snapped back around, eyes wild. But it wasn’t anger anymore—it was panic.

“Why are you doing this,” you whispered. “Why are you saying this?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. The weight of his gaze didn’t leave yours.

“Because, you— you were standing out in the open like you wanted to be hit,” he said, voice raw. “Because I can’t stop seeing it. You, just—there. Still. Waiting.”

You made a sound. Not a word. Just air twisted into something like grief.

“You can’t—” your voice cracked hard, “—you don’t get to turn this into some kind of fucking—redemption arc for you, okay? You don’t get to drag me into your shit and—what—heal through me?”

“I’m not.”

“You are!”

“I’m not.”

“Then why the fuck did you take the hit?!”

The words exploded out of you, louder than they should’ve been. Louder than you’d probably meant. But it was out now—ripped free from wherever you’d been hiding it. Your whole body shook with it. And when Bucky didn’t say anything—couldn’t—you shoved him.

Hard.

He barely moved.

“You think I don’t know what that was?” you spat. “You think I haven’t played it over a thousand times? That I didn’t feel how fast you moved? That I didn’t see the way you looked at me after?”

Another hit landed square in his chest, open palm, not full strength, but solid. You weren’t trying to hurt him. Not physically. But your hands kept coming anyway. Another shove. Then another. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t move.

“What was I supposed to do, huh?” you snapped, fingers curling into fists before slamming into him again. “You think I didn’t know what that meant? You think I haven’t had to lie awake every fucking night since then hearing that gun go off—feeling it—and knowing it should’ve been me?”

His breath caught, but he didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You kept hitting him—his chest, his shoulder, the flat of your palm against the thick fabric of his jacket, no real damage but a growing tremble behind every strike. Your voice cracked on the next one.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said. “You don’t get to just throw yourself into it and look at me like that afterward. Like you knew. Like you saw me. Like you fucking understood.”

Another hit. Sloppier now. Your movements had started to lose coordination, your shoulders shaking too hard to stay steady.

“Stop it—stop just taking it,” you choked. “Say something.”

He didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t say what he really felt. That he had understood. That he had seen you. That some part of him had known, and worse, he’d recognized it.

So he let you keep going. Let you shove and strike and start to cry without saying a word. He let you unload every fractured piece onto him because he could take it. 

Because he’d done it, too. To walls, to enemies, to the people who tried to help him when he didn’t know how to ask for it. Because if this was what it took to pull some of it out of you—if this was what you needed just to keep standing—he would let you break his ribs before he told you to stop.

You stumbled forward, the last shove turning into something smaller. Your fists barely made contact before falling limp. Your arms trembled, body swaying forward like the strength had finally run out. Your knees buckled half an inch before he moved.

He caught your wrists, gently, palms firm but soft, just enough pressure to keep you from hitting him again. Not to restrain you. To hold you in place. And in the space between one breath and the next, you sagged, shoulders collapsing, forehead thudding softly against the center of his chest.

He barely had time to react before your full weight leaned into him.

His arms wrapped around you in a single movement to keep you from tumbling to the floor. One hand settled at your back, the other curling gently around your upper arm as your breath hitched against the fabric of his shirt.

You were so warm.

That was the only thing he noticed. Not your tears, not at first. But your heat. Like your body was trying to stay here. Trying to anchor itself against something even as your mind pushed to fold in and disappear.

He could feel your heart stuttering beneath the layers between you. And god, you were trying so hard not to make a sound. Like that would’ve meant surrender. Like silence still kept you safe.

His own throat burned.

“Don’t make a home out of pain.”

His voice didn’t lift, didn’t crack—it just came from somewhere low in his chest, as if it had been there waiting all along.

Your breath hitched hard.

He didn’t loosen his grip.

“I did that for years, decades,” he murmured, forehead tilted down, the words barely brushing the space above your ear. “Built a life in it. Slept beside it. Let it tell me who I was.”

Your fingers twitched against his chest. Not pulling away.

“I thought if I carried it quiet enough, no one would have to see it. That maybe I could burn it out of me piece by piece.”

You made a sound, something caught between a sob and a breath. Sharp. Shallow. Your shoulders jolted against his chest, not in protest, but because you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I didn’t mean for it to be you.”

It came out broken. Shattered at the center.

“I didn’t mean for you to be the one to—”

You choked on it. He felt it. The hitched inhale. The way your hands dug into the fabric of his jacket like you needed something solid to hold you here.

“I didn’t think—fuck, Bucky, I didn’t think anyone would even—”

He held you tighter, just a little. Just enough.

Your voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible against his shirt.

“If it had worked, if it had actually worked, you would’ve thought you weren’t fast enough. That you didn’t stop it in time. And I—” another sob cracked through, raw and shaking—“I almost let you carry that. I almost left you thinking that you failed. That you would’ve had to live with that.”

His jaw clenched. The ache behind his eyes lit up like static. He didn’t speak, couldn’t—not yet—but his hand slid up your back, slow and steady, palm warm between your shoulder blades. He pressed it there, like he could hold your ribs together from the outside. Like he could brace what was caving in.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was so quiet it felt like something sacred.

“I would’ve.”

You choked on another sob. He held you tighter.

“I would’ve carried it,” he murmured. “Every goddamn day. Thinking I was a second too slow. That I missed the one thing that mattered.”

You didn’t say anything.

But your breath caught sharp, and he felt your head shake once against his chest—not a no, not really. Just a movement. Something small trying to fight its way out of the wreckage.

Your voice came out raw, barely formed. “That wasn’t fair.”

He stayed still.

You pressed the words into his jacket like they might burn less if you didn’t say them to his face. “That would’ve fucked you up forever.”

He nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

“And I—I almost did that to you.”

“Yeah,” he whispered again. No blame. Just truth.

You curled tighter into him, like the sound of it hurt worse than the thought.

Your fingers curled tighter into his jacket, knuckles digging into the seams, and he could feel the tremor in your body shifting—less from rage now, more from exhaustion. From the come-down. From the weight.

It took a long time before you spoke again, voice rasped out against his chest, barely audible.

“I thought if I kept it small… it wouldn’t count.”

He didn’t move.

“I didn’t throw myself into traffic,” you murmured, like that excused it. Like that still meant something. “Didn’t slit my wrists. Didn’t take anything I couldn’t walk back from. I just…”

Your throat locked up. His hand didn’t leave your back.

“I just hit things,” you whispered. “Hard. When it got too loud in my head. Walls. Doors. Tables. Sometimes myself.”

The last two words were quiet. Not ashamed—just tired. Like they’d been buried too long under rationalizations and bullshit and had finally surfaced with nowhere else to go.

Bucky didn’t pull away.

He couldn’t.

He stayed exactly where he was and let the words live in the space between you, heavy and sharp and true.

“I wasn’t trying to die,” you added, softer still. “Not all at once. Not at first. Just… wear myself out. Bit by bit. So I couldn’t feel anything else. But lately I just…it wasn’t enough.”

That’s what broke something in him.

Not the admission. Not the method. But the logic of it. The way you described it like it made sense, like it was reasonable. Like the exhaustion had been the goal all along.

Of course you hadn’t cared about the bruises. Of course you hadn’t remembered when or how most of them happened. It was never about the moment. It was about the aftermath. About the ache in your joints the next day, the dull throb in your knuckles that reminded you you were still there, still capable of impact, even if nothing inside you felt real anymore.

He thought of your hands. How small they felt when he caught your wrists. How bruised and swollen one of them had been that day in the med bay, knuckles scraped raw and shoulders tight with something you hadn’t named.

You’d looked him dead in the eye when he saw the bruise on your side and said table corner.

And he’d let it slide.

Because he hadn’t wanted to push too hard. Because he’d been afraid of being wrong. Because some part of him had recognized it and still pretended not to.

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” you said.

“I did,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “I noticed.”

You didn’t say anything. But he felt the tension spike again in your shoulders—guilt, maybe, or panic at having been seen too clearly. He tightened his grip slightly, just enough to keep you from pulling away.

“I saw every mark,” he said, voice low. “Every time you looked at a bruise too long. Every time you didn’t. Every time your hand shook when you thought no one could see.”

Your breath caught.

“I didn’t want to believe it,” he went on, slowly, steadily. “But I knew.”

His throat worked hard around the next words, like they didn’t want to come. “I know what it looks like. When someone’s trying to bleed in ways that don’t leave trails. I’ve done it. Every way there is.”

“I didn’t want you to carry it,” you said.

His answer came without hesitation.

“I’d rather carry it than bury you.”

────────────────────────

The reception area smelled like too many kinds of tea.

There were five glass jars on the counter next to a kettle, each labeled in looping penmanship—chamomile, ginger, dandelion, tulsi, lavender. The paper sign said self-serve, but Bucky hadn’t touched any of them. Not because he didn’t want to, but because his hands had been too still in his lap for the last ten minutes and he didn’t want to break the spell of it.

The room was quiet. Not library-quiet. Not hospital-quiet. Just… soft.

A low lamp in the corner spilled a yellow glow across the rug. A record player in the back hummed with something instrumental and slow. There was a magazine rack in the corner with bent spines and a potted plant beside it that Bucky was pretty sure was plastic. 

He’d kicked it once by accident, just to check. The thing didn’t even wobble.

He didn’t know what kind of office this was supposed to be the first time he’d been here, at least not from the hallway. There was no plaque on the door, no framed diplomas on the wall, no receptionist typing quietly behind a desk.

He hadn’t asked questions when Sam sent him the address a few months back. Just showed up.

And then showed up again. And again. Every week.

The first few times, he waited for you in the car. The second time, he told himself he was only walking you to the door. Third time, you’d asked him—quietly, not looking at him—if he could stay inside just in case the session went bad. 

Now, he came in without being asked.

He sat in the farthest chair from the door. Always the same one. Kept his hands on his knees, palms down, fingers loose. Let his eyes flick between the door and the lamp and the coat hook on the wall beside it. Didn’t let himself drift too long in any one thought.

He hadn’t even realized the receptionist desk didn’t have a receptionist until the fifth visit.

The door clicked behind it sometimes. There were other rooms, other people in the back, but he never saw anyone else come out. No one ever went in except you. You, and the woman Sam had somehow managed to pull from a year long waitlist.

Bucky didn’t know what strings he’d pulled. He just knew the woman never looked surprised to see you. Like she’d already known you were coming long before you ever agreed to show up.

He didn’t know what the two of you talked about. He didn’t ask. But the first time he picked you up, your eyes had been red and your hands were shaking. You said nothing. Just got in the car and stared out the window until you got back to HQ.

He remembered waiting in rooms like this—but more gray, with more clipboards and laminated signs reminding you how to breathe. He remembered counting tiles. Flinching at coughs. He remembered that shitty little notebook his court-appointed therapist had made him fill out. All the times he left lines blank on purpose. All the ways he’d perfected saying I’m fine with a voice that didn’t shake.

He remembered her—Dr. Raynor. Tough. Clinical. Not necessarily cruel, just… blunt in a way that didn’t land right. A woman trained to treat a soldier, not the man stitched together from what was left of one. She’d called it progress when he stopped glaring. Called it recovery when he stopped resisting.

But this felt different.

The air in here didn’t feel heavy. No tension thickening in the corners. No judgment waiting behind the next sentence. It just was. Steady. Balanced. Like the space had been made soft on purpose. For people learning how to exist without holding their breath.

It had been three months. Every week, same building, same chair, same flickering lamp. You didn’t ask him to stay anymore. You never told him not to.

But you always looked for him first when you came out.

The door opened just as he exhaled, slow and quiet, like his body had timed the breath for your return.

You stepped through first, hood down, jacket slung off one shoulder, a pen still tucked behind your ear like you forgot it was there. Your eyes scanned the room automatically, and then settled on him.

Not just on him.

For him.

Like they always did.

Something passed across your face—too quick for anyone else to catch, but Bucky had been studying you longer than he ever studied enemy movements. It wasn’t surprise. Wasn’t even relief. Just something softer. Something that lived in the space between I’m still here and I’m glad you are too.

And you smiled.

Small. Asymmetrical. Real.

The therapist followed behind you, her steps easy, unrushed, her voice carrying that same warm weight the room seemed to hold—like she knew how not to push, only open.

“I know I’m sending you out into the world with a lot today,” she said lightly, a touch of humor in her tone. “But you handled the heavy part already. The rest is just practice.”

You turned toward her, adjusted your jacket with one hand while the other reached out, not instinctively, not forced. Deliberately. You took her hand, pressed your fingers around hers, and squeezed.

“Thank you,” you said. Voice steady, but soft. Like you hadn’t needed to rehearse it this time. “I’ll see you next week.”

She nodded once, her smile faint but proud. “And don’t skip your check-in list this time.”

“I won’t,” you said, even though you probably would, but less often than before.

Bucky stood as you turned toward him.

Not in a rush. Not like he’d been waiting for his cue.

But like the motion itself meant something. Like it mattered to meet you upright, at eye level, the same way he had all those weeks ago when you staggered into him sobbing and shaking and wrecked from holding yourself together too long. The same way he’d stood between you and a bullet. Between you and the weight you had been carrying alone for far too long.

“You good?” he asked quietly, stepping aside so you could pass.

You shrugged one shoulder, but didn’t brush it off as the two of you exited the office. “We’re on the part where I have to start noticing what I do before I do it.”

He nodded. Not because he understood, but because you were talking. That was enough.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, fidgeted with the zipper as you headed down the stairs. “She wants me to keep a log.”

“Of what?”

“What I’m trying not to feel when I reach for something to break.” You said it without flinching. “She says if I can name it, I can sit with it. Even if it sucks.”

His chest ached in a way he didn’t have a name for.

“And if you can’t name it?” he asked.

“Then I get to ask someone else to help.” Your fingers toyed with the seam of your jacket sleeve. “That’s the part I’m supposed to practice.”

