Bringing Back This Video For No Reason

(n.mackinnon) — i just had sex with my ex in a new york apartment

a/n: i was sad after the mikko trade and so this happened. i finally got around to finishing it. not proofread and i wrote this entirely on my phone. do with that what you will. and welp, i don’t know what that ending was. so i hope you guys like it anyways <3

word count: +7.1k

synopsis: | based on the song sex with my ex by fletcher | the biggest trade in hockey in years has you texting your ex, something you swore you would never do. but you thought it would be harmless.

warnings: mentions of the mikko rantanen trade, smut — (oral female, unprotected!sex) cursing, accidental injury, mentions of blood, descriptions of blood & bruising

if there is anything else that needs to be tagged as a warning please let me know so i can make sure it’s tagged properly!

🚨 you are responsible for your media consumption. do not interact if you are under age.

tagging: @jostystyles @comphyjost @mrs-mikko-rantanen @krugstrash @lyds21 @davidpastrsnack @fallinallincurls @ilyasorokinn @laurenairay

—

you bit your lip as you debated sending the message. the news playing in the background of your apartment. the wine in your system telling you to do things you shouldn’t, but you wanted to.

you were in shock. the whole hockey world was in shock. what the hell were they doing?

you had already texted mikko and he had responded. despite everything that had happened between you and his friend, you remained friends with some of the guys on the team. even after your ‘traitorous’ move to new york.

you were now working for a different team. donning different colors and cheering on different guys.

which they all hated. but you had grown up in colorado, and no matter what, you wanted them all to succeed.

so you kept following them. you followed the moves of what was happening with the denver based team and tried not to think about him, but how could you not? he was the face of the goddamn team.

did he think about you?

despite talking to mel and gabe all the time, you’d never ask that question.

you’d shut him out after moving. it was best for you and in the end, it was best for him to. he went back to just focusing on hockey and forgetting what it was like to hold you, to sleep beside you.

but his nights were restless and wanting. there were bags under his eyes and he seemed tenser than usual in the weeks that followed the break up.

reporters across the league talked about it. how he was exploding on the ice, a hot head.

and you hated that you had caused it, but it wasn’t you who had led to the demise of your relationship. you had promised you weren’t gonna blame him, but you did.

you were only human.

but it didn’t matter now, things had started to settle down. and the relationship that had lasted years, was over now. and you were settled in a new city. with a new team. and you hadn’t thought about him for over a year. well, that’s a lie.

you hadn’t talked to him in over a year.

even when they made their east coast road trip and the guys insisted on seeing you, he didn’t come. and you knew why. because you wouldn’t have shown up he was there.

on the ice when you were taking pictures and conducting rink side interviews and shooting content, cale and mikko stopped by to chat before the game.

you tried to pay attention but you couldn’t, not with his eyes on you.

your breath was catching in your throat, your heart speeding up. sweat furrowing your brow.

it was like that every time you saw him.

so why the hell were you texting him now?

you definitely were blaming the wine.

i’m sorry about mikko.

that was all you said. simple. nothing more, nothing less.

a tiny dialogue. something easy.

this was the biggest thing to come out of the avs front office since…well ever.

you chewed on your bottom lip and sipped on your wine as you watched anxiously for the little dots to appear.

you practically dropped your phone on the counter when they appeared.

your heart sank when they disappeared. but then they appeared again. it happened several times.

you breathed deeply and set your phone down on the counter and ran a hand through your hair.

you paced around your apartment and looked out across the skyline. it was late at night, but the city lights were still bright.

trying to pay attention to the news playing on your tv, you stared blankly at the screen.

they were talking about the same thing you had been thinking about. the damn fucking mikko trade.

of course, there were some really shitty takes. and you expected nothing less from biz.

you huffed and chugged another sip of your red.

the phone buzzed on the counter and you almost choked as you rushed over.

the name on the phone you hadn’t seen in so long.

it fucking sucks.

wow, what a way with words, you thought. he always had a talent.

all that waiting for this. honestly, you didn’t know why you were disappointed.

you were just about to shut your phone off and go to bed, ignore what you started when your phone lit up again.

you home?

a lump formed in your throat and you had to read the message six times trying to understand it.

yes. why? are you in new york?

you waited with baited breath as the bubbles popped up on the screen again and disappeared.

ugh! you felt like screaming and throwing your phone across the room.

will be. we land in 20.

god. what do you do? oh my god. he wants to come over. for what? oh. you’re not stupid. you know what he wants to come over for.

