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sargebarnesx · 4 days ago

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Unraveled- Bob Floyd

Summary: Bob Floyd likes to think he can keep it cool. Then along comes a sundress.

Warnings: friends to lovers, smut, so much pining, language,

Bob Floyd didn't like to brag, but he considered himself pretty dang smart and sensible.

He knew the ins and outs of every jet he has flown. Hell, he could break it apart and put it back together again within a few hours, if that. He was able to quickly assess a situation, weigh the pros and cons, and come to a sound decision. It’s why he was the top WSO for the mission in Miramar.

So why has a piece of fabric thrown him for such a loop?

All Bob was trying to do was be polite. You had mentioned taking an Uber to the Hard Deck tonight and Bob knew the polite thing to do was to offer a ride. After all, he wasn't going to drink. You would save money. It's what any good friend would do. It had absolutely nothing to do with the crush he had been harboring since your first debriefing.

He was just trying to be courteous. The gentleman his Mama worked hard in raising. Getting to spend time with you, without the other members of your shared squadron around or loud music, wasn't even near the forefront of his mind when he made the offer. Bob was just trying to be a good friend. A good friend who just wanted to help. A good friend who was forcing himself to look at you through a platonic lens, not a romantic one.

Bob liked to think he was doing pretty well at that.

That is, until a dress came along and unraveled him.

Perhaps you said hello when you opened the door. You probably did, considering how polite you were. But all Bob could focus on was the way the fabric of your dress hugged your curves.

And what little fabric there was. He had seen you in civilian clothes before. But never anything like this. His mind absolutely went blank when you hugged him and he could feel how much of your bare skin was exposed. Due to the halter style of the straps, nearly your whole upper back was now perfectly visible.

“Um you-you look um nice,” Bob barely got out. He was too busy trying to burn the feeling of your soft skin into his brain. You were warm, like a walking ray of sunshine.

“Thanks! I got it yesterday and I figured with the weather being so nice, today was the perfect day to wear it!” you said, giving a little twirl. Bob tried to focus on the pattern of dress; how the green brought out your eyes.

But all he could focus on was the curves of your body, now being highlighted. The way the halter style made your breasts swell and the lack of a bra very apparent. How the fabric stopped at the top of your thighs when you spun, giving Bob a peek of what he often thought about late at night.

This was bad.

“I take it you came early to watch an episode of Love Island before we leave?” You asked as he stumbled walked in.

The truth was, Bob wasn’t a fan of reality TV. But he watched because it gave the two of you a chance to talk to one another. Just as friends, nothing more. When watching the silly show, you two could make jokes, talk about things other than work.

“Yeah! Ready to watch hot people make poor decisions again,” Bob said with a nervous laugh. The joke failed to put him at ease. If anything, it reminded him that he was about to spend at least forty minutes with you and that did not include the drive to the Hard Deck.

“You’re using my tagline!” your smile lit up your whole face. Bob was certain it could light up the whole turmac. All he could do was nod, his heart fluttering when you grabbed his hand, leading him into the living room.

"I have some kettle corn in the microwave for you! I also made cherry seltzer water!" Bob could feel heat rush to his face. You always remembered the little details that no one else seemed to pick up on; that he loved salt but had an even bigger sweet tooth. How in an attempt to cut back on soda, he switched to sparkling water. His favorite flavor was cherry because it reminded him of cherry coke.

"Did you see the video I sent you?" You gently squeezed Bob's hand as you two sat down.

"Y-yeah. You're absolutely right, having three otters would be my dream." Ever since learning about Bob's favorite animal, you had sent him every otter-related video you came across while scrolling the internet. You even got him a pair of Otter socks for his birthday. It was the fact you paid attention to seemingly minor details that made Bob fall head over heels for you.

But alas, you were a coworker. The problem at hand wasn't whether it was allowed, ‘incest’ (as Jake unfortunately called it) happened all the time in the Navy. After all, there were only so many things you could do on a ship before switching to people. No, it was the potential issues that came with dating. Rejection being the main one. Bob had no trouble believing you and he could be professional should you two date and it not work out. That happened all the time. What worried him was rejection. Having to go to work everyday and put on a facade, that things were fine. When deep down, he knew he'd be heartbroken. And even worse, he'd no longer have your friendship.

So Bob settled, as he often did when it came to love. He took comfort knowing he'd still have you, albeit as a friend instead of a partner. That should be more than enough. For the last few months, he had convinced himself that it was enough.

But God was it difficult when you bent over right to grab the remote.