At the end of the hallway, he pushed the glass door open for you. The air outside was colder than he expected—crisp with spring, the edge of something green just starting to break through the concrete. You stepped through first, your jacket flaring slightly behind you, and he followed a step behind.

Bucky let the door ease shut behind him, the click muffled by the wind and the weight of the last few months. His boots hit pavement a second behind yours. You didn’t wait for him—but you didn’t walk too far ahead either. Close enough that he didn’t have to reach. Close enough to hear you when you said, quietly, like it might break if it was said any louder—

“I hate logging shit.”

He glanced sideways.

“I figured.”

You huffed—not a laugh, not quite—but he caught the corner of your mouth tipping up. Just for a second. Just enough.

You crossed the darkening lot in silence for a few steps, your boots scuffing over a patch of half-melted ice. Bucky’s truck sat in the far corner, the passenger-side mirror still cracked from a parking garage you’d refused to admit you couldn’t clear nearly a year ago. He never got it fixed. Neither of you mentioned it.

“You still keeping yours?” you asked as the truck came into view.

He blinked. “My what?”

“That little black notebook from your sessions.”

He squinted at you, brows raised. “You asking if I keep it, or if I use it?”

You looked at him then, really looked. And he saw it: that thing in your eyes that used to live there like a threat, like a warning sign. It wasn’t gone. Not entirely. But it wasn’t sharp anymore.

He shrugged. “It’s hidden in the bottom of a drawer somewhere.”

You smirked slightly, nodding once. “Fair.”

He reached for the handle and opened the passenger door for you—not like a reflex, but like something intentional. Like a habit he wanted to have.

You blinked once, surprised maybe, but didn’t say anything. Just climbed in with a small nod, the same way you used to shoulder through debriefs and disappear down hallways. But now, there was no rush in it. No escape. Just motion. Movement that didn’t mean retreat.

He shut the door gently once you were settled, then rounded the front of the truck, boots scuffing over the cement. The sky overhead was softening and stretched thin, all dark cloud and late-evening haze, and for a second, he just stood there, one hand braced on the hood. Watching your silhouette through the windshield. The way your fingers tapped against your thigh like they hadn’t decided what to do with the quiet yet.

Then he climbed in.

The truck creaked beneath him, the seat familiar, the steering wheel warm from the setting sun. He turned the key, and the engine came to life in one slow, coughing breath.

“You know, if you’re not doing anything,” you said, still watching the road ahead like it might turn into something new if you stared long enough, “I could uh…go for some food.”

His brow twitched. “Food?”

“Yeah. You know. That thing we’re supposed to do three times a day.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it. Just kept your gaze locked forward, like the windshield gave you more room to breathe than the air between you. But there was something in your voice, something brittle at the edges and unfinished in the middle, like you were still figuring out how to let a sentence stretch into a want.

You hadn’t said you were hungry. You hadn’t said you needed company.

But the invitation was there. Quiet. Barely dressed up. 

The kind of thing that would’ve passed him by a few months ago if he hadn’t learned your rhythms. If he hadn’t spent night after night memorizing the difference between your silence and your distance. Between the tension in your jaw when you were angry and the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were just trying not to vanish.

That landed somewhere deep in his chest. He didn’t show it.

“Anywhere in particular?”

You hesitated. Then: “Something greasy. Something you eat with your hands. Fries that are so fresh that they burn your fingers a little.”

His lips twitched. “You’ve been spending too much time around Torres.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“There’s this place he won’t shut up about. Little burger joint off 89. Says they make onion rings the size of your face.”

You tilted your head. “Onion rings the size of my face?”

“He said it like it was the highest possible compliment.”

That coaxed a breath out of you—half a scoff, half a laugh, but it stayed. Lingered in the cab like something warmer than the heater. Like something earned.

“He’s got good taste,” you said.

“He also once ate gas station sushi on a dare.”

“Okay,” you amended, “he has… passionate taste.”

Bucky didn’t look at you, not fully, but his smile lasted longer this time. Not a twitch. Not a reflex. Just the kind of slow, quiet pull that lived in the muscles only when they weren’t preparing for loss.

The truck rumbled steady beneath them, tires chewing up road like time. You adjusted your bag in your lap, then reached up and cracked the window half an inch. The wind didn’t whip in like a threat. Just drifted. Light. Sharp with spring and pine and distance.

“You sure you’re up for it?” you asked eventually. “Sitting in a booth, being perceived.”

“I’ve had much worse days.”

He let those words stretch. Let the road roll out in front of him, long and dark and a little less hollow than it had been an hour ago.

And then—soft, like it wasn’t meant to be heard—you said: “You’re the only person I’d ask.”

His grip on the wheel didn’t tighten. But his knuckles ached anyway.

He didn’t respond at first. Couldn’t. Not without handing you the whole story of what those words did to him, how many nights he’d spent convincing himself that showing up wasn’t enough. That driving you here and waiting for you to come back through that door wasn’t a kind of love, just a half-step toward pity. That whatever thread was weaving between you, slow and invisible, maybe you didn’t feel it too.

“You’ll sit across from me, right?” you asked, suddenly. The words came fast. Too fast. Like they were covering something else up.

“Why?”

You didn’t look at him. “Just… if I sit next to people, I don’t always know what to do with my hands.”

He smiled then. Not wide. Just enough for it to pull in his chest, warm and sharp.

“Across is good,” he said. “Easier to steal your fries that way.”

You huffed. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You didn’t say it like a challenge. You said it like a prayer, something that might’ve meant don’t go, if said in a different key.

And Bucky—God, he could’ve said a hundred things. 

Could’ve told you that of all the days he’s ever walked through, this one didn’t ache in the same way. Could’ve told you that your voice saying his name after weeks of silence had stitched something back together in him he hadn’t realized was still broken. Could’ve told you that when you’d said you’re the only person I’d ask, something in his chest had folded in on itself with the same brutal gentleness you’d folded into him on that balcony months ago.

There was a time he might’ve doubted that. Not because you didn’t mean it, but because he didn’t think he’d ever be the kind of man someone asked for—not when it wasn’t about intel or orders or damage control. But this was different. This wasn’t about what you needed from him.

It was about who you wanted near you when you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“Don't worry, you can steal my fries too,” he said.

And maybe it landed like a joke—soft, thrown just off-center—but it didn’t feel like one. 

It felt like a door unlatched. Like a scar uncovered, not to be examined, just to be seen. The kind of offer that didn’t ask for anything in return, not even thanks. 

Just meant I’m not going anywhere. 

Just meant stay.

tag list (message me to be added or removed!): @nerdreader, @baw1066, @nairafeather, @galaxywannabe, @idkitsem, @starfly-nicole, @buckybarneswife125, @ilovedeanwinchester4, @brnesblogposts, @knowledgeableknitter, @kneelforloki, @hi-itisjustme, @alassal, @samurx, @amelya5567, @chiunpy, @winterslove1917, @emme-looou, @thekatisspooky, @y0urgrl, @g1g1l, @vignettesofveronica, @addie192, @ponyboys-sunsets, @fallenxjas, @alexawhatstheweathertoday, @charlieluver, @thesteppinrazor

---

you’ll always know me

part 1, part 2

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: even as the crowds at his shows get bigger and bigger, eddie munson still has you, his very best friend. or, (for my swifties) eddie munson is your dorothea.

word count: 8.6k

warnings: fluff, a little angst, childhood best friends to lovers (sort of), weed and smoking, librarian!reader, first kiss, so many uses of the words “i miss you,” and some idiots in love !!!

a/n: hiiiii!!! this one took so long but i really love rockstar!eddie and i hope you do too!!! this is inspired by tis the damn season and especially dorothea by taylor swift <3 thank you to my love @inkluvs for encouraging me on this one ily!!!

♫♩♪♬

It’s surreal to watch someone close to you grow so much bigger than the town you live in.

To know that the person you see on the news, at award shows on your TV screen, is the same one who used to push you on the swings at the playground, who used to walk with you to and from school, who grew up beside you, closer than anyone else ever could have.

Closer than anyone ever would, still.

To most people, he’s Eddie Munson, lead singer and guitarist of Corroded Coffin. To you, he’s Eddie, the best friend you’ve ever had.

You can go back years and years, and Eddie’s woven into your life for so much of it. So is his music. You can pick out the points: watching Corroded Coffin play for the first time in middle school, watching their first gig at the Hideout, being in the front row for it all wearing the widest smile, having the loudest cheers.

Even the late night phone calls you’d get when he’d be stuck on lyrics, when he wanted someone’s opinion and chose to dial your number instead of his bandmates’.

(“Hello?”

“I can’t get this line to sound right.”

“Let’s hear it, Munson.”)

You’re often in disbelief of where he is now. Not because you ever doubted him, but because even after so long, it’s strange not to see him every day. You’re insanely proud of him, but that doesn’t mean you don’t miss him.

Because you do. You miss him so much.

A box sits on the top shelf of your closet, one filled with newspaper and magazine clippings, articles about the band’s success, positive reviews about their shows and their albums. Things to show that Eddie’s dream came true, and that’s a rare thing.

There’s only one kind of tabloid you choose not to keep: the ones booming with rumors you selfishly hope aren’t true.

‘Lead singer of Corroded Coffin has a new spark? Read more to find out who’s caught famous bad boy Eddie Munson’s eye.’

You see him constantly in pictures, through a screen, but you only really ever see him on holidays, when he’s able to come home. When he comes bursting back into your life in vibrant fireworks with his stupid, pretty smile and stupid, shining brown eyes. When he comes back only to leave all over again.

You only have yourself to blame, really, for letting it tear you up. Because more than anything, you’re happy for him, so happy you could never express it properly, but still, there’s an ache in you when he crosses your mind, when the feelings linger.

Life in Hawkins for you consists of working at the library, reading your days and thoughts away, hanging out with the gang when you’re up to it, and that’s about it.

Eddie always knows where to find you when he does come home, usually barging into the library with his arms open for a hug, one you rush into easily. You always spend the couple days he has in Hawkins together, being the you and him you’ve been since you were kids. But the lingering reminder doesn’t fade, the reminder of him having to leave looming over you like a storm cloud.

Eddie Munson comes home sporadically, unknowingly taking your heart with him wherever he goes. And when his inevitable departure takes place, you’re forced to regrow what’s missing from your chest. Every single time.

-

Besides his uncle Wayne, who could only ever see him as a troublemaking kid, you’re the only person who’s never treated Eddie any differently.

Not in high school when he was labeled a freak, not even when the fame rose so suddenly it felt like a tidal wave. You kept him afloat. You keep him afloat.

He knows he should call more often, he knows that even if the phone works both ways, you really don’t have a way of keeping track of which hotel he’s in, which state, which country, even. He knows that falls on him.

Your phone number’s burned into Eddie’s memory. He could never forget it, and still, he can’t seem to find the time to dial it. He’ll get called away, or he’ll just be getting back from a show and barely have the energy to shower before getting in bed. Worse, he’ll get the panicked sense that you won’t pick up anymore.

At least he’s never missed your birthday. That, he’ll always make time for, usually phoning you at the same time that a bouquet of flowers arrives at your door. And somehow, even when he’s away, you don’t miss his birthday, either.

Eddie’s sitting on the small couch in his dressing room, waiting to go on stage, thinking of you the way he often does.

He wonders if you think of him, too. If you miss him or if you’re angry that he’s gone so often, that he can barely even manage a fucking phone call. Though, you were never the type to be angry. Never with him, at least.

He wants to hear your voice, wants to hear you tell him ‘good luck’ before going on stage like you used to. He peeks at the table next to the couch. Eddie’s not sure how much time he has before he needs to go, but he figures it’s worth a try.

Just as he’s about to pick up the phone in his dressing room, there’s a knock on the door.

“Munson! You’re on in five!”

He’ll call you later, then.

-

“Beginning descent to the Indianapolis International Airport.”

The muffled sound through the airplane’s speakers is followed by the ding of the seatbelt signs being turned on. Eddie shifts in his seat to look out the window. He’s got his own little cubicle in first class, and though this is how he always flies now (other than when he finds himself on a private jet, which is even more unbelievable), he’s still not used to it.

He’s itching to get out of this seat, then he remembers that he’s still got the trek through the airport and the drive back to Hawkins. It’ll be worth it to see Wayne, who he doesn’t see nearly as often as he should, and get his classic hug with a slap on his shoulder.

It’ll be worth it to see you, who makes Hawkins feel more like home. You, who reminds him of the person he’s always been, the parts that get lost on the road. You, who hugs him tighter than anyone else ever has.

His hands clench into fits in his lap.

As soon as Eddie steps off the plane, his security team finds him. He’d assured them that he’d be fine, really, but this is how it is for him now. Through baggage claim and all the way to the car that’s waiting for him outside, security takes a step whenever he does.

Shutting the car door as he slides into the backseat, Eddie tips his head back and sighs.

The car ride feels shorter than usual, the city fading into trees and fields until the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign comes into view. The gravel crunches under the car’s tires as it pulls into the trailer park. Wayne’s got enough to get a better place now, Eddie made sure of it, but he never did. He’d never admit it but Wayne’s sentimental, and the trailer houses too many memories to let go of it.

After all, it was home.

Stepping through the front door there’s the smell that he’d never noticed until he’d been gone for weeks at a time. The settled dust, the faint smoke of cigarettes, coffee, and the room spray Wayne inevitably uses to try and cover it all up.

Eddie drags his bags inside, waves to his driver, and shuts the door behind him.

Then, Wayne’s warm rasp, “my boy. Get in okay?”

He’s wrapped in his uncle’s classic hug quickly, the pats on his shoulder and all. Eddie closes his eyes and soaks it in, just for a second, “yeah. It was fine.”

“Good, good,” Wayne says, pulling back and grasping Eddie’s shoulders, getting a good look at him. “Take a shower.”

“Is that your way of telling me I look like shit?”

“Nah, that’s me telling you that you smell like airport, boy.”

“It’s great to see you, too,” Eddie says, smiling.