you were just about to text back when another message popped up.

can i come over?

against your better judgment, you were texting him your address and turning your phone off.

you chugged the rest of your wine before pouring yourself another huge glass.

you felt frantic as you looked around your place. it was decently clean. should you pick up before he comes?

no. god no, you should shower. most definitely shower before he gets here.

what were you doing? you asked yourself as you made your way to the shower.

the shower wasn’t comforting as you frantically scrubbed yourself clean and tried to blow dry your hair so it wasn’t soaking wet when he got here.

you drank more wine as you stand in front of your dresser debating what to put on. you knew him so well. would it be obvious if you put on one of his favorites? would that say something to him? would he read into it?

the wine was clouding your mind. you weren’t thinking clearly as you slipped the white lace over your skin.

you checked your phone for messages. there were none, so you made your way to your closet and searched for something you hadn’t thought about in ages.

although, it was still your favorite piece of clothing. and you’d never give it back to him.

even if he asked.

though, he never would. and you knew he never would.

he liked seeing you in it too much. the day you walked out wearing it was one of the worst days of his life.

you held it close to you, staring at your reflection in the mirror. because what were you doing?

here you were…in your new city. putting on his favorite set, putting on his shirt. inviting him into your safe space for what? to have sex? was it harmless? fuck no. you knew it wouldn’t be.

but as you thought about him. the broadness of his shoulders, the crook of his nose and how it felt buried in your cunt, you were throwing on the old fabric.

you debated more wine, but anymore and you’d probably throw up so you decided on some water. water with some liquid iv. you hated the taste. it was definitely not as fun as what you had just been drinking, but you were not about to miss out on what you had basically invited to your place.

your skin was crawling as you crossed your legs in anticipation and stared out the window.

when your intercom buzzed you fell off the couch. you hit the floor with a thud and you scrambled off the ground rushing to it.

“who is it?” you asked hitting the button. you knew damn well who it was.

there was a huff of annoyance and god you hated what it did to you.

“it’s me.” his voice. god his voice. you hadn’t heard it in person in so long. only just what had played on your tv or over your phone.

you felt weak in the knees as your shaky finger buzzed him in.

the minutes that took him to climb the stairs to your fifth floor apartment felt like hours.

you were slumped against the door practically panting.

how were you still this down bad for him? you swear it hadn’t been this way. you felt strangely pathetic and euphoric at the same time.

when there was a knock on the door, you jumped out of your skin.

you turned on your heels and stared at the door knob. you were trying to calm your breathing and get your hand to stop shaking so bad.

“y/n.”

your eyes fluttered shutter when he called his name and in a trance, you opened the door for him.

“nate.” you breathed.

his breath hitched in his throat as the door swung open. the sound of his name on your lips was heavenly to him.

you were standing there, cheeks flushed. no doubt from wine. he wasn’t stupid, nate knew what had driven the text to him. your hair damp and tossed to the side.

his eyes trailed down, landing on the hoodie you were wearing. his hoodie.

his number on the arm and his team’s logo on the front. no doubt his name still on the back.

nate groaned low.

but you still heard it and it went straight to your core.

your legs were bare.

“hi.” you said breathlessly.

“hey.” nate responded and pushed his way into the apartment.

you stepped aside to accommodate his size.

nate kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his coat. he dropped it on top of his sneakers.

“you know, i have a coat rack.” you said.

“i know.” nate replied and glanced towards the door.

you rolled your eyes and picked up his coat.

hanging it up next to yours, nate watched you. secretly, he wanted to see you do that. all this time, he longed to see his coat next to yours like it had been for all of that time.

truth be told, when you texted him. he wasn’t all that shocked. the mikko news was everywhere and he knew it would reach you. that it would bring you back to him.

but he had no idea that it would bring him here. to your new york apartment on the eve of a game after they just to lost boston.

when they got to the hotel and he was checking into his room with cale and immediately leaving after final call, cale was concerned.

all he said was your name and cale understood what that meant and shut his mouth before rolling back over in his own bed.

nate made his way down the back stairs of the hotel floor and hailed a taxi. the ride to your place he was anxious. he decided against texting you on the way.

nate didn’t want to give you the chance to back out. he’d waited too long to see you, to apologize for what had happened. for not seeing you, paying enough attention. given the chance, he’d do better.

all this time, he wondered if you had a new guy. as much as he hated it and against his better judgment, he’d asked one of the players he saw you posting a lot on the team’s social to find out if you were seeing anyone.

you weren’t. and he hated that he now knew that nate was thinking about you, but it wasn’t like people didn’t know you guys had been a thing. i mean for fuck’s sake, you were standing next to him in his cup photos.

tonight, nate was gonna talk to you. after losing mikko, fuck it. he needed to air everything out.

but when you opened the door and you were standing there in his clothes, his thoughts darkened and everything went out the window.

all he could see was his cock sliding in and out of you and he knew you had been thinking the same thing.

