Greys Fic Recs - Blog Posts

Oh how i love this series

real people masterlist

18+

you're popular among horror fans. he's well-respected among film critics. though you work in the same industry, you couldn't be more different - but your managers think a pr romance is just what your careers need.

series warning: actor!bucky x f!actress!reader, mature themes, fake dating, enemies to lovers, bucky is an asshole, angst, smut, slow burn (or at least my attempt at a slow burn).

updates every friday.

intro

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

drabble: caught

chapter seven

chapter eight

---

There is a severe LACK of sam x reader fics out here and this one is beautiful oh my gods

PLATONIC ➵ S. WILSON

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Bucky has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic.

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Warnings: FLUFF (some angst if you squint), mutual pining, mentions of Riley (CA:TWS), Bucky meddling in your relationship, mentions of the Blip, alcohol consumption, Reader and Sam being two oblivious idiots in love, no use of y/n

Word Count: 3.8k

Song Inspo: "Platonic" by Ryan Hurd

Author’s Note: So, I saw Brave New World in February and haven't been able to stop thinking about Sam Wilson since. The x Reader tag for my boy is absolutely lacking so I decided to write something for my cap. Hope you guys enjoy some good ole Sam Wilson fluff. Let me know what you guys think and if you have any Sam Wilson x Reader recs on tumblr. Please, I'm desperate.

“You know you could just ask him out, right?”

You choke down your beer, nearly spitting it out as Bucky speaks up beside you. The two of you have been quietly sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the shitty, hole-in-the-wall Irish pub that Sam insists on frequenting whenever all three of you are in D.C. at the same time. The little tradition had started as a coping mechanism after the three of you were blipped back into existence. You remember Sam begging you to accompany him to O’Malley’s the first time. And you remember sitting between your best friend and Bucky Barnes — it looked almost comical, an ex-Hydra assassin, a former Air Force pilot, and the newly named Captain America drinking a beer together. At first, you thought that Sam had asked you to come as a way to get you out of your house after everything that happened, but as the three of you sat in uncomfortable silence together, you realized that Sam brought you as a buffer. In all the years you’ve known the charismatic Sam Wilson, you never met someone he couldn’t talk to.

And then you met James Buchanan Barnes. 

Unlike Sam, you quickly fell into a cordial friendship with Bucky once you broke the ice. He’s both headstrong and cocky but also observant and aloof. People who meet him in passing might comment on how quiet he is, but you know he’s incredibly opinionated — hell, you made the mistake of commenting about baseball during your trio’s second outing together and had to listen to the man complain about the Brooklyn Dodgers moving to LA for a good thirty minutes. But what really bonded you with Bucky was Sam. You know that when Bucky looks at Sam, he sees what Steve saw in him — the man that Captain America decided was worthy of his mantle. 

He reminds you of Riley in many ways, and that’s why Sam had a more challenging time getting on board with the three of you hanging out together at first. Because for so long, it was just you, Sam, and Riley. You met Sam at boot camp, and then you met Riley shortly after. The three of you ran pararescue missions together — Sam and Riley clad in Exo-7 flight suits while you manned the C-130, which, thanks to a big government contract with Stark Industries, integrated cloaking systems and environmental blending. Then, on a routine mission, Riley got shot out of the sky, and suddenly it was just you and Sam. Sam became a PTSD veteran counselor, you got a piloting job with SHIELD stationed in D.C. to stay close to him, and then the two of you became regulars at O’Malley’s due to its proximity to both of your apartments. A part of Sam was afraid that he was replacing Riley by inviting Bucky into the space you share with him, but he had made a promise to Steve before he’d gone back in time with the infinity stones. And slowly but surely, the two became close friends, bonding over shared military stories, their musical tastes, and their deep respect and adoration for you. 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bucky scoffs at your question before taking another swig of his beer. He knows you’re playing dumb — the two of you have been participating in this same song and dance for the better part of a year now. Two months into regularly drinking with Sam and Bucky at O’Malley’s, you drunkenly confessed to Bucky that you harbor feelings for your best friend. He pretended to be shocked, but he knew about your little secret after first meeting with you and Sam. Bucky may be a tad out of touch with new social norms — the man hasn’t participated in the dating scene since the 1940s — but the act of pining hasn’t changed over the decades that have passed. 

“We’re just going to pretend you haven’t been brooding all night after Sam got whisked away by those girls?”

You roll your eyes at Bucky’s question. The annoyance weaved into your expression doesn’t come from a place of malice but instead draws from your frustration at how well Bucky understands you. Sam will always be your best friend, but Bucky has become something like a brother to you over the past year — an empty role in your life since Riley passed away. And after all, Bucky is an older brother — a protector — at his core. He may have lost his little sister a lifetime ago, but the instincts were still there, buried deep down until you and Sam showed up in his life.

“Brooding is your thing, Buck.”

“Exactly. So, can you stop stepping on my shoes?”

A smile tugs at your lips as Bucky playfully nudges you with his elbow. You know he’s trying to lighten the mood, and his humor has made you feel a little lighter; however, there’s still a gnawing in the pit of your stomach as you watch one of the girls slowly slide their hand down Sam’s arm. Bucky follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh.

“Seriously, kid. What’s stopping you from just asking him out?”

“He’s my best friend, Buck.”

Bucky arches a brow at your reasoning. You say it as if it’s the answer to all of your heartache — as if it’s a valid excuse to hold yourself back from happiness. He has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic. He’s been trying to intervene, but whenever you think about confessing your feelings to Sam, you immediately talk yourself out of it. And Sam isn’t any better. Bucky’s tried to talk some sense into him at least a dozen times, but he’s sure you don’t feel the same way about him.

“I could always set you up with one of my friends.”

“I’m fairly certain you only have two friends, and they’re currently at this bar, Buck.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he finishes his beer. 

“Believe it or not, I do have a life outside of you and Sam.”

He places the empty bottle on the counter along with a five-dollar bill before layering his leather jacket over his long-sleeve t-shirt. It’s a mild spring day, but you know he doesn’t wear the extra layers for warmth. They’re worn for the same reason as his leather gloves — security that his shiny, metal arm is covered. Bucky spares Sam one last glance before turning his attention back to you. You’re nursing the beer in your hand, simply waiting for Sam to notice you again. He gently grabs your shoulder with his good hand, and Bucky’s heart breaks in his chest as you look up at him with sad eyes.

“Just think about it, okay?”

You nod at his question, and Bucky releases his hold before heading home for the night. With a sigh, you finish your lukewarm beer and order another while waiting patiently for your best friend. Sam Wilson has always been the life of the party — the man who shines like a ray of sunlight even on the darkest days. But the Captain America mantle came with a newfound attention that Sam seems to revel in. You, however, find yourself struggling with it — it had been just the two of you for so long, and now you feel like you’re sharing him with all of America. 

But little do you know that even now, with the entire bar vying for his attention, Sam feels drawn to you like some invisible string is pulling him back. His eyes scan the crowd at O’Malley’s until they find you. He gives you a bright, genuine smile — the kind that leaves you grinning from ear to ear. You watch as he excuses himself from the lively conversation and approaches you. He slides into the seat beside you, shoulder bumping against yours as he leans into your space to grab the beer in front of you. You shoot him a playful glare as he takes a drink out of your beer bottle, and he winks at you in response. He places the bottle back in front of you before speaking.

“Bucky already left?”

“You know the old man — has to be home before bedtime.”

Sam laughs while throwing an arm back across your chair. You don’t even think twice about the action; Sam’s done it at least a thousand times at this point.

“Are you ready to get out of here?”

You give him an eager nod, desperate to get some fresh air. Sam laughs at your reaction before paying both of your tabs. Like in the bar, you don’t think twice as Sam slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you walk down the streets of the nation’s capital. Not even as he walks up the five flights of stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages ago. Not even as he moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there. Not even as Sam falls asleep on your couch again after a night of talking for hours. You don’t think twice because this is how it’s always been between you and Sam — it’s always been comfortable, domestic. 

But, for some reason, tonight is different. As you sit on your kitchen counter, finishing your beer, Sam’s loud snores from your living room are drowned out by Bucky’s words from earlier this evening ringing in your ears. This is what your life has always looked like, but is this all it will be — waiting for your slice of Sam’s increasingly divided time? You’re happy for him. Truly. Sam deserves everything that the mantle of Captain America comes with — the attention, the popularity, the spotlight. You’re overjoyed that the world is finally seeing what you’ve seen in Sam all along, but a small part of you is jealous. And that jealousy is starting to eat you alive. 

You sigh, downing the last of your beer before sliding your phone out of your pocket. Scrolling through your contacts, you find Bucky’s name. You listen to the phone ring twice before Bucky answers your call. Concern is evident in his voice as he says your name. You rarely call him this late, but you know you’d talk yourself out of this in the morning. 

“I’ll do it, Buck. Set up the date.”

“It’s about time, kid.”

You spend the rest of your agonizingly slow week second-guessing that phone call. Hell, you almost call Bucky at least a dozen times to cancel the date altogether — to simply state that Bucky’s advice is ridiculous and you’re perfectly fine with your current situation. But, ultimately, you decide this is for the best. If your goal is to get over your absurd crush on Sam Wilson, then you actually need to start working on it. So, even though you’ve managed to worry yourself sick on Friday, you still manage to get yourself ready that evening and leave your apartment. A small smile pulls at your lips as you stand outside the address Bucky texted you several days prior. You’re thankful he chose a casual ramen spot for the blind date. It makes the whole experience a little less high stakes — like you could leave at any time with limited consequences. 

With an exasperated sigh, you finally bite the bullet and pull open the door to the small establishment. The bell above you rings, and you’re greeted by a friendly man behind the counter, telling you to sit wherever you want. You turn towards the quaint dining room and, to your surprise, see a familiar figure sitting at one of the tables. Sam Wilson looks just as surprised as you feel. Your feet move on their own accord as you approach your best friend. He looks nice — clad in a maroon polo and his nicest pair of jeans. 

“What are you doing here, Sam?”

You found it strange that you never received your weekly text from Sam asking you about your Friday night plans. But you concluded that either Bucky told him about your blind date or Sam planned a date for that evening as well. But this was an outcome you never expected.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Your brow furrows at Sam’s confession.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Sam looks at you as if you’re speaking a different language, and embarrassment washes over you as you realize that you’re right: Bucky Barnes only has two friends, and they’re currently looking at each other stupidly in a family-owned Ramen joint. Anger rushes through your veins as the realization sets in, but Sam still looks dumbfounded.

“So, Bucky set us up on a date.”

“Oh.”

You wait for him to continue, but he just sits at his empty table, at a loss for words. Usually, the silence between the two of you is comfortable; however, right now, it's excruciating. You suddenly feel about two inches tall as you stand before Sam. As the room gets twenty degrees warmer and the walls begin closing in, you decide it’s probably best if you get out of here. 

“This was a stupid idea.”

You turn away from Sam, but before you can take a step towards the door, he grabs your hand. The contact causes you to look back at your best friend, whose gaze is surprisingly tender. Your body relaxes ever so slightly, and, against your better judgment, your hand tightens around his. 

“It doesn’t have to be.”

His tone is genuine, but there’s still that voice in the back of your head gnawing at you. There’s no way that your best friend suddenly wants to go on a date with you. That shit doesn’t happen in real life. This isn’t a movie — he hasn’t been waiting almost two decades for this exact moment to express his feelings for you. You keep your expectations low because although Sam is a superhero, this isn’t a fairytale. Still, you let him gently tug your body into the seat across from him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Sam.”

Sam’s brow furrows, and a look of genuine confusion washes over his features. He studies you for a moment before speaking. 

“You think I don’t want to go on a date with you?”

You roll your eyes at his question. This whole conversation is ridiculous, and it’s beginning to feel like Sam and Bucky are pulling a practical joke on you right now. But Sam looks at you expectantly, waiting for your answer, so you play along even though you aren’t happy about it.

“C’mon, Sam.”

Sam simply arches a brow at you with a bewildered expression, and for a moment, your resolve falters. What if this is real? What if this isn’t some stupid joke between Sam and Bucky? What’s the harm in just letting this moment play out? With a sigh, you look up at Sam, who is still studying your features. 

“Sam, I’m pretty certain that if you were interested in me at any point in the last twenty years, you’d have asked me out by now.”

Sam huffs out a laugh at this, and suddenly, he looks embarrassed. This reaction confuses you. Sam is a confident man — he’s rarely self-conscious about himself or his decisions. 

“Yeah, about that…”

Your heart lurches in your chest as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he tries to find the right words. And as he meets your eyes, there’s an emotion in his gaze that you can’t quite place. 

“What is it, Sam?”

Sam sighs before speaking.

“This isn’t just platonic for me.”

Suddenly, your world comes to a screeching halt. This feels like an out-of-body experience — like some sort of dream — and you’re pretty sure if you pinched yourself right now, you’d wake up alone in your apartment. But that doesn’t happen. You’re really here with Sam, having this conversation.

“How long have you felt like that?”

Sam looks away from you as he thinks for a moment, wanting to give you an accurate answer.

“After we helped Steve with Hydra in D.C., seeing you in the hospital put things into perspective.”

You were working as a SHIELD pilot for almost two years when Sam went missing with SHIELD’s two most wanted fugitives: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Because of this, it didn’t take much convincing for you to ignore your orders and help Steve stop the launch of the helicarriers. Bucky, acting as the Winter Soldier at the time, had taken out most of SHIELD’s air support; however, you and a group of four other pilots managed to get your birds into the air. Although the stakes were high, a part of you felt like it was old times — watching Sam soar through the air in his Exo-7 flight suit from the cockpit of your F-35 Lightning II. The fight was going well until Bucky nailed your left wing with a large piece of debris, causing you to go into a downward tailspin. You attempted to stabilize your aircraft but ran out of time. So, you decided to pull your parachute, but to your horror, the cord was stuck. Sam, grounded due to his broken wings, watched helplessly as your fighter slammed into the Potomac River. You were found by search and rescue after the helicarriers were destroyed and woke up in a hospital bed three days later. Recovery was agonizingly slow, but Sam never left your side — except to check on Steve every so often in the room next to yours. The memory brings a small, sad smile to your face.

“That was ten years ago, Sam. What stopped you from telling me?”

“Other than everything that happened after that? You’re my best friend — I didn’t want to risk that.”

You suppose he’s right. There was rarely a moment of downtime after you recovered from your fall into the Potomac River. The two of you immediately threw yourselves into helping Steve track down Bucky, and just two years later, all four of you were wanted fugitives due to the Sokovia Accords. Between the years you spent living on the run and the years you lost to the blip, there was rarely a quiet moment until Thanos was finally defeated — until now. 

“For me, it was after Riley.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up at your confession, obviously not expecting for you to have fallen first. But, despite his excitement at this revelation, he stays quiet, letting you continue if you want.

“After losing him, I couldn’t help imagining it being you who got shot down that day. The idea haunted me in my nightmares, and I realized that if I lost you, it would be a different kind of grief.” 

Sam’s face softens, and he reaches across the table for your hand. He wraps his hand tightly around yours, grounding you back into this moment before speaking.

“You never have to worry about losing me.”

You scoff at his words, giving him an incredulous look.

“You’re Captain America, Sam. Running head first into danger is your job.”

“Okay, fair. But I have a very compelling reason to stay alive.”

You laugh, attempting to cover up how flustered you feel due to Sam’s words. It doesn’t work. Sam smiles as he notices the effect his words have on you. He could get used to this — flirting with you until you’re bright red and stumbling over your words. It’s undeniably cute, and he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to do it. 

After your emotionally charged conversation, you both need something to eat. The two of you both order ramen, and Sam doesn’t let go of your hand until two bowls are set down on the table. You enjoy your meal while Sam occasionally nudges his knee playfully into yours under the table before offering you a flirtatious smile. The conversation that flows between you doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable — it feels both familiar and somehow brand new. The two of you had been navigating the grey area between romantic and platonic for so long that it feels almost liberating to look at Sam and know his true intentions. 

After Sam pays the bill, giving the establishment's owner a generous tip, the two of you fall into step with one another as you walk toward your apartment. The walk isn’t drastically different from the thousands you’ve taken before. Sam still slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side — except this time, you move your hand up and intertwine your fingers. He still walks up the stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages again — except this time, he leads you by the hand up all five flights. And he still moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there — except this time, as he places the beers behind you, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he keeps his hands on the counter, one on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression is soft, illuminated by the lone fluorescent light in your small kitchen. And there’s an adoration in his gaze that makes you feel lighter than air.

Steve’s words, from what feels like a lifetime ago, ring in your ears as you look up at Sam Wilson, who stands just a breath away: "As the world's expert on waiting too long, don't."

Tired of waiting, you grab Sam by the front of his polo and pull him into you, locking your lips with his as your chests bump into each other. It’s not a picture-perfect kiss; it’s a little sloppy and frantic, but it’s the type that makes up for the twenty years you spent dancing around your feelings for one another. Eventually, you break away from each other. Sam rests his forehead against yours, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen graces his face — the man looks like sunshine incarnate as he studies your features.

“I should have done that ten years ago.”

The laugh that escapes you is melodic — a goddamn symphony to Sam’s ears. And he can’t help but kiss you again. And again. And again. In an attempt to make up for lost time and to prove to you, this was never just platonic. 

---

This entire series has my HEART go read it rn!!! 1000/10 i swear to gods

Wake up (part 3)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You are awake but Bucky’s nightmare hasn’t ended yet.

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: lots of talk about Bucky’s past; Hydra; brainwashing; mind control; loss of autonomy; panic attacks; emotional and mental breakdown; medical trauma; experiments; depersonalization; identity struggles; sedation; power imbalance; dissociation; crying; mentions of vomiting; severe angst; comfort

Author’s Note: We’re here guys, this is part three of wake up. It does have a happy ending, but I'm still going to give you a heads up because this is going to get intense. Themes and events ahead may he heavy, and I strongly encourage you to check the content warnings carefully before proceeding. Your well-being comes first, so if anything feels like too much, please take a step back. Read at your own pace and take care of yourself. That said, I hope you enjoy! ♡

part one part two

Angstober Masterlist | Masterlist

The room stops.

The alarms still scream, the monitors still beep, but for one suspended second, no one moves, no one breathes - because you are awake.

Bruce’s hands falter mid-air. Cho’s fingers freeze over the screen. Tony, usually the first to crack a joke or spit out some sharp remark, is silent. Even Steve, ever the composed, looks stunned.

But none of that matters.

Bucky is not aware of any of those things.

Because your eyes - those eyes that have always held the soft glow of recognition, the warmth of you, the love for him - are staring right through Bucky.

And they are blank.

Not confused, not dazed, not disoriented from sleep - no, something about them is wrong.

Bucky doesn’t realize the way his body is trembling. Doesn’t register the way his lungs have locked up, the way his grip on you has loosened, as if he’s afraid to touch you now.

Your pupils are wide, too wide, swallowing their color whole, leaving only black voids behind. You don’t blink. Don’t move. Just watch him.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky breathes, his voice a ghost of itself, the sound roughly shattering in his throat. His fingers twitch where they rest against your cheek. “Baby, can you-?”

The second he speaks, your body reacts.

Like a string has been pulled.