He and Wayne have the kind of relationship that time doesn’t really affect all that much. Whether Eddie’s away for a week or a month, or two, or three, they fall back into things like he’d never even left.

He knows Wayne’s probably lonely, probably hiding more than he could imagine, but he also knows that he loves him, and that’s always a good thing to know, to feel. Loved.

“Shut up, you know I missed you,” Wayne shakes Eddie’s shoulders and lets go, “now go wash up and you can tell me about your last show over some coffee, sound good?”

“Sounds good. I missed you too, Wayne.”

Eddie carries his bags into his room, leaving them open on the ground rather than unpacking. He’ll just have to pack them all over again, anyways.

Before long, the trailer’s small bathroom is filling with steam as Eddie steps into the shower, dropping his neck back and letting the water run over his shoulders, his back. He stands like that for a bit, simply letting the heat melt away at the tension in his muscles.

By the time he steps out, the mirror is completely fogged with steam, and Eddie wipes away at a section to look at himself. The bags under his eyes, the mess of his hair that he doesn’t bother taming, the small scratch on his chin from one of his rings. He shakes his head and heads into his room with his towel around his waist.

He throws on a pair of plaid pajama pants and a faded band tee, his hair soaking the back of it drop by drop.

In the kitchen, Wayne’s got two mugs of coffee sitting on the small table, a seat already pulled out for Eddie to take.

“Thanks.”

He nods, sipping from his mug as Eddie does the same.

In the silence, he can’t help but think of you, of how close he is to you now. Mere minutes away. He wonders what you’re doing, if you’re reading in bed after your shift, if you’d just showered like him, if you’re thinking of him, too.

“I saw her the other day,” Wayne says.

They both know he means you.

“How’s she doing?”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll ask her that when you see her tomorrow, but she seemed good.”

“How'd you know I’m gonna see her tomorrow?”

“Come on, kid. You go to the library the day after you get in every time and think I don’t notice?”

Eddie looks down at the mug in his hands, his face warm. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t have him feeling all shy and nervous, like he’d been caught, but it does.

“She misses you,” Wayne adds.

“She tell you that?”

“Doesn’t have to. I’ve known that girl since she was little and running after you on the playground. I can tell.”

Wayne has always said that you’re as good as family, after all. Eddie used to joke that his uncle liked you more than him, and you used to laugh and joke back that he was right.

Eddie’s suddenly very excited to sleep, only to get to tomorrow quicker.

“I miss her, too.”

“Yeah, kid. I know,” Wayne leaves it there, switching things over, “I saw you almost eat shit on TV the other day.”

“Come on!” Eddie groans. He’d tripped over a fucking wire on stage. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was still fuckin’ funny.”

“Of all the shows, you just had to tune in for that one.”

Wayne asks about the tour, about how Eddie’s liking it this time around, about whether or not there’s anything new he’s working on.

In return, Eddie asks about the mechanic’s, about whether or not Wayne’s back has been acting up (which earns him a light slap on the back of the head), about what’s changed in Hawkins since the last time he’d been home.

Even through the smiles he shares with his uncle, Eddie’s wondering how you’ll react when you see him tomorrow, picturing how it’ll feel to be near you again. He gets that feeling in his gut, the butterflies that are nerves and excitement and questions and feelings rolled into one.

He’s pretty sure he dreams about you, too.

-

Your shifts at the library are always long; full days of scanning and shelving books. You’re lucky to say that you actually like your job. The smell of worn pages, the peacefulness (save for when Dustin comes barging in with his stack of overdue books that you let him off the hook for every time), the interactions that are almost always short and sweet since it’s meant to be a quiet place.

Your eight or nine or however many hour days go by much quicker now than they did during your high school job at the grocery store, that’s for sure.

You’re pushing the put-back cart between shelves, humming a random song quietly as you place the books where they belong, sometimes pausing to straighten things out. It’s the middle of a weekday and you’re the only person in there anyway. That is, until the small bell on the front desk dings.

“Just a second!” You call, squeezing between the cart and the self beside it to walk over to the front desk. You think your heart stops altogether.

You’d recognize that head of hair anywhere, the dark, frizzy curls. Hell, you’d recognize that damn denim vest anywhere, even the stance of the person wearing it. “Eddie?”

He turns around at the sound of your voice, and something lifts from his chest when he sees you. A grin spreads wide on his face, splitting his cheeks and crinkling his eyes in the corners, “there she is.”

Usually, when he comes home, it’s on a holiday and you’re expecting him, watching the door and waiting for him to walk through it. This time, you had no idea he’d be coming home. It’s the best surprise you could get.

You’re practically running into his arms, and he wraps them around your waist easily, yours tossed around his shoulders. Your face is buried in his neck, breathing him in, making sure this is real. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His hands clutch at the fabric over your sides, his head twisting so he can place a kiss over your hair, “had a break from tour. Missed home.”

And sure, Eddie hadn’t really realized just how much he missed it until he came back, it’s crystal clear now, with you hugging him. He really, really missed home.

You want to say something stupid and emotional like it hasn’t felt as much like home until now, or I missed the sound of your voice and the smell of your shampoo, but that would probably reveal a little too much.

“Just home you missed or…” you tease, pulling back to look at his face, his brown eyes that sort of sparkle. Your hands stay on his shoulders, his on your waist.

“I missed Wayne, obviously,” Eddie replies, acting oblivious and smiling at the small furrow in your brow.

“Eddie!”

“Aw, come on.” He tugs you in for another hug, his cheek squished against the side of your head. “‘Course I missed you, trouble.”

Trouble. You never knew you could miss a single word so much.

Eddie started calling you ‘trouble’ when you were kids, sometime in middle school when you’d stolen a bunch of his mixtapes and only returned them weeks later, when he finally noticed. He’d snatched them out of your hands and muttered ‘you’re trouble’ and it just stuck.

“Thank you,” you say, laughing when Eddie pulls back frowning at you. “And I missed you, too. Duh.”

“Duh.” He mocks. He lets go of you fully but doesn’t go far, leaning an elbow against the desk, “you’re doing okay?”

“I’m good. Things don’t change all that much around here, you know that.”

“I’m not asking about around here, I’m asking ‘bout you.”

You tug at the hair tie on your wrist. “I’m fine, Eddie. Promise.”

He nods, and there’s a small lull in the conversation that pinches at your chest for some reason. The sort of silence that never used to be there when it came to you and Eddie, always filling it with conversation or letting it be comfortable. Now, there’s something like awkwardness stretching and it stings.

Because it shouldn’t be there, because he’s Eddie and you’re you and you’re best friends and that’s all there should be to it. But it isn’t. You’re the same people, but so much is different.

“You working late?” He asks.

“Until we close.”

“Care for some company?”

You tilt your head at him, “you really wanna hang around the library for the last four hours of my shift?”

“Sounds like fun to me. I’ll even push the cart for you, and you can tell me what I’ve missed while I was away.”

It’s funny that he thinks he’d ever have to convince you to spend time with him, when you’re practically pulling at any thread of him that you can, when you’re taking anything he has to give you. Two days, a week, a couple of phone calls.

It’s all better than not having him at all.

“Only if you tell me what I’ve missed, too. Like all the cool celebrities you’ve met.”

“Not as cool as you, trouble.” Eddie taps your nose, smiling at the way you scrunch it in response.

“Shut up and start pushing the cart, Munson.”

He stands straight and salutes, “yes ma’am.”

You’re still smiling when you shake your head, “idiot.”

Eddie really does spend the rest of the day with you, pushing the cart while you re-shelf books, sitting in the extra chair behind the counter while you file returns, ducking when someone else walks in.

He asks you about Robin and Steve, Dustin and Lucas, how the kids are finding school, whether Nancy’s been hired at a big paper yet. He asks you about your family, and most of all, about you.

He hangs onto every word you say. And not once do you say anything to make him feel bad for being away, if anything, you can’t stop telling him how proud you are, especially when he talks to you about what’s in the works.

“I always told you you’d make it, Munson.”

“Wouldn’t have done it without you, trouble.”

-

The next morning, you’re sitting across from him in the corner booth by the window at Benny’s for breakfast. The same way you did every Friday in high school, at the same table.

Whenever you wind up at Benny’s when Eddie’s away, you tend to avoid that booth. It’s pathetic. Like his absence is clearer than ever sitting there when he isn’t. When he’s not putting whipped cream on your nose or stealing food off your plate.

Now, it’s his presence that surrounds you, his smile and his laugh, his foot nudging yours under the table.

The menu is sticky under your fingertips where you hold it, faded from sunlight and discolored from coffee spills that stain the page. You don’t really need to be looking at it—after years of coming here, you’ve probably got the thing memorized—but you need the time to collect yourself. To remember that this is Eddie, and there’s nothing to be nervous about.

You need the time to stuff down that flutter in your gut and in your chest.

On the other side of the booth, Eddie takes your distraction as a chance to really look at you. The details he can’t seem to picture when he’s away like the flecks in your eyes or the exact shade of your lips.

He never realizes just how much he misses you until he’s home. Until he’s sitting across from you and listening to the sound of your voice clearly instead of through a crackling phone’s speaker, until he gets to see the way your eyes light up slightly when you laugh.

It sort of hits him all at once, and he’s thinking, God, I should call more often. I should visit more often.

After a couple of minutes, you look back at Eddie, “you know what you want?”

“I’ve been getting the same thing since high school, trouble. Don’t need the menu.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll go order,” you say, placing your menu back in the holder by the window.

When you start sliding your way out of the booth, Eddie places a hand over yours on the table, “I can get it.”

You look down at your hands, his skin on yours, like you’d expected to see something there. A spark, a burn scorching your skin in the best way.

“I know you can,” you say, smiling at him. “But it’s my treat, okay? I want to get it.”

Eddie always feels sort of guilty when he’s not buying, because he has more than enough money to take care of it, more than he knows what to do with. Sometimes (often), people expect him to pay, even. And just like you’d known how he was feeling, you shut it down with a flash of your smile.

You shift to squeeze his hand before getting up and heading over to the counter, leaning on your elbows as you wait your turn.

Still, Eddie’s looking at you, his hand in the same spot on the table.

He knows that, despite it not being a busy morning at Benny’s, people are looking at him, whispering the way they did even in school. Only now, they’re saying they can’t believe it, look at him now, instead of calling him a freak. And just like in school, having you around makes the talk bearable. Hell, it makes it disappear, if only for a little while.

When the waiter finally comes over to take your order, you send him a kind smile, rattling off yours and Eddie’s orders.

Eddie watches the entire interaction. He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone else, that it’s because he’s just making sure you’re alright. It’s certainly not because of how pretty he thinks you look today, not because of how hard it is to keep his eyes off of you.

The waiter is a younger guy, probably around your age. Someone Eddie doesn’t know. He seems to tell you a joke because you laugh, bright and sunny, and Eddie suddenly wishes that Benny was the one taking orders.

Because he should be the one to make you laugh like that, to be on the receiving end of your grin and crinkled eyes. Because there’s this weight in his stomach that feels a little too much like jealousy. Because you’re his best friend and he fucking misses you.

Eddie looks down at his hands and twists his rings around and around until you come back, the old booth squeaking as you sit down.

“You okay?” You ask, always noticing his nervous habit of fiddling with his rings.

She’s my friend, he reminds himself. My best friend, that’s all.

“‘Course I am.”

“The guy at the counter, Dan, wanted me to tell you he’s a fan.”

He shakes his head, “I can't believe I have those. Especially in this town.”

“Excuse me? Your biggest fan is sitting right here, in this town, Munson.”

He probably thinks you’re joking with the way he chuckles, chest rumbling. But, you’re not. The shoebox full of clippings says enough, and you don’t think he’d ever let you live it down if he knew about it.

“She want an autograph?” He teases, the heaviness in his stomach melting away. Your biggest fan.

“In your chicken scratch? Yeah right.”

It’s not long before your food arrives, plates of waffles and fruit, sides of bacon and hashbrowns. Of course, you inevitably end up with whipped cream on your nose and food missing from your plate.

It’s your favorite kind of breakfast.

-

You’re sitting in the passenger seat of Eddie’s van—the same van he’s had since high school, that he refuses to replace—heading towards Steve’s place. It’s not unusual for either of you to be meeting up with the gang, but Eddie’s still nervous.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks you.

They don’t know he’s in town, and as sure as you are that they’ll be thrilled to see him, Eddie isn’t convinced. You place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze lightly as he drives.

“Everyone’s gonna be so happy to see you. Don’t you trust me?”

“‘Course I do,” he says easily, without thinking, “just haven’t seen anyone in a while, you know?”

“We all miss you, Eddie. It’ll be fun!”

Logically, he knows nobody’s gonna kick him out, or treat him any differently, but it doesn’t stop him from getting nervous. You wanted to surprise everyone, and how could he say no to you? So, here he is, gripping the steering wheel too tight and worrying too much.

Pulling into the driveway, he nods, “here we go.”

You hop out of the van before he has it shut off, but he catches up quickly. He follows you to the side gate of the house, watches you unlatch it and stroll into the yard. The sound of voices mingling hits his ears as you walk around the house and find your group of friends sitting around in lounge chairs.

“Look who I brought,” You announce.

Your shout is followed by eyes flicking towards you, then Eddie who stands beside you. Then, a chorus of his name, plus Argyle’s “rockstar!”

“Hey guys,” he says, waving shyly.

It’s odd to feel this way around these people that he’s known for years. Robin and Steve who’ve rented him way too many movies for free, Nancy and Johnathan who are probably why he graduated high school, and Argyle who was always his most loyal customer.

All of these memories and he feels a little too much like a stranger. At least he’s got you, who feels like one of the only sure things in his life. No matter how long goes by, you’re there, and he hopes you always will be.

“You want a drink?” Steve asks, leaning to reach into the cooler beside him.

“I’ll take one, thanks,” you say, catching the can Steve throws to you.

“I’m driving,” Eddie says, jingling his keys.

“Eddie Munson being responsible,” Robin teases, “they grow up so fast.”