“i hate this.” nate had been taking in the contents of your apartment, the decorations. he’d seen most of them before. you hadn’t changed. but there were new things.

the blue shirt with the new lettering and new team logo.

he picked up the shirt and it looked small in his hand like a rag as he waved it at you.

“nathan.” you said.

“what?”

“it’s where i work.”

“i know. it doesn’t mean i have to like it.”

“nate—“ you started but nathan tossed the fabric to the floor and suddenly he was in your space. backing you against the kitchen island.

“why’d you put that on?” nate asked. his tone was dark and his voice low.

his hands were resting on the countertop, your body trapped between his strong arms.

your breath was caught in your throat and you felt like you were choking on your heartbeat as you tried to speak.

before, when you had put it on…you felt so bold. so brazen, but now. here, under his gaze. you felt small. and oddly his.

although he hadn’t touched you in a year, but the both of you knew that didn’t matter. you were always his. and always would be.

“what do you mean?” you finally squeaked out. you tried to sound as normal as possible, but you knew you sounded like a mouse.

nate chuckled and you resisted the urge to crumble.

“did you put it on for me? or do you wear it all the time?” nate whispered, his lips brushing slightly over the exposed skin of your skin as he dipped his head.

oh. you moaned soft and inaudible, but nate knew you, he knew your body and he knew what his presence in your tiny was doing.

just like you knew without looking down, without feeling him, what you were doing to him.

his hands left the counter and they reached for the hem of the sweatshirt.

nate tugged at one of the lose threads. there was a slight ripping sound.

your stomach lurched.

“don’t.” it felt as if your heart was being ripped with that seam. it reminded you of that year ago when everything happened. you still hadn’t healed. you had just put a bandage over everything and moved on because you wanted him. you wanted him to fix it all, but you didn’t give him that chance because you just packed up your shit and took a new job with a new team and moved to a new city.

“i’ll give you a new one.” nate whispered. his lips closer to you this time. they were hovering over yours and you felt drunker than you had before.

desperate for him. to taste him after the longest year of your life.

“promise?” you questioned. your eyes fluttered opened and to your surprise, nate was staring at you with his big blue eyes. they were cloudy and stormy. a hint of lust in them, but something you couldn’t put a name on.

“promise.” nate nodded and as the words left his mouth, you felt whole again.

you knew you’d regret it because how could this be harmless? but you threw your arms around his neck and breathed him in.

his lips were warm and rough. slightly chapped from the cold air. nate tasted like mint and maple. you smiled to yourself. he was still using that chapstick you’d found in a market back home with him.

when you’d left, the first time nate went home, he was there with sid and saw the booth again. he bought the entire inventory. it was stupid and sidney made fun of him for it, but the older forward understood. nathan was trying to hold onto any piece of you he could.

and that damn lip balm you loved so dearly was something he carried with him always. tucked away in his pocket, his suitcase, and his hockey bag.

nate was falling into you, his arms sliding around you. his body pushing your ass into the edge of the countertop.

you gasped into him and nathan was sliding his tongue into your mouth.

his hands gripped your ass and halted you onto the countertop in one motion before sliding underneath the comfort of his hoodie and squeezing your sides.

they were heavy and familiar on your skin. you loved the feeling. after all this time, he still felt so comfortable.

nate discarded your hoodie and dropped it to the kitchen floor. you felt a chill slide up your spine. your arms flooding with goosebumps.

before nate was throwing his head back, his eyes rolling.

he groaned loudly.

“my god.”

you smiled bashful. a pink tint painting your cheeks.

“what kind of man do you think i am, y/n?” nate asked as if the both of you didn’t know he wasn’t coming here for one thing and one thing only.

“the kind who’s gonna fuck me.” you replied.