Your spine straightens, muscles locking into place like a marionette finding its tension. Your erratic and ragged breathing just moments ago evens out with a precision that seems unnatural.

A response. A reaction.

But it’s not you.

Bucky feels shot all over again. Not once. Not twice. Not even a third time. He can’t even count that high, not here, not now, not ever. And all those bullets land where his heart once belonged.

Something so utterly cold sweeps through his veins, turning movement into something impossible. Winter is settling deep in his chest, freezing him from the inside out. He doesn’t even feel numb anymore.

Because this isn’t just the fog of waking up after whatever the hell Hydra did to you.

This is something else.

A sharp, unresolved noise scrapes out of Bruce’s throat, his finger still hovering. “That’s not right.”

Cho shakes her head, blinking rapidly as if she can make herself see something different, to give this a sense. “She shouldn’t-” She cuts herself off, exhaling hard through her nose. “This isn’t a normal response.”

“Okay,” Tony interjects, voice a shade tighter than usual. “Yeah, I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this.”

“Y/n?” Steve tries carefully, stepping closer, but Bucky doesn’t see him, doesn’t hear him, doesn’t fucking care.

Because he is frozen.

Because this is so goddamn wrong.

You are looking right at him but there is nothing in your eyes. Nothing. No life.

A dry, aching squeeze inches up his neck. It constricts his throat, it leaves any desolate sound trapped inside him.

He has seen this before.

Too many times. In the mirror. In his memories. In the cold, unfeeling gazes of other soldiers.

And it’s killing him - killing him to the point where he might just drop to the floor in the matter of a second - to now see it in your eyes.

The world inside the medical wing doesn’t restart at once.

It comes back in pieces with everyone still in shock.

The turbulent, shrieking alarms dull down, monitors resetting to their normal beeping. Hushed voices return, everyone still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Bucky still doesn’t take his eyes off you. He doesn’t think he ever will.

You’re awake. That should be a good thing. That should be everything.

But his stomach feels like it’s caving in on itself. He would love to wrap himself up, fold over twice, three times - until he’s nothing but a tight, trembling knot.

Bruce speaks up, voice professional. But it holds something strained. Something uneasy. “Y/n?”

No response.

Cho tries next, moving closer, her eyes scanning over you with clinical focus. “Can you hear us?”

Still, nothing.

You don’t move.

Don’t blink.

Don’t react.

Bucky swallows hard, harder, the hardest, but his throat is closed, voice dying before it can form.

Bruce looks dismayed just the slightest bit. “Okay, that- that’s okay-” He cuts himself off, taking a slow breath. “Her vitals are stable.” He looks over at Cho, who is already checking the readings on the monitor.

“Brain activity is…” She trails off, frowning. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

It sounds almost accusatory like she doesn’t believe her own words.

“Then why isn’t she saying anything? Why isn’t she reacting?” Steve asks, stance stiff and voice holding something sharp.

No one has an answer.

Bucky doesn’t notice the way Bruce and Cho are moving around you, the way Tony mutters something under his breath that no one listens to. Because he can’t look away from you.

From the way, your pupils track only him.

Not Bruce. Not Cho. Not Steve or Tony.

Just him.

Bucky’s lungs pull in a sharp breath but nothing actually seems to reach them.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re just waking up. You’re just a little dazed. Just trying to make sense of what is running through your veins.

But then, if he truly believes that, why isn’t his voice working? Why can’t he breathe? Why can’t he take his hands away from you?

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, adjusting the IV in your arm. “I need you to tell me how you’re feeling. Can you do that?”

Nothing.

Cho’s frown deepens. “Try squeezing my hand.” She moves closer, resting her fingers lightly against yours. “Just a little pressure, okay?”

Nothing.

A new kind of silence floods the room now. Heavier. Suffocating.

Bucky’s pulse won’t stop hammering in his ears.

“She’s awake,” Tony states flatly. “So why does she still look-” He waves a vague hand, looking almost daunt. “Out of it?”

Frustration begins to seep into Bruce’s expression, a slow breath slipping from his nose. “Y/n, if you can hear me, just- move a little. Anything.”

Another beat of silence.

Bucky can’t take this anymore.

He moves closer, his hand intertwining with yours instinctively. His voice is hoarse, rough and so, so desperate.

“Sweetheart,” he croaks out, just for you. “C’mon, baby, just- just give us something.”

You move.

It’s small. Barely anything at all.

But your fingers twitch.

Bucky doesn’t take in another breath for too long.

Something slow and dreadful sinks into him. It closes its grip around something vital.

Bruce exhales in something close to relief. “That’s good, Y/n. That’s good.”

Encouraged, Cho steps in again. “Alright, let’s try something else.” She looks at you, her voice gentle but firmer now. “Can you try moving your leg?”

Silence.

Stillness.

Bucky’s stomach turns.

“Y/n,” Bruce presses, more insistent now. “Try for me, alright?”

Nothing.

The tension is a thin string.

Bucky shifts, fingers brushing over your palm in a touch so soft.

“Baby,” he chokes out. “Please.”

Your leg moves.

A shudder ripples through Bucky’s whole body.

Nobody speaks.

Nobody breathes.

Then, finally, Tony says what they are all thinking.

“Okay,” he exhales. “That’s weird.”

It is.

It is wrong.

Cho is staring at her monitor as though it’s betrayed her. Bruce’s brow is furrowing deep in concentration, but there is a glimmer of something else behind his eyes now.

Bucky’s mind is reeling, his pulse pounding so loud, the sound crashing over everything, washing it all into nothing.

This can’t be a coincidence.

You only moved when he spoke.

Not anyone else.

Just him.

Bucky’s mouth is dry.

No.

No, no, no-

He wants to rip that aching thing out of his chest and twist it in his metal grip and throw it on the clinical floor and stomp on it with his boot.

Because deep, deep down, something agonizing in him is already understanding.

And he can’t take it.

It seems that nobody really wants to acknowledge it.

Because acknowledging it means understanding it.

And understanding it means stepping into something far, far worse.

But it’s everywhere in the room, floating around in the air, waiting to be breathed in, sinking its fangs into every pause, every silence, every failed attempt at making you respond to anyone but him.

Bucky can’t let go of you. His flesh fingers wrap carefully around yours, his metal arm braced protectively around your back. You don’t acknowledge his touch. But he also can’t help the staring. Eyes fixed on your face. Bracing himself for an answer he already knows he won’t be able to stomach. He probably should be looking for that waste bin again, but he can’t take his eyes off you.

Because this isn’t just exhaustion. This isn’t just confusion.

Something inside you is listening. Waiting.

And only for him.

Steve clears his throat quietly and speaks up again. “Try again,” he says, though there is something cautious in his voice now. “Y/n?” He takes another step closer, lowering his head slightly, like maybe you just need to see him properly. “Can you hear me?”

You don’t react.

Nothing in your shifts.

A sharp breath escapes the nose of the blonde and he glances at Bruce and Cho, in question of an answer but they don’t have one.

Cho’s expression is drawn tight, eyes scanning the monitors, because what else can she do? Bruce’s face is unreadable, but his knuckles are pressed against his chin in a way that suggests his mind is racing.

“We should test motor function,” Cho suggests, but it’s not that confident. More like she just needs to say something, anything to fill the wrongness all around them.

Bruce nods slowly. His tone is even. “Y/n, lift your left hand.”

The silence drags.

The tension is so thick, Bucky can hear it crackling. He is not breathing.

“Y/n,” Bruce says again, slower, placing his words with care. A small waver snakes into his voice. “Lift your left hand.”

Nothing.

Bucky’s stomach is a single, dense, ball that sinks heavier each second passes.

Cho adjusts something on the monitor. “Maybe- Maybe it’s still too early-”

“Buck,” Steve suddenly exclaims.

And it makes Bucky freeze.

Because there is something behind it. A test. A hesitation. Sympathy.

Bucky doesn’t even look up.

He swallows, something punching his ribs.

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, voice so rough, it’s almost intelligible. “Your left hand. Let me see it.”

Your hand lifts.

Bucky’s stomach drops so hard, he descends with it, down to the ground, down to the earth beneath the fundamental structure of the compound.

No one speaks.

No one moves.

Your hand is still in the air.

Cho stares. Bruce’s lips are parted and he rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

Steve is rigid, lips pressed tightly together.

Their stares press against Bucky, against his shoulders, his skull, but he can’t look away from you.

Your face hasn’t changed.

No recognition. No emotion. No indication of independent thought.

Just that same blank, empty stillness.

Until he tells you to move.

Until he tells you what to do.

Bucky feels sick.

Nausea grows, rolling, roiling, a tide rising within, murky and sour, spiraling up his throat in a way that threatens.

Heat prickles at his skin, a damp, clammy sheen forming at the base of his neck, invasively cascading down the channel of his spine.

His head is shaking before he even realizes it. He has to be imagining this. This is one of his nightmares.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries forcing him to wake up, to snap out of this, but then Bruce’s voice comes through again.

“Y/n,” Bruce tries again, voice thick. “Put your hand back down.”

Your hand stays in the air.

Bucky’s fingers flex around yours, grounding himself.

“Baby,” he wheezes, almost unwillingly, his voice a broken whisper. “Put it down.”

Your fingers lower.

And the chill that floods Bucky’s system knocks him off balance.

His ears are ringing.

His mind is splintering, breaking off into a thousand jagged thoughts he can’t grasp all at once, he doesn’t want to grasp at all because no.

No.

Utterly powerless, he looks up. Steve’s face is hard, Tony is pale, and Natasha - where did she come from - has her hand over her mouth in shock.

Bruce clears his throat. “That’s-” He glances at Cho, at Steve; and Bucky would see the war in his mind if his vision allowed him to see more than just silhouettes.

Everybody is hesitant. Everybody is unwilling to be the first one to say what they are all thinking.

It’s Tony who does it.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, voice hollow, stunned. “She’s only listening to you.”

It sounds worse when spoken aloud.

His body is rejecting, resisting, recoiling from all of this.

Bruce is watching him now, too, something entirely pained on his face, not able to deny what is happening.

“We should-” Cho pushes out a sharp breath at the choked noise Bucky is letting out and she stops talking.

This is too much.

Tremors rack through his whole body. It’s attacking him, his lungs, his bloodstream, his bones. He is weak. On the ground. Eyes pressed together. Because he can’t look at you any longer. Can’t look at the way you are watching him.

You aren’t just listening.

You are waiting.

For his voice.

For his command.

There is nothing but obedience in your gaze.

Bucky sways on the ground, but he can’t let go of you. His grip tightens because if he lets go, he will break.

But your fingers are so loosely tangled with his, resting limply against him. They are warm. Too warm. Too soft and delicate and human to be connected to something so immensely wrong.

Bruce and Cho are talking.

Their voices are low, hushed, methodical. The cadence of their words is a tightrope between the beeps, adding more to the strain of the already fraught atmosphere.

Bucky doesn’t hear any of it.

The incessant thrum of his heart is a trapped and wild animal that scratches at the walls of his arteries and reverberates in the darkness behind his eyelids.

Because no.

This isn’t happening.

Not to you.

Not to you.

Steve rubs a palm over his mouth, the other on his hip, exhaling a shuddering breath, trying to process it all but he can’t.

Tony doesn’t say anything. This is bad and he is well aware. This is worse than anything any of them could have prepared for.

Bruce clears his throat, looking at Bucky. “We need to assess the extent of this,” he says carefully, words a test on his tongue before he lets them out. “There’s a possibility that this is temporary, but we-” He hesitates. Adjusts his glasses. “We need to know how deep this goes.”

Nobody speaks.

“What do you mean?” Bucky’s voice doesn’t sound like his own.

Bruce hesitates again. “We need to see if she’s responding to just motor commands, or if-” Another pause. “Or if it’s beyond that.”

Beyond that.

The words tumble into the depths of Bucky’s core.

He swallows, blinking down at you. Your breathing is even. Your expression so still. You don’t seem to be aware of anything happening around you. Only attuned to one thing. Him. Waiting for him.

Bucky clenches his jaw so hard, gritting his teeth until he tastes iron in his mouth.

Cho cuts in more firmly. “We need her to speak.”

Silence.

Bucky can’t breathe.

Tony shifts his weight, crosses his arms. “And how exactly do you propose we do that?” His voice is flat. “Seeing as she’s only listening to him.”

Bucky flinches.

Cho and Bruce exchange a glance.

“We need you to try,” Bruce says softer. “We need you to ask her to speak.”

It’s worse when it’s phrased like that.

Like a test. Like and order.

Like something he should not be doing.

His fingers tighten around yours, but you don’t react. Not yet. Not until he tells you to.

His chest constricts. He hates himself.

There is no way out of this.

Bucky exhales shakily, taking a few moments.

He swallows hard.

“Sweetheart.” His voice cracks. He clears his throat. “I need to- I need you to say something.”

Your lips don’t part.

A spike of panic lances through his chest.

“Baby, come on. Say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bruce’s eyes dart between the two of you, then back to Bucky. His expression is pinched, calculating. “Try again.”

Bucky’s body feels wrong, his skin too tight, his stomach threatening to heave.

This is familiar.

And it is dangerous.

He wets his lips, closes his eyes for a second, letting his head drop before lifting it again.

“What’s my name?”

The room is silent.

Your lips part.

And Bucky’s blood stops flowing.

The moment drags.

Agonizingly slow.

“Soldat.”

Your voice is distant, automatic.

Bucky breaks.

His lungs lock, the walls of his throat all connect together, his mind fractures.

The room tips, crashing into the floor.

Your voice circles his mind, going round and round and round, sounding so soft and obedient and wrong, so fucking wrong.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head so fast, hands jerking. “No, no, no.”

Steve’s hands clench at his sides, his throat working as though he wants to say something, but what can he say?

Bruce’s expression is stricken.

Tony looks dazed.

Bucky gasps for breaths but none are coming.

And suddenly, all those years of struggling to escape Hydra's grasp feel completely pointless

Every breath Bucky takes feels like it’s being ripped out of his chest before he can fully inhale. Every sound is static. Tremors crawl along his arm, punching into his ribcage like something cold and crushing.

The people around him are talking about you but he can’t hear a thing. He can’t hear Banner and Cho discussing tests, or Tony insisting they need to figure this out now. The way they say it - analytic, pragmatic, like you’re some broken thing they need to fix - makes his stomach lurch violently. He has to press his jaw together to keep from retching again. The panic is worming through his veins, digging in, pulling him under.

They want to put you under observation. They want to run tests.

Like Hydra did to him.

His mind is tearing through memories he doesn’t want, old phantoms forcing their way to the surface. He sees himself strapped to a table, bright lights burning his retinas, faceless men in white coats murmuring about what they could do to him, what they could turn him into. He hears his young voice, wrecked and broken, whispering in Russian words he doesn’t understand but knows - commands drilled into him, obedience hammered into his bones.

And now he’s the one giving commands. To the love of his life.

And his friends want to do to you what has been done to him.

“No.” The word is gravel, scraping him raw on its way out.

“Bucky, we don’t have a choice,” Bruce says, rubbing a hand down his exhausted face. “She’s only responding to you. That’s not normal. We have to figure out why.”

“You’re not running tests on her,” Bucky growls, voice shaking as he grips you firmer, protectiveness boiling hot in his gut.

Steve steps in, hesitant but resolute. “We need to find out what Hydra did to her. We can’t just-”

Bucky’s breath is completely lost in pattern. „You think I don’t know that?“ he spits, voice wild and harsh. “You think I don’t want to fix this? That I don’t fucking want my girl back? But I am not-” He falters, his throat too tight, his chest heaving. His vision is a tunnel with no lights.

There is a sharp pain in his right palm. His metal fingers are clenched into a fist so tight that his right hand has to let go of you to mimic it. Nails drive into his flesh. He forces himself to breathe. To stay here. But it’s not working. The room is shrinking. His head is full of cotton. Buzzing.

“I think you’re too close to this,” Tony warns, and it’s too sharp, too fast, it sends Bucky over the edge. “You’re compromised, Barnes. We don’t even know if this is something you caused. Maybe you’re making it worse-”

Bucky doesn’t remember getting up and lunging, but suddenly Steve is between him and Tony, a hand pressed to his chest, and his breath is all but gone.

“She is not your experiment,” Bucky hisses, trying to shout, but his voice is barely holding together. His heart is pummeling against his ribs, trying to break out. “I will not let you strap her to a fucking table like some thing you get to study.” He is shaking in fury.

Steve’s hand stays against him. “That’s not what they’re trying to do, Buck.”

But Bucky can’t think rationally. He can’t think at all.

“I fucking know what this looks like, Steve.” His voice crumbles, tremors splintering them. It sounds like something trying to remember how to exist. But Bucky doesn’t care about anything other than you. “I fucking remember, alright? And I won’t let her go through this!”

“Soldat.”

It’s your voice. So dutiful. So even. So not you.

Bucky flinches. Terribly.

The sound that rips out of him is something destroyed, something that never should have existed in the first place.

He turns back to you and his knees hit the floor, but he doesn’t feel it. Shaking hands are cupping your face, desolate and desperate.

“No,” he chokes, tears breaking free. “No, baby, no. Don’t- don’t call me that.”

But you just blink at him, awaiting something. Expecting something. A command.

Bruce’s voice is distant, but he is saying something urgent. Steve is stiff, his head dropped. Tony has shut his mouth. Natasha’s quickly retreating footsteps are lost to him. The entire room has turned to stone.

Bucky’s hands slide into your hair, shaking so badly he can barely hold on. “It’s me, sweetheart. Y/n, it’s me,” he pleads. “It’s Bucky. Say my name. Please, my love. Say Bucky.”

No words come from you. Not until Bucky gives them to you.

He’s going to die. He’s going to pass out.

Because he knows this. He’s lived this. But not like this. Not you.

“Y/n,” Steve says and Bucky hates him for trying again. “Do you know where you are?”

You don’t look at Steve. You don’t move. Your breath stays controlled.

Sickening devastation pools in Bucky’s gut.

“Doll,” he whispers, voice completely shattered. “Answer him.”

And then, like a machine coming to life, you turn your head slightly. You blink once. And then you speak.

“I am in the Avengers Compound.”

No hesitation. No emotion. Just compliance.

Bucky sways on his knees. Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder, keeping him from collapsing.

Tony releases a heavy breath.

Bucky doesn’t hear the rest because he’s still looking at you. At the way you wait. At the way you listen.

You are waiting for him to tell you what to do.

And Bucky Barnes has never been as mortified as he is now in his entire fucking life.

****

Bucky didn’t go down easily.

It took three men to hold him back, Steve’s arms a steel cage around him while Tony was shouting and Bruce plunging the needle in with a guilty and troubled expression.

His fight was animalistic, desperation keeping him up longer than it should have been, but the drugs worked.

The last thing he saw before darkness engulfed him was you.

Silent. A body waiting for instruction.

Now, he wakes up violently. A gasp tumbles up his throat, his body lurching forward as if he can outrun the crushing weight that bears down on him the second consciousness floods back in.

His head pounds, his hands shake, his chest heaves. He doesn’t know where he is. Doesn’t look around. Doesn’t care to find out. His mind is already screaming for you.

Everything crashes back.