The hemline of your dress inched upwards, showing off the backs of your upper thighs and-

he could see the swell of your ass. He could see the flash of red lace. Your skin looked so soft and supple and you were so close he could just reach out and-

Oh God he was hard. Oh no.

This was bad. Worse than that time he popped an erection during sex ed in middle school. There, he at least had a jacket and a desk to cover it.

But here? He was a full grown adult and San Diego’s seventy degree weather didn't give him any additional layers. Bob looked around, desperate for something, anything, to hide his cock that was currently straining against his jeans.

Thank fuck for your love of decorative pillows.

He grabbed the closest one, shaped and designed like a pomegranate. You were so excited the day you picked it up from some Facebook Marketplace deal. He had driven you, partly out of wanting to spend time with you, partly because he wanted to ensure you were safe. It was adorable and definitely shouldn’t be used for nefarious purposes, such as hiding a boner. This was wrong, so fucking wrong.

Bob was trying to think of anything and everything that would kill this boner. But his spot on the couch aligned perfectly with the entranceway of the kitchen, where you currently were, rummaging around to fix Bob a drink.

What ever happened to doors? Why were people so opposed to doors? Doors were lovely. You could close doors. Every time he tried to think of something, you were right in his line of view, turning every thought into something more devious.

His family? His family would love you. If you two got married you could make your own family.

Work? You worked with him, in that damn flight suit that clung to your every curve. No one else could make that god forsaken green fabric look good.

School? God, you were so smart. The top of your class. And witty, always ready with a clever, underhanded comeback. It’s how you two originally bonded, both having muttered something about Jake under your breath.

Bob Floyd was screwed. Thoroughly.

He tried to comfort himself with the fact that soon you two would be watching people in their early twenties making the dumbest decisions over dating. If anything were to be a boner killer, that had to be it. He just needed to make it through then.

“Bob?” Your lithe voice broke him out of his thoughts. Not that it was much of a reprieve, with the way you were standing at the kitchen entranceway with a glass of sparkling water in each hand, “You good?”

“Me? Oh yeah, I’m great!” He said with an all too eager nod, desperate to convince you this was truly the case. Fuck, you were so beautiful. And you were showing so much skin. He had seen you on the beach before, adorned in athletic shorts and a sports bra. But this was different.

The dress was far too nice for the Hard Deck. No, you deserved to be taken to a nice restaurant, one with a lovely outdoor patio. The image of you sitting on a lovely chair with a glass of wine in your hand came easily to Bob. It was also the perfect dress for a picnic, particularly at the nearby park, specifically in that little secluded area. God, the idea of you laying down on a red and white checkered blanket, the hem of your dress pushed up your thighs as he leaned over you, ready to take you-

Bob leaned forward, clutching the pillow as he tried to will himself the strength to get it together.

“Bob? Are-are you okay?” You quickly placed the drinks down on the coffee table, rushing over to kneel in front of him on the couch.

Oh what a sight that was, you looking up at him with big eyes, full of concern. Your hands were on his biceps, and Bob knew if he looked down he would have the perfect view of your breasts.

It was so hot and also the very last thing Bob fucking needed.

“I’m good. Stomach doesn’t agree with what we had for lunch, that’s all.” Lying was never good, his mother instilled that in him at an early age. But in this scenario, Bob was certain the truth was much worse.

“I’ll go get you a ginger ale!” Bob opened his mouth to protest, though no words came out due to seeing not only the tops of your thighs, but a flash of your ass as you spun around to go back into the kitchen.

For a few seconds, the supple, plump flesh was so close to him. Practically within arm’s reach.

Maybe he should just leave while you were in the kitchen.

But that would be rude. Not only rude, but it would raise your suspicions if they weren’t high already. Plus, he had already promised you a ride to the Hard Deck. He couldn’t just leave you hanging, not after you brought a dress for the occasion. He may be in dire need of a cold shower, but the last thing Bob Floyd was going to do was hurt you. He squeezed the pillow, knuckles turning white as he tried to find strength. For once, he couldn’t wait to start an episode of Love Island. Hell, he would even take an episode of The Bachelor at this point.

“Here ya go,” You sat down on the couch next to him, glass of ginger ale in hand. You even remembered how much ice he preferred in his cold beverages. You were perfect.

“Thanks,” Bob slowly took one hand off the pillow, the other still holding onto it for dear life.

“You uh, like that pillow?” You chuckled, though your nerves still shined through.