“you’re killing me.” nate said before his hands were back on you again. exploring and touching everything he could.

his lips were more harsh this time. they weren’t soft and gentle on your lips, taking their time to memorize them again. although, he’d never forgotten. now, they were latched on to your neck and his teeth were nipping your skin. you yelped and he shushed you.

you tugged at his t-shirt and nate pulled apart from you. he was annoyed now. all he wanted was to touch you.

nate was starved and you were his meal.

nate tore his shirt from his head and threw it aggressively across the room and you watched it in surprised.

he didn’t pay attention to your surprise before he was kissing you again and his hands were cupping your ass and yanking you towards the edge of the counter.

“god i missed you. i missed this ass.” nathan said with a smack.

“nathan!” you chided.

“don’t act like you don’t love it.” nate said and kissed you again. you’d protest, but he had you there.

why did this all feel so weird? you should stop it, you thought. this was mudding the waters between the two of you, but honestly were they ever gonna be clear?

probably not. there was too much history.

so what the hell? was one night with him really the worst thing you could do?

everything in the world was going to hell. and he’d just lost one of his best friends and lost to the bruins. nate needed to let out some steam. and you were here now and with his hands on you, all you could think about was how good it was, how good he was.

and how there was no way you’d be able to walk again tomorrow and you wanted that.

nate picked you up as you were thinking. your feet touching the ground, but your weight was barely registering against the floor as nate spun you in his arms and walked towards your bedroom. his foot heavy against the door as he kicked it open.

you rolled your eyes as he tossed you on the bed. you didn’t even have a chance to scold him for it before he was crawling over you.

there was something so playful and domineering about him when you were together. it was a part of him only you got to see and god, you missed it.

nate kissed your lips before making his way down your chest. he paid extra attention to the tops of your breasts before leaning back. his hair was a mess and his pupils were blown.

nate’s chest was rising heavy and slow. you loved the sight of him.

you wanted to take a picture of nathan and place it beside your bed so you could always remember him this way.

nate’s hands were rough as he ran them along your breasts yanking at the lace and there was that ripping sound again.

“nathan!” you snapped. nate shrugged before doing the exact same thing to the matching underwear. you were completely bare now except for the leftover strands of white lace clinging for dear life.

“what?” nate shrugged.

“i can’t believe you.” you grumbled. you were so annoyed with him, but you were so wet for him. only him. which he knew.

nate looked at you smugly.

“yes, you can, y/n.” nate started, his hands rubbing circles in the tops of yours thighs as he planted both your legs on either side of his body. “which is why you wore it.”

a lump formed in your throat and as you laid there, bare chested in front of your ex boyfriend you had never felt more naked.

nathan had a way of being able to see you more than anybody else in every single way.

his hands were warm and heavy on your skin. nate’s skin was rough from all the years he spent stick handling and firing at the back of the net.

the sensation caused the hair to stand up on the back of your neck.

you gasped and bit your lip trying to be quiet, but nathan’s eyes darkened.

you didn’t even have to wait for him to explain, you knew exactly what he meant. there was no communication that had to be passed between the two of you.

that’s what happens when you spend years studying each other’s bodies.

and his was magnificent.

it was shameful how often you’d picture him after leaving, after you had to go. because you should have left the memory of him in his house, in your shared house.

but you didn’t.

there were nights when your hand would sneak lower and you’d chase a high, but nothing was as good as his fingers, his touch.

nate ruined you.

he ruined you. he’d stolen moments from you and parts of your happiness, he’d stolen countless orgasms in the months to come. but your therapist said part of you did that too.

but it was easier for you to blame it all on him. which is why you didn’t reach out till now.

and your body was teetering in anticipation. it was like every single nerve in your body was a single match waiting to be lit.

nathan’s lips pursed as he kissed the soft skin of your navel.

his bottom lip jutting out and dragging a wet stripe with it.

you moaned in response and you tried to stifle it. nathan growled against you. a warning.

his fingers dug into your hips as his weight shifted the bed while he settled between your thighs.

you were watching his movements with baited breath, your chest still.

your eyes glazed over as he placed a soft kiss on the outer lips of your pussy before delving into you like a starved man.

you shuddered as he instantly found that bundle of nerves and his nose swiped against it. god. it was like a dream.

he breathed deep, taking you in, as he licked and kissed your clit.

nate’s mouth was moving in long strokes. moans we’re steadily coming from your lips and they were nathan’s favorite album.

nate pulled back his tongue disappearing from you briefly as his teeth scraped the bundle of nerves and you gasped in shock, in anguish as it startled you.

the fire was starting everywhere on your body, the matches lighting each other.