The way your lips parted on a breath but not a name. The way your limbs moved, not out of will, but command. The way you looked at him - not with relief, not with love - but with obedience.

The horror knocks in as he stumbles to his feet, his entire body revolting against itself. His knees nearly buckle, but he pushes forward. He has to find you. No matter how hard it pains him to see you like this.

He is sprinting down the hallways, feet pounding against the floor, muscles protesting. Passing agents give him startled looks, Steve is calling his name. But his heart is shedding itself apart inside his chest and he won’t stop.

Because he is realizing something.

This started before you even opened your eyes.

You only opened your eyes after he pleaded for you to wake up.

“I’d go anywhere with you. I’d follow you to the end of the world. But you gotta wake up, baby.”

That’s when you did.

Because he told you to.

That was the command you were waiting for.

Bile burns its way up his throat, that he nearly collapses mid-stride.

If they think, if they dare to treat you like an experiment, to poke and prod and study you like some object, he’ll-

He doesn’t know yet. He doesn’t even have words for the fright wringing his rips out.

But he knows he has to get to you.

****

The room is sterile. Too bright. Too cold. A place of observation, of examination.

You sit on the medical bed, motionless, exactly where they placed you. Machines drone softly around you, monitors tracking your vitals - though there is nothing irregular about them. You should be fine. But you aren’t.

Bruce and Dr. Cho move carefully, their voices quiet. Constrained. Every test they’ve run, every scan they’ve conducted, all of it comes back normal. Physically, there is nothing wrong with you. But it’s clear as day, that you aren’t here.

Not fully.

You don’t respond to their questions. You don’t react when Cho waves a light in your eyes, when Bruce takes your pulse, when Tony calls your name. Nothing. You sit, hands on your lap, back straight, waiting. Waiting.

And then the door slams open.

Without thinking, Bucky shoves past Tony, past Steve’s reaching hand, past Bruce’s protest - straight to you. The second he sees you his breath stutters, his heart cracks open. It didn’t get a tiny bit easier. Your posture is so still, it’s unnatural, your face is slack.

“Let her go,” he growls, voice shaking with anger and panic.

Bruce raises his hands, placating. “Bucky, we’re not- we’re trying to help.” Then he heaves a heavy sigh. “But she won’t react to us.”

Bucky’s whole body trembles. His jaw is tight. “She’s not some- some science project,” he spits out, voice sharp but breaking. “She’s-” His chest rises and falls harshly. His hands flex and clench. “She’s mine.”

Silence.

Cho speaks up, formal but careful. “That’s why we need you.”

He jerks his gaze to her, vision swimming with tears. “What?”

“She only listens to you.”

He knows that but he feels like he’s just been shot in the chest again.

Bruce nods solemnly. “She hasn’t done anything since you were gone. But when you walked in-” He glances at the monitor - your heart rate spiked. “She knows you’re here, Bucky. But, she’s waiting for you to tell her what to do.”

Bucky is afraid his legs will stop holding him up.

You are waiting for his command. Just like he used to.

His stomach clenches, nausea twirling through it.

“Bucky,” Bruce tries again, insistent. His tone is heavy. “Try it. Please.”

The very idea makes Bucky want to scream. But he looks back at you - his girl, his angel, his whole damn world - sitting there, looking so empty.

And the trepidation in him is so bone-deep that he has no choice.

He swallows, kneels in front of you, hands quivering as they ghost over your knees. “Sweetheart,” he breathes, and the others remain silent. “Look at me.”

Your head snaps to him so quickly it almost makes him rear back. Your eyes are on him and he wants to vomit.

A choked noise catches in his throat.

Bruce watches intently, making notes. “Try something more complex,” he suggests carefully.

Bucky hesitates. He hates this. He’s forced to feed into what Hydra did to you and he hates it.

“Stand up,” he breathes. It’s just a croaked whisper but you stand. Effortlessly, fluidly, like there was never any doubt that you would.

Bucky breathes roughly.

The others are waiting, you are waiting, but Bucky can’t continue.

His eyes press together tightly, head dropping.

“Bucky,” Cho voices, a little gentler. “We can’t help her if we don’t know the rules of this.”

The rules.

As though you are some equation to be solved.

He swallows. His throat is sore and blistering. His heart is a fractured thing.

Slowly, he forces words from his mouth, but they burn on his tongue. “Take three steps forward.”

You do.

Gracefully. Like a soldier. As if you’ve done this million times before.

Dr. Cho looks up from her clipboard. “Make her sit down again.”

Bucky grinds his teeth. His hands flex. He takes a second to compose himself.

“Sit down.” His voice is guttural and broken.

You do.

Every cell in his body is to simply tell you to run and leave but that won’t help anybody.

Bruce nods, mumbling something about autonomous commands. But Bucky doesn’t listen.

He feels like he is standing in the middle of a nightmare, watching himself from the outside, stuck in a loop that Hydra is responsible for.

Bucky owns your movements.

And it’s killing him.

“Try something even bigger. Make her-” Cho says.

“No.”

“Bucky-”

“No.”

They don’t understand.

They don’t get it.

This is not just an experiment to see how much control he has.

This is Hydra, ripping through you, ripping through him.

And he can’t be the one to do it.

Bruce steps forward. “We need to know if she’ll perform an action without you watching. If she’ll listen even if you leave the room. If-”

“If she’s really gone.”

They don’t say it, but that’s what they think.

Bruce looks concerned. “Bucky, I know this is hard-”

“Hard?” Bucky laughs but it is a miserable sound. “Hard is losing your fucking arm. Hard is clawing your way out of your own damn head. But this?” He gestures wildly to you, still waiting, still watching him with hollow submissiveness. “This is fucking sick - and I won’t do it anymore.”

Because they are asking him to cross a line.

A line that has been crossed before.

Not by him, but through him.

By them. Hydra.

And he doesn’t want you anywhere near that.

He can’t be the one to steal your independence.

Not when he knows exactly what it feels like.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that made him a better person.

Not when you are the one thing in his life that is truly and wholly good.

He hears the voices in his head, voices from the past that aren’t really past pouncing in his mind, telling him that he’s done this before and that this is nothing new.

Bucky squeezes his hands into a fist and shoves the thoughts down so deep he hopes they never see the light again.

Bucky was not their scientist. He was not their programmer.

He was their weapon.

And he knows exactly how far this goes.

He knows how much a single word from a commander can do.

Bucky takes a step back. And another. His breaths are coming way too fast, his lungs ache, his vision is a hot and messy blur. He is in two places at once, here in this room, and there, in that cold metal chair, ears ringing with words meant to shatter a mind.

His mind places you in that metallic and rusty thing, meant to scorch your memories, making you scream, making you forget, making you-

He stumbles, his body fighting itself.

“Bucky,” Steve calls out and his hand lands on Bucky’s shoulder.

But he doesn’t feel it.

His body is trembling. Everything. Metal and flesh and every defeated thing in between, shaking, breaking.

Because they are wanting and waiting for him to keep this sick game going. To finish what Hydra started. To slip into a role and make you perform. He can’t do it.

A strangled and grating sound rushes out of his mouth.

He jerks away from Steve’s hand, knocking over a tray of medical tools. They clatter against the tile with a sharp clang. His fingers tangle into his hair, clutching, pulling, as if he can rip himself out of his skin.

He turns blindly, heart slamming into his ribs, chest turning inward.

Tony steps forward.

Wrong move.

The moment is too much, too fast, too fucking much.

Tony’s voice is sharp. “Barnes, pull yourself together-”

He gets closer, almost touching Bucky and he really should not have done that.

You move.

Swiftly. Too swiftly.

A blur, a strike, a threat eliminated.

Tony is on the ground before anyone can stop you.

There’s a heavy, shattered silence.

Bucky freezes.

No, no, no.

His heart slips up his throat. Then it stops.

He looks at you, standing in front of him, shielding him from Tony, hands still half-raised from where you struck him down, muscles tensed, like a soldier defending her commander.

Like you are his.

Like he is yours.

He never told you to move but you did it anyway.

This is loyalty.

Every inch of him is drowning in horror.

In your broken, conditioned mind, Bucky is your handler.

And you are protecting him.

Bucky staggers back, body moving out of sheer shock. If he stays too close he will suffocate. In the shame, the self-loathing, the fear that he is the one keeping you like this.

Nobody speaks. It’s a silence so thick it sucks the air out of the room, drags the world into a vacuum where nothing exists except this.

You.

Standing like an asset between Bucky and a man you saw as a threat to him.

On the ground, Tony is groaning, already pushing himself up with a curse, clutching his ribs.

Bucky feels only sick, wrenching numbness.

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there, staring at you, staring at what you just did. He feels like he’s lost time again. Sliding through cracks he thought he’d sealed shut, falling back into something that should have stayed dead.

Steve is speaking, Tony is swearing, Bruce is moving, and Bucky is still staring.

“Bucky.”

It’s Bruce. His tone is a warning.

Bucky takes a step back and you shift with him.

His knees grow weak. He wants the floor to open up so he can let himself fall into the depths of the unknown.

He can feel their eyes on him. Steve. Bruce. Tony. Cho. He doesn’t look at them. He can’t.

Because he knows what they are seeing.

A room filled with people and only one person you will listen to.

And once again, he is back in that cold chair, arms bound, mind split wide open for them to rewrite.

Once again, he watches himself from the outside, being a handler who forces his puppet onto the very same chair. Watching his sweet and brave girl writher and scream while her will is taken from her.

He himself is screaming internally.

His voice strains as he pushes the words out, even as his throat tries to close around them. “Stand down.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. It’s hoarse, throaty, gutted.

You obey.

Bucky watches as the tension in your frame bleeds out in a way that is too immediate. Too conditioned. Like a wire was pulled, a switch flipped, a button pressed.

Like this is just another mission.

Bile rises. His face is cleanly sucked off any color.

Steve moves closer, tentatively. “Buck-”

“No,” he snarls, his voice raw. “Don’t.”

Steve's going to tell him it’s gonna be okay.

He’s going to tell him they’ll figure this out.

He’s going to tell him you’re still in there.

But Bucky already knows you are.

You’re still there. You’re there with every command he gives you.

Bucky’s breaths are shallow and broken gasps. He has to get out of here. He has to get you out of here. Has to stop whatever this is before it turns into something he can’t ever get back.

Bruce and Cho are murmuring. He catches bits and pieces - neurological imprinting, post-hypnotic triggers, synaptic conditioning.

Words that are too impersonal. Too detached. As though you are not the most important person in his life.

And he snaps.

His feet are moving. Straight to you. Straight to the one thing in this room that is his.

You blink up at him. Tilt your head the tiniest bit. But he knows. You are waiting again.

Bucky exhales, sharp and shaking. “Come with me.”

You follow.

Because you have no other choice.

And Bucky can feel it, all of it, this thing you’ve become, this thing he’s made you.

And it’s enough to put him to an end.

You walk behind him like a shadow.

You don’t take in the hallways you once knew, the place you called home. Your gaze stays steadfastly on his back.

An ugly, queasy gnarl grows in his stomach.

He tells himself this is progress. That getting you out of that sterile, white-washed room is a step forward. That walking through the compound with you means something.

But whatever Hydra did to you remains in effect.

You are not walking beside him and swinging his hand between your bodies, laughing freely.

You are glued to his back, watching his every step with hollow eyes.

And you aren’t asking where he is taking you.

You don’t react to the feel of the air shifting, to the faint smell of coffee in the halls, to the voices in the distance.

You just watch him.

As if nothing else exists.

As if he is all there is.

And usually, he loves it when you look at him like he is everything. All that matters to you. But never, never in all his years on earth and beyond, did he want it to be like that.

He swallows back the bile in his throat, but he nearly chokes on it.

He reaches the common area with you.

He doesn’t even know why he brings you here. Maybe because it’s lived in. Warm. Maybe because there are blankets still piled on the couch from the last movie night. Maybe because there are still used pans sitting on the counter by the dishwasher. Maybe because he needs to see all that for himself.

You stopped walking when he did. Standing perfectly still, shoulders relaxed, back straight. Too straight.

And your eyes - your too-wide, too-focused eyes - never leave him.

His fingers jerk at his sides.

“You know this place.” The tightness in his throat fights him, but he shoves the words out. They sound rough and thick. Exhausted. His hands press against his thighs, his whole body stretched to the breaking point. “You live here.”

Nothing.

He drops his head for a moment, closing his eyes, to keep the tears from falling. Then he turns his head, pointing toward the couch. “We sit here a lot of times,” he sniffs. “You’d curl up next to me, and we’d fight over the blanket.”

You do not look.

Not even a glint of acknowledgment.

He swallows hard.

Bucky gestures toward the kitchen. “You love cooking,” he continues, voice strained. “We do it together. Breakfast. Dinner. You love breakfast food. Pancakes. I make them for you every morning. You tease me about burning them every time I'm too damn distracted by you to look at the pan.”

You don’t even glance toward it.

His heart pounds.

It’s not just that you’re unresponsive. It’s that you’re responding to the wrong thing.

You are waiting for something he has to give. For something he has to command.

His breath trips out of him. His voice sounds like it is scraping its way free. “Look at the couch.”

You do immediately.

His lungs feel like they are collapsing.

“Look at the kitchen.”

Your head turns.

His fingers curl into fists.

He’s shaking, metal hand twitching, flesh hand clenched so tight his knuckles turn white.

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t you.

But then your eyes snap back to the couch. It’s so fast, they are fixed on the kitchen counter again when he blinks, but he saw. He saw that they shifted. Just for a millisecond.

His breath catches. Hope flares. It’s a fragile and small flame caught in the wind, a breath away from being snuffed out. But it is there.

His lungs burn with the force of his held breath. He doesn’t dare to exhale, doesn’t dare to move too fast, or say the wrong thing. You are still here. Somewhere. He just has to reach you.

Timidly, he reaches for your hand. It’s warm and soft. Limp.

He squeezes gently, his touch featherlight. “Come with me, doll,” he whispers.

You do not respond in words, but you follow again.

Another tremor is sent through his being, but he has to push through.

He doesn’t take you back to the medical wing. He doesn’t lead you to the labs or around the common area. He takes you somewhere safe. Somewhere yours.

Your shared room.

His hand tightens around yours as he guides you down the hall. Every step feels unstable. He is scarcely keeping it together, scarcely keeping himself from shattering apart at the seams. His body is exhausted, but his mind is in overdrive, running over every single memory the two of you built in that room.

The nights tangled in the sheets.

The mornings where neither of you wanted to get up, staying cuddled together.

The whispered confessions at 2 am.

The way you always fit against and around him so perfectly.

He swallows.

He hesitates at reaching the door. His fingers shake against the handle before he tugs it open and steps inside.

The air is still. The scent of you is everywhere.

The blankets are still rumpled from when he tried to wake you up but couldn’t. Your clothes are still tucked into the open dresser, your favorite sweater draped over the chair. Little things - your things - are scattered across the nightstand, untouched since the last time you were here.

He turns to you, his heart thumping so loud he can hear it in his ears.

Please, he thinks. Remember this. Remember me.

But you only stand in the doorway, rigid, still.

A breath shivers through his lungs and he moves. He doesn’t ask this time. Doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you forward, into his arms.

And you go. Easily.

Your body folds against his. Malleable. Pliable. Not how you should be.

With a stifled gasp, he buries his face into your hair. His fingers tremble against your back, pressing into the fabric of the hospital shirt they forced you into. He hates this. Hates that it reminds him of a patient.

He wants you in his shirt. Wants you tangled in his arms, his sheets. Wants you to look at him like you.

His throat is sore.

He presses closer, desperate, needy, ruined.

Then his hands go to cup your face, tilting it upward, trying to make you meet his gaze without having to tell you to. “Doll,” he chokes, voice cracking, breaking, falling apart. “You- you’re safe. I swear. You’re here, with me.”

Your eyes are still locked onto him in all the wrong ways.

They don’t shift to your surroundings. Not to the bed. Not to the room. Just him.

His forehead lands on yours almost roughly and he squeezes his eyes shut, his grip tightening just a little. A tear falls onto your skin, but you seem entirely indifferent to it.

“This is our home,” he wheezes through his tears. “You’re living with me.” His fingers brush against your cheek, still trembling. “You chose me. Because you love me. And I love you. I love you so fucking much, baby. It’s killing me.”

You don’t give him anything.

His ribs feel like they might splinter.

He feels like he is losing you.

No. No.

He pulls back, enough to see your face properly. His eyes sting, red-rimmed, desolate. He won’t lose you.

“You’re in there, I know it,” he continues and he doesn’t know how his voice is still working. “You know me, sweetheart. You know me better than anyone.” His thumbs sweep your cheek.

But you don’t react to his touch. And it wrecks him. Because you used to lean into him. You would tilt your face into his palm like you were drawn to him, nowhere else in the world you’d rather be.

There is a tilt of your head.

But it destroys him.

Because this is instinct. Not you.

His words taste like ash. “Remember when I brought you that stupid bear from Coney Island?” A humorless and tiny chuckle falls out of him but it only makes him feel drier. “The one with the crooked smile? You loved that thing.”

You stare at him unblinking.

His fingers trace along your temple, down to your jaw. So softly. So hypnotic.

“I love when you’re wearing my shirts.” The pressure in his throat tries to steal his voice but he pushes through. “They’re too big on you. Always make you look so endearing. So perfect. You don’t like me call you cute when you’re wearing ‘em but you keep stealing them anyway.” He has to pause to let his tears fall. “God, I love seeing you in my clothes.”

A strangled sound bolts up his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“You’re always bossin’ me around, doll.” His forehead is back to yours. His eyes burn. “You’re the only person in this world who can boss me around. And I let you. ‘Cause I love you. ‘Cause I’d do anything for you.”

His fingers skim quickly over your jaw, your cheek, tracing the curve of your lips like you are something fleeting.

“I know you’re there. I know I can get you out. Y/n, please,” he begs, wantonly, the roughness of his voice all over the place. “Come back to me. Come back.”

Desperation is not a strong enough word for what is happening inside Bucky. Not even close.

It is deeper. Darker. It is a force that grabs at his rips and wrenches. A gaping, bottomless chasm inside him that is growing wider by the second.

And you stand in the eye of the storm.

Not lifeless. But not alive.

Bucky is breaking rapidly. His hands are all over you - cupping your cheeks, holding your wrists, squeezing your shoulders, smoothing through your hair. If he stops touching you, you might vanish into that void Hydra left behind.

His quivering fingers are at your jaw. “Come on, doll,” he whispers, his voice so unbelievably undone. “Please. Please just- just say something. Anything.”

Nothing.

Bucky sobs.

Bucky shifts closer, chest against yours, forehead pressed firmly to your temple. His breathing comes in short bursts, stuttering over every inhale. “You’re okay,” he cries, over and over and over again. “You’re here. You’re safe. I’ve got you, baby. You just- you just gotta come back to me.”

Your muscles don’t shift. Your breathing does not change. You only watch him.

Not seeing. Not processing, just observing.

His panic nearly makes him double over. His vision is foggy, his body fights with the effort to stay upright.

“Come on,” he whimpers. He tugs and crushes you further against him, forcing your body to mold against his own. His nose drags along your hairline, his lips moving over your ear. “You love me,” he pleads. “I know you do.”

His arms are a vice. A shield. A cage.