And just like that, he feels a little better. These are his friends, and even though he’s not around all of the time, and even though he may not be as close to everyone anymore, they’ll still be his friends.

You sit down on the empty lounge chair and pat the space beside you for Eddie, sending him a smile that says both ‘told you so,’ in your snark he can practically hear, and ‘everything’s okay,’ in your kind way.

He plops down beside you.

“How’s everything going?” Johnathan asks him.

Not wanting all of the attention on him, Eddie keeps his answer short, “busy, but it’s a ton of fun.”

“Everything you ever dreamed of?” Robin adds.

“You could definitely say that.”

Though, Eddie has this strange feeling that he’s missing something whenever he’s gone. It’ll go away, but somehow, it always finds him again, when he’s debating on calling or not, when he’s hit with a memory of you in the front row at the Hideout when he’s on stage.

He looks over at you and finds you smiling softly at him, eyes fond. He can’t believe he’s the one you’re looking at like that.

Eddie blinks and turns back to the group, “how about you guys? How’re the jobs?”

The chatter picks up and surrounds him, but Eddie can’t stop thinking about the way you were looking at him just then. He’s never had someone look at him like that, like there’s nothing but affection there.

It’s platonic, he tells himself. She’s my best friend.

You feel happier now than you have in a while. Things feel more complete when Eddie’s around. Things feel right. It’s all of your favorite people with no empty chair, it’s falling back into a friendship that’s existed for years.

When conversations split off into smaller ones, you lean your head on his shoulder, and the words sort of slip out of you, “it’s really nice to have you here.”

His heart beats louder, he leans his head on top of yours, “it’s nice to be home.”

And it is. Eddie loves touring, he loves playing his music, and he loves his job, but at the end of the day, he’ll always be this boy from Hawkins, and he’ll always be happy to be home, to be with you.

Catching the moment, Argyle—always sharing his thoughts—says, “sick, you guys are finally together.”

You and Eddie both sit up, like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t, even when you’ve sat like that countless times before.

Everyone’s eyes seem to be on the both of you now, and you have a tiny panic inside. Have you really been that obvious with how you feel? Does Eddie know and he hasn’t said anything because he doesn’t want to hurt you?

You laugh awkwardly, “what?”

“Like, dating,” Argyle explains.

“Me and Eddie?”

He’d been frozen for a second there, surprised that Argyle thought that. Was he seeing something Eddie couldn’t? No, no way.

“Just friends, guys,” Eddie says. “Come on.”

You swallow, forcing out a word, “exactly.”

“They’ve always been like this,” Nancy says, which explains enough but also sort of nothing at all.

Just friends. It’s something you know, you remind yourself constantly. It’s all it’ll ever be, and still, hearing Eddie say it out loud has your stomach feeling heavy. Just friends, get over it.

Even as conversation picks up again, as you laugh with everyone, the two words play in your head over and over. Then, after saying your goodbyes, once you’re in the van with Eddie again, it fades, because if you can’t be in love with him, you can be his best friend, and you’d much rather have that than nothing at all.

Once he drops you off, Eddie thinks and thinks about what Argyle had said. He goes over memories, over how he feels around you, and it hits him like a huge punch to the gut.

He thinks he has feelings for you. Big, huge feelings.

-

It’s the same day, a different sky, the sun sunk behind the horizon to give way to a sky full of stars and a bright moon.

Eddie’s van is parked by Lover’s Lake, the back full of blankets where you both sit, the doors open to look at the sky and the way the moonlight reflects on the water.

There’s practically an indent in the ground in the spot he’s parked, the one that’s been your go-to for ages. From day picnics to nighttime smoke sessions, it’s another place on the list of the ones that are filled with memories of Eddie.

Beside you, he’s got a joint in hand, the flick of his lighter catching your ears over the crickets and the breeze. You watch him inhale, his chest expanding, the smoke slipping from his lips. You turn back to the water.

“Your turn,” he says, handing you the joint.

You grab it between your fingertips and bring it to your mouth, feeling the smoke trail down your throat, further, then you’re breathing it out, clearing your throat at the tickle.

“Out of practice?” Eddie teases at your small cough.

“My favorite weed dealer went out of business,” you say, nudging his shoulder with yours, “so, yeah.”

He takes the joint back from you, “you don’t smoke when I’m not around? You know Argyle’s gotta have some stock.”

“Oh, he definitely does. A little too exotic for my taste. Besides, he won’t give it to me for free.”

“Getting cheap, trouble?”

You shrug, shoulder to your cheek, and give him an innocent smile.

It feels easy, the joint being passed back and forth between sentences until it’s done and stubbed out, the flow of conversation, the comfort that’s there. It’s always been easy with him, even when it hurts a little.

Eddie’s got on his worn denim vest, still full of pins, and you tug at it, “think this thing has a permanent weed smell by now.”

“I think that’s just part of my natural scent,” he replies, playfully flipping his hair over his shoulder.

His curls graze your cheek—that’s how close you’re sitting, thighs touching—and you giggle. You’ve had so many nights just like this one with Eddie, and it feels like some kind of reward that you get to have them still, even when they’re far less regular now.

“Doesn’t this make you think of high school?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Eddie’s hand is on his knee, his pinky twitches, reaching for your leg, “hell, I’m even wearing the same clothes as in high school.”

“How does it feel like yesterday and also a lifetime ago?”

Eddie looks over at you, the warm glow of moonlight and stars on your skin, the way your sweater hangs off your shoulder, the shine in your eyes that’s part weed and part nostalgia.

“A lot’s changed since then,” he says. “I’m not a loser anymore.”

“You’re still my loser.”

How is it that even when you’re calling him a loser, the idea of being yours in any sense of the word is enough to have Eddie’s heart swell in his chest, a balloon floating up and up and he has to swallow to push it back down.

“Stop being cheesy,” he plays it off, ruffling your hair.

You shove his arm away, “I just miss you!”

Eddie looks at his arm, your hand still holding onto it, he follows your arm with his gaze until it lands on your face. He thinks you’re beautiful, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen and no groupie could change that.

“I miss you, too, trouble.”

Something shifts, the air growing thicker, a sort of understanding between the two of you. There’s something here, something that could be a disaster but could also be so, so good. Could be everything.

“No way you think about me when you’ve got crowds and fans and-“

“I think about you a lot, honey.”

Honey. He’s probably called you that before, but never like this. Never dripping sweet and sincere, never looking at you like he wants to do something you can’t even let yourself imagine in fear of being let down, of hoping too much.

Eddie’s hand shifts from his own leg to yours, thumb running back and forth, burning you even through the fabric of your pants.

“You do?”

“All the time. You’re my best friend.”

Right. Friend.

“You’re mine, too, Eddie.”

And suddenly you can feel his breath fan across your cheek, your lips. His face is close to yours and the hair that falls over his forehead tickles yours. Just a second ago he’d been saying the word ‘friend,’ and now it feels like he’s going to do something to contradict that.

Against all odds, he does.

Eddie couldn’t help himself. Maybe he’ll blame the weed, or maybe he won’t, but before he knows it he’s reaching up with the hand that isn’t on his leg to cup your cheek and tilt your head. And he’s kissing you.

He’s kissing you.

It’s so delicate, so much you’re afraid to even breathe, like it’ll break in an instant. Eddie’s fingers squeeze your leg, urge you to kiss him back and there’s no way that you wouldn’t. Not when his lips are actually on yours, not when he tastes like weed and mint gum and something perfect.

It could be seconds or minutes that you’re kissing, tilting your head even more to feel him, clutching his sleeve tightly. It never deepens, but it doesn’t have to, it says enough.

When you pull away, it’s not one or the other who does it, it’s natural, like it’s been rehearsed time and time again. Eddie leans his forehead against yours, his hand still on your cheek.

“Was that a bad idea?” He asks you, voice low and quiet.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” And you don’t, because there’s no way of knowing what’s gonna happen next, if things will be ruined, if this will fade away like it never happened, or, maybe, just maybe, if it’ll start something.

“Was it okay?”

“More than okay.”

You don’t talk about it that night, and you don’t want to just yet. You’re fine with enjoying the pink-tinted haze at least until tomorrow.

-

Eddie’s barely been gone for two days and you’re not sure what to do with yourself. After that night, neither of you brought it up, and as much as you wanted to, you couldn’t. You were scared. And anyway, it was probably just the weed for him.

You’d never kissed before. Sure, you’ve come close, faces inches apart when you’d share a bed, whispers away, but nothing ever happened. Until now.

Now, sitting on your bed, chin resting on your knees, you’re reeling from knowing what Eddie’s lips feel like and missing him all over again. Rebuilding that piece in your chest.

Somewhere else in the country, in the world, Eddie’s position isn’t so different from yours. He’s sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, forearms on his knees, head bent. He wants to call you, and he’s figuring out what he’ll say when he does.

He misses you every time he isn’t home, but it’s never felt like this. There’s never been this ache in his stomach that won’t go away because of it. Fuck, he misses you more than ever.

The last trip back to Hawkins was different than anything else, because he brought back these feelings with him and he keeps reaching up to press his fingertips to his lips, like the memory of your own lingers there.

Sure, he’s had silly, sticky thoughts like waking up with his arms around you after a nap and thinking he could wake up that way forever, but he’s always pushed them down. Now, it seems, he can’t, the images too buoyant to ignore, floating back up every time.

Sucking in a deep breath, he sits up and reaches for the phone, dialing your number that’s stored in his memory. His leg bounces as the phone rings.

You’re startled by the screech of your phone on your bedside table, head lifting to look at it shake on the receiver. You reach over and pick it up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, trouble. It’s not a bad time, is it?”

Eddie. His voice crackling through the phone sends a spike down your spine. You clutch the phone a little tighter.

You’d expected Robin, or Nancy, even Steve. Because there’d been a time, earlier in Corroded Coffin’s career, when Eddie would call you at least three times a week, and then the calls grew less frequent until they sort of died out to holidays and birthdays.

So, maybe a couple of years ago, you’d have expected Eddie’s voice, but not today.

“Eddie, hi. Not at all.”

“I- um, I just wanted to call,” a small pause, he clears his throat, “how are you?”

“It’s only been two days, you know how I am.”

“I mean right now.”

You twist to lay on your side, legs curling in towards your chest. You smile to yourself like an idiot. “Right now, I’m good. It’s lame, I already miss you.”

“I miss you, too.”

The reply comes easily to him. There’s no thought to it, because in the past 48 hours, he hasn’t been able to stop missing you for a second. The warmth of your hand in his, the sunshine sound of your laughter.

He’s not sure why everything’s so big now, his feelings amplified, only quieted now, by the sound of your voice.

“Did you have a show today?”

You have a way of asking that makes it sound like you really care, Eddie thinks. He loves his music and he knows you know that. It means the world to him to do what he does, confusing feelings or not.

“Not today. We spent the day on the bus. Show’s tomorrow.”

“Nervous or excited?”

It’s something that you used to ask him before every small show in Hawkins, and the memory has a grin spreading on Eddie’s face. “It’s always both. More excited, though.”

“You should be,” you say. “You guys are really great.”

“Yeah? Who’s your favorite band member?”

He’s fishing, and you tease him rather than bite, “hmmm. Gareth.”

“Fuckin’ trouble. You liar.”

“You asked!”

“You answered the question wrong, honey.”

There it is again. Honey. You’re sort of glad he can’t see you right now because you probably look way too happy, burying your face in your pillow for a second before replying.

“You know you’re my favorite, Munson.”

“Yeah I am,” he sounds far too proud. And then, he’s softer, “I’m not keeping you up, am I? Time zones fuck me up.”

“No, no.” Even if he was, you wouldn’t tell him. This is better than trying and failing to sleep the way you so often do. “It’s not that late. What time is it for you?”

“Not that late,” he says, even though the clock on the nightstand reads 1:14AM. “So, what’s happening in Hawkins right now?”

“Mmm, it’s getting warmer. My window’s open and the crickets are loud as fuck.” You twist the phone cord around your fingers, “it’s donation week at the library, so I’ve been shelving new books for a change.”

Eddie listens to every word you say, asks you questions like if you’d kept any books for yourself (you had, but swore you’d give them to the library when you were done) and hums between your sentences.

Somewhere along the way, he’d laid down while listening to you, eyes shut as he tried to picture what you might look like right at this second. If you’re in your pajamas or not, whether your hair would be a little messy, baby hairs a halo around your face.

Then his eyes grew heavier, your voice putting him at ease even with the sounds of his bandmates laughing from somewhere in the hotel.

“Eddie?” You ask after he’d been silent for a bit.

“Hm?” He hums sleepily.

“I lost you for a second there.”

If he wasn’t half asleep, he’d feel worse. “Sorry, getting sleepy.”

“You wanna hang up?”

“No, uh- keep talking to me? You have a nice voice.”

You smile, cheeks pinching with the size of it.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll keep talking.”

And you do, you keep talking and talking until you can hear the sound of Eddie’s tiny snores on the other side of the line. You’re smiling again at that.

Even after you’re sure he’s asleep, you don’t hang up right away, not until your own eyes are growing heavy. You put the phone back quietly, like you’ll wake him if you’re not careful. You whisper a soft ‘goodnight, Eddie,’ as you do.

There’s a small stiffness in your fingers from how tightly you’d been holding the phone, and still, you’d let your hand cramp for hours to talk to him.

The next morning, Eddie wakes up with the pattern of the phone pressed to his cheek where he’d left it last night.

-

The TV sends flashes of color flickering across your living room and over your face. Usually, you’d be in bed by now, but it’s the night of the MTV awards and Corroded Coffin is nominated. You couldn’t miss it.

You’re not really paying attention to most of it, the sounds of performances and hosts and thank-you speeches filling your ears as you read your latest book. At least, you’re not paying attention until Eddie’s category is announced.

That has you shutting your book and sitting up, grabbing the remote to turn the volume higher.