“Huh? Oh yeah,” Bob looked down, ensuring his big problem was still covered, “It uh, helps my stomach!”

You raised an eyebrow, though you didn’t further question it. Instead, much to Bob’s delight, you reached for the remote, clicking through until you finally landed on the desired episode. With a shaking hand, Bob gulped down the ginger ale, promptly placing it on the coffee table so he could have both hands on the pillow.

The room was silent, saved for the ridiculous conversations happening on the TV screen. Normally you and Bob would be shoulder to shoulder, laughing as you both narrated your opinions on the contestants. But today Bob was rigid, his fingers still clutching to the pillow on his lap. He hadn’t even touched the bowl of popcorn.

"Do you like my dress?" It took everything in Bob not to groan at your question. The last thing he needed was a reason to look at you. But how could he deny himself such a chance? So he put on his best smile as he turned to face you.

"Uh yeah it's lovely. I'm sure everyone will love it-"

"I got it for you.” Your voice was soft as you hit the pause button on your remote, eyes remaining on the screen.

The words hit Bob like a freight train.

"What? Why would you-"

You shrugged, fingers toying with the short hem of your dress, "I thought maybe, if you saw me in something different, something that wasn't my flight suit or a tee shirt, that maybe you would finally notice me?”

You finally looked him in the eyes, “Maybe you'd finally notice that I've been trying to flirt with you for the last few months?"

Bob opened his mouth just to promptly close it. He thought back to the last few months, now analyzing every seemingly ordinary interaction he had with you.

The way you insisted on sitting next to each other during lunch. As well as during briefings. And when you went to the Hard Deck. Whenever a guy tried to flirt with you there, you turned them down, focusing your attention back on him, continuing your conversation about his latest D&D campaign or a Lego set you had found that reminded you of him. The way you always touched his arm, your hand lingering on his skin as you bore your eyes into his. How you always texted him. How you baked a cake for his birthday. The little trinkets you’d bring him.

Oh god, he was a fucking idiot.

The tension in the room was thick. You, sitting restlessly as you waited for Bob to acknowledge what you had said. Bob, processing your words and what they meant.

“How long?” Bob asked, his voice soft yet firm.

You chuckled as you shook your head, “Honestly? First day. We hadn’t even spoken yet. I saw you walk in and you just were….not only handsome but also looked so kind? Then you offered me a spare pencil, made that comment about Jake’s driving and I….was a goner.”

“I saw you talking to Halo before the briefing room was open,” He confessed, “She said something that made you laugh and it….it was the prettiest sight I had ever seen.”

“We’ve wasted a lot of time, huh?” You both stared ahead at the TV, still too fearful to face each other.

Bob dryly chuckled, “Yeah….a lot of time. Months, if we’re being more exact.”

The two of you remained in silence, your words sinking in. Neither sure what should be said, if anything should be said. Until finally, you spoke up.

“Bob? What’s underneath the pillow?”

His hips shifted, involuntary, “What?” For a moment, he forgot about the darn pillow and the erection he was covering with it.

The cluelessness in his voice brought a giggle, “The pillow? Why are you using it to cover your lap?”

Bob sighed, “Can I at least kiss you first?”

You nodded, moving to close the gap between you and Bob. Pillow be damned, his hands cupped your jawline, giving you a sweet smile before leaning in, closing the gap between your lips and his.

Bob Floyd’s lips were soft, no doubt due to the sweet mint chapstick you'd watch him apply countless of times. You didn't want to admit how often you'd wondered about the taste, what his hands would feel like on your body. God, they were huge. His thumbs rested comfortably on your jawline, but you could feel his other fingers spanning your neck, down to your collarbone.

The first kiss was gentle, practically modest. Your lips were only apart for several seconds, if that, before connecting again.

You easily found his shoulders, grasping them for purchase. The gap between your bodies was too much, Bob wanted to be as close as possible. So his hands trailed down your body, skimming along until they found the back of your thighs. Using his strength, he moved your body, situating you onto his lap.

A high pitched gasp fell from your lips upon feeling the bulge that was straining against his jeans. Good god, he was thick. You had heard whispers, chalking it up to typical locker room talk.

Nope, those rumors were one hundred percent true.

“I’m sorry,” Bob groaned, hands exploring your soft curves. Worst of all, he sounded earnest, only making you want to touch him more.

“I-I wore this on purpose ah-after all,” you confessed, finding it difficult to speak as he pressed open mouthed kisses along your exposed chest.

Right. You wore this on purpose. To entice him. To see if perhaps he felt the same burning desire. Once realization hit him again, Bob’s hands moved along your back, just stopping above your ass.