your pelvis arched off the bed as you begged for more.

nathan’s fingers kept digging into your hips as hard as he could and his pelvis was rutting against the edge of the bed for any sort of relief from the agonizing ache he felt in his dick.

nate’s tongue circled your hole before swiping upwards and finding your clit again. abruptly, two of his fingers were entering you, stretching you and your eyes grew wide as he did so.

you were louder now. your cheeks painted red and sweat forming on your chest.

nathan itched to reach up and touch your breast, but his fingers were deliciously digging into the top of your ass and he couldn’t wait to see what it looked like in the morning.

if he was still here, and he hoped he would be. nathan desperately hoped that you would let him stay the night.

he was love sick and he’d didn’t get care if everyone knew it at this point because he only wanted you knew.

having sex with his ex in a new york apartment was not going to be harmless and he knew that. but he’d gladly take a puck to the face from shea weber if it meant somehow getting you back.

and maybe you wouldn’t take him back, but he’d have this one night. to keep him company on his lonely nights on the road and at home.

“oh. nate.” you moaned and he continued eating you out like it was his last meal because it was in so many ways.

it was the last meal he wished he’d gotten before you had rightfully so walked out his life.

nate’s tongue flicked against your clit fast and rough as his fingers pumped in and out of you in tandem.

you were a mess above him, screaming his name as the fire came to a full blaze.

the word ‘nathan’ was no longer bitter on your tongue as you screamed his name, crashing like waves extinguishing the fire inside you.

the waves crashed into you so hard, you were panting gasping for air. there was pleasure written all over your face and your eyes were stormy.

nate didn’t let up though. he continued kissing, sucking, and licking. he loved tasting you.

“nate.” you whispered, it was barely audible. your voice stuck in your throat.

nate pulled his mouth from you with a smack and his fingers slid out of you slowly.

you whimpered at the loss of contact and nate finally released the one hand that was holding a vice grip on your hip bone.

nate crawled upwards till he was leaning back on his heels again.

he was unfairly wearing more clothes than you.

nate’s eyes were glazed over just like yours and his movements felt not his own like he was drunk as he brought his fingers up to his lips and sucked.

he moaned as he cleaned you off him. his breath deep and as nathan memorized all the details.

you could’ve come right there again at the sight of him.

“nate.” you whispered.

“shush, baby.” nathan said, “i know.”

and you melted. nathan stepped off the bed and his knees almost buckled out underneath him.

he prayed to god you didn’t notice, but you did.

because you were also committing everything about this night to memory. a memory that would be burned into your brain forever.

“nathan mackinnon.”

“yes?” nate cocked his head.

you lulled your head to the side so you could take him in. the sheen of sweat on his toned chest, the smooth curve of his biceps, and the crook of his nose. your eyes trailed downwards towards his waist wear his jeans hung low and the calvin klein logo was practically embedded into his skin.

you wanted to peel them off of him with your teeth.

“y/n.”

you kept staring at him, your eyes fixated there as you imagined it, watching him come undone underneath your touch.

“mmm?” you asked.

nate chuckled darkly.

“like what you see?”

your cheeks felt hot.

“fuck yeah.”

“i know.” nathan replied.

you rolled your eyes, but you still reached out to touch because you couldn’t resist him.

“ah ah.” nathan took a step away from you. his knees were still weak, but he couldn’t give into you like this because he wouldn’t last more than a second and he wanted this. no, he needed this.

he’d been thinking about this for ages.

you were his remedy.

“nate.” you whined like a brat. his brat.

nate unbuttoned his jeans and kicked himself out of his pants.

your eyes immediately took to the black underwear clad against his skin.

his thighs rock solid, his ass perfectly sculpted as he slid the fabric off too.

you were practically drooling as his cock sprung free and slapped against his stomach.

nate’s tip was enlarged and red. nate was throbbing as he stalked towards you.

“i missed you.” nate said as he climbed back onto your bed. his legs on either side of your body.

“i missed you.” you replied. a moment of vulnerability between the two of you as locked eyes.

“especially your superstar dick.” you said after a few moments of silence.

“of course you’d say that, y/n.” nathan laughed light heartedly. his smile reaching his eyes. you hadn’t seen them do that in forever.