The air is too thick. It clogs his throat, his chest, a heavy hand squeezing his rips together, determined to extinguish his breath. His lungs seize with the force of it, panic rising in his throat, bending tight and tight and tight until he is sure it will strangle him.

“You love me,” he repeats as if trying to remind you. As if you simply have forgotten.

A sob escapes his mouth.

He cannot do this. He cannot lose you like this. He’s not strong enough.

His body is curling over yours, shielding you from everything. He clings to you.

But when he goes to look at your face again, to continue pleading, he halts. Stalls. Stops. Freezes.

Because you are not looking at him.

Your head is tilted, gaze wandering past his shoulder. Fixed on something.

Something small. Something yours.

A mug.

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath.

It’s your favorite mug. The one you use every morning, the one you refuse to replace even though the paint is chipping at the rim. The one Bucky gifted you in his first year at the compound, before you got together.

It sits abandoned on the nightstand.

And you are looking at it.

Not at him. At it.

A slow, almost undetectable furrow forms between your brows.

Bucky’s entire body is on edge. Focused so insanely.

His breath is stolen, his fingers dig into your sides.

Oh, god.

Oh, god, please.

His lip trembles. His face crumbles.

“Tea,” he breathes.

A glint. A twitch of your fingers.

Bucky sobs. It’s short and uncontrollable and it startles from his body in an almost aggressive way.

He doesn’t dare disturb your fixed gaze, but he presses in closer again.

“You remember,” he beseeches, his lips parting in something between a cry and a prayer. “You- you know that mug, don’t you? It’s yours, doll. You drink tea from it every day.”

You blink.

Bucky laughs. It is a gruff, uneven, broken sound, and it hurts.

But you blinked.

And he saw it. He saw it. Because it happened. You did it.

He clutches you to his chest, laughing and crying, sobbing and gasping, trembling and breaking all at once. His entire body feels too tight, too much, too everything.

But you blinked.

You saw something that wasn’t him.

And you frowned.

A reaction. A real, actual, human reaction.

“Okay,” he lets out shakily, his fingers threading through your hair, clutching, gripping, grounding. His heart is hammering, his lungs are burning. But he does not care. You are still here.

And now he knows how to find you.

His hands are on your face now. “You got this, baby. You can do this. You’re the strongest fucking person I know, and you will snap out of this.”

You look back at him and Bucky crowds into you, terrified to let even an inch of space remain between you.

“You’re gonna come back to me, you hear me?” he tells you with a strained voice. His eyes move over your face so rapidly, fingers wiping at your skin.

There is something in your eyes.

A fight.

And Bucky starts nodding. He gasps. “Yes, that’s it, baby. That’s it! God, I'm so proud of you. Fuck, I'm so proud of you. You’ll make it, Y/n. Come on!” He laughs wetly. It verges on hysterical.

He sees it beginning.

Like the first crack of sunlight over the horizon. Like the slow, agonizing change of winter to spring. Like life struggling to emerge from a place it was never intended to leave.

Your mouth parts. Just a little bit. Your lashes lower, then rise again. And Bucky watches - watches like a man starved, like a dying thing gasping for air.

“Doll,” he pleads, forehead pressing to yours but he keeps his eyes on yours, thumbs stroking frantically over your cheeks, trying to memorize everything. “Please, sweetheart. Come on. Come back. Come home.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

And the third time is different.

The third time, there is recognition.

Faint. Flimsy. Almost not there. But Bucky sees it, and it hits him.

A vehement shudder ripples through his chest, vibrating you as well.

You are coming back.

Piece by piece, tiny fraction by tiny fraction, you are coming back.

“Come on, baby. You’re almost there. We’re almost there. You got this.” His eyes are so intensely fixed on you, his voice hoarse. He doesn’t sound like himself, doesn’t feel like himself. He doesn’t care. “Feel me. Feels my hands. My body. It’s me, baby. It’s Bucky.”

He needs you.

God, he needs you.

You breathe.

And the sound is so normal. So absolutely, painfully, beautifully normal that Bucky almost doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s too late.

Your lips part.

Your eyes start moving over his face, studying, seeing.

“Bucky.”

A sound punches out of his throat - something agonizing, something animal, something beyond human comprehension.

His knees buckle.

He goes down - hard, his entire weight dragging you with him, hitting the ground with an impact he barely feels. Because you just said his name.

You spoke. And you know who he is.

His arms wind around you, pressing you close, cinching tight. His hands clutch at your back, at your shoulders, at your hair - clinging, grasping, as though he needs to feel your heartbeat to remember his own. As though he is bracing against a storm and you are the only shelter he’s got.

Because you are something he can’t afford to lose. But he almost did today.

He gasps incoherent, cracking words into your hair, your neck, burying inside it. They barely make it past the ragged breaths and shudders tearing through him. It only sounds something like you’re here on a loop.

His chest heaves. His fingers are digging into you, pressing you against him, needing you closer, closer, closer.

Your arms move immediately.

Your hands rise.

Without him telling you to.

And for the first time since you woke up, you actually touch him.

Your palms press against his back, against his neck, against him.

And it is everything.

It is the dam breaking, the world shifting back onto its axis, the breath of air after drowning.

Bucky cries.

The tears don’t stop. They just keep coming, breaking past every wall, every defense, every piece of him that ever tried to hold anything in.

And you are watching him.

Seeing him.

Holding him.

Speaking to him.

“Buck-”

His name.

And this time it sounds even more like you. So soft. So incredibly concerned. You.

He collapses deeper into you, losing himself completely.

He feels your hands trembling against him, but they are moving.

Not because he made you.

Not because of an order coming from his mouth.

Because you want to.

Because Bucky is falling apart in your arms and you cannot let that happen.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, fisting the material. Your other hand slides into his hair, cradling the back of his head, pulling him in, as close as he can get.

He is gasping, sobbing - breaking. His whole body quakes. His breath stutters between cries, hauled from the deepest part of him.

And you don’t hesitate.

Your lips press to the top of his head, over and over, again and again and again. Whispering into him. Murmuring soothing nonsense, anything, anything.

“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” Your voice is soft, achingly tender. A touch in the darkness.

His grip almost hurts, almost suffocates, but you don’t pull away.

And he clings to you like he will never let go.

Because he is afraid. Afraid that if he lets go, if he blinks, if he breathes too hard - you will be gone.

Even with your hands on him, even with your voice in his ears - your real voice - even with your lips brushing against his skin, he is still afraid. So fucking afraid.

It’s an abyss of fear, not a momentary plunge, but an endless descent into the very structure of his being.

It’s a poison seeping into his system, crystallizing in his bones, becoming a part of him.

He doesn’t think it will ever go away.

So he clutches you tightly.

And you hold him right back.

Your fingers card through his hair, smoothing, soothing. Your lips press to the part of his temple you can reach.

“I’m here. I’m okay, honey.” Another soft whisper against his skin. “It’s okay.”

Still, he sobs.

Still, he shakes.

Still, he clings.

His chest heaves wildly against yours. His pulse is unstable. He can’t tone it down. He can’t control himself.

His forehead presses deeply into your neck. His breath is hot, damp, shaking.

And you keep holding him, keep murmuring, keep soothing.

“It’s okay, Bucky, it’s okay,” you hush, so patient, so loving, so sweet - everything he’s missed so incredibly bad. A kiss to his hairline. Your hand trails up and down his back. “Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

A painful and gravelly wail bursts from his chest. His fingers twitch frantically against you.

And he hears the way it’s hurting you. It’s in your voice. He hears how concerned you are. And he hates himself for it. But there is nothing he can do but crumble.

His frame shudders so violently you think he might collapse in on himself.

“I’m not going anywhere, baby. I’m right here.”

He believes you.

Because otherwise, he would not survive.

“You are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.”

- Terry Pratchett

Taglist: @cheekybarnes @gotminho @rlphunter @normanreedus-blog @winterelfqueen @hello-lisa1026 @lilulo-12 @nikt-wazny-y @reemoony @orangeheliophile @seolahhh @oikawasbuddy @dancer3205 @yourstupidblues @greatmistakes @inf4ntdeath @hoe-for-writing @sept3mberchild @mrsnikstan @augustjoy

---

Oh my GOD i live this lil series i cannot wait for pt 3

Five Years That Felt Like a Millennium (2) — Bucky Barnes

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x reader

Word count: 7,579

Summary: Baby Girl isn't doing too well after seeing Quentin.

Warnings: illusions and mention of violence, abuse, manipulation, and cheating, self-deprecation, fluff, flirting, angst

Note: I apologize for my absence. The response to the first part has been unbelievable! Thank you all so much. I hope I can do it justice.

Ao3│Wattpad│Ko-fi

Main Masterlist │Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Happy Reading! 💜

Bucky didn't know a person could cry so much. Surely, the body must have surpassed a threshold ages ago for maximum fluid expulsion, but it seemed unlikely. Tears ran unbidden down Baby Girl's face, soaking into her white camisole, still wet from the lake. At least her body no longer wracked with sobs, which was a small accomplishment, he supposed.

He filled a glass with cold water. "Here, drink this."

Baby Girl's movements were almost mechanical as she took measured sips, slowly draining the glass. She stared at her reflection in the crystal, then abruptly stood, making Bucky hastily step back. Barefoot and half-dressed, she made for the front door.

Bucky blocked her path. "Where are you going?"

She went around him and reached for the handle, but Bucky intercepted her just in time, pulling her by the wrist. Her eyes were unfocused and wild, darting this way and that. "Hey!" She froze. "Hey," he said again, softer and with considerably less force. "What's going on in that smart brain of yours, huh? What are you thinking?"

"I need to find Quentin," she gulped. "I need to apologize to him. I need to make things right before he—"

She choked on her words, but Bucky knew her enough by now to predict what she would say next. "Before he what? Before he hurts Sam?"

Her face crumpled. "Maybe if I get down on my knees and beg, he'll forgive me, and things can go back to the way they used to be."

Bucky felt his previous anger return. Quentin Beck was a goddamn asshole because, in the span of a few minutes, he had managed to turn a bright and bubbly soul into an inconsolable mess.

"Is that really what you want?" he asked. "You want things to go back to the way they used to be?" Bucky already knew Baby Girl's answer, but he felt it was imperative for her to acknowledge out loud.

"No," she croaked. "Not really, but I don't have a choice. Quentin will hurt Sam and his family."

Bucky wiped the fresh tears from her face, letting his hands linger on her cheeks. "And what about you? He's hurting you. Are you not Sam's family?"

Baby girl began crying anew. Bucky carried her to the couch and held her close, letting her tears run down his bare skin. They sat like that until her breathing eventually evened, and her eyes drooped close. Bucky didn't dare move. Baby Girl was cradled in his arms and against his neck, legs stretched on the couch.

His eyes began to close, sleep slowly taking over, and he was going to let it. They both needed rest after the day's events, but sleep wasn't in his fortune. Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he startled awake, awkwardly maneuvering around to retrieve it without disturbing Baby Girl.

It was Sam. Bucky glanced down at the sleeping form in his arms. Dried tears painted her face, her eyes were puffy, and her nose red. Bucky's heart lurched in his chest, and he made a hasty decision—promise be damned, Bucky would fix this for her.

He answered the call. "Hey, Sam." And told him everything .

"Sam?" Bucky asked, after Sam had been quiet too long.

Sam sounded wretched with grief. "I knew something was wrong. I just never imagined..."

Bucky sighed, already anticipating the blame game. A family trait, he considered. "It's not your fault. Quentin Beck is to blame, and he will pay for his actions, I promise you." Though Bucky couldn't see him, he imagined Sam nodding his frustration. "Do you think you could get in contact with Congressman Lockhart?"

"Congressman Lock—why?"

"He owes me a favour," said Bucky, not mentioning that he had saved Lockhart's life. "How much are you willing to bet that Lockhart has met Quentin Beck before, and that Beck has probably left a less-than-savoury impression on the Congressman?"

"I don't understand."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Sam."

Sam was impressed. "I'll ask Torres to get us in contact."

Bucky smirked, feeling a satisfaction spread over him at the thought of Quentin Beck rotting in a jail cell. "You do that. When do you think you'll be back?"

Baby Girl shifted in his arms, and Bucky softened his voice. "Day after tomorrow? Alright, keep me updated." He ended the call.

"Who was that?" came a groggy voice. Baby Girl's eyes were closed, and she was in the process of waking up.

"Sam," Bucky answered, adjusting her in his arms. "His business is taking longer than usual. He and Sarah will be back in a few days.

Baby Girl pushed away from Bucky, sat up next to him, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes trailed to his chest and widened in mortification. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I drooled all over you."

When she reached over to wipe him clean, he grabbed her wrist. "Why do you make it a habit to apologize for things out of your control?"

She suddenly jerked away from him, putting ample space between them. "I can hardly help how I feel. If I feel sorry, I apologize."

"Well, don't." Bucky stretched his legs, groaning at the relief. "I'm a grown man," he teased, wiping his chest with the back of his hand. "I can handle a little drool."

Baby girl looked down at her palms, forlorn and despondent. "I'm a mess," she muttered.

"Yes, you are," Bucky responded quietly. She jerked her head in surprise, expecting him to dispute her. But she didn't need his false reassurances any longer. Bucky wanted the full weight of her circumstances bearing down on her so she might escape from the haze of melancholy and finally fight back.

Bucky looked out the window at the setting sun. It cast a beautiful golden glow over the two of them. "You should change into something comfortable," he told her. "There's a lot to talk about."

"Quentin was in one of my electives at school." Baby Girl was freshly showered and changed, wearing Bucky's sweats because she was out of clean clothes. They were enormous on her frame, which suited her well.

Bucky had also changed and was sitting across from her on the kitchen table, a warm cup of tea in his hands. It was something floral with a bitter note. He took his plain while she drowned hers in honey.

"Abnormal Psychology," she continued, "which is ironic because I diagnosed him with narcissism a few years into our relationship. I never told him, obviously. It wouldn't have ended well."

The conversation—long overdue—produced a painful pit in Bucky's stomach. He recognized it as suppressed rage, slowly building in potency and power. Bucky took a large sip of his tea, letting it burn his tongue so he might focus on anything other than the need to punch Beck's face.

"I tripped over his bag. He helped me up; apologized, and asked me to dinner."

Bucky couldn't help how bitter he sounded. "And you said yes."

She looked at him with dead eyes. "I wish I had. Then my life wouldn't have turned into a Shakespearean tragedy."

"That seems a bit bleak," Bucky snorted.

"But isn't it?" she implored. "Bleak? He was my first serious boyfriend; I moved in with him after two weeks and quit my job after a month. He didn't say 'I love you' until I threatened to leave him when I found out he was cheating. I pretended to look the other way when I found another girl's bra in our bed. I laughed when I saw lipstick stains on his collar. I gave him my virginity on my birthday, the day after I found out he cheated on me again. If that isn't bleak, if that isn't a tragedy, then what is? Perhaps it's the fact that I made excuses for him the first time he hit me. I told myself he was aiming for the wall, and I got in the way of his fist, but let's be honest, I was deluding myself."

Baby girl took a deep breath and dug her nails into the table. Her previous sorrow was replaced with unbridled anger. "I recognized all the signs. I knew he was using me—manipulating me! He even said so himself. We were at a party, and his friend said I was 'quite something.' Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean! Quentin said, 'She is, isn't she? But I gotta tell you, I'm not with her for that brain of hers.' I was standing right next to him! He and his friends undressed me with their eyes, and I just stood there and smiled!"

Bucky felt his rage simmering—at Beck, at the situation, at her . "Why are you blaming yourself? It's not your fault!"

Baby Girl pushed away from the table and paced around. "Don't!" she shouted. "Nothing you say will make this okay, Bucky. Nothing you say will make what I did okay!"

Bucky stood up as well, breathing heavily. He had known her less than a week but already felt burning concern on her behalf. "And what did you do?"

"Nothing!" she screamed, and her shrill voice echoed throughout the empty house. "I did nothing! Quentin threatened Sam, then once Sam blipped, he threatened Sarah and the boys, and I knew it wasn't a bluff because he had the connections to back him up. I knew, because I'm the one who helped him get those connections in the first place!"

Bucky sucked in a quick breath. "What connections?" Baby Girl had calmed somewhat after her brief yet brutal rant, and she sat down at the table, sipping her tea.

"What connections!" Bucky almost shouted.

Baby Girl startled. "I don't know! Businessmen, stockbrokers, a lot of Wall Street types. They paid attention to him when he had a pretty girl on his arm."

"Was that all?" Bucky probed.

Baby Girl shook her head. "There were a lot of government officials, too. I told you, remember? FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, Senators, UN spokespersons, congressmen, federal court judges—"

"Repeat that."

"Federal court—"

"No!" Bucky interrupted again. "What you said before."

"Congressmen?" Baby Girl huffed in annoyance. "I don't understand why that stood out to you the most. Are federal court judges not impressive enough for you, Bucky?"

Bucky ignored her snark and sat across from her. "Do you happen to know a Congressman Lockhart?"

Baby Girl paused before taking a sip from her cup. "Surprisingly, yes. Mr. Lockhart left a lasting impression when he didn't try looking down my dress every few minutes or shoving his hand up my leg."

"That's disgusting," he frowned.

"That's life," Baby Girl retorted. "Trust me, I had it better than most women."

Bucky shook his head, hating how she downplayed her struggles. "That's not okay."

Baby Girl scoffed without heat. "Like things were so much better in the forties. Right, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky ignored any feelings the utterance of his title from her lips brought forth. "I didn't stand for that then, and I don't stand for it now."

Thankfully, she seemed to have mercy on him and let the topic slide. "He didn't seem to like Quentin much; Lockhart. He asked me a lot of questions, and I think he got suspicious when I couldn't answer anything."

"Like what?"

"Like what I do for work, my interests, how I met Quentin. I couldn't tell him anything without revealing how abusive Quentin was. He especially didn't like it when he found out I was Sam Wilson's adopted kid sister."

Bucky was intrigued. "What did he say?"

"Nothing. He ignored Quentin for the rest of the event, but right before it ended, he pulled me aside and..." she trailed off.

"What?" Bucky encouraged her.

Baby Girl looked at him with shame and guilt swimming in her irises. "Congressman Lockhart told me I was making a mistake. He told me Quentin was using me because of my relation to Sam Wilson. He told me men like Quentin were rotten to the core, and I should run the other way and never look back." She gulped. "I should've listened to him."

Bucky shook his head. "You made a decision. You couldn't have known."

She didn't hear him, seemingly playing the scene in her mind. "Then the strangest thing happened. Congressman Lockhart called a few days later to meet about the project Quentin had proposed. Quentin was ecstatic, as you can imagine. He was overly sweet with me that day." Her brows puckered in confusion. "But I never understood... Why warn me away from Quentin only to cozy up to him later?"

Bucky leaned back in his chair, thinking everything over, connecting the dots. "Congressman Lockhart is a good man," he said. "A good and clever man."

Baby Girl narrowed her eyes. "How do you know him anyway? What does he have to do with anything?"