They show the nominees, give far too long of an introduction before tearing open the envelope holding the winner’s names. You don’t know it, but you’re practically white knuckling the blanket on your lap.

“And the MTV award goes to… Corroded Coffin!”

You stand and place a hand on your chest, feeling your heart beating—racing—for the band, for Eddie. This is huge, it’s a dream, and it’s his. If you could, you’d give him a suffocating hug right now.

Eddie’s voice taking over, thanking his fans and Wayne, the boys and their team, then, thanking Hawkins and the people there, even when they gave him hell.

If you knew the right number to call to talk to him, you’d dial it in an instant.

Lucky for you, your phone rings the next night, late enough that you can only assume it’s Eddie given you don’t know anyone else who’s probably in a different time zone right now. You pick up quickly, fumbling with the phone a little before bringing it up to your ear.

“Eddie?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Ummm, my amazing intuition? Telepathy?”

“Telepathy, she says.” There’s a soft chuckle on his end, you close your eyes and lean your head back to thump against the wall behind you. “How’re things, trouble?”

“I feel like I should be asking you that, mister MTV winner.”

Eddie’s been calling more often again, whenever he gets the chance, really. Even so, he never thought you’d be keeping up with him that way, that you’d care enough to watch an award show and remember what he’d achieved.

“You were watching?” He asks, heart thudding.

“Of course I was. I’m your biggest fan, remember?” You’re sitting with your back against your headboard, knees bent, hand absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread in your pajama pants. “I’ve got cheerleader pom-poms and everything.”

“You do not.”

“Do too. They’re super metal, all black.”

“Yeah, cause pom-poms are super metal, babe.”

Another pet name in the rotation, uttered like it’s easy, natural. You bite back a smile.

“Whatever. Mine would be,” you say. “I’m glad you called.”

“Me, too.”

“I wanted to call you yesterday,” you admit, twisting that loose thread in your fingers, “after I saw you won. I’m really proud of you, Eddie.”

They’re words he hadn’t been expecting, but ones he’ll be thinking about over and over. He wants to keep making you proud, he thinks, and he’ll pour that into everything he does whether he means to or not.

“Thank you,” his voice is quieter, almost shy. “I wouldn’t be here without you, you know?”

“You would. You’re talented, and there’s no way that could stay hidden in this town, you’re bigger than it.”

Somehow, it’s easier to be so open with him on the phone. You don’t have to look at him, get distracted by his tongue running over his lips or the way his bangs get caught in his eyelashes sometimes. This way, all you have to do is speak, nothing more.

“Trouble-” he can’t even find the words to say, because there’s affection laced in your tone, seeping through the phone and into his head and, fuck, he wants to kiss you for it and he can’t. “I really miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” There’s some silence, and the overthinker in you worries that you’ve said too much even though you meant it with every part of you, that you’ve given yourself away. “Anyways, I should go, let you celebrate your win.”

It’s what he would be doing if Eddie’s thoughts hadn’t been so full of you and your mouth and your voice. It’s what his bandmates and friends are surely doing in some club around here.

“You don’t need to. I’m not doing anything.”

“No?” You try to lighten your tone, to joke the way you usually do, “don’t have groupies knocking on your hotel room door right now?”

Instead of playing along, Eddie’s voice is serious, still soft in the way he speaks to you, but serious nonetheless, “I don’t entertain them, honey.”

“You don’t?”

He’s tried. But ever since you kissed him, probably since before that, too, Eddie can’t seem to look at anyone else, let alone have someone else kiss him and tarnish the memory of your lips on his. He’s only ever thinking of you, it seems. So no, he hasn’t fooled around lately.

“Not in a while. I’m trying to write for the next album. No distractions.”

No distractions. He says it like that’s true, even though he can’t seem to fully focus, like there’s a piece he’s missing. Like every lyric he’s written since he’s been back isn’t somehow about you.

He’s so, so fucked.

“Look at you, Munson. Squeaky clean.”

You hope he can’t tell that you’re sort of a mess, a stupid blossom of hope planting itself where it shouldn’t. He’s your friend, he’s always been just your friend. But you kissed and it felt like something changed, and you can’t seem to let go of that.

“You sound surprised,” he teases, gathering his wits the best he can.

“Can you blame me? You used to have multiple lunchboxes reserved for your weed.”

“You loved those lunchboxes and you know it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

And then, like that moment was simply a blip, easily brushed over, your conversation turns back to your normal. Jokes with underlying affections, teasing while picturing what kind of smile the other wears when you laugh lightly into the phone.

Time runs away from you, and by the time you hang up it’s well into the early hours of the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

-

After hanging up, Eddie’s got this sinking, aching pull in his stomach. He knows what it is, has had bouts of it before where he misses Wayne’s hand patting his back or the way his mattress is worn-in just the right amount back at the trailer, when he thinks about what his friends might be doing or what science project Dustin’s got going on.

But it’s never felt this heavy. Eddie’s the most homesick he’s ever been.

He’d listen to your voice forever, but in that moment, he’d give anything to see your face, to see the shake of your shoulders when you laugh, the curve of your smile.

What the hell is wrong with him?

Eddie wipes his palms on his thighs before standing and walking out into the living room of his band’s suite hotel room. The guys are still up, and they’re all staring at him like weirdos.

“What?” He pauses in the doorway.

“Did you tell her you’re in love with her yet, or what?” Jeff, the electric guitarist, asks him.

“What?” Eddie says again because there’s no way he heard that right. He’d only just come to terms that he had feelings. This is much bigger.

“You’re joking,” Gareth pipes in, “you don’t even know it? Dude, you’re all ‘I miss you, trouble, you’re my favorite person ever.’” He does a knowingly terrible impression of Eddie.

“I do not sound like that.”

“You kinda do,” Jeff says.

“Why else would you be spending hours in that room on the phone, man? Come on,” Gareth sing songs the next bit: “you’re in loooove.”

Then Eddie thinks and thinks and thinks. The warmth that blooms when he hugs you, the jealousy he felt when he thought that server at Benny’s was flirting with you, the difficulty to say goodbye, the way your kiss haunts him in his sleep.

These idiots aren’t usually right about things, but just this once, maybe they are. Eddie Munson is probably, very likely, definitely in love with you.

Yeah, he’s so fucked.

♫♩♪♬

thank you so so much for reading!!! if you enjoyed please please please consider reblogging and letting me know what you think! it helps and means so much <333 i have plans for a part two, and if you’d like to see it, some support would help a bunch! ily!

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ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅ | emperor geta

pairing: emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: the fates spin the thread of destiny, and mortals have no choice but to follow its path. you have other plans.

➺‘the fates, who give men at their birth both evil and good to have, and they pursue the transgressions of men and gods… until they punish the sinner with a sore penalty’ - theogony, hesiod ➺‘whatever happens to you has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time’ - marcus aurelius

A/N: i watched gladiator ii, devoured all the geta fics i could find (ty writers for feeding me <3) and i’m still ravenous. the man is gnawing at me from my insides so i had no choice but to get typing. haven’t written for like a yr so bear with me. if this flops it never happened xx

warnings: mention of miscarriage (not reader's), period-typical misogyny, morally ambiguous reader bc she’s fighting for her life out here. she’s just a girl fr :( YOU try being a girlie in ancient rome :/ enjoy !!

w/c: 5.9k

latin translations: fatum - fate, carissima - dear, domina - my lady

As the moon ascends in wake of the sun’s descent, the gilded walls of the imperial palace glint softly in the moonlight. Glorious tapestries line these walls, each one telling the tale of hallowed heroes, of terrible tyrants and of revered rulers. The history of the Roman Empire.

Their patterns, depicting stories of both rise and ruin, are woven by none other than the three Fates. One Fate spins the thread, and an heir is born. Another Fate weaves it, and a battle is won. The last Fate cuts, and an emperor meets his end.

As three pairs of hands work nimbly in the heavens, another tapestry begets itself in the mortal realm, where our story takes place.

From a tender age, you had been taught to believe in fate.

Fatum.

You had first learnt the word as a little one.

You’d been a curious creature, like most children are. Sheltered from the terrors of the world, your appetite for life was insatiable. You’d wake up with a hunger for new knowledge about the world around you, and go to bed still hungry for more, no matter what had transpired during the day. Thus, you found it impossible to go to sleep of your own accord - you relied on your mother’s bedtime stories to satisfy your appetite, and lull you into slumber.

Perched by your bedside with a gentle hand stroking your hair, she regaled you with the tale of Rome’s beginnings. A tale of abandonment, wolf-mothers and fratricide. Enough thrill to tire you out, she hoped. To her chagrin, she looked down to find widened eyes, without a trace of sleep in them, staring up at her expectantly. Instead, your eyes shone bright with the excitement of unanswered questions.

She sighed fondly before prompting you to talk. “Yes, carissima?”

And so the floodgates opened. You fired her with questions with all the sternness of a Roman general, and she listened intently with all the patience of a loving mother.

Why did the king try to kill the babies? Why didn’t the wolf eat the babies?

And finally, taking great care to be gentle, you placed a tiny hand on her rounded belly and asked the most burning question. Why did Romulus kill his brother? Your innocent mind struggled to comprehend it. You hadn’t even met your little sibling yet, and you already couldn’t fathom the idea of bringing harm to him. Or her, you thought, but your father had insisted that all refer to the babe as the male heir he so desperately desired it to be.

“Fatum,” was the simple answer she supplied. “Without the king’s cruelty, without the wolf’s mercy, without Remus’ death, our great city would never have been built.”

Eyes shining with knowledge yet untold, her gaze held yours. “Whatever happens to you, has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time,” she quoted, a tone of finality in her voice.

As well-loved children do, you’d lapped up your mother’s answer as readily as the twin babes lapped the wolf’s milk.

You had first witnessed fatum some years later, at the age of twelve.

On the brink of adolescence, much about you had changed compared to the little girl having bedtime stories told to her. Much except one. Age hadn’t quelled your curiosity - if anything, it had grown.

You’d exhausted all the resources available to a girl of your standing. You’d read enough philosophical texts to debate with Aristotle himself, asked questions faster than your tutors could find answers and yet, you knew there was much more that the world had to offer. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands.

With age had also come a newfound deviance. Observant as you were, you’d learned that there was much to be gained with certain types of information - if you knew how to use it to your advantage.

As such, you’d taken to eavesdropping on your father’s meetings with his fellow senators from behind a pillar. For weeks on end, they had spoken of a play becoming popular amongst patricians and plebeians alike. Oedipus.

At the centre of their discussion was a ploy to ban the play from being performed. Abhorrent, they had called it. A threat to their authority, if the people are led to believe that even kings are subject to a thing as fickle as fate. At that statement, your eyes twinkled with mischief and a devious smile found its way to your face - you were determined to see this for yourself.

So, on the fateful night you caught your older cousin in the arms of a man bearing no resemblance to her betrothed, you knew you’d struck gold.

Desperate to protect her reputation and far too embarrassed to berate you for sleuthing around when you should have been asleep, she’d hastily agreed to the terms of your silence. She would sneak you into the city’s amphitheatre to watch the next production of Oedipus, if you swore to secrecy.

And so your plan commenced. Hidden under the large folds of her toga, you observed the story unfolding before you. The mighty king of Thebes brought to his knees by the tragic fate he’d tried to escape, to no avail.

A real spectacle, the performance elicited emotions from you that were both old and new. In a short two hours you’d been perplexed, horrified, scandalised. You’d learned quickly why you had to be sneaked in - fate wasn’t the only mature theme you were educated on that night.

But you only came to understand fatum when it took the person dearest to you, two summers ago.

Pregnant again, the fifth time that you could remember, your mother had taken ill. Perilously ill. After years of unsuccessful attempts to produce an heir - one daughter, two miscarriages and two stillbirths - she had breathed her last. In her womb? The son your father demanded of her. The son he had longed for. Prayed to the gods for. What else could bring forth such a tragic end, if not the hands of the Fates?

Now a grown woman, the beliefs your mother had impressed upon you would soon be tested. Left with no living sons to continue his legacy and no living wife to bring forth such living sons, your father’s lofty political aspirations could only be fulfilled through his daughter. You.

Your father wasted no time in advancing his plans.

After a long day spent praying at the temple of Pluto, you had been ready to wind down and relax. A good distance away from the centre of the city and situated atop a number of hills, a trip there takes up the whole day. You had set out at dawn, and as the sun set over the Tiber river to bring forth dusk, your shadow darkened the entrance of your family villa.

Exhausted both emotionally and physically, your body went through the motions of preparing yourself for supper, but your mind remained absent - occupied with thoughts of what could have been and what will never be.

After your bath you called for your maid and allowed her to dress you, head still in the clouds. It was only when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the bronze mirror atop your vanity that you noticed something was amiss.

Your eyes squinted as you inspected the image reflected on the polished surface.

“Why have you dressed me in these garments? I wish to wear my usual attire.”

You wore a tunic, the draped garment secured by an ornate brooch resembling an owl, with eyes made of precious gems. Nothing out of the ordinary.

What was out of the ordinary, was the saffron yellow hue of the tunic — since your mother’s passing you had been in mourning and thus only wore dark colours. A fact well-known by your maid, who dressed you day and night.

The hands fastening the brooch faltered as she gathered a response.

“My apologies, Domina.” She stepped back, head bowed in deference. “I assumed you would revert to your previous wardrobe, seeing as yesterday marked the end of…” She trailed off meekly, allowing you to fill in the blanks.

The previous day had marked a year since your mother’s passing, and thus the end of the customary mourning period. As such, it would be socially acceptable for you to appear happy and content again, reflected in the abandonment of deep plums and drab greys for sunny yellows and bold blues. You supposed it was not odd for her to assume you desire to don brighter colours.

But upon closer inspection, your suspicion rose again. Detailed with beautiful patterns and made of the smoothest damask money could buy, the tunic was much too elaborate for a simple family dinner in the villa. The last time you wore it was to a relative’s wedding, where your father made a point of telling anyone who would listen just how much it had cost to import the material from China.