“what? it’s true.” you shrugged.

nate shook his head and kissed you, deeply.

his hands roaming all over you as he swallowed your breaths and moans.

your fingers tugged at his hair strands and nails scrapped down his back.

nate’s dick was resting hard between your thighs, prodding near where you needed it most.

you tried to hook your leg over his, a move he knew all too well, but he wasn’t gonna let it happen tonight because if you did, he’d be finishing inside your mouth and not where he really wanted to which he couldn’t have. not after waiting for so long.

“nate.” you muttered against his lips.

“y/n.”

“nate. let me—“

“no.” nate snapped.

“please.”

“i. won’t. make. it.” nate said in between kisses.

you nodded and relented as nate looked to you.

“i need you.” you said and nate kissed you harder.

his hands moving between the two of you. taking himself in his hand, he pumped himself a couple of times before rubbing himself through your slick.

nate smacked his tip against your swollen and worn clit.

you gasped.

lining himself up with your entrance, nate kept his eyes on yours as you watched him enter you. his hips thrust up in one motion and suddenly you were full of him.

there were twinges of pain as you adjusted to the size of him, but you were so turned on and needed to have more of him.

nate pulled out and then pushed into you roughly.

your back arched up off the mattress as he fucked into you.

nathan was above you, painted in the shadows of city light through the windows as he pulled your body closer to his. your head resting against the pillow, lulling to the side in pleasure.

your hands bunching up the sheets as nate’s hips snapped into your pelvis.

your moans and the dirty sounds of your body meeting for the first time in months were the only sounds in your apartment.

nate grunted above you as you shut your eyes and focused on that second wave of bliss.

your hand snaking down to find your clit. your thumb circling in tandem with his rough thrusts.

“god you’re so beautiful.” nathan said from above you.

you moaned.

“sprawled out like this, just for me. even after all this time. it’s just for me. wearing my set. my sweatshirt. it’s me.”

you moaned again in response.

“say it.” nate demanded.

“it’s you.” you muttered.

“speak up, y/n.” nate growled.

“it’s you!” you shouted. “it’s you, nate. it’s only you.” you were a mess underneath him practically crying as nerves began shooting all over you.

the knot was still building in your stomach, but at the same time the wave was hitting you and the sensation was too much.

your pussy’s walls fluttering around him, pulling him in harder and deeper.

nate faltered in his thrusts and let out his own moan.

and that’s what sent you over the edge.

you came with a shout of his name as he continued fucking into you chasing his own relief.

“god, i love you.” nate said as he buried himself deep inside of you, his thighs cramping as he sputtered.

the warmth of him coating your inside walls. nate’s breath was strangled as he collapsed on top of you, panting.

your eyes were wide because the realization suddenly hit you. the blissful high making you drunk, leaving your body as his statement rushed over you.

it was more raw and numbing than anything the two of you had just done in the past two hours.

god, i love you.

did he really just say that?

was it one of those things that guys just say when they get laid? no. it was never something nate said during sex.

nathan wasn’t romantic. and everyone knew it. he only said i love you every so often out loud, but you knew he did love you.

there were moments when he’d make you a cup of coffee and leave it for you by bed before sneaking out for early morning skate.

or when he’d listen to your favorite music over and over again despite not loving it.

nathan would frequent a local book store and constantly book out a new book for you to read and tell him every thing about.

or how he would sit and listen to all your work presentations for hours despite not knowing anything about the specialization you were in, but he’d support you no matter what.

those were moments when he showed his love the most.

the downfall was that as the seasons after winning the cup got more difficult and they had early exists, his focus centered.

he forgot you. he became obsessed with trying to perfect his passes and face offs. dragging himself to practice hours before everyone else and coming home later than everyone else.

nights making dinner for him and then you’d sit for hours waiting as he stayed at the rink obsessively skating and watching tape.

it got bad again. you reached out to sid and he said he knew. he had been talking to him about it, but there was nothing the two of you could do. it was like last time.

and when he forgot your birthday and your anniversary it wasn’t that big of a deal to you.

but one of the biggest things coming up in your life, a memory of someone in your life you missed dearly that he never got to meet that you wished he had, you knew you’d always come second.

you hoped you were wrong. but even sid had texted you about it. and so did landy and ej.

three of his best friends remembering the day you were hurting the most and your boyfriend wasn’t.

so that’s when the job offer that had been sitting your email inbox that you dismissed instantly suddenly became enticing.

and you left.

and now you were here.

having sex with your ex in your new york apartment.

you could feel yourself a mess, obsessed with him again.

why did you think it would be harmless?

because he was your nathan.

and no matter how much time passed, he’d always be your nathan.

and you know that you’re losing your mind, but you were back in his arms. back where you started.