Wait, he was about to touch your ass.

“We-we shouldn’t,” Bob mumbled, retracting his hands from your body. You stilled, a crestfallen look painting your face.

“We shouldn’t?” Repeating the words felt like driving a knife through your heart. Had regret finally emerged, beating the rush of adrenaline? Was he going to regret this, ask that you two never speak about it ever again, pretend it never happened?

“I…” Bob sighed, “I need to take you on a date first.”

Bless his heart.

Sighing, you relaxed your body into his, resting your head in the crook of his neck, “You’re too sweet, y’know that?”

Bob chuckled, “That's supposed to be my line.”

His hands gave your hips a loving squeeze, causing you to nestle further into him, until your bodies were nearly molded as one. Your lips searched for his, trailing up his neck, his jawline, along the side of his button nose until finally reaching his soft lips. Bob shifted in his seat, causing you to do the same. As a result, you could feel his erection, despite the layers of clothes.

“Good lord Bobby, you've just been walking around with all that?” Bob groaned, but not due to your words. No, it was because you had started moving your hips in circles, his erection now pressed against your covered core.

“I’m- I’m trying to be a gentleman.” Bob couldn't even look at you. He didn't want to stop. He should stop. Maybe you two could skip the Hard Deck and go out to dinner. Then he could take you home and not feel as guilty.

“You can be a gentleman later,” by throwing your arms over his shoulder you finally had access to his neck. His skin was so soft, so delicate. How could you not sink your teeth into his neck?

Normally you'd have better self control than this. But you were ovulating and had six months of sexual frustrations and wet dreams-

“You had dreams about me?” Uh-oh. That wasn't meant to be said out loud. Granted, maybe it was for the best to get everything out in the open.

Timidly nodding, you explained, “Yeah. The days I didn't sit next to you were because….I had a dream about ya the night before.”

A band had snapped within Bob, no doubt due to the numerous times you didn't sit next to him during briefings.

Within seconds, you found yourself on your back against the couch, the bespectacled WSO hovering over you. There was a fire flickering in his blue eyes as he remained laser focused on your face.

“After this, you're putting this dress back on and I'm taking ya out to dinner, is that clear?” his voice was gruff and deep, similar to when he did a hundred pushes that one day (that you definitely didn't think about while masturbating).

Chest heaving, dress pushed up to your upper thighs, lips kiss bitten, God, you looked like an angel to Bob. He remembered learning about angels in church growing up. How pious they were, that seeing them was a sign of comfort, that they would guide one to safety, to a holy life.

There was nothing holy about what he wanted to do to you.

His mouth was hot, searing kisses along your skin. Your back arched into him, desperate for me. But he always seemed to pull away before you could get enough. Would you? Ever get enough of Bob Floyd?

Finding an answer would have to wait, for now you wanted to relish in the feeling of Bob’s hands kneading your breasts. It was obvious you weren't wearing a bra, a fact Bob ob had spent forty minutes trying not to think about. He still felt a smidge of guilt, as though the newly drawn line between friends and more hadn’t quite sunk in yet. Was he even supposed to be doing this?

“You can keep going. I want you to.” You sensed his hesitation. In all the time you knew Bob, he had never taken someone home for a one night stand. He wasn’t like that. He needed time to build a connection, to feel comfortable enough to be himself. That’s why he loved spending time with you. With you, there was no need to put up a front, no need to be fearful of judgement.

“And then afterwards, we can order some Thai food and continue watching the episode, if you want. Or we can just do that now,” your hands cradled his jaw, gently forcing him to look at you. He found a sweet, reassuring smile, similar to the one that made him smitten six months ago.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.” Bob could be blunt, and often was when it came to his colleague’s shenanigans. But with his own feelings? He always chose his words carefully.

Hence why his admission took you some time to process. Bob could see it on your face; first your eyes widened, lips slightly parting as if driven by the need to respond immediately. But then your lips closed, your brain quickly gaining back self control.

“I’m falling in love with you too Robby.” You were the only one who could call him that. It was that familiarity, that intimacy, that gave him the courage to move his hands to your hemline up to your hips, revealing the thin, lacy red fabric underneath.

You were breathtaking. Always were. But this? This solidified things for Bob. You two had made a step forward in your relationship. Many things would still be the same. But there were now new things to experience. Simply another layer of intimacy had been added.