Bucky hesitated. He didn't want to get her hopes up if his plan didn't work, but he also couldn't watch her beat herself up any longer. This girl, this beautiful and feisty girl, had Bucky wrapped around her fingers since she wrapped her arms around his waist that day on his bike. This girl, who laughed and cried and smiled and was never afraid to voice her opinion. This girl, who looked at Bucky with admiration in her eyes, who looked at his metal arm with gentle curiosity and without any of the disgust or malice he was used to. Who kept her questions light and discrete so as not to unsettle him. This girl, this beautiful and feisty girl, who made Bucky smile.

He would do anything for her. Even if it meant keeping his scheme a secret.

Bucky hesitated, not wanting to lie to her, but finding he had little choice. "I have a plan," he said. "To get rid of Quentin Beck for good."

And Bucky was presented, for the first time since their swim in the lake, a genuine and awe-filled smile, directed entirely at him.

"Lemonade?"

Bucky swam toward the deck, hoisting himself from the lake. Baby Girl was sitting on the edge, letting her bare feet skim the cool water. "You take such good care of me," Bucky teased. He gave a playful shake of his head, sending droplets of water her way.

Baby Girl shrieked and raised her hands to cover her face. "You ass!"

With a chuckle, Bucky leaned back on his elbow, reaching for the drink.

"And to think I brought you sustenance!" Baby Girl pushed a plate of fruit toward him.

Bucky picked up a fruit with a deep purple flesh and examined it with suspicion. "Is this alien food? It looks like something you might find in Asgard."

Baby Girl stared in awe. "You've been to Asgard?"

Bucky was still looking at the teardrop-shaped product. "Not yet," he declared confidently and bit into the flesh. Bucky paused a moment, staring at Baby Girl before taking a larger bite. "What the fuck? Why is it so good?"

Baby Girl laughed. "What, you've never had a fig before?" She grabbed one for herself and showed him a better way to eat it. "You pinch it at the top. Split it open. Fold it over, and voila!" She popped it in her mouth, groaning as flavour burst across her tongue.

"I thought it was some weird kind of plum!" Bucky exclaimed, grabbing another.

"Nope, just a fig."

"Just a fig, she says," Bucky teased. "And what's this?" He threw a shiny orange fruit in the air, catching it just before it smacked Baby Girl in the face.

She took it from him with an unconvincing frown. " This —is a persimmon. You know it's ripe when it's ready to burst. I like to pinch the skin like this—" she demonstrated by making an incision with her teeth, "and suck the flesh." Baby Girl moaned in delight. "I missed this."

Bucky intensely observed her, paying close attention to a drop of persimmon juice on her lip.

"What? Is there something on my face?"

Bucky reached over to wipe the juice with his thumb. "You're a mess," he said hoarsely. Then, he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it off as she watched him. "It's sweet."

She stared at him, soft lips parted and breaths uneven. "Did you think it would be sour?"

Bucky shrugged and picked up one for himself, following Baby Girl's instructions and getting a proper taste. When he was halfway through his fruit and Baby Girl was still gawking at him, Bucky realized he had taken the flirting a bit too far.

Satisfaction crackled in his muscles, and he twitched out a smirk. It was only a small accomplishment that he had retained some of his frivolous ways, but he was still proud. "What else do you have for me?" he inquired loudly, effectively diverting her.

Baby Girl quickly composed herself, dropping the rest of her persimmon onto the fruit plate. "Watermelon and grapes."

"Does the watermelon change colours, and do the grapes taste like cotton candy?"

"Change colours—No!" Baby Girl gawped. "You have a strong imagination." She suddenly turned thoughtful. "I was thinking of grabbing the cotton candy grapes, though. But they're too sweet for me."

It was Bucky's turn to gawp. "I was being sarcastic. Do cotton candy grapes really exist?"

Baby Girl smiled. "They've been around a while. I'll get you some next time."

Bucky reclined on his elbow, resting his head in his hand. "Next time. I like the sound of that." He caught her eye and asked her the burning question. "So, you've decided to stay?"

Baby Girl pushed the empty glasses and fruit tray away, lying back on the deck. From this angle, with Bucky hovering over her, the sun didn't burn her eyes. She smiled a sad smile. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"You always have a choice," Bucky replied fervently. "We would never keep you against your will."

Baby Girl shook her head. "That's not what I meant. Quentin will always find me. He's possessive of his things."

"You're not a thing . And he doesn't deserve you."

"Maybe I deserve him."

Bucky looked into her bright eyes, thinly veiled with tears. He understood the feeling of helplessness—the intense guilt that followed. Even now, after being pardoned and making amends, Bucky couldn't stop guilt from seizing him in the dark hours of the night, when he was most vulnerable and exposed.

He often looked around and wondered if he deserved the life he had been given, this second chance that none of his victims had the fortune of. On more of a surface level, Bucky understood he was as much a victim as any other. A prisoner in his own body. He, and he alone, knew the struggle he had put up for almost twenty years before finally succumbing.

Bucky looked into her bright eyes, thinly veiled with tears, and saw himself reflected in them. He saw himself as a younger man—a better man—waging a war against invisible demons, and he understood. Trauma left its presence in various ways, and the evidence of it was scattered all across her vulnerable physique.

Bucky reached for a strand of her hair. "Sometimes, the hardest prison to escape from is the one we build in our own minds."

Baby Girl turned her head to look up at the sky. "That sounds like something you'd hear at the therapist's."

"And I'm giving it out for free," Bucky smiled.

They both said nothing for a short while, enjoying the sun, and soaking each other's company.

"He used to tell me I was beautiful every day." Her brows creased. "Well, not exactly. He never called me beautiful. He called me hot, and sexy, and fire—" she suddenly scoffed. "I hated that. 'You look fire.' One day, even that stopped. I remember thinking he didn't love me anymore because that's what attracted him in the first place."

Bucky played with her hair, letting her say what she needed to.

"Objectively, I know I'm attractive. I was told often enough by his friends. But I haven't felt pretty in a long time. And it disgusts me that I needed his validation to feel good about myself." Baby Girl took a deep breath, shaking slightly from the overload of emotions. "Sorry."

Making sure she was looking at him, Bucky leaned his head down and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her skin was soft and warm, and he lingered a moment longer than necessary. "You're beautiful," he murmured, savouring her sweet scent. "Absolutely gorgeous."

Baby Girl stiffened under him, eyes widened with surprise, soft lips parted in exhale. She blinked furiously, grabbing her necklace in a white-knuckled grip—a dainty gold crescent moon with black detailing. "I feel very hot," she croaked.

Indeed, Bucky could hear her heart furiously pumping blood through her veins due to his risky kiss. He bent down and placed another, dangerously closer to her lips than the previous. "Let's cool you down then," he smirked, grabbing her around the waist and launching both of them into the lake.

He lost his hold on her as they submerged in the cool water. Bucky kicked off the bottom and broke the surface, looking around for her. Baby Girl emerged a moment later, mascara lines running down her cheeks and brows creased in a furious frown.

She wiped her face and scoffed, "You absolute ass!" When Bucky laughed at her, she splashed him with a large swell of water, which went into his mouth. He choked and sputtered between laughter, welcoming her gentle abuse with a large smile.

"You said you were hot," he rationalized. "I only wanted to cool you down."

Baby Girl intensified her attack, wading closer until she was on top of him, attempting to submerge his head. "You idiot!" she yelled. "My clothes are all wet!"

"Pity," Bucky sputtered, trying to grab hold of her, but she was relentless in her assault, flailing her limbs in reckless abandon.

"Die!" she shrieked, managing to clamber on top of him. She wrapped her legs around his neck and pushed him under, painfully pulling at his roots in the process.

All this time, Bucky could've easily subdued her. But where was the fun in that? When her legs tightened a smidge too much, and Bucky could no longer breathe, he finally put an end to their little game. He clasped his hand around her ankle and gave a gentle pull. Baby Girl fell from his shoulders with a dramatic scream, and realizing she had far surpassed his patience, began to swim away.

Bucky grabbed her ankle once more, keeping her in place. "You brat," he hissed. "I'll teach you a lesson."

Her panicked laughter brought a large smile to his face. Seeing her happy because of him; after the horrible week she'd had, filled Bucky with indescribable pride.

"No!" she giggled. "No more. I'm tired." In fact, she had stopped swimming and was struggling to stay afloat.

Bucky lifted her into his arms, ignoring her feeble protests. "That's enough games for today," he announced, carrying her dripping body inside.

After drying themselves and changing, they settled in the kitchen for dinner. Baby Girl sat on the island with her head resting on her arms, watching Bucky cook.

"Where did you learn that?" she asked when he expertly chopped onions without looking.

Bucky shrugged. "My Ma taught me the basics when I was little. She said cooking was a survival skill."

The girl smiled. "Smart woman."

"That she was," he sighed. "I learned some more in the army. Then, after I was pardoned, I found all this time on my hands and all these cuisines I wanted to try. YouTube is very handy for that."

"That it is." She walked to his side, watching him saute shrimp for the pasta. "You sure you don't want me to help?"

"Yeah, you sit your pretty ass down and relax."

"Yes, Chef!" Baby Girl saluted, not bothering to sit. She exclaimed in delight when Bucky flipped the pan one-handed.

"Wanna see something cool?" he smirked, grabbing a bottle of Cognac from the pantry. "Step back."

Baby Girl shuffled back, and Bucky poured some Cognac into the saucepan. He was so focused on the task that he didn't notice Baby Girl inch closer. Bucky tilted the pan, letting it catch fire, and a beautiful flame blazed powerfully in front of him. He turned, wanting to see her reaction.

She stepped away with a shout, arms raised to protect her face. The flame fizzled away as quickly as it had ignited, but she was still shaking in fear. She fell against the island counter, sliding to her knees.

Bucky turned off the stove and sank next to her, grabbing her arms. "What's wrong?" he worried. "Are you hurt?"

Eyes shut tight, she shook her head, but she was still trembling. "I'm okay."

Bucky didn't believe her. He lifted her up and set her on the counter, sliding between her spread legs. "Hey," he soothed. "What happened just now?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed. "I don't know, I—" Baby Girl exhaled shakily, trying to calm down. "I wasn't expecting—I thought. I'm scared of fire," she eventually admitted.

Bucky frowned. He vividly remembered the night of the bonfire, where she chased AJ and Cass around the large fire. There was no hint of fear on her face that night, no discomfort or hesitancy. He told her as such.

"I don't know. I think it's because the bonfire was out in the open. It was controlled and didn't feel as dangerous. But indoor fires..." She left the next part unsaid, but Bucky understood.

His flambé trick took her by surprise at such close proximity. For a moment, she was transported to her childhood home to relive that fateful night. Bucky hugged her tight, soothing her with kind words of affirmation. "You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you."

She clutched tightly onto him, burying her face in his neck, breathing heavily into his ears. "Sometimes I think I was supposed to die that night," she whimpered, making Bucky freeze. "I was supposed to die in that house with my family. But I didn't. I'm scared the past will catch up with me one day to finish what it started."

Bucky held on to her tighter.

"I'm scared I'll find myself in that house again, and no one will be there to push me out the window."

"That won't happen," he promised. "I won't let it."

She briefly said nothing, and Bucky worried he hadn't done enough to reassure her.

"Have you seen the house?" she suddenly asked.

"No," replied Bucky, running his hands through her hair. "But Sam told me it was nearby."

Baby Girl hummed. "It's on the far side of the lake, covered by trees. We shared the lake with the Wilsons. Did you know the house is still there? What's left of it anyway. They fixed the damaged parts and put it up for sale. I found out two years ago."

Bucky pulled away from her, meeting her gaze. "It's been up that long?"

"Longer," she replied. "It went up for sale six years ago, but no one will buy it. Who wants to live in a house where an entire family died?"

Bucky wanted to correct her. "You're not dead," he wanted to shout. "You're not at fault. You deserve so much." 

"If I had the money..." she shook her head and dismissed the thought.

Would she buy the house if she could? he wondered. The home where she grew up and created happy memories with her siblings.

Bucky thought about his house in Brooklyn Heights, which had been turned into a poor excuse of a strip mall. The house where he had sleepovers with Steve. Where Rebecca hosted her friends, and Bucky hid underneath her bed to try and scare them. Where he snuck in his prom date, Dorothy, through his bedroom window when his parents were out of town. The time he and Steve were playing baseball on the street, and Steve hit the ball straight through the front window.

Would he buy that house if he could? If it hadn't been bulldozed? He decided he would. He had the desire, and he sure as hell had the money.

"There's no point in dwelling on the past," he parroted. Occasionally, his new therapist offered advice that Bucky kept close to his heart. "You're alive to see another day. Make the most of it."

Baby Girl smiled softly. "You always know just what to say," she teased. "I will."

Bucky was consoled by her steady heartbeat and easy manner. "It's a god-given talent," he shrugged, instantly rewarded by soft giggles and an unenthusiastic shove at his chest.

Once the adrenaline from the scare dissipated, Bucky finally noticed their proximity. Her thighs were bracketing his, and his arms were caging her body. Their breaths mingled in the air between them.

"You're very modest," Baby Girl croaked, jerking away.

Bucky hastily turned to the stove, turning it on and resuming making dinner. "With good reason," he replied, clearing his throat.

He chastised himself while the shrimps finished cooking. Baby Girl had just gotten out of an abusive relationship. Now was not the time to be sweet on her—hovering so close he could smell her shampoo and the scent of her skin.

Wait. Was she out of an abusive relationship? Baby Girl had emphasized that she was only with Quentin because he threatened Sam, Sarah, and the boys. Except, that was no longer an issue as a plan was underway. Bucky knew it, Sam knew it, but did Quentin? Did Quentin assume that his dismissal from the Wilson Residence a few days prior was a fluke? If Quentin returned thinking he could whisk her away as if she owed him anything, he would be sorely mistaken. Bucky would make sure of it.

But where did that leave them? There was obvious attraction—though Bucky was unsure if it was appropriate to act on, considering the circumstances—and they were legal adults, but the path forward felt very unclear. While Baby Girl hadn't shown any unpleasant reactions to Bucky's past, she hadn't particularly reassured him either that it did not bother her. Was it fair to her to be caught up in his mess, along with her own?

So many questions, and yet the answers felt out of reach. Bucky turned around. Baby girl was sitting on the kitchen table, and she gave Bucky a smile that answered at least one question. 

Did she trust him? Her smile said, "Yes. Yes, she did."

Another day passed like all the others. Had it really been over a week since she arrived in Louisiana? Sam and Sarah were still away on "business," and the boys were still at their sleepover—ridiculous really—she knew it was summer break, but there had to be a limit. She and Bucky were still alone together.

Bucky. His name made her burn with embarrassment. Lately, anything and everything related to him made her temperature rise a few degrees. His smile, his presence, his proximity . His hands holding her tight to his chest. Embarrassment always closely followed such thoughts, though for reasons that deeply ashamed her because never, in the entirety of her relationship with Quentin, did she feel like this. Beautiful, and desired, and wanted, and free . Happy.

She had invested around six to seven years in her on-again, off-again relationship with Quentin Beck and never managed to blush as furiously as she did in the presence of Bucky Barnes. The White Wolf. War hero. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

While most girls gushed over Captain America in high school, Baby Girl cut out pictures of his best friend from her textbook and plastered them inside her locker. It was a stupid girl crush, one she quickly outgrew as she matured into a young woman. However, the fascination remained. During the past week, this fascination had transformed from a small, barely there spark to a blazing fire. The gruesome analogy was not lost on her, yet it was the only way to vividly describe her deepening feelings.

Bucky Barnes had lit her heart on fire. And that terrified her. Not because she was afraid of men after her relationship with Quentin, and not because of Bucky's unfortunate past, but because of her unfortunate reality. What did she have to offer a man like Bucky Barnes? She had nothing. No job, no prospects, no backbone with which to confidently regard the world. She had spent six years with an abusive man, and she could have left at any moment—could have gathered the courage to trust her brother Sam to take care of all of them. She hadn't taken the opportunity when presented with it, and there was this man, who hadn't been given any semblance of reprieve, and he was stronger for it.

So, no. While there was obvious attraction between them both, she was not sure it was appropriate to act on. She could never deserve the likes of him.

The path ahead was unclear, but somehow she knew he would be there to guide her. And when he chucked her into the lake that evening, laughing loudly at her temper, she smiled back, hoping her face screamed, "I trust you. I do." 

After an uneventful dinner, Bucky sheepishly announced he had to leave. "I forgot I promised Carlos I'd help with his car."

She raised an unimpressed brow, fixing him with a stern look. He had promised to take her shopping for a new phone, and while she wasn't looking forward to a ride on his death trap, she really wanted her games back. "I didn't know you were a mechanic along with being a war hero."

"I'm not a war hero," he responded mechanically.

The words burst from her lips. "If it weren't for you," she snapped, "Doctor Zola would've been on his merry way to design new techniques to destroy the human race. You stopped him. If that's not heroic, I don't know what is."

"I'm not a war hero," Bucky said again after getting over the initial shock at her outburst.

"But you're a mechanic?"

"I'm not that either," he huffed. "Mr. Thurow needs me to tow his car."

"Excuse me?"

"The company overcharges and always ends up damaging the vehicle. He asked me for a favour."

"Do we have a tow truck?" she asked.

Bucky raised his left hand. "I have a metal arm," he pointed out. "And super strength. I can easily tow a car."

Baby Girl was speechless. "How long will you be?"

Bucky checked his watch. "An hour? Less, if I manage to not get roped into game night."

"Game night? It's a weekday."

"Every night's a game night at the Thurow's," Bucky responded seriously. "We'll get your phone first thing tomorrow morning."

"Promise?" she asked his retreating figure.

"Promise," he replied. "Lock the door, alright? And keep the blinds down."

"Alright, Dad," she retorted, but he had already left.

Baby Girl took a deep breath. This was the first time she had been alone in weeks. She sat down on the couch and closed her eyes. A minute passed, then two, then three. Five minutes later, she opened her eyes and saw only thirty seconds had passed. She groaned from boredom and flopped over the armrest. She was loath to admit that she dearly missed Bucky. There was something in his air and manner of walking that brought peace to her inner turmoil.

She sighed, resorting to cleaning the kitchen, which was not dirty in the least. In the middle of her furiously scrubbing the countertop with a sponge, the landline chimed annoyingly from the other room. "Hello," she answered, twirling the cord with her pinky. "Who's this?"

"Baby Girl!" the jolly voice on the other line bellowed. "I was hoping you'd pick up."

"Sam!" The two talked, catching up on the past few days. It turned out Sam was in Washington. "How's Sarah?" she asked. "Is she enjoying her time away from the boys? They're lovely, but they can be a nuisance."

Sam grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

"What?"

"She's on a date," he groaned. "Look, I'm happy for her. But I didn't need to see her exchanging spit with a stranger."

"Poor you," she giggled. "And lucky Sarah! Wowza!"

Sam laughed on the other line. "It's great to hear you happy after so long."

"Hmm," Baby Girl hummed, feeling momentarily guilty. "By the way, I thought you and Sarah were going to New Orleans. What are you doing in Washington?"

"He didn't tell you," Sam said with surprise. "I thought he would."

"Tell me what?"

"I know about Quentin," Sam sighed. "I know you're still dating him."

Her breath got stuck in her throat. "He told you?" she asked in disbelief.

"Don't be mad at him," Sam pleaded. "I made him tell me."

There was shuffling on the other end. A loud sniffle.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry you felt like Quentin was the only one you could count on."