“y/n.” nathan said.

“i gotta go to the bathroom.” you said and pushed him off you before running to the bathroom and locking yourself in there.

nate laid there in your bed shocked at himself.

what the hell just happened? what did he do? what did he say? why did he say that?

“y/n. can we talk?” nathan said his feet heavy on the hardwood floor.

you could see the shadow of him from underneath the door.

“yeah.” your breath was shaky. you said from behind the door.

“i didn’t mean it.” nate said. fuck. why did he say that? he did mean it! what was he doing now?

you sniffled. he didn’t mean it?

“you didn’t mean it?” you asked a little dejectedly and nate slumped against the door, his forehead hitting the door.

“no. fuck. y/n. i.”

you opened the door and nate fell forwards abruptly, his face smacking the bathroom tile floor.

“oh my god! nate!” you shrieked and dropped to the floor as he groaned.

nathan shot up from the ground.

“i’m good.” nathan said with a bloody smile.

“oh my god, you’re bleeding.” you said and rushed to get a towel.

you yanked at the towel rack hanging over his head and it came crashing down bumping into on the way down to clatter against the floor.

“oh my god. i’m sorry.” you gasped in shock.

“wow.” nathan said.

“what?” you asked as you held the white wash cloth up to his nose and watched in horror as it became a mix of red and white.

“i can’t believe i just went from eating you out to this.” nate gestured between the two of you.

you smacked his chest.

nathan laughed so loudly then. it was deep guttural and his chest vibrated.

“i knew we’d regret this.” you mumbled.

“what?” nate asked. his laugh disappearing from his cheeks and his eyes becoming sad again.

“this, we shouldn’t have done, this. whatever it was.” you rambled.

“you really believe that?” nate searched your eyes.

“isn’t that what you just said?”

“what? no.” nate defended.

“you said ‘i didn’t mean it’ as in you don’t love me.”

“what? no! fuck, y/n. i love you. i love you more than anything. do you really think i don’t?”

“i don’t know.” you looked to the floor as you tried not to focus on his eyes or the blood on the towel.

nate winced as his thumbs found your chin and forced you to look at him.

“y/n. i never stopped loving you. the day you left was the worst day of my life. and i’ve been worse off without you.”

you stayed silent.

“i want to love you again.” you said quietly.

that felt like a gut punch to nate.

“you don’t love me anymore.” nate said.

“no. i mean, i do love you nathan. but i have spent so much time trying to unlove you and remove you from my heart. you really hurt me.”

“i know. i didn’t see you. and i promise that will never happen again.”

“are you sure? i’ve seen the standings.”

“okay, don’t bring that up, we’re getting better.” nathan chuckled, but there was a tone to his edge.

“how would this even work?” you whispered.

“i don’t know. but starting out you never wear those colors again.” nate’s eyes flicked towards the t-shirt he had discarded on the floor so distastefully.

“that’s my job.” you rolled your eyes.

“i hate it.”

“there are lots of things you hate, nathan.”

“but not you.” nathan said.

“not me.” you smiled.

and leaned into kiss him, but stopped short.

“we should really get you to a doctor.” you said and helped him get up even though nathan was twice your size.

nate pulled the bloodied rag back to the reveal the cut in his nose and there was already a bruise forming across his cheek.

“i can’t go to just any doctor.” nathan said.

“well, you need to get it looked at.”

“you’re looking at it.”

“nathan.” you said sternly.

“alright, i’ll get doc to look at it first thing.”

“no. now, you need to go now.”

“now?”

“yes. now.” you said.

“what about us?”

“i’ll see you after the game tomorrow.” you whispered into his chest and kissed him there.

nate felt like your lips had been seared into him on his peck.

“fine.” nate sighed and you watched as he got dressed so slowly to stall time.

despite his injury, nate kissed you hard and deep.

he pulled back wincing, his face swelling already. your fingers brushed across the purple bruise forming.

“i’m so sorry.”

“why? you didn’t do it.” nate deflected.

“i’m still sorry.”

“i’d take a beating if it meant getting the chance to talk to you.”

you giggled, “you look like you did.”

“that’s what i’m gonna tell people.” nate said.

you laughed.

“get out of here, superstar.” you pushed him out the threshold and he held the ice pack you handed to him to his face.

“see you tomorrow, baby.” nate said and he loved that sentence. he never thought he would say it again.