You poised yourself to question her further, but the words died on the tip of your tongue when you saw the pleading look she gave you.

“Please, Domina.”

She offered you no further explanation, but the fear in her eyes was explanation enough. She was not doing this of her own accord, but under instruction. And if you knew your father well, under strict instruction.

Whatever plans he had for you, you knew you would have little to no choice in the matter.

Wordlessly, you acquiesced and allowed her to continue. You did not protest when she brushed, braided and pinned your hair into an elaborate updo. You were compliant when she lined your eyes with kohl and blotted your lips with mulberry juice.

Primped and primed like a prized show horse, you dismissed your maid, sat by the window and awaited your fate.

Not long passed before the sound of a male timbre filled the room.

“It appears your outfit is missing something.”

You turned to the direction of the voice to see your father standing in the doorway. Instinctively, you stood to your feet - less as a show of respect and more because you were used to being on guard in his presence.

In his hands he held a translucent, gauzy material, sheer in nature and vibrant in colour, that was all too familiar to you.

Your mother’s favourite veil.

Usually fixed firmly atop her head during special occasions - festivals, birthdays, weddings and the like - you could recognise it from a mile away. Growing up, you had associated this veil with womanhood itself. You would traipse around the corridors of the villa with it wrapped around your head haphazardly, the excess fabric trailing behind you as you ran as fast as your little legs could carry you.

What a foreign sight it was to see it in the hands of your father. And what a foreign sight it was to see him in your chambers.

Following your mother’s passing, the two of you had not conversed beyond what was formally required of you, your already fragile relationship fracturing completely. Yet here he was, extending a peace offering. An olive branch.

Pleased as you were to receive it, you were not foolish enough to believe this to be a genuinely affectionate gesture. A politician through and through, your father was no stranger to symbolic gestures, and he had made no attempts to mend your relationship prior to this moment. This sudden generosity, paired with your extravagant dressing, could only mean one thing.

He wanted something from you.

Now, you had two options. Comply with his request, or comply with his request begrudgingly. You chose the latter, of course. Even if obedience was your only option, you weren’t going to make this easy for him.

You casted him a quick look of derision. “If you wish to barter for my forgiveness with a piece of cloth, I am afraid your efforts have been wasted.”

Unphased, he stepped further into the room.  “Now, now, peace, dear daughter. Let us be civil.” The faux humility in his tone was almost comical.

“Perhaps you feel…wronged by me for holding your mother to a certain standard. But, you must understand that I was simply fulfilling my duties, by encouraging her to fulfil her own. I have particular responsibilities to this family. As do you, now.”

You levelled him with an icy glare, wise enough not to express your discontent verbally, but too headstrong not to express it somehow.

“And even if I have, in some unfathomable way, wronged you; to err is human, to forgive, divine.” 

After knowing him for as long as you did, you knew this was the closest thing to an apology you would get. You also knew your father was a talented orator - it’s how he gained a large enough political following to join the Senate, after all. And so you prepared yourself to be subjected to one of his moving speeches.

“It is common knowledge that women are the weaker sex,” What a great way to start, you snarked to yourself. “Yet, I have always seen a unique strength in you. Not physical strength, of course, but a mental fortitude. Since you were a young girl you have been willful, stubborn,” he took a step closer to you with each word, purple-lined toga brushing the floor as he advanced. 

As he said the last word, he gave you a knowing look. “Nosy.”

You failed to hide your shock. “Oh yes, I saw you slinking around behind the pillars.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It matters not, now. In fact, whatever dregs of information you picked up from eavesdropping on my discussions may soon prove useful.”

His face was a picture of smugness, with an eyebrow cocked and the corners of his mouth upturned as if he knew something you didn’t. With just a few sentences he had complimented you (even if it was backhanded), revealed that he knew your secret, and teased you with a nugget of information. The perfect combination to make you anticipate his next words.

Silence filled the room as he kept you in suspense, mind whirring as you mulled over his cryptic words. 

One hand held your mother’s veil in front of him, while the other caressed its folds delicately. His eyes had a faraway look in them that suggested his mind had travelled to another time.

“Your mother was a strong woman. Not strong enough in the end, regrettably, but strong nonthele-”

“Don’t.” You interjected. “You will not sully her memory with your caustic words.”

His lips spread into a diplomatic smile, but the twitch of his eye betrayed the irritation he felt. Belligerent as he was, he ignored your outburst and continued. 

“Unlike her, you have the makings of a lady of great influence. Much like me, you have the mind for politics. That potential lies latent within you.”

With a gentleness you wished was also reflected in his words, he draped the veil over your head. “I advise you not to waste it, dear daughter, and suffer the fate of lesser women.”

You scoffed at his words, readjusting the veil so it rested perfectly atop your head and shoulders. “And how do you suggest I fulfil this…potential? The Senate is not exactly welcoming of women.”

Well-pleased that your interest had been piqued, he finally reveals his true intentions.

“Accompany me to the imperial banquet tonight. We will celebrate the successful conquest of Britannia.”

“I do not care for banquets, nor do I spare a thought for conquests.”

“You may not care for military conquests, but this banquet itself is a conquest of the political sort. In my experience, much more is won with words, than with swords. And tonight’s event presents an opportunity for much gain.”

Again with the cryptic words.

“Allow me to present you to the Emperors. Your face is comely enough to garner their attention, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, some men find opinionated girls like you to be charming.” 

Is he insinuating what you think he is?, you thought incredulously. Surely not.

“The Senate may not be the place for women, but the Senate is not the only facilitator of politics. Why not practice your politics from Palatine Hill?”

There was no mistaking it. He intended to make an Empress of you. Equally as curious as you were sceptical, you decided to test his logic.

“Beauty is fleeting. Charm wanes with time. How would I maintain their favour?”

“That, dear daughter, is up to you. I am certain you will find a way, formidable as you are.”

While it pained you to admit it, he was right. You and your father were more alike than different, what with your scheming and blackmailing. Besides, you were formidable. You were cunning. You were capable.

There may be greater things in store for you yet.

And those greater things began with this banquet.

Upon arrival, you were met with the most magnificent sight you had ever seen. Sat proudly upon Palatine Hill, the palace looked like the image your mind conjured when picturing Olympus. After ascending the intimidating number of steps that led to the entrance, you truly felt like you’d ascended to the land of the gods. Wherever you looked there was amazing artwork that instilled equal parts awe and fear in you. 

Look up, and there were grand arches to behold. Look to the side, and the spectacular frescoes offered a feast for the eyes. Look down, and there were beautifully designed floor mosaics you almost felt bad for stepping on.

As you passed through into the atrium, it was much the same. Ostentatiously decorated, it boasted gilded walls and glorious tapestries, each feature a testament to the Emperors’ opulence, and Rome’s riches.

But it was impossible to focus fully on the artwork with the room heaving as it was. Eyes darting from one person to another with every passing second,  you were captivated by the spectacle the hoard of partygoers presented. Something seemed to be happening in every square foot of the room, each guest having their fill of whatever their vice of choice was for the night. Wine was in abundance, giving way to loose lips, and scantily-clad whores prowled about in the shadows, giving way to loose purse strings.

You had been to your fair share of lavish affairs, but this was a whole new world of revelry.

Between the loud percussion of the musicians’ instruments, the aroma of the heavily seasoned foods and the leering gazes of overexcited men, you began to feel overstimulated. You stuck close to your father as he led you into the heart of the throng, finding comfort in the familiar when surrounded by the foreign. Better the devil you know.

Oblivious to your discomfort, he reprimands you under his breath. “Stop clinging to me like a child, lest our venture fail before it has even begun.”

You’d been so taken by your surroundings that you hadn’t registered where your father was leading you to. Now you stood in front of the two men at the centre of this affair, who were seated majestically upon a golden threaded couch. You prayed you didn’t look like the bewildered little girl you certainly felt like. 

With a grand, sweeping gesture of his hand, your father bowed. 

“Imperators, what an honour it is to partake in these…wondrous celebrations with your Majesties.”

“Senator,” one of them said, voice smooth like honey but with an edge that demanded caution. His face bore a smile, but his tone was calm and measured. “What a pleasure it is to see you.” The twitch of his eyebrow suggested otherwise. “In a more agreeable mood, might I add.” The man beside him sniggers.

More agreeable? Whatever could that mean? For the second time in one night you found yourself deciphering cryptic words. Father must have angered the Emperors, somehow. 

“And you’ve brought…” He trailed off, looking at your father expectantly.

“Yes, Emperor Geta, Emperor Caracalla,” with a single clap and an officious clearing of his throat he stepped to the side, no longer obscuring their vision of you. “May I present my daughter…”

You managed to regain your composure, exhibiting a grace only a lady of the upper echelons of society could possess when you sunk into a deep curtsy. Lifting your gaze, you were met with the hair-raising sensation of being observed. Not just observed – scrutinised.  

A pair of eyes, deep brown like rich soil, trailed over your form. The man that addressed your father with contempt - Geta. His brows furrowed as he took the sight of you in. Lined with kohl much like yours, his eyes were smouldering in their examination.

Another pair, red-rimmed and cloudy with the haze of inebriation, were the perfect contrast. The man that sniggered - Caracalla. With irises of a cold blue hue, they would have been intimidating if they belonged to a face other than his, what with his rosy rounded cheeks and seemingly perpetual impish grin. 

Despite their differences, the relation between the men was clear as day. Flaming locks of hair and the gold laurels that circled their heads confirmed their identities. These were the infamous twin tyrants.

But it wasn’t just the weight of their eyes that you felt. Lounging around the couch in various positions and in varying states of undress, was an entourage of courtesans. You did your best to avert your gaze, as theirs bore into you. 

And what a pleasant sight you were. Adorned with ornate jewellery and clad in the finest of silks, you were easily one of the best dressed at the banquet. Before a word had been uttered, your appearance relayed a message – you were a lady of fine stature, more than accustomed to luxury and thus, would be well-suited to palace life.

Well-suited to be Empress.

Not taking any chances, your father decided not to leave anything up for interpretation.

He began listing your virtues as if reading from a handbook - 100 Things to Look For in a Roman Wife. He spoke of your piety, your beauty, your fertility. With every trait of yours that was mentioned, you grew increasingly more irate and keeping the docile smile on your face became increasingly more difficult. 

“...and lest I forget, she is most gifted with the lyre-”

“How quaint.” Caracalla interrupted, a peal of childish laughter bubbling from his lips. “He presents his daughter’s hand as if he is lobbying for a law to be passed!”

Geta scoffed, “Or a conquest to be forfeited.”

At this, Caracalla doubled over in laughter, the overfilled cup of wine in his hand threatening to spill over the rim with every jostle of his frame. Clearly there’s a joke you’re missing here.

There’s a wicked glint in Geta’s eyes that tells you this joke has guile. 

“Three sennights have lapsed since you last stood before us, spewing nonsense about abandoning our pursuit of Britannica.” The vitriol that coated his voice strung a discordant note in the mellifluous tune of his brother’s continuous laughter. “Yet here you stand in your Emperors’ palace,” he gestured at the ongoing frivolities. “Drinking and making merry with spoils from the very war you so vehemently opposed.” 

Ah. It finally clicked. From what you had picked up from your father and his associates’ discussions, you knew that this conquest had long since been under contention among the Senators. The campaign was taking longer than anticipated, and required more reinforcements than expected. The Roman force was fatigued. At home, the starving plebeians of Rome were one famine away from revolting, and without the full support of the army, politicians relied on empty promises to appease their constituents and maintain order. Yet, the Emperors were adamant on expanding Rome’s borders.

For whatever reason, at the last Senate meeting three weeks ago your father had been the unfortunate soul to suggest that the troops should draw back. And now he stood before them at the celebration of the successful conquest, presenting you as a bargaining chip to secure his pardon. Opposing the Emperors was costly, and he decided you were going to pay that price on his behalf.

Geta leaned his head on his hands as he asked, “Tell me, Senator, what makes you think you will triumph this time?”

You watched your father’s reaction with bitter disbelief. For the first time in your life, your silver-tongued father, the man that had landed you this fate, floundered for words.

Fine. If this was the hand dealt to you, so be it. But you were going to do this your way.

“Your Majesties,” At the sound of your sweet voice, Geta’s gaze affixed itself to your face. Instantly, he was beguiled. “If I may…” 

With the slow incline of his head, you were permitted to speak. 

“I know little of war,” you feigned ignorance. “But I do know that defying the odds to bring glory to Rome is no small feat.” Preening at your praise, Geta leaned forward in his seat, a silent encouragement for you to continue. “Rome and her citizens are fortunate to be led by you, Imperators, and I am grateful to be in the presence of such wise rulers.”

His mouth spread into a self-satisfied smirk. “I bask in your praises, my lady. It pleases me to see that someone in your family has a semblance of loyalty to the powers above them” A pointed look was shot at your father. “You see, all those that oppose their Emperors,” His venomous gaze roved over the group of Senators shifting uneasily as they watched this ordeal. “Will soon learn that there is only one way for a man to wield power.” He held up his index finger for emphasis and paused for suspense. “War.”

With all the self-assurance of a man that has never truly been challenged, he stalked towards you.

“What other power can bring a man to his knees and cause him to surrender?”

“I can think of nothing greater than war!” Caracalla piped up from behind him.

“Yes, brother.” Geta held his cup of wine up in agreement. “By no other means can a man wield such power. I am sure my lady agrees?” He offered his right hand, each finger as bejewelled as the next.

The ultimatum he presented you with was clear. Kiss the ring, let all be forgiven and allow this encounter to end pleasantly. Refuse the ring, and…well, don’t refuse the ring.

But compliance was predictable, and would only get you so far. Your beauty and charm had ignited a spark of interest in him, but that wasn’t enough. You needed that spark to burst into a flame.

With swan-like grace you knelt before him and took his hand, smiling inwardly when his eyes followed your descent with rapture. You didn’t miss his quick intake of breath when you halted your movements to look up and meet his eye, lips an inch away from the stunning signet ring.