"What exactly did Bucky say?" Baby Girl questioned, thinking Sam was too calm about the situation.

"He said Quentin was blackmailing you to stay with him."

Baby Girl sighed. "Is that all? Did he say anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Like... nothing." She realized Bucky had not disclosed any of the more sensitive subject matter. Not the abuse, nor Quentin's impromptu visit. "It's nothing. I'm sorry I kept this from you."

Sam sighed heavily on the other line. "That's in the past. We can only move forward from here on out."

Baby Girl nodded even though Sam couldn't see her. "You have a good friend," she told him. "Bucky's doing a lot to help. He came up with the plan to distract Quentin with "bigger fish," as he put it. Quentin will forget all about me if he finds something more worthwhile. But I'm sure you know all about that."

"He said what? That's not what we planned!" Sam exclaimed. He swore under his breath. "I need to take this call. It's Congress—I'll tell you soon, alright? I'll call you right back."

"Sure," she said, slightly flustered. "I'll be waiting."

Sam ended the call, and she put the receiver down. The second she did, the landline immediately started ringing.

"What took you so long?" she joked with a laugh. "I've been waiting hours for your call."

"You have? I knew you missed me."

Baby Girl felt her heart drop to her stomach. The voice on the other line was not quite as deep, or quite as warm. It was low and raspy, eliciting goosebumps across her arms and bad memories across her skin.

She made to end the call, but his shrill warning stopped her. "You don't want to do that," Quentin hissed.

"What do you want?" she managed to ask between ragged breaths.

"Straight to the point, I see. You've really changed."

"Fuck you!" she seethed. "I asked you a question." She was surprised by her resolve, and so was he.

"What, you're swearing now? That's not the girl I know."

Her body was trembling with adrenaline. "Tell me what you want, or I'll end the call."

She could feel his anger through the line. "I want to talk to you in person."

"Over your dead body!" she yelled.

Quentin was oddly calm with his response. "No, not over mine."

It was so obviously a bait—one she couldn't help but fall for. "What do you mean?"

"It's a shame," he sighed, "that I'm meeting them for the first time under such shit circumstances. They're cute kids. Would've loved New York."

Time seemed to stop.

"Have you boys ever seen the Statue of Liberty? I'll take you once your Aunt comes back home. We can all go together."

There was a muffled noise, then the slam of a door shutting close. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over Baby Girl. Her muscles tightened painfully, and she collapsed onto the couch.

"No," she whispered.

Quentin laughed on the other end. "Cat got your tongue?"

Baby Girl closed her eyes, feeling tears of frustration well in the corners. This is why she kept her distance. This is why she wanted to go back to Quentin and back to New York. But she let herself hope in Bucky's presence, let herself believe that she could have a family while keeping her freedom. "You monster," she hissed. "Don't you dare touch them." But there wasn't any heat behind her words, only the bitter taste of defeat.

He tasted it too, and oh, how he reveled in it! Quentin laughed again, low and menacing. "I told you I wouldn't let you leave so easily. Meet me in person if you want to see your dear nephews again. And don't you dare tell anyone," he hissed. "This is between you and me."

Baby Girl ignored his warning and reached into her back pocket to grab her phone and tell Bucky. But her hand came back empty. She didn't have a phone; she didn't even have Bucky's number. And did she really want to risk the boys' lives by going behind Quentin's back? He didn't want them anyway, he only wanted her.

With tears burning her eyes and a fire blazing in her chest, Baby Girl asked, "Where do you want to meet?"

On the other end, Quentin smiled, knowing he had won.

Bucky reached into his back pocket and grabbed his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, realizing too late that he didn't have her number. His face fell, and he sighed deep and slow, garnering the attention of the room. Carlos Thurow had invited some friends for a game of poker and forced Bucky to play a round with them. That was four rounds ago.

"What's got you so down, Sergeant?" Carlos teased. "There a girl waiting for you at home?" The men laughed and cheered, barraging Bucky with questions.

He found himself smiling, and finished his beer in one swig. "I do, actually," he said, grabbing his jacket and walking to the door. "I should get going."

The men cheered him on, and Bucky left feeling light and tingly. It wasn't from the alcohol—Bucky couldn't get drunk anymore—it was her. His Baby Girl.

The walk to Sam's was warm. The stars were out, the sky clear, and the wind blew gently, ruffling the trees around him. Bucky took a deep breath, smelling the ocean air and the earthy trees, listening to the faint sounds of crickets chirping and owls hooting. A night had never been sweeter.

Once at the house, Bucky lightened his footsteps and creeped onto the porch, feeling mischievous and wanting to spook Baby Girl. The living room light was on, and he could see the television playing silently through the thin curtain. Bucky placed a hand on the door, frowning when it creeped open at the slightest touch.

Didn't he tell her to lock the door? And to leave it completely open? Delacroix was a small community inhabited by kind and lawful people, but there was a crazy ex on the loose. He expected Baby Girl to be more careful than that.

Bucky decided he would give her a proper scare for her carelessness and slipped through the entryway. He sneaked into the living room, arms raised like in the movies, and—

She wasn't there. Bucky quickly scanned his surroundings. TV playing, couch pushed askew, the landline dangling from its cord, the edge of the carpet flipped over as if someone had run over it. Bucky rushed to check the rest of the house, the bedrooms, the washroom—he even checked the lake. Nothing.

He went back to the living room, senses dialed to the maximum. There was no sign of a forced entry, and though a scuffle was apparent, there were no prints or marks that indicated there had been another person. Unless they covered their tracks. But then why leave the carpet overturned, the couch askew? Why make it obvious something had happened?

Perhaps Bucky was overthinking, and Baby Girl had run to the store to grab something. She had already proved herself to be impulsive and clumsy. It wouldn't be a huge stretch to believe she forgot to lock the door behind her in a hurry.

Except, she wouldn't have left without her wallet. Bucky bent down to grab her purse from under the coffee table, feeling dread engulf him at the sight. Palms sticky and breaths uneven, he looked around the room once more. This time, he noticed something he hadn't before, a hastily scribbled note peeking out from under the landline.

Bucky snatched the note, careful not to crease it.

"I'm sorry," it began. "I had no choice. He has the boys." 

Bucky's mind began to race with questions. Most namely, "Where?"

It was then that his senses picked up on something new. The faint scent of smoke. Bucky dropped the note and ran out the back, scanning the horizon. There, on the opposite side of the lake, a thick column of smoke billowed from behind the treeline. The beginnings of a large fire. Baby Girl's house was set ablaze, glowing brightly in the dark. Bucky's heart dropped to his stomach, and he ran.

Note: So... I lied. There will need to be another part.

Ao3│Wattpad│Ko-fi

Main Masterlist │Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Comments and Reblogs are appreciated!! 💜

@astrophileous @buckylovinglokivariant @casa-boiardi @crazyunsexycool @dancer3205 @dascarypicklerawr @drakelover78 @hallecarey1 @kandis-mom @marantha @marvelatthetwilight @marvelouslyunstable @ria132love @spookyparadisesheep @sunnyhummingbee @traderjoesmints

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I adore this omds

carry the weight of you | s.r

A/N: i had this posted on an old blog but here's this, idk if i like it but it's also one of my first fics so if lemme know if you have thoughts <3

cw: fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, reader is sad, depression ?, spencer is a cutie who just wants to love, can be read as gn!reader

wc: 1.8k

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it was supposed to be a routine case. well, not a routine case. those don’t really exist in the bau, but one that had a clear MO and decent enough leads that garcia could easily use to find the unsub. it wasn’t even a case that was especially creepy in nature, lord knows those give the whole bureau nightmares for days.

so why did you feel this way?

you were relatively new to the team—having one year under your belt to your near decades experienced colleagues. but you had rightfully earned your spot in the bau, and you deserved to be there.

but right now you had no energy to believe that. the ache in your chest was ever present from your younger days, courtesy of the circumstances from your upbringing, and you should’ve expected that joining the fbi would’ve only made it heavier. you bared it nonetheless because that’s what you were taught to do. you felt beaten down by the last few days, and just couldn’t wait to get back home and crawl into your bed.

the team had wrapped up the case, and you all were on the jet flying back home to the district. sat next to the ever observant dr. reid, he noticed your glazed eyes and distant aura exuding from you.

“you okay?” he bumps your shoulder bringing you out of your trance.

“i’m fine, don’t worry about me.” you replied curtly and tried to fold into the crevice between the seat and the walls of the plane.

“bold of you to lie to a profiler while on a plane full of profiles,” he chuckled lightly, “seriously, you look troubled. are you sure you don’t wanna play honesty hour right now?”

“spence, i’m okay, I promise.” you tried your best at a genuine smile that was as see through as a windexed window. he returned it with his own thin lipped smile and left you be. 

were you okay? you don’t even know how long you’ve felt like this. small, insignificant, nothing. you do great work at your job, tarnishing evil and saving lives. but you can’t help but find it ironic that it’s your own mind working against you that seems to be your demise. 

the jet landed around midnight and the team shuffled through the bullpen to gather their belongings before going home. everyone offered their goodbyes and goodnights and spencer was waiting for you by the door. you both lived in the same apartment building, only because when you first moved to quantico you had no one and knew no one. spencer took it upon himself to help you out, being the newest young rookie on the team, a position he was all too familiar with. his next door neighbor had moved out for an immediate job offer and was looking for a subletter and lo and behold, spencer had become your best friend.

in the few months that you were getting accustomed to the area spencer invited you over for nightly chess games and doctor who marathons. morgan always teased the two of you saying you should be going out on the town having fun only young people can have, and spencer would blush and stammer something out but you would have the brightest smile and look at him saying they were the most fun you’ve had.

so he was surprised to say the least when those nights started to become far and few. you would politely decline and spencer would assume you’d finally listened to morgan and got better plans. but he could hear the patter of your footsteps and the occasional expletive from when you’d hit a table corner and wondered what he did to make you recluse yourself again.

spencer was a profiler after all, mix that with being your closest friend and he could pinpoint the moments you started to change. you’d started making less jokes, even during moments where the team would pause and wait for a little quip from you but hear nothing. you were harder to gain attention from, usually needing three or four calls to get you to even look up. and he just saw you distancing yourself, almost like you didn’t want anyone to perceive you.

spencer loved you. he wouldn’t say it out loud or admit to anyone but point blank he loved you. he felt understood in a way that no one else made him feel. you were kind, smart, funny, and the empathy you held for others was enough to make him tear up. you were there for him when maeve died, letting him cry on your shoulder, and as fucked up as it sounds he realized he loved you in those moments leaking tears onto the stomach of your sweater.

so here stood spencer in front of your desk, “you heading home?” you nodded, “mind if i ride with you? i don’t feel like taking the metro this late.”

“okay, let’s go.”

the walk to your car was silent, and somehow the ride back to your apartment complex was even more silent. walking up the stairs to your apartment doors, you turn the key and step in when spencer goes, “hey actually i think i left my book at your place do you mind if i just look for it really quick?”

you stared at him blankly. you just wanted to be alone and he wants to get his book now? unbeknownst to you spencer was desperate to get to the bottom of your melancholia, and needed any in he could find right now to get there.

nonetheless you nodded your head and left the door open behind you so he could walk in. you dropped your bags and shoes at the front door and trudged through your apartment to your kitchen to put tea on the kettle. you softly called out to him, “do you want a cup of tea?”

“i’d love a cup.” he says sitting on your couch.

you’re fussing around the kitchen getting two mugs out— one doctor who and one snoopy mug. you fill the doctor who one up and add a lemon slice and turn around grabbing your snoopy mug. when you turn back towards the kettle you hit the corner of the island table and watch as your favorite mug drops and shatters into millions of pieces.

when they say a straw is what breaks the camel’s back you fully understand what they mean now because how are you about to lose all your shit over a snoopy mug. you don’t even make an effort to move, just staring at the broken pieces on the floor, trying to make sense of them like a kid pointing out cloud shapes. it’s like you can see the pieces molding into the demons that keep you up at night, the thoughts of uselessness and lethargy personifying in front of you.

spencer has to call your name three times before you finally move your eyes to meet his. you can see his lips moving but you can’t hear him, his hands are out as if he’s telling you to stay put oh wait he is. you wait as he finds your dustpan and broom and brushes up the remains into the trashcan. he slowly approaches you and maneuvers you towards the living room where you sit still glossy eyed and trembling.

he sits down next to you and places a hand on your bouncing knee to soothe it, “why won’t you talk to me?”

you shake your head, “it’s nothing spence, it’s not a big deal i can buy a new mug.” push it down.

“not that, something’s not right. and i want to help. will you let me help you?”

you feel the tears making their way up your face to make their grand exit, and you hold on to last bit of resolve you can as you shakily breathe, “i-, i can’t, it’s stupid and we see so much worse stuff so i have to keep it together and i am but today was just-“ you abruptly got up to get water from the kitchen before finishing your sentence. grabbing a glass from the cupboard, filling it up at the sink, and gulping it down with shaky hands. you set the glass down and placed your hands on the cool counter in an attempt to tether yourself to some string of reality that was left. you couldn’t burden him. you wouldn’t.

spencer gives you a minute alone before rising from the couch and walking into the kitchen. he approaches you slowly from behind, mirroring his hands on top of yours, entrapping you in his warm embrace. “i think you’re carrying so much,” he whispers gently in your ear, “you don’t have to do it by yourself. it’s okay to not be okay.”

the tears win and start streaming down your face silently. spencer continues, “what we do, it’s hard. we all have ways of not letting it get to us. rossi and his cigars, hotch and jack, garcia and her tchotchkes, i mean even emily with her sin city weekends.” you let out a wet laugh in response.

spencer doubles down and intertwines his fingers with yours, “my point is, you are not alone. i am here. let me carry some of it for you, please.”

letting out a soft sob you twist in his arms and burrow yourself into his sweatered chest. this was a new feeling for you, letting someone in to see the horrors that you worked so hard to suppress. why would anyone want to brave that journey? surely you weren’t worth the effort.

but as spencer tightened his arms around you, rubbing his hands soothingly down your back and placing a kiss at the crown of your head, you felt that even if the walls of your resolve came crumbling down that spencer would be there to catch as much as he could. and that was enough.

“thank you,” you mumbled tearily incoherent.

“i will always be here for you, no need to thank me sweetheart.”

his kindness overwhelmed you. how could someone who sees so much darkness and been through so much still hold the level of kindness he does?

you lifted your head slightly as his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, “so, what do you have?”

he hummed quizzically in response. you continued, “you said everyone has ways of getting through it, what’s yours?”

“it’s you,” spencer softly says with the most tender loving look in his eyes, smoothing your hair back as he looks down at you in his arms, “it’s always been you.”

your eyes welled up even more and squeezed him tighter if it were even possible. spencer had you. and now you had spencer.

the next day you show up to work, a snoopy mug with a gift bow sits on your desk. 

---

GOODMORNING???

Wingwoman (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Summary: You take your good friend/coworker, Spencer, out to the bar to find him a girl to hook up with. Things do not go as planned.

Word Count: 5107

Warnings: Romantic/sexual tension! Mentions of drinking / sex

A/N: Hi! I haven't written posted fanfic in like, 8 years, please be nice xD I would love to know your thoughts - if you have any requests or anything, I'm happy to oblige. ALSO -- I have only seen up to Season 7 of Criminal Minds because I'm a fckn loser. Anywayyyyy enjoy! Not my gif btw, all credit to the owner :)

It was kind of your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

Actually, it was definitely your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

It had been your suggestion to go out. It had been your idea to act as Spencer’s wingwoman, some last-ditch effort to try to get him out of your mind. He was your coworker, for Christ’s sake. And your best friend. And you’d thought about him desperately for eight of the nine months that you’d known him. 

Emily, Derek, and Penelope had all agreed to tag along, but as the work day went on, each of your coworkers had found some kind of excuse to opt-out. Derek’s niece wanted to Facetime. Penelope forgot Kevin’s birthday was next week and needed to go shopping for a present. Emily had a headache. 

Finding Spencer a romantic prospect on your own was certainly not the plan, but, stupidly, thoughtlessly, you’d decided to go along with it. You could do this. Just one night in a bar, chatting up women for the man you’d slowly been falling for the past eight months. As good of an idea as any, right? 

You and Spencer took an Uber to the bar the group frequented. Ski-ball and pool in one corner, a vintage jukebox and small space set aside as a makeshift dance floor in the other. But the best part - half-off drinks for federal agents. You’d never been one to abuse the badge before, but… 

Three Jack-and-Diet-Cokes later, your moral code had a bit of a crack in it. 

Spencer stood next to you - towered over you, actually, because that man was a fucking beanpole - and you felt his eyes on you as you scanned the crowd. “What about her?” you suggested, jerking your chin to the woman at a high-top table against the wall. She had her nose stuck in her phone and an untouched martini on the table in front of her. 

“She’s clearly waiting for someone,” Spencer pointed out, and you realized he was right just as the woman looked up from her phone and towards the door for the third time in the past minute. “I also don’t understand why you’re so dead set on finding someone to hog me up with.” 

You snorted into your drink. “Hog you up with?” you repeated, turning in your barstool so you faced him. Your knees brushed his thighs. 

“Yeah, is that not…” realization dawned on Spencer and he grimaced. “That’s not the phrase, is it?” 

“Hook,” you corrected, but not impatiently. You made a little hook with your index finger, like a pirate. A little giggle escaped you. “And I’m not dead set on it,” you argued. “I just didn’t want to be the only one leaving the bar with someone.” 

Your eyes flickered up to Spencer’s to gauge his reaction. He seemed surprised by this implication that you planned to leave with someone - someone who was not him. 

“Yeah? Who are you leaving with, matey?” Spencer countered, arching a brow and pointedly looking at your index finger, still in its hooked position. You dropped your hand. 

“It doesn’t matter right now,” you blushed furiously, desperately trying to drive the conversation back to his romantic conquests. Your thought process was that if you actually saw Spencer with someone else in any sort of romantic capacity - dancing, flirting, kissing - you’d finally hurt yourself enough with the sight for those stupid feelings for him to dissipate. “We’re looking for you.” 

Spencer merely hmm-ed in response, an indecisive non-answer, and you noticed he shook his head. Like he was annoyed, but trying not to show it. You swallowed the lump in your throat and polished off your drink before returning to examining the patrons in the bar. You nudged Spencer’s elbow with your own and your gaze landed on the group of three women giggling around one of the tables. “Any of them? The blonde is cute,” you pointed out. 

“Not really into blondes,” Spencer muttered, and you glanced back at him. You could have sworn his eyes were locked on your brunette hair. You opened your mouth to say something, but Spencer cut you off. “But, sure, if watching me strike out will amuse you, Y/N.” Before you could protest, Spencer set his glass down on the bar and started towards the trio of women at the table. 

You leaned down to sniff his glass, curious as to what he’d been drinking. Clear liquid. No smell. Was he… totally sober? 

You watched with narrowed, studious eyes as Spencer approached the women. You could only see the back of his head, but the three women’s faces were perfectly visible. They smiled, friendly, unassuming, and then something came out of Spencer’s mouth that changed their expressions. The blonde in the middle furrowed her brows, and the two women on either side cocked their heads slightly. Spencer’s hand tapped the table and he earned awkward smiles as a goodbye was bid, and when he turned around to head back towards the bar, he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, like what are you gonna do? 