—

“i’m not quite sure, mose. but you’re right it does seem like nathan mackinnon is sporting quite the bruise under his right eye and across his nose.” ryker said as the camera trailed nathan as he skated across the ice.

it waited for him to turn to showcase the dark purple and blue that had spread across his face.

“seems like 29 is well enough to play today, but i did not see any incidents that would cause that in last night’s game ryker.”

“me either, mose. it’s good to see him on the ice.”

“i agree, hopefully the nate and the rest of the avs will be able to capitalize after the loss—“ the broadcast trailed off after erik had gotten what he wanted.

a screenshot of nathan’s face. there was something he’d seen on twitter about it, so he tuned in to see what everyone was talking about and there it was the giant bruise his friend was sporting.

erik was slightly concerned for nathan as he texted the groupchat with a select few guys.

—

nate’s phone buzzed on your nightstand as he nuzzled his neck into your shoulder.

“are you gonna get that?” you asked.

“no.” nate said.

“why not?” you asked.

“because i’m comfy.” nate murmured.

you reached over.

your lips curled into a smile.

“turn it off, it’s bright.” nate pulled you into his body, twisting his arms around you tighter.

“it’s from ej.” you said seeing the text message.

“what does that fucker want?” nate asked.

and you swiped up to see what erik had said, the phone unlocking with ease.

erik johnson: sent an attachment

erik: did you ride the subway alone or something?

gabriel landeskog: he wouldn’t tell me what happened

tyson barrie: damn

cale makar: he said y/n happened

erik: oh my god y/n punched him?! i would have paid to see that

cale: i don’t think that’s what happened.

erik: questioned cale makar’s message

mikko rantanen: since when does y/n talk nate?

cale: since you were traded :/

mikko: disliked cale makar’s messaged

“oh my god tell them to fuck off.” nate said reading over your shoulder.

you laughed.

“that’s all you slugger.” you said and dropped the phone for him to take, but nate didn’t move and it him in the face.

“ow!” nate said as it made contact with the bruise.

nathan mackinnon: y/n smacked me in the face with my phone after sex

nathan: thanks mikko

nate hit send and showed you the message.

“nathan!” you yelled incredulously at him and he laughed as he pulled you into him.

“my face hurts.”

“i don’t care.” you huffed trying to get away from him, but you weren’t really struggling.

the phone on the nightstand was buzzing so much that it started to slide towards the edge before it clattered to the floor and continued making noise underneath the bed.

“i hate you.” you muttered in defiance as nathan tried to kiss you.

“no, you love me.” nathan corrected.

—

You can only reblog this today.

okay when I first saw sentryagent I was like come on now guys this is straight silly but now I'm like it's not straight or silly. It's gay serious.

lock tf in my guys

---

let’s play 🏒

---

Nico Rosberg calling Horner a great lobbyist, praising Laura Müller‘s excellent reputation and women in engineering, revealing contract talks with Briatore in his bedroom while being terrified of him, giving insider information over McLaren’s management changes leading to performance gains, mentioning Lewis Hamilton 2467 times, fielding a thousand questions about teammate rivalry and the “super interesting” Landoscar dynamic, calling Max the driver of the year performing “a work of art” while reminiscing about his past trauma in 2016 and glazing his Imola overtake, flat out telling Fred his car looked the most difficult and worst to drive before asking him how long Charles will wait for Ferrari to get their shit together (and don’t forget that“poor Lewis”), calling Kimi a generational talent like Verstappen or Hamilton, admitting to swallowing a microchip????, watching Yuki’s media pen interview and calling Max a “teammate killer”, saying there’s “a lot of blah blah blah” from every driver for downplaying the technical directive, glazing and comforting George in equal measure, calling Isack a star of the year and asking if Racing Bulls expected it (they didn’t) while low key telling him to run if Red Bull comes calling, hyping up Lando’s confidence levels post Monaco, saying that Nando would be a five time wdc if not for his career moves, and don’t forget “no I won’t help you Lewis Hamilton”- all the while knowing and explaining incredible amounts of wheel and being respectful to all drivers. And it’s only practice day.

I HATE THE PANTHERS ‼️

See You! Spring 2024. A new short comic. : ) Debuted at TCAF 2024. [edit: i've now added a PDF of this comic in my store! : ) ]

what if the reason we’re collectively so fond of isack is because we sense he’s a weed smoking lesbian in another life

THIS IS SO GOOD I CAN'T AHAHAHHAHAHAH

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One