“Upon second thought,” You tilted your head as if considering his words. “There exists another power great enough to make a man kneel in surrender.” At your bold words, the hand you held tightened around your fingers until he had a firm grip of your hand. “A power so great, even Emperors are not immune.”

Gasps of shock came from the onlookers sober enough to process what they had heard.

“Impertinence!” Caracalla’s cry of protest tore you from the captivity of his brother’s gaze. 

“Forgive my daughter, she oversteps her bounds.” Your father spat the words out and fixed you with a look of warning, a late and unappreciated attempt to de-escalate the night’s proceedings.

With a wave of Geta’s hand, his words were dismissed. For the sake of keeping your resolve, you pretended not to see the Praetorians return their drawn swords to their scabbards.

You returned to the intense stare of brown eyes narrowed in… intrigue? Suspicion? You weren’t sure, but you had his attention. 

“And what power would that be?”

Your gentle smile had him entranced. “The strike of a drum, the strum of a lyre’s strings. Music, my Imperator, holds much power.”

See, while your father was busy waxing lyrical about you, you had been studying Geta closely. As he listened to others speak, his fingers unconsciously tapped the thigh of the courtesan perched on the arm of the couch. But they were not tapping any old rhythm – they tapped to the beat of the percussion in the background.

The ring your lips had puckered up to kiss was not embossed with an imprint of Mars, the god of war, but Apollo, god of music. Geta the Emperor championed conflict and violence, but Geta the man held music dear.

Rich eyes twinkled as his laugh rang in your ears. “Ah, yes. Your father mentioned your skill with the lyre. He failed to mention your humour.” He didn’t believe you.

“I assure you, Imperator, my lyre-playing is unparalleled.” You indulged him with a coy smile.

“You believe you would best our most talented musician? That your playing would put your Emperors’ finest to shame?” He challenged your claim.

“Given the chance, I would outplay each of the Nine Muses,” you asserted boldly. You rose to his challenge.

His eyes gleamed with ardour as he regarded your statement with a raised brow. “I await the day I hear you play with baited breath, my lady.”

“It would be my pleasure, my liege.”

Not risking any more excitement, you curtsied and took your father’s arm as he guided you towards the outskirts of the atrium, and away from watching eyes. He wasted no time expressing his displeasure.

“Have you lost your senses, girl? Has some strange plague come over your mind?!” He released an exasperated sigh. “You should have held that tongue of yours.”

 “Oh, and left you there, stammering like a bumbling fool? Father,” you uttered the paternal term without an ounce of familial affection. “You entrusted this ploy into my hands, so leave it there.”

Anger flashed across his face like a clap of thunder. Before he could berate you for your indolence, however, a piercing shriek stole the moment.

You pushed through the crowd to see the commotion, weaving past bodies stilled with shock at whatever it is they were witnessing. When you got to the centre, you were met with a most harrowing display of fraternal discord.

Geta lay sprawled out on the marble floor, the corded muscle of his limbs tensing as he strained to hold back the man towering over him, wielding a dagger above his head. Caracalla. 

At first glance one may have supposed this fray was borne of anger, but with the spittle flying out of gritted teeth that gnashed and snarled like those of some inhuman beast, the incoherent stream of words and the crazed look in his eyes, it was clear that he did not have full agency of his person.

The rumours were true. He was having one of his infamous episodes.

Your eyes darted from Praetorian to Praetorian, waiting for one of them, any of them to take action. Their hands rested on the hilt of their swords, hesitation rooting them to their spots. To raise a hand against Caracalla would be treason, punishable by death. To ignore the distress of Geta would be treason, also punishable by death. They were at an impasse.

The chatter of mingling guests and the ambience of the musicians’ instruments had long since stopped, leaving the grunts of the brothers to take their place. All watched on in stunned silence, revelers turned horrified spectators.

Their scrambling continued. Geta managed to hook a leg around Caracalla’s ankle, toppling him over to join him on the cold marble. Wine cups clanged as they were knocked to the ground, collateral. The cacophony of sound nearly masked the sound of Geta’s desperate plea.

“Break the spell! Break the spell!”

Moved by an impetus you couldn’t explain, you barreled further through the crowd until you reached the musicians’ corner. You grabbed the lyre from the hands of the bard (who was too focused on the ongoing tumult to protest), and started strumming the tune of a nursery rhyme favoured by Roman children both rich and poor. 

Dulcet tones and sweet symphonies echoed through the chamber as you sang of Rome’s rolling hills, of fair maidens awaiting the return of brave soldiers, of the Tiber River’s ebb and flow.

Those around you listened intently, enraptured. They stepped aside, clearing a path for you towards the quarreling brothers. You walked forward as you sang, and as you reached the last verse you stood a few feet away from where they squirmed, limbs akimbo. 

From your position you saw the exact moment the muscles in Caracalla’s face relaxed, and his body went limp. He released a weak whimper better-suited to an injured animal than the tyrannical emperor he was rumoured to be.

Eyes fixed on you over his brother’s shoulder, he dropped the dagger as if compelled. Tears began to run down his face as he wailed, balling himself up into a foetal position. When they noticed his change in disposition, his entourage took the chance to spirit him away from the room. 

The final note of your song rang out. A beat passed as everyone came to, as if they too were held captive in a trance. Then, a slow, steady clap from one became a roaring applause, your fellow guests lauding your performance as if it had been planned. 

Chest heaving from exertion, Geta used a three-legged (formerly four-legged) stool to pull himself from the floor and adjusted his toga. At the raise of his hand, the clapping stopped. Flopping back to sit on the couch, he gestured for you to come forward. His expression was inscrutable. 

Before you could scrape together an apology, or some sort of explanation, you were utterly disarmed by the grin that spread across his face. 

“My lady,” He huffed between words, still catching his breath. “I stand corrected. It appears your flair with the lyre is equally as bewitching as your looks.”  

Your cheeks heated up at his confession of attraction towards you. “It pleases me that you think of me so, my Emperor.”

“Mmm.” He hummed, dark eyes taking their time to appraise you. “The power to bring a man to his knees can be very dangerous, you know. I believe it would be in the best interest of Rome and her citizens if such power was… managed by the capable hands of their Emperor.”

The chill of deja vu ran down your spine when he extended his hand in your direction. A second invitation to kiss the ring. Most people only get one.

“Wouldn’t you agree?”

As your lips made contact with the cold metal of Apollo’s face and you sealed your fate, you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer. When you opened them again, you found eyes the colour of rich soil searching yours. 

He turned the hand that gripped his and pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss to the back of it. His kisses travelled up your arm, growing more and more fervent, the plush of his lips leaving warmth on every spot they pressed against. He used his hold on you to pull you towards him until you were close enough to smell the heady scent of patchouli mixed with the subtle musk of perspiration, and count the freckles on his speckled cheeks, peeking through the layer of makeup. 

His palm ran up and down your arm repeatedly, inching further up each time.

“You will make a home for yourself here, in these palace walls.” Brown eyes gazed into yours, full of a veneration you couldn’t fathom. “And you shall be my little Muse.” 

As if the troubles of your life thus far had not been a sufficient allotment of suffering, the Fates had now tasked you with weathering the twin tempers of the Emperors Geta and Caracalla. And surviving.

Gods help you.

A/N: thank you ever so much for reading ! i'm working on part two so let me know if you want me to post it when it's done <3

likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated x

© onyxstyx tumblr 2025

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Sunflower

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: When Y/N joins the team, Bucky isn’t fond of her but as time goes on, she begin to form bond with the team and with him.

Warning: Swearing, torture, violence, death

Words: 20,971

A/N: All translations were made using Google, so sorry if they are wrong! This is also my first Marvel fic, and my first Bucky fic, so all feedback is welcome!

Master List   Tag List

May

You’re nervous. Your palms sweat, even with the air conditioner pumping through the compound, and your heartbeat is elevated. You know that your presence is allowed but you don’t know whether they will accept you. After all, you were part of one of the most atrocious organisations that had ever existed.

Keep reading

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Promise Without Ceremony | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes gave up on marriage a long time ago. But then, somewhere deep in a storm-soaked safe house, he pulls a bullet from your leg and accidentally proposes in the process.

MCU Timeline Placement: Post TFATWS

Master List: Find my other stuff here!

Warnings: blood loss, injury, bullet wound, field medicine, pain, mild medical trauma, emotional vulnerability, war references, ptsd mentions, marriage talk, soft angst, accidental proposal

Word Count: 3.9k

Author’s Note: i am once again asking bucky barnes to know peace (he will not). anyway i cleaned my kitchen at 1am and now i’m emotionally compromised about fictional men again. if you need me i’ll be lying facedown on the floor, thinking about laundry and commitment.

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The idea of marriage had died sometime in the ice.

Not all at once. Not dramatically, like a final gasp of a man slipping into the Atlantic with a ring still in his coat pocket. No, it had been slower than that. Eaten away in inches. First by frostbite. Then by fire. Then by the sound of screaming that wasn’t his own but came from his own mouth anyway.

It used to mean something to him. Marriage. A porch swing. Warm soup. A house with windows that didn’t rattle in the wind. The kind of thing you promised a girl in church shoes, hands clasped over the Sunday paper. 

James Buchanan Barnes had once thought he’d get that life. That he’d earn it. If he fought hard enough, if he came home in one piece, if he smiled the right way when he walked her back to her door.

Then war had cracked the world open like a rotten egg, and everything inside had spilled black.

There were no porches where Hydra took him. No rings. Just cold steel and code phrases. Needles and electrodes. Years swallowed by fog. And when he remembered again, when he started to remember, he couldn’t even picture a wedding band without wondering how deep it would slice if it caught against bone.

So no, marriage hadn’t crossed his mind in years.

Not until you.

Not even with you, not in the usual sense. You hadn’t crawled into his life and started naming curtains or pointing out flower arrangements like a threat. You’d just…stayed. Through the Accords. Through the fallout. Through Wakanda and the long, sterile quiet of the recovery halls. You never flinched when he woke up screaming. You never tiptoed around the word past like it might set off a bomb.

You were there during the repairs. The recalibrations. You’d worked with Shuri on something far above his understanding, fingers stained with grease and ink, hair always pinned messily away from your eyes. You’d curse under your breath in three different languages. You argued with Ayo. You laughed loudly.

By the time he was sent back into the field—once he had left the mountains, left the quiet—he expected the connection to die out. Most things did. The world had taught him that. You could try to keep something alive outside the place it was born, but roots snapped when you pulled too hard.

And it had. He had left you. Not by choice, not really. One blink and he was gone. Another blink, and you’d aged five years without him.

But then he saw you again. In D.C. In New York. Even in Louisiana. Out of nowhere, standing in a pair of sunglasses too big for your face, grinning like it hadn’t been years for you.

“Miss me, Barnes?”

And damn him, he had.

You’d joined the mission against the Flag Smashers. Temporarily, at first. That’s what you both said. Just this op. Just this briefing. Just this one joint task force run with Sam. 

And then it wasn’t temporary anymore. And then there was a room in the same safe house that you’d claimed. A bunk on the same floor. Your stuff beside his. And his toothbrush in your travel kit, and he had no idea how or when that had happened.

There were no conversations. No declarations. Just a slow merging.

He liked your laugh. The dry, cut-glass one you used when Joaquin said something stupid. The low, real one that came out when you let your guard down, when the weight on your shoulders slipped just enough to let joy through.

You liked to touch him. Not in the way that made him flinch. In the way that made the back of his neck burn. A casual hand on his spine when passing behind him. Fingers brushing his sleeve. A nudge with your elbow when he got too serious. You were constant.

You grounded him.

And he didn’t know how to name that. He wasn’t good at words anymore. Hadn’t been in decades. But he knew how it felt when you were hurt. When you bled. When someone touched you too rough during an extraction and he saw red before he even registered why.

He had never said “I love you.” Not outright. Neither had you.

But there were nights you fell asleep on his chest, breathing slow against the metal plates, and he’d whisper it in your hair like a secret. Like a curse.

Because he did love you.

And it terrified him.

Not because he thought you’d leave, though that was always a part of it.

But because he didn’t believe in the future. Not really. Hydra had broken that part of him, rewired him to think in terms of seconds, triggers, threats. Even now, after all this time, after all this healing, the idea of forever felt…dangerous. Unrealistic. Like planning for spring in the middle of a war zone.

But the truth was: he wanted to grow old with you.

He didn’t say it. But he wanted it.

The thought came loudest during quiet missions. When your hand found his under the table. When you scolded Sam like a sitcom wife. When you kissed him before leaving in a rush and forgot your ID badge, and he chased after you just to hear you laugh when he caught up.

That was what marriage looked like to him now.

Not churches or tuxedos. Not parties or speeches. Just this. Just you.

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It was raining now. Somewhere deep in the woods outside of Vienna, a safe house blinked on like a dying star. One generator. One flickering lamp. One bullet in your leg, and his hands slick with blood that wasn’t his.

You hissed as he dug the tweezers in.

“I told you,” he said, voice low, steady even as his gut churned, “you were too exposed on the ridge. You shouldn’t have gone up alone.”

You shot him a look. “Wasn’t alone. You were covering me.”

“I was supposed to be covering you,” he muttered, breath tight. “Didn’t exactly do a great job, did I?”

You didn’t answer.

He hated this part. The way the pain made your voice tighten, the way you bit your lip hard enough to bleed rather than make a sound. It reminded him too much of everything he couldn’t fix. Of every mission where he hadn’t been fast enough. Every loss that had turned to ash in his mouth.

You were trembling now, sweat slicking your brow. The bullet was lodged deep. He could feel it with the tip of the tweezers, but it wouldn’t come clean.

His jaw clenched.

“Bucky.”

“Almost got it.”

“Bucky.”

He angled the tweezers just slightly, catching the edge of the casing with a surgeon’s precision, eyes fixed on the wound like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. You were trying to steady him. He knew that. Heard it in your voice. But he couldn’t afford to believe you were okay. Not yet. Not until the metal was out and you were still breathing.