“What happened?” you asked as he returned to you. 

“I blew it,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. Too accepting of his defeat. Further supporting your theory that he’d gone over there and purposefully botched it. 

“Right,” you flagged down the bartender to order another drink. 

“You’re getting another one?” Spencer asked. 

You whirled your face to meet his and didn’t see judgment, but rather, concern. “Why does it matter?” you asked, no, dared. 

Spencer shook his head, defeatedly. “It doesn’t,” he grumbled. 

“What about that girl you were talking to earlier by the jukebox?” you asked, nudging his shin with your foot. “The grabby one. She seemed really into you.” 

Spencer visibly gritted his teeth. “I’m not interested.” 

“Are you interested in anyone in this bar tonight?” You asked. The words came too quickly for you to stop them. They were too real. Especially as Spencer’s frown hardened just slightly and you watched him look away from you. 

You took in a sharp inhale, the realization hitting you, the possibility that Spencer might actually feel the same way about you. And that you’d dragged him out here tonight to try and set him up with someone else. You were selfish and thoughtless and stupid. 

You hopped off the barstool, your feet wavering beneath you. “I’d better go home,” you said suddenly, grabbing your bag. You had to leave. You had to go home before you said something stupid, something irreversible. 

You stalked out of the bar and onto the brisk, late-autumn sidewalk. You’d forgotten your coat at the office and insisted you’d be fine. The chill smacked you in the face and you tucked your bag beneath your shoulder so you could cross your arms over your chest and hug yourself for any semblance of warmth. 

Thirty seconds hadn’t even passed before the door creaked and Spencer appeared at your side, throwing his coat wordlessly over your shoulders. “What did I do?” he asked. You looked up at him and saw his eyes - hurt, frustrated, confused. 

Your lips parted and there was a small shake of your head. “No,” you breathed. He furrowed his brows and you explained further. “You didn’t do anything.” 

“Then why the hell have you been so weird around me lately?” Spencer asked, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. Like a temperamental first-grader. 

“Weird how?” You asked, trying to pretend like you had no idea what he was talking about. Like your stomach didn’t flip every morning when you saw him. 

“Like you’re… like you’re mad at me. Like you don’t want to be around me,” Spencer looked at the street ahead of the both of you rather than at you. “You always find an excuse to leave the room when it’s just the two of us. You pull Derek or Emily or Penelope into the conversation so you don’t have to interact with just me. You’re out here trying to find me someone to hook up with?” he phrased the last sentence as a question, shaking his head. Your heart lurched. He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s either you’re trying to shrug me off as a friend entirely, or -” 

He stopped himself. His eyes were fixed on the streetlamp a few feet in front of you. They widened and you felt your heart pound as he slowly met your gaze. The realization hit him, the second half of his sentence lingering, heavy and palpable between the two of you. 

“Or,” you repeated, not phrasing it as a question. Your voice was soft as you said it, your tone anything but a question. 

“Or?” Spencer asked, and you could see his chest start to rise and fall more slowly. 

“Or,” you confirmed, taking in a sharp breath. 

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he looked at you, his gaze piercing and soft, studious and lazy, hungry and satiated all at once. “Oh.” 

Oh. 

“How long?” he asked, turning his feet towards you. 

Your face went red and you lifted your chin, refusing to make yourself feel ashamed of it anymore. There wasn’t any point, not when he knew now. “Since March,” you admitted. Your voice was squeaky. 

“March?” Spencer repeated, incredulous. It was early October now. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and bunching it up by the middle. You handed it to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” you said. Your body felt like it was on fire. “You don’t have to-”

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.” 

You thought maybe you were hallucinating for a second. Your mouth fell open and despite your three drinks, you remembered clearly that Spencer had been drinking water. This was not some drunken confession, not for either of you, because the second he’d asked you why you had been so weird lately, you had instantly sobered up. “Oh,” was all you managed to choke out.

Oh. 

“Yeah, oh,” Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smile. That playful, friendly, teasing little smile you’d learned to love on him. He stepped towards you. 

You let out this little half-garbled laugh. Spencer reached for your hand, and you let him. Your fingers spread, allowing his in the spaces between. You looked up at Spencer and little fires shot up your hand. How could merely holding hands feel so monumental? 

“What do we… what do we do now?” You asked, your mind in a haze, like a computer awaiting command. 

Spencer let his jacket fall to the concrete and used his other hand to slowly, almost hesitantly, cup your cheek. He looked down at you and your entire face reddened. “Well,” his voice was soft, crackling, like a fireplace, and he met your gaze with searching eyes. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that would be okay,” he said finally. Your lips turned up into an idiotic smile. 

“I think that would be okay,” you whispered. 

His hands were so soft, you realized. His grip on your hand loosened and he was now cupping your face on both sides. And every nerve in your cheeks was firing off signals - Spencer is touching my face, Spencer is touching my face. Like it was some forbidden thing. But then, as if in slow motion, he ducked his head down and his lips touched yours. Gently, at first, tentative and wobbly like a foal taking its first steps. Your hands rested on his torso - taut beneath that stupid little sweater vest. 

He pulled back after just a moment. It was really only five or six seconds at the most, but you were red-faced and breathless by the time your eyes fluttered open, into his. Spencer’s smile was now a full-blown grin, and your expression mirrored his. “Yeah?” He asked, the word carrying more meaning. You’re into this, right? 

“Yeah,” you exhaled as Spencer dropped his hands from your face, but your hands remained on his torso, not wanting to step away just yet. The syllable meant more coming from you, too. I’m really, very much, super into this. Please, for the love of god, kiss me again. 

Spencer arched a brow ever so slightly, and you nodded your head. 

Just like a dance, Spencer’s hands moved to your waist, and at the same time, you slid yours around his neck. He backed you up, completely disregarding his jacket on the sidewalk, until you were flush against the brick wall belonging to the bar. The brisk October breeze ruffled through his hair and yours, yet, suddenly, neither of you were terribly concerned about the weather. 

He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t as timid. Slowly, at first, his lips pressed against yours, and then his tongue darted out. It teased your lips in silent invitation, and you opened them to grant him access. His hands were everywhere, your hips, your hair, your face. You had moved your own down to his torso again. He coaxed the tiniest little mewl out of your throat, a completely uncontrollable and inevitable noise. 

Spencer’s low, gravelly groan reverberated through your mouth. Your hands gripped the bottom half of his shirt, balling it up in tight, white-knuckled fists. An unmistakable hardness brushed against your thigh. You were perfectly content to stay right there, pinned against the exterior wall of a D.C. bar, but the sound of a car honking its horn peeled Spencer off of you. 

His face was flushed and you released his shirt from your grasp. He let out a small grunt, stepping away from you to grab his jacket off the ground, wrinkling it haphazardly in his hand, holding it strategically over his middle. 

Oh, he liked you a lot. 

“You okay, Spence?” You asked all-knowingly, cocking your head to the side, leaning against the wall, lifting a foot to plant against it. 

Spencer shot a set of narrowed eyes at you, as if noting your smirk and storing it for later. “Yeah, I’m great,” he said, obviously struggling a little bit. His eyes quickly left yours and looked everywhere but at you. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him too much. So you just crossed your arms over your chest and looked at the sidewalk. But the smirk on your face wasn’t going away quite so easily. You considered briefly trying to talk to him about baseball or something to try and help him out, but you decided pointing it out would just humiliate him. Plus, it was a nice little ego boost, knowing you could get him like that with just a simple touch. 

He took a second, but he finally cleared his throat and met your gaze. You sucked your front teeth with your tongue and then bit your lip. “Want me to call an Uber?” You asked. 

Spencer just nodded, and you pushed yourself off the wall, stepping over to join him, digging your phone out of your pocket to order the car. “You okay?” You asked him again after submitting the request on your phone. Spencer’s face was still flushed, but he just nodded and reached for your hand. “Careful,” you warned, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “Don’t want you having an-“

“Shut up,” Spencer cut you off, and you snickered. 

___________________________________________________________

You had never been in Spencer’s apartment before. It was unmistakably his, with stacks upon stacks of books in lieu of furniture. 

There was a sofa in his living room, along with a coffee table, a couple of lamps, and a television on a stand. The remaining space, besides a few spots here and there and a clear path with which to maneuver the room, was filled with books. 

You had never seen so many books in someone’s possession before. And sure, you were an avid reader yourself. But nothing like this. Your heart fluttered at the sight, not only because books simply just made you happy, but because it was an incredibly endearing detail about Spencer. Your Spencer. 

He shut and locked the door after you stepped inside, looking around with a childlike, awestruck grin. The TV had a thin layer of dust over the screen - he clearly didn’t use it often. And as you trailed a finger along the top of the nearest stack of books, you felt a pair of eyes watching your every move. 

You and Spencer had both been quiet in the Uber ride here. He had simply held your hand, swiping his thumb across the back of your palm every few seconds. You would occasionally meet his gaze, but then quickly, bashfully, look away, like the two of you were teenagers. 

It was so strange to think of what he had said to you - I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met. How had you not figured it out before now? 

You supposed you had been hiding your true feelings as well, so he was allowed to, too. 

There wasn’t any point in wishing to change the past, you reminded yourself. All you should be focusing on is right now. 

And right now, the street lamps peeked in through Spencer’s living room window, glinting off of his endless brown eyes and making them look like he had the moon in his irises. 

“So,” you said softly, not nearly as wicked as you had been when you were teasing him on the street by the bar. “This is where you live.” 

“Uh-huh,” Spencer bobbed his head, that awkward, straight-line smile crossing his face.

“Lot of books,” you pointed out. 

“Yep.” 

You arched a brow, a teasing smile crossing your face once again. “What’s with the monosyllabic conversation?” 

Spencer clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “It’s just… really difficult to just stand here and not touch you,” he admitted, a sheepish smile crossing his face. 

You grinned. “You can touch me,” your voice dropped an octave, without you even really thinking about it. 

Spencer licked a canine with the tip of his tongue. God, that tongue. You remembered how he’d teased you less than an hour ago outside of the bar. “Maybe I will,” he shrugged, and you rolled your eyes. 

“You can’t really play it cool, right now, Spencer. Not when I just gave you a-“

“Please stop talking,” Spencer laughed, crossing the room and cupping your cheeks in his hands all in the same movement. You snickered and he kissed you and anything you might have been wanting to make fun of him for was forgotten about. 

You pressed your hands against his chest - holy pectorals, Batman - and craned your neck up so you could reach him. Spencer slid his own hands down your arms and to your hips, and you looped your arms around his neck. One palm flattened against the back of his head, holding him in place, fingers curling around pieces of his soft hair. 

Your heart was hammering away, and there was this aching, hot feeling that was pooling in your core and you all of a sudden felt hungry. Starving for Spencer, for every piece of him, for fully and finally crossing that line from friend to lover. An insatiable hunger for nearly every moment since you’d known him.

Finally you broke away from him, simply because oxygen was a necessity, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed and your fingers ground into his scalp. “Look at me,” he requested, his voice low. 

Your eyes opened obediently and one of Spencer Reid’s hands curled under your chin. His face moved away from yours but his gaze was locked on yours, a pinpoint, a Northern Star. 

And when Spencer spoke again, your knees buckled. 

“I want you.”

Your mouth fell open, ever so slightly, and you nodded. “I want you, too,” you whispered. 

“Are you still…?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You’d had three drinks earlier that evening, after all, but you’d polished the last one off nearly an hour ago. Maybe not fully sober, but sober enough to know what you wanted. 

“I’m fine,” you assured him. 

Spencer inclined his head to the side. “You’re sure? Can you pass a sobriety test?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him before you realized he was being sarcastic. You stepped back from him, shrugging off his hands, and extended your arms, touching your nose with your left hand, then your right. Spencer just laughed, and reached out for you, tugging you back to him. “Okay,” he chuckled, planting a kiss on your neck. You let him. “You’re fine, then?”

“I’m fine,” you agreed, shrugging him out of his sweater vest, and then reaching for the buttons on his shirt underneath. 

Spencer kissed your neck as you fumbled with the buttons - how were buttons suddenly impossible to undo? Your head craned back just slightly on instinct, wanting - needing - to allow Spencer more access. Your dexterity had become abysmal at this point, and Spencer’s lips were kissing your neck, down your throat, teasing at your collarbone. “Spencer,” you managed to groan out, a wave of annoyance present in your tone. 

“What?” he asked, pulling back, concern filling his face. 

You realized you had actually worried him. “Oh, no, no,” you waved it away, and he visibly relaxed. “I’m just really frustrated, because… because your shirt,” you stammered, and Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smirk. 

“My shirt,” he stated. 

“That one, right here,” You laughed softly, curling your fingers around the buttons. You managed to wiggle one free, then another. Spencer leaned forward to continue kissing your neck, but you held a hand up to stop him. “Hang on,” you murmured, working through another button, and one more. “I’m concentrating.” 

“You’re sticking your tongue out,” Spencer snickered. Your eyes met his and your cheeks flushed.

“I’m concentrating!” Your voice rose slightly in self-defense. Spencer’s hands went to your hips. 

“It’s adorable,” he told you. “You make the same face at work. When you’re in the middle of filling out a form or trying to open a new bottle of coffee creamer without spilling it,” Spencer rubbed circles in your hips and your fingers stopped working again. 

“You noticed that kind of stuff?” You asked softly, looking up at him with doe eyes.

Spencer just nodded. “All the time.” 

I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.

You inhaled sharply, finally undoing the last button.The skin beneath the shirt was pale, smooth, and perfect. And when he slid his arms through the sleeves and the shirt fell to the ground, you bit your lip, unable to help it. 

“Y/N?” 

You met Spencer’s gaze and let out this awkward little laugh. Embarrassing, really, if you hadn’t been in the company of your best friend. “You okay?” he asked, and you felt a little giddy as you nodded, moving your hands to his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him again. 

You didn’t know which direction the bedroom was in, so you just took a guess, pushing him back towards one of the doors. He kept his hands on your hips and his lips pressed against yours as he guided you, walking backwards, to the right door. You entered the bedroom and could not possibly be bothered to look around right now, not when Spencer was guiding you in a circle by merely touching your hips, not when the back of your knees hit what was unmistakably a mattress, not when you fell back against it. 

Your eyes were shut, unwilling to take in your surroundings as Spencer guided you onto your back. You toed off your shoes before lifting your legs, and Spencer hovered over you. Your lips were locked with his the entire time. And when you finally opened your eyes and you saw only Spencer, you grinned like a fool. 

Spencer’s fingers were like taking a shower. They were all over you - your hips, first, then your stomach, and you had to resist the urge to giggle because they tickled as he teased the bottom hem of your shirt up. You sat up slightly to get the blouse over your head and you watched him discard it onto the floor. And then his hands were over your chest, thumbs teasing under the wire of your bra, outlining the shapes of your breasts. 

Your breathing had gone heavy and staccato by this point, your body sinking into the mattress, shipwrecked as Spencer touched you. His eyes wandered over your and that little smile on his face was enough for you to know that he was immensely enjoying himself. 

“Can I…?” Spencer’s hands wandered down and gripped your pants as he looked into your eyes, a brow arched. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat and your blush appeared over your cheeks at the same time as his. “Yeah,” you whispered, and Spencer helped you wiggle out of your pants - black slacks, since you had gone straight from work to the bar. They were soon tossed to the floor, and you were only in your underwear and your bra. And Spencer’s brown eyes did not make you feel objectified or embarrassed, but safe. 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he told you, seriously, and your breath hitched in your throat. 

“You-”

“I’m not done,” Spencer cut you off, lifting a hand to run his thumb down your chin. “You’re so beautiful. And you’re so kind, and smart, and funny. And I’d really like to show you how much I care about you,” he looked into your eyes as a sort of request. 

“I’m not on birth control,” You breathed out in response, feeling your cheeks redden for even bringing it up. Way to damper the mood. Still, you wanted to be responsible. “Do you have a c-”

Spencer’s soft smile turned into a wicked grin and he shook his head. “We’re not going to need one,” he promised, and after looking into his eyes for a moment, you understood. 

___________________________________________________________

Spencer had thoroughly worshiped you, until you quaked and cried out with absolutely no thought to how thin his apartment walls might be. Usually, you didn’t allow yourself to be the center of attention for too long, but Spencer had insisted, and, well, you couldn’t very well deny him what he wanted, right? 

Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your hair matted to the back of your neck, Spencer finally lay down beside you. Your breathing was just starting to come back to you as you turned on your side to face him. Spencer’s body mirrored yours, the tips of his fingers - those fingers - trailing up the side of your arm. “That was…” his voice was soft, gravelly, and he looked at you like you had anything to do with it. It was literally all him. “Incredible.” 

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, unable to really focus on anything besides the curve of Spencer’s lips, the way the apples of his cheeks appeared when he smiled like this. Spencer kissed your lips, unlike any way he had before. All the other kisses tonight had been hungry and excited, exploratory and new. This one was lazy and slow and you let his tongue dance across yours, and when he finally pulled away, your nose scrunched up in delight. 

Your eyes traveled from his lips, down his neck, his collarbone, then back up, taking him in. The glow of his skin, the tired yet exhilarated look in his eyes. So different now than at the beginning of the night, when he’d looked at you with that slightly annoyed expression as you had tried to set him up with other women. You recalled how he had gone off to that group of three women right before you’d abandoned the bar, how he had struck out on purpose just to satiate your nagging. “What’d you say to those women tonight?” You asked him curiously, furrowing your brows at him. 

Spencer, in turn, arched his brows at you. “Why?” 

“Because I’m curious,” you said as his fingers continued to trail, feather-light, up and down your arm. You traced your thumb along his jawline, stopping at his chin. “You were obviously blowing it on purpose.” 

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I actually do have some game, despite what Morgan might say,” he said, his tone defensive. 

You snickered. “Sure you do, Spence. Took you, what, eight months, to get me in your bed?” 

Spencer shot a playful glare at you and pinched the skin on your arm. You squeaked in response and he just laughed. “I just asked them how they were doing tonight,” he said finally, and you knew just from the look on his face that he was lying. 

“You did not,” you pushed back. “Come on, Reid, spill it.” 

“Ok, fine,” Spencer heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, sitting up in the bed, his back against the headboard. You sat up, too, looking at him with concern. Why was he so embarrassed? “I told them… Jesus.” Spencer rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb and his forefinger. “I told them I was here with a coworker that I had a massive crush on, and that you were trying to set me up with someone else,” he began. 

You started to smile. 

Spencer continued. “I told them that I had absolutely no interest in going home with anyone tonight, and that I had been purposefully striking out all night long because I couldn’t stand the thought of even trying to look at someone the way I look at you.” 

Your smile grew and you moved to sit on your knees, inching closer to Spencer and throwing one leg over him, effectively straddling him against the mattress. “So I asked them,” Spencer continued, his lips turning slowly from an exasperated frown to a small smile. “I asked them if they could just look at me like I had said something stupid, and then I would leave them alone.” 

“Did they say anything to that?” You asked as Spencer’s hands found your hips, contouring to match the curves into the small of your back. 

Spencer’s voice got slightly lower, more serious, when he said, “The girl in the middle did. She said ‘that girl definitely has feelings for you, too’. And then they did what I asked, and I walked back over to you.” 

“She did not say that,” you rolled your eyes, just as Spencer kissed your lips. 

“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N,” he reminded you in a low whisper, as his lips lingered against yours. “Would I lie to you about that?” 

---

Hi hello i love this

YOU'RE TOO SWEET FOR ME | Spencer Reid x Sunshine!Reader

Request: @avis-writeshq says -

HELLO HELLO jumping on your 2k celebration reqs because 2K OMG SO DESERVED ‼️🫶

may i perhaps request a spencer reid x fem!reader fic please 🥹 maybe him post prison w new reader and she follows him around everywhere because she’s just instantly enamoured to him 🤭

thank you so so much lovely and congrats again !!!

Description: thirteen years in the fbi and ten weeks in prison does a number on Spencer, only when he arrives back in the office he meets the sunshine rookie that seems rather taken with him.

word length: 2.6k (this really ran away from me)

warnings: post-prison Reid, slightest age gap, Spencer dealing with coming home from prison, gun shooting?

authors note: hozier’s new song 'Too Sweet' + post-prison reid is a need, not a want.

He smelled her french vanilla perfume before he even knew she was there. But then again, it was all he could smell the minute she waltzed into the office with a tray of coffee, like someone had stuck a sweet dessert in the oven and baked it on full. 

“Good morning!” She chirped, winding an arm over his shoulder and setting down a take out cup and a little chocolate donut on his desk, “Pen said you like chocolate, and I mean who doesn’t like chocolate, right?” 

She was potent when she was so close to him, and in one single breath he caught a whiff of her shampoo, before she had flitted over to her side of the desk that sat opposite his, where Morgan once sat. Noticing his hesitance, mistaking it for discontent she paused, almost spilling her own beverage over the potted plant she kept by her keyboard, scrambling to set it on the surface.

“Y-you do like chocolate right? I mean they had strawberry too, I can switch yours with JJ’s, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind-” She splurged, and her face was much too worried considering it was a matter of a donut, particularly considering he was already eying up the way the thick chocolate was melting in the pastry bag.

“Chocolate is great, I love…” He held up the bag to read the label with squinting hazel hues, “Cocoa Caramel delight,”

He had never heard of it.

He had never even seen this brand, but he wanted to quell her nerves even in the slightest. The BAU didn’t have the funds for a new keyboard, let alone time to send her to the ER if she ended up spilling her coffee over her hand. 

She seemed convinced, and he offered her a small smile, not exactly his most enthusiastic, but then again he hadn’t been much of a morning person since he’d come out of prison. He liked quiet, he liked a moment to himself before Penelope called them into the round table for briefing. But she was sweet, too sweet perhaps for the dark nature of their job. 

He could already see it chewing up her perky disposition and spitting her right back out within a year. It happened to the best of them.

But she smiled back at him, a million watt grin that made him think maybe he was being a little cruel. She was still brand new, still trying to make friends and he remembered how hard he tried when it had been his first few weeks on the team. He turned his gaze away from her in shame, reading the way she’d written his name on the cup in a pink sharpie, framing it with two doodle hearts. 

She all but skipped away, sensing he didn’t feel like talking much anymore, and he heard Emily exclaiming she was ‘A caffeine angel sent from the heavens,’ as she handed her the drink. He watched her braided hair disappear down the hall as she bounced over to Penelope’s lair. 

He picked at the cocoa caramel delight with a kind of self loathing he was familiar with, the french vanilla still a saccharine sugar in his nose. 

-

She caught him again; though this time he felt her bristle past his arm, watching the bullets pierce the target paper with an accuracy that only came from fourteen years of practice. 

“Do you reckon you could teach me how to do that?” Her cadence was light and airy, and he had to stop himself from jumping, from slamming the butt of the gun into her nose on reaction, because he knew she meant well, even though she had no idea how damaged he was.

He was still out of sorts from having to look over his shoulder at every second of the day, and he was surprised he was holding it together so far. He supposed shooting the shit out of a target helped.

Because it was just her, looking at him with soft eyes and a smile that could start wars, and he knew she had no idea the effect she had on the walls he’d tried so hard to build in prison. 

She must have mistook his look for annoyance, because she was quick to fumble with her own loaded gun, taking a step back in retreat, worried that she crossed some line she didn’t know he’d drawn.

“Or I could get Luke to show me, I didn’t mean to bother you, I just am really a shit shot and I know that’s pretty useless in the field-” It wasn’t until he flicked the safety on and took a step to follow her did she look at him again hopefully. 

“No, I’d be more than happy to show you,” He cleared his throat, setting his pistol in its holster and stepping behind her as she lined herself up for the fake body meant to resemble an unsub, “We all have to start somewhere. Show me your form,” 

She raised her arms up in front of her, aiming for a few seconds for the spot in the centre of the chest cavity, her finger reaching up for the trigger. 

She shot once, her face hardened for the first time he’d ever seen, and they both watched the paper rip about half a foot down the unsub’s leg. 

“See, in my head it’s hitting dead centre and then by the time I shoot it’s wiggling all over the place,” She explained, scratching her neck and frowning at the paper body, “I don’t suppose unsubs are willing to stand still and wait while the rookie figures out her shot,”

“Your hips are perfect, wide stance means you get more stability against the ricochet,” She tried not to simper at his words, or the way he sidled up behind her, his hands coming up to her shoulders as if he’d known her for years, as if JJ hadn’t told her how much he hated other people’s germs, “It’s in your shoulders you’re losing balance, try relaxing a little,”

But she couldn’t not when he was breathing down her neck, rubbing those long fingers over her shoulder blades trying to get her to straighten out her posture, hoping he couldn’t feel the way her chest rattled with nerves. 

“Relax,” He reminded, trying not to chuckle when he felt her shake her arms out as a means of hiding the way her skin had warmed under his rough touch, “You know, my unit chief taught me how to shoot. I wasn’t at all good at it when I first started,”

“Oh really?” She asked, her breaths feather light as he reached around her and adjusted her grip on the gun, “H-he must have been a good teacher,”

“He was the best,” Spencer agreed, brushing off the fact she was all but putty beneath his hands, “Three steps for the perfect shot; front sight, trigger press, follow through. Always keep your head forward, always keep your dominant finger ready, and wait until you’ve shot to drop your stance,” 

She looked up at him in admiration, and her soft smile was back as his own musk of laundry detergent and chamomile soap encompassed her as his arms did. 

He brought one of those big hands to the back of her head, moving her with gentle ease to look back at the target, a slight chuckle in his voice as he spoke: “Focus, what’s step number one?”

“Front sight,” She echoed him, fixing her shoulders with determination as he dropped his hands and stepped away from her. Taking a deep breath, she murmured to herself under her breath the next step as her forefinger rested over the trigger. She pulled it after a moment of courage, and froze in spot as she watched it hit where the stomach would sit. 

Not a perfect shot, but certainly a lot better than she had been doing. 

Her eyes widened behind the thick protective glasses, and her hands became fists above her head as she squealed in delight. 

“Did you see that- did you see!” She yelled over the sound proof ear muffs they both wore, and he was quick to grab the gun out of her swinging arms, clicking the safety on for her before she could end up blowing a hole in the ceiling. 

“Very good, give it a few months you’ll be a natural,” He complimented with a smile as she clapped her hands in glee, buzzing on the spot as if she’d chugged five energy drinks or doubled up on her coffee for the day. 

He tried ignoring the way his chest warmed seeing her so happy because of him, especially when she looked at him like that. 

--

“You said you needed those files, Dr Reid,” She’d appeared again, like she always did, and he had barely enough time to glance up from the paper he was already inspecting before he was hit by the perfume again, and he looked up to see two bright eyes watching him hopefully. Her arms were piled high with easily a box full of folders he had asked Anderson to find for him, and he saw the way she strained slightly to keep them held tight. 

“Jesus! Let me help you,” She prayed he couldn’t feel the way her heart thumping against the manilla folders as he leaned over to take them out of her grasp, the way her eyes fell to his light smattering of facial hair as his lips were little more than a few inches from hers. Even when his hands brushed hers, and he seemed to realise she was staring, watching her scramble to look somewhere else other than his amused eyes, embarrassed he’d caught her, “Thankyou. And just call me Spencer,” 

“Thankyou,” She echoed, shaking her head with a girlish smile on her face, her cheeks warm with humiliation, “I mean you’re welcome, any time,” 

For the sake of her self preservation he waited until she turned around to smile to himself, pretending he didn’t see the way she muttered under her breath, or that she almost walked straight into the filing cabinet on her hasty exit out of the office. 

“Seems like you have a shadow,” Emily’s voice met him as he heard her heeled footsteps approach, and they both watched their newest team mate almost bump right into JJ as she kept her head down, stroking her hair nervously, “She was super excited to meet you when you were away, said she went to one of your guest lectures you did with Hotch a couple years ago,”

His brows shot into his hairline, something warm flourishing in his chest when he saw her peek back to see the two of them watching her, and she immediately darted for her seat for an excuse to turn her back to them. 

Spencer smiled again, running a hand through his curled locks as if he was trying to think of something else other than the joy that had over come his features. 

She certainly was charming, in an incredibly girlish way, and he wasn’t the only one who thought it. He hadn’t heard Penelope giggling so much since Morgan had left, nor did he miss the way Rossi and Emily watched her darting around in the field, chasing after her as if she needed one of those leashes people had for toddlers.

Or the way Luke had had to talk her out of bringing a stray cat back to the BAU just two days ago because ‘it looked sad and lonely’. 

She was only eight years his junior, and yet he felt like the job had made him too hard, too mature, too tough against a softness like hers.

Girls had never really been interested in him, at least not for him as Spencer Reid, not as SSA Dr Reid. He had the occasional fling, even Maeve in the grand scheme of things had been a budding romance at best, and just the thought of Cat Adams viper-like eyes had him shuddering. 

He barely wanted anything to do with women at the moment, at least that was what he’d told himself every night he’d been fighting for his damn life in prison. 

But it was almost too easy to feel this way about her, like he couldn’t drink in her sweet smell or even sweeter voice fast enough, or bathe in her gaze that melted like rich chocolate when he took a glance her way. 

He didn’t bring it up with her until they were the last few people filing out of the office. 

“I can drive you,” She chirped, almost dropping the contents of her bag everywhere as she rooted for her car keys, and before he could protest, because it was like all he could see now was how eager to be around him she was and he wasn’t too sure he could keep himself from opening pandora’s box, she jingled her keys, that of course had crochet bluebells hanging from them and all but danced past him into the elevator. “Come on, you can have shotgun,” 

“I’ll be the only passenger, doesn’t that mean I automatically have shotgun?” He asked, following behind her as she stood in the elevator with a beaming smile, her finger clicking the ground floor button a bunch of times even though it made no difference how fast the doors closed. 

“Well, yeah, but it’s going to be the best shotgun you’ve ever had. I’m talking you can be Miss Daisy and I’ll be your Morgan Freeman,” And as if her spirit was infectious, he shook his head with a hidden chuckle.

There was a minute of silence between the two as she played with a loose thread on her cardigan, and it was then he took the chance to ask her the question that had been burning on his lips all day. 

“You didn’t by any chance go to University of Pennsylvania, did you?” Spencer asked, noting the way her eyes fell to the floor and how she licked her lips nervously.

“Yeah,” She replied cautiously, fingers clenched tightly around her keyring, “I know it’s not Caltech, but it was pretty good-”

“Didn't you see my lecture with Hotch?” He asked, and his smile widened tenfold when her hands slapped over her cheeks that burned with horror, moving quickly up to cover her eyes, “Little birdy told me you were quite excited to meet me-”

“Oh, Emily,” She groaned, burying her face in her palms, avoiding his teasing expression like the plague, “I knew, I knew she was going to tell you, I’m surprised she didn’t tell JJ first, unless she did and our whole team know I was some crazy girl who liked the FBI agents so much she switched her major,” 

“You switched your major for me?” He asked incredulously and he only laughed harder, one of the first times since he’d come home, when she groaned louder, turning away from him entirely. 

“Shut up, I did not swap my major for you,” She bit back, and she finally met his gaze, her expression an embarrassed wince, “I just… liked the material. You were very compelling,”

“Did you have a poster of us?” Spencer wanted to stop teasing, knew he was being a little cruel, but how could he resist when she shriek in between laughter, shoving his shoulder with mortification.

“No,”

“Did you kiss Hotch’s picture before bed like an obsessive fangirl?” 

She gestured to him vulgarly as they left the elevator and headed for the car park, and it made a huge difference to the usual adoration she watched him with, but maybe, he thought, it made him like her even more. 

“No more shotgun for you, you’re going in the trunk like an old rug,” She snapped, though he could tell she was still horrified by the way she avoided his delighted hazelnut gaze. 

“Like an old rug?” He feigned hurt, but when they sat in her car, she finally looked over at him with something vulnerable and yet affectionate, like he’d seen her for all she was worth. He reached over the console to squeeze her hand gently, not missing the way her palm clammed beneath his and she struggled for words, so he continued for her, “That’s really no way to talk to your idol, you know,” 

Spencer swore his chest felt lighter than it had in months watching her laugh like that.

---

"He's private, and...well. You know Y/n."

"No we clearly do not"

I cackled

Unexpected Visitor

Pairing: Spencer Reid x G!n Reader

WC: 788

A/N: A lil Spencer Xmas Blurb while I figure my shit out. Also! I'm imagining older seasons Spencer for this one.

"Hi! I'm, uh, so sorry to bug you but, um, do you know where Spe--Doctor Reid's desk is? Or, really, where D-Doctor Reid is?" .

Derek Morgan had to get his shit together because his jaw almost dropped when you walked in. What was some hot piece of ass doing, dressed like that, looking for Boy Genius.

He jumped up from his chair and strolled over to where you had stopped Garcia, who was just as flabbergasted as he was. "Reid is currently in a meeting sweetheart--may I ask what you, uh, want with him?"

You raised your eyebrows at the 'sweetheart', but smiled anyways. "He was supposed to be home about an hour ago and he wasn't answering his phone, so instead of panicking, because I know what you do for work, I wanted to come in and check before I lost my shit."

"Home?" Garcia squeaked out, still baffafled by how gorgeous you looked. It was like you were sent straight from heaven, a literal vision.

You nodded and tilted your head, slightly confused. "Y-Yeah...I'm sorry why is that---"

"We just didn't know Reid was living with anyone, let alone seeing someone."

"Ah." You nodded. "He's private like that, isn't he." Your smile warmed the two of them, and you shifted the coat from one arm to the other.

"y/n?"

You turned your head towards the back of the bullpen, and Spencer was walking out of Hatch's office. "What are you doing here?"

"Being introduced to your friends and coworkers since you haven't."

Spencer bit the inside of his cheeks and walked over to you both, placing his hand on the small of your back. You felt how tense he was.

"I'm here because our reservation is in twenty minutes and you said you'd be home over an hour ago." You looked at Spencer, whose eyes went a little wide.

"Shit. I-I didn't realize what time it was---"

"I have your suit in the car, and this is why I made the reservation for eight pm, instead of Seven."

"And this is why I love you." Spencer kissed your head and rushed over to his desk, scrambling to grab all of his papers and his bag and his coat and his scarf and his--

"Hi Y/n." Spencer looked up at the mention of your name, pausing in his frantic nature.

"Hi Aaron." You gave him a quick hug, but a bright smile. "How are you?"

"Well." He laughed a little. "I'd be better if we didn't have to work the day before Christmas Eve since I still need to wrap all of Jack's presents still."

"Oh how is Jack!"

"He's doing well. finally starting to enjoy reading, no thanks to you."

You laughed at his joke, all the while Derek and Garcia just shared an incredulous look. How the hell did you know Hotch? Jack?!? Why does Jack's reading habits connect to you--

"Ready sweetheart?" Spencer appeared at your side and you nodded. "It was lovely to see you Aaron. I'll stop by some time tomorrow to drop off Jack's gifts as well as yours. I got it when Spence I and went to Paris last month. I think you'll enjoy it!"

"That's why you weren't here for two weeks?" Penelope's jaw was on the floor. "I didn't take you to be a Parisian man Doctor Reid."

"W-Well, um--"

"It was for my birthday. My choice. I love art and museums so it made sense. Well, it was lovely to meet you all but we have a reservation to get to." You gave them all a quick smile before taking Spencer's hand and walking towards the elevator, your shoes clicking on the floor with every step you took.

"How long have the two of them been together?" Morgan turned to Hotch after you both had gotten in the elevator.

"I think today is their two year anniversary."

"TWO YEARS." Garcia clutched her hypothetical pearls. "How have I not known? How have WE not known?"

"He's private, and...well. You know Y/n."

"No we clearly do not know Hotch."

Hotch gave them a little smirk and a shrug. "Merry Christmas guys. I'll see you on the twenty-seventh."

As Hotch walked away, Garcia and Morgan just stared at one another. "So we're..."

"Going to spend then next ten minutes in my office finding everything out about this mystery person Spencer has been apparently dating for two years?"

"You read my mind mama. A little Christmas snooping never hurt anyone..."

---

Spencer laying in bed brushing readers hair and rubbing her back while she's asleep and then Derek walks in cause he has a key and Spencer refuses to move reader off him so Derek and Spence just talk in the room while reader sleeps ?

thank you for requesting dove!! she is so soft <3 requests r open!!

Morgan is a great houseguest, usually. Well, a fine one. He knocks, and when Reid had moved into this place he’d bought Spencer a moderately priced bottle of red wine that has sat untouched in the months that have followed. Still, Spencer had given him a key both for professional reasons and personal ones. He liked to be accessible to Morgan.

Tonight, though, this feels like a mistake. This thing Spencer has with her feels delicate. She’s so lovely, warm and kind and came over to eat takeout on his couch after what seemed to be an incredibly long day. He’d called her on his way out from the office, eager to see her that night, and selfishly was incredibly pleased that she still wanted to come over despite her obvious fatigue. 

She’d put in a valiant effort into staying awake, and god, it was adorable to watch. He likes to watch her, study her like a detailed oil painting. Likes to watch how the light of the television bounces off her lashes and illuminates the lines of her gorgeous profile. He’d watched as her eyelids got heavy, and she fell into a light slumber. She’d leaned onto his shoulder, and then fell into his lap. 

“Are you okay with this?” He’d asked gently, nervous and endeared in equal measures. She’d nodded, and nuzzled into his soft tummy. 

He was immeasurably pleased.

Which brings us to Morgan, busting through door with his spare key, and the most aggressive shush he’s ever given him. Morgan saw a woman on his lap, and his eyes widened in bemused shock. 

“My man,” he whisper-laughed, and Spencer blushed a deep scarlet. 

“What do you need?” he tried to be friendly, but Spencer- he was distracted, alright. 

“I came over to go over a file,” Morgan said, “But if lover-boy is busy…”

“Shut up and sit down,” he says, eyes gesturing to the ottoman. Morgan quirked up his brow in questioning, gesturing towards his sleeping girlfriend. 

“She’s a deep sleeper. Talk quiet.”

When she wakes and she’s told that Morgan had seen her sleep, she’s so embarrassed Spencer thinks she might pop. It’s still so, so cute.

---