“James.”

He looked up at that. Your eyes were glassy, lips pale. And yet, somehow, you smiled.

“You smile too much when you’re in pain,” he muttered, tweezers angled again.

“Maybe you just give me a lot to smile about.”

“Yeah?” His voice came quieter, almost bitter. “Like what?”

“Like this charming bedside manner,” you rasped. “And your tendency to monologue when 

you’re worried.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

The bullet shifted. Your body jerked, a hoarse cry caught in your throat.

“Shit—sorry,” he said instantly, his free hand anchoring you at the hip. His palm was warm. Steady. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” you breathed.

And then, silence.

Heavy. Close. Pressed between bodies that had seen too many battlefields, too many exits. The only sound was the storm outside, ticking against the roof like bones, and your ragged, uneven breath.

He bent closer, eyes narrowed on the wound.

“You need to hold still,” he said softly. “If I nick your femoral, it’s over.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. It’s deep. If I miss this—”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

“You won’t.”

Another silence.

He couldn’t look at you. Not now. Not with the bullet half-extracted and your skin flushed with shock and fever and trust. Trust he hadn’t earned. Trust that felt too close to faith. 

And he was always bad at faith.

He adjusted the angle of the tweezers again, fingers tight with precision, breath shallow. If he moved just a millimeter too far to the left, he'd sever an artery. Too far right, and he'd leave metal behind. His mind kept listing the options like a file folder: all the ways he could fail you. All the ways he could lose you. 

“Keep talkin’ to me,” he said roughly, not looking at you. “You pass out, I’m gonna be pissed.”

“What, no pressure or anything,” you slurred, but he caught the strain in it. The thin layer of humor barely stretched over real pain.

The tweezers hit resistance. He felt it in his bones.

“You’re doing good,” he muttered. “You’re—fuck. Just hang on. Almost there.”

“Bucky.”

“I said keep talking.”

You let out a ragged breath. “You want a story or a monologue?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

Your voice wavered. “One time I saw Sam fall off a boat trying to impress a group of kids with his balance—”

“Not funny enough.”

“He hit his head.”

“That’s better.”

Silence ticked between your words. His grip steadied. He’d have to go in again. Just a little deeper.

You winced as the metal tip shifted.

“Fuck,” you whispered. “You know, I thought this would be the day we got pizza. Not playing Operation.”

“We’ll still get pizza,” he muttered.

“Oh yeah? You cooking?”

“I’m not cooking. I’m buying.”

You didn’t reply. And when he glanced up, your eyes were fluttering, breath shallower.

“Hey,” he barked. “C’mon. Eyes open.”

“M’tired.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

You laughed faintly again, breathe hitching, and it cracked something in him.

“Do me a favor?” You asked.

He hummed.

“If I lose consciousness…don’t let someone else try to patch me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“And if I die…”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“If I did. Hypothetically.”

His jaw ticked.

“If you did,” he said slowly, “then I’d kill whoever touched you. Then myself, probably.”

You let out a hoarse huff. “Jesus. That’s grim.”

“It’s honest.”

And it was.

Because he would. That was the part that terrified him. He would level cities for you. Not because it was right. Not because he’d made a vow. But because he couldn’t breathe without you anymore and he didn’t know when that had happened.

He leaned in. Flashlight shifting under his elbow. Blood soaked the makeshift cloth beneath you. The bullet was lodged against something slick and resistant. He knew the second he twisted, you’d scream.

He swallowed. Adjusted his grip.

“If this fucks up, it’s gonna hurt like hell,” he muttered. “So you need to stay with me, alright?”

You made a noise. Not quite a word. Not quite a yes.

He couldn’t stop now.

“Just keep talkin’, sweetheart. Anything. Tell me what kind of pizza we’re getting. Tell me a lie. Tell me where you see yourself in five years—”

“I’m bleeding out on a rotting cot in the woods, Buck,” you rasped. “Not interviewing for my dream job.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna hear it.”

You blinked slow. “You first, then.”

He didn’t think. Couldn’t. The panic had tunneled too deep. He started speaking before he meant to.

“Five years from now,” voice low, working the metal free inch by inch, “we’re retired. You hate the house I picked but only complain about the goddamn mugs. You make fun of me for how I fold laundry. You still steal all the blankets. And some poor bastard down the road asks what it’s like being married to the grumpiest man alive and you tell them I’ve always been soft on you.”

His fingers adjusted instinctively, and there it was, the clean edge of the casing caught between the tips. A perfect hold. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just braced himself, every nerve wound tight as wire.

He cleared his throat. “Got it. On three.”

You didn’t speak.

“Three.”

He yanked.

A scream ripped from your throat, half-swallowed into his shoulder as you surged forward, clutching at his arm. Blood poured hot and fast, but the bullet clinked into the basin beside the cot.

He dropped the tweezers. Hands went to pressure. To cloth. To you.

“You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. Just keep breathing.”

You nodded faintly, head lolling back against the pillow.

He didn’t realize how close his face was to yours until the storm flash lit up the room—and he saw the way your eyes were fixed on him. 

“Did you mean that?” 

He blinked.

“What?”

Your lashes were heavy, lips pale, but there was no mistaking the way your gaze held him now. Steady. Anchored. Like you’d come back to yourself just enough to feel it. The weight of what he’d said, the shape it had taken, the shape it could still take if either of you were stupid enough to say it again.

“You said we’d be married,” you whispered.

His jaw ticked. “You were going into shock.”

“I wasn’t hearing things.”

“You were half-conscious.”

“And you still said it.”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shallow, dragging the blood-soaked cloth tighter around your thigh with more care than force. His hands didn’t match the way his mouth tensed.

“It was nothing. Just words.”

You didn’t believe that. He could see you didn’t. And that was worse. You weren’t teasing. You weren’t cornering him. You were just looking at him. Like maybe you’d known this was in him before he did. Like maybe you’d been waiting for it to slip out.

And god, he wanted to run.

Not because he didn’t mean it. But because he did. Too much. Too fast. In ways he couldn’t survive.

He pressed the cloth harder against your leg, then grabbed another strip of cloth from the field kit, wrapping it tight, methodical, just above the wound. Tourniquet style. Not too high and not too tight, just enough to slow the bleed. 

His hands moved on instinct, the muscle memory of field medicine kicking in even as his mind spun. He checked your pulse. Inner thigh. Faint, but steady. He exhaled. Forced himself not to shake.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you said softly, “being a Mrs. Barnes one day.”

He stilled.

For a second, you thought maybe he didn’t hear you right. Or maybe he’d frozen, like his mind shorted out and hadn’t rebooted yet.

His heart flipped. Fucked off entirely, probably.

You shifted slightly, voice smaller. “But only if you keep folding laundry the wrong way. And keep picking ugly mugs.”

His laugh cracked at the edges. Like old bark. Like something split down the middle.

“You hate those mugs.”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “But you love them. And I love you.”

His breath caught. Chest tight. No armor. No dodge. No shield left between the two of you now.

“You’re not allowed to say that,” he said hoarsely. “Not when you’re this fucked up.”

“I’m lucid enough,” you whispered. “Don’t make me take it back.”

He didn’t.

He looked at your hand, still curled near his arm. Blood beneath your nails. Pulse stuttering in your wrist.

“I don’t even have a ring,” he said before he could stop himself.

You laughed. Soft. Breathless. Real.

“That’s okay. You’ve got gauze.”

He swallowed.

“I’d want to do it right,” he said, more to the floor than to you.

You reached up, brushed your knuckles against his cheek. Just barely there.

“Right now,” you whispered, “you just pulled a bullet out of my leg and said you’d kill the world for me. I think that counts.”

He leaned into your touch. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the part of him that still believed in things like vows and porches and soft lives feel it.

“Mrs. Barnes,” he murmured, testing it, letting the sound break in his mouth. “You sure about that?”

Your lips barely moved. “Why don’t you ask me?”

His head lifted just slightly, eyes catching yours through the stormlight. And it hit him like a second shot to the chest—cleaner than the first, but just as deep.

Why don’t you ask me?

So simple. So fucking impossible.

Because it was too big. Because it wasn’t a joke anymore. Because the second he said the words, really said them, he couldn’t take them back. Not like all the other things he’d lost to time. Not like the names they’d stripped from him or the missions they’d made him forget. This one, he’d remember.

He looked down at your leg, at the blood still leaking through cloth. His hands had steadied. His breathing hadn’t.

Why don’t you ask me?

Because what if you said yes just because you were scared. Because you thought you were dying. Because he looked like a man who needed saving and you were always the type to offer your hands even when yours were already shaking.

He looked at you, chest tight, and thought you don’t know what you’re saying. Not really. Not now. Not like this.

But then your thumb moved. Just once. Across the hinge of his jaw. And the quiet in your eyes told him yes, you did know. You always had.

He dropped his gaze, voice rough. “It’s just…”

He let it sit there. Let it ache.

“It’s not supposed to be this way,” he murmured, eyes flicking to the bloodied gauze still pressed to your leg. “I was supposed to have flowers. A ring. I was supposed to have something better for you than a leaking roof and a med kit that expired in 2015.”

His throat worked. His jaw locked.

He should’ve said it right then. Should’ve just spoken.

But instead—

“I didn’t think I was allowed to want this,” he said, voice low, uneven. “Not after everything I did. Not after everything that was done to me.”

You didn’t interrupt.

He swallowed. Continued.

“I used to think if I ever got out, I’d live quiet. Alone. Keep to myself. Go somewhere cold. Make peace with the fact that I’d never get to be anyone real again.”

His hand twitched where it held yours.

“And then you showed up. Like some pain-in-the-ass fever dream with too many opinions and terrible taste in music. You just—you didn’t leave. You stayed. You made fun of my shirts. You memorized my nightmares. You never once flinched at what I used to be.”

He looked up, then. Just barely. Just enough to meet your gaze.

“You made me want things again.”

You blinked. He could see the tears gathering now, not falling yet, just clinging to the edges like dew. Shaking. Waiting.

He shifted, exhaled through his nose, then slowly reached toward the chain tucked under his shirt. The tags clicked quietly against one another as he drew them out—worn, scraped, edges dulled. He hesitated. Thumb running along the groove of his name.

Barnes, James B.

Property of the U.S. Army.

And below that werenumbers. Codes. The echo of orders that used to own him.

They were the only thing he’d ever been given back when he’d stopped being a person. They were the last thing that made him his.

He huffed a breath. Shaky. Wet around the edges.

“And I don’t know how long I’ve been in love with you. I think maybe it was the first time you told Sam to shut up without looking up from your lunch when you knew it was a bad day. Or maybe it was the time you stayed up with me for four hours just so I could get ten minutes of sleep without a nightmare.”

His mouth quirked, not a smile, just a break in the grief.

“I’d want to give you more than this. Not a safehouse or some half-muttered promise with your blood on my hands. I’d want to give you everything.”

He looked at you now. Really looked.

“But I can’t.”

Your breath hitched. “Bucky—”

“All I’ve got is this.”

His voice was rough, worn down to its bones. He lifted the tags where they rested, cold and inert against his chest, like they hadn't once hung heavy with every name he’d buried, every order he’d followed. He hadn’t taken them off in years. Not since Wakanda. Not since they rewired the storm in his head and called it healing. Not since he’d started remembering how to breathe without a trigger warning stitched into his ribs.

But now?

Now he held them in his palm like they were something fragile. Like they might mean more in yours.

“I know it’s not a ring,” he muttered. “I just... I didn’t want to wait.”

His heart was punching up into his throat, each beat louder than the last. He wasn’t sure when he’d started shaking. Just that it was everywhere—under his skin, in his voice, in the ghost of a life he’d never thought he’d want back until you gave it shape.

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. You were still bleeding. Still half-broken in his arms. But you were there. And alive. And looking at him like maybe he wasn’t a ruin of a man. Like maybe, even now, there was something left in him worth holding onto.

So he asked.

“Will you marry me?”

It didn’t sound the way it had in his head. It wasn’t confident. Wasn’t clean. It cracked at the center, frayed at the edges, barely held together by the breath it rode in on. Wrecked and unguarded and true in the way only something broken and rebuilt could be.

But it was his. And it was real.

You didn’t answer at first. Just stared at him—wide-eyed, wrecked, like the question had hollowed you out from the inside. And maybe it had. Maybe this was a bad time. Maybe he was a goddamn idiot for doing it now, here, with blood on his hands and guilt in his lungs and everything still burning in the corners of the room.

But then you nodded. Once. Then again. And again.

“Yes.” A whisper. Broken glass and salt. You swallowed hard, voice splitting again as you said it louder. “Yes. Of course I will.”

The sob hit him sideways. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t plan it. It just caught in his throat and stayed there, and suddenly your hands were on his face, and he was leaning in, and—

He kissed you.

It was desperate. Salty. A little off-center. His lip caught on yours, and your nose bumped his, and neither of you could breathe right but it didn’t matter. It was messy and clumsy and wet with tears and still somehow perfect.

His hand cradled the back of your head like he thought you might slip away, like if he didn’t hold on, the whole world might tilt again. And yours fisted into his jacket like you’d forgotten how to let go.

You were both shaking.

You pulled apart only because you had to. Because the world hadn’t stopped spinning even if it felt like it had. And then, quiet again, he moved.

He brought the tags forward.

Didn’t rush.

Didn’t speak.

He waited until you nodded, slow, sure, already teary again, and only then did he lift the chain and slide it over your head. Careful. Reverent. Like it mattered.

The tags settled on your chest, clinking softly as they touched your skin. They were cold. Real. Still streaked faintly with red.

But they were yours now.

His breath caught again, sharper this time. Not because it hurt. But because it didn’t. Because maybe this was what hope felt like when it didn’t come with a body count.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.

Mine, he thought. Not the government’s. Not the ghost’s. Not the weapon’s.

Yours.

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