His long fingers skimmed over the fabric of your panties, every touch sending a spark of electricity along your spine. Every stroke caused a small gasp to fall from your lips, music to Bob’s ears. Lowering himself, Bob decorated your hips with opened mouth kisses. Finally, gaining enough courage, his fingers pushed your panties to the side.

Fuck, you were wet.

If there was any hesitation left in Bob, it died upon seeing how visibly aroused you were. He had done that. No one else. Lowering himself even more, he was now at eye level with your wet cunt. This wasn’t some vivid wet dream.

When his touch licked a broad stripe up your slit, a broken moan fell from your lips, echoing off the walls. It was the prettiest sound Bob had heard. He wanted to hear it again. All the time.

With more confidence, Bob begins lapping up your arousal, determined to taste every inch of you. His fingers dig into your thighs, pulling you closer. Looking down, you see his glasses are now crooked, though you highly doubt Bob cares, given how his eyes are half closed in pleasure.

Wait, was he grinding against the couch?

The discovery caused your thighs to clamp over Bob’s ears, your hips thrusting upwards to get more of his talented tongue. Bob wasn't reserved around you, never had been. But this was a new side to him that you had wondered if it ever existed. Animalistic. Devouring. Loud.

His groans vibrate against your core, only heightening the pleasure. Slowly, his right hand goes from your hips to your core, mouth moving to your clit as the long digits trace your opening.

“Oh my God, please,” you all but beg, not quite ready to admit how often you thought about his fingers and how they would feel inside of you.

Always thinking about your comfort, Bob started off with just one finger. You tried to fuck yourself with it, your own fingers gripping the soft strands of his hair for better leverage. The thought of making you beg crossed Bob’s mind. Would you like that? Would you be open to that? There were so many new topics to discuss, so many new boundaries to explore now.

You happily welcomed the stretch of two, three fingers. Bob found the little moans you let out to be quite adorable. He could feel his cock throb against his jeans, but pleasing you took priority.

“C’mon honey. Wanna feel you come on my fingers.” His voice was low, husky even.

“C-can you be inside me? Like your…your cock?” A broken groan fell from Bob’s lips at the very thought of being inside of you.

“I don't….I don't think I'll last long,” he admitted sheepishly. Hell, he could probably come just from eating you out. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. In fact, it sounded pretty good- bringing himself to the height of pleasure just from ravishing you.

“I don't think I will either,” you giggled, “But we’ll….we have lots of other times to go slow.”

Bob helped you sit up on the couch. “You wanna go to the bedroom?” He asked, thinking about how this could be more comfortable for you.

Instead, you shook your head, hands moving to his jeans, hastily undoing the buttons.

Now it was your turn to explore, to discover. There was a dark trail of hair that went past the waistband of his jeans. He wore boxer briefs. And Bob Floyd had the prettiest cock.

His face turned bright red at the compliment, “Oh it's…I mean it's like fine, but it's not-”

“Take the damn compliment Robert,” you all but scolded, eliciting a laugh from him, your favorite. The high pitch, near giggle one. The one that made your heart flutter.

Feeling at ease, you moved so that you were hovering over Bob’s lap. Your fingers moved to the base of his cock, making you realize you would have to ease yourself into it.

“I gotcha,” his hands found your hips, slowly easing you down. His sapphire eyes never left your face, searching for any sign of discomfort. He went slow, waiting until you made it vocally known you were ready for more.

By the time you reached the base of Bob’s cock, you were a mess. You wanted him to move, to fuck you within an inch of your life. But he was also so big. The stretch was nothing you had experienced before.

“Hey, we can take our time, okay? I know it's, that it's a lot,” he assured you, as though he could sense your internal conflict. His lips found yours, and in that kiss you found comfort. Bob grounded you, always had, whether it was up in the air or right here on your couch.

How much time had passed, who was to say? You could recall both your phones vibrating a few times, no doubt messages from the rest of your squad. Those messages could wait.

“I think I'm ready,” you whispered against Bob’s lips. He needed, digging his fingers into your hips to gain a better grip. With his help, you lifted yourself no more than a couple of inches off his cock, returning to the base.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Bob moaned. You just made Bob Floyd curse. Something not even a bird strike could do. That four letter word gave you the confidence to lift your hips up on your own accord, returning swiftly. Slowly, just an inch or two, which became several inches. Up and down motions turned to swiveling your hips in a circular rhythm. What was once a quiet living room, saved for a few small gasps and the static from the TV, had now become a symphony of melodic pants and groans.

Bob could tell you were close. Your pussy was tightening around his cock more and more, your fingers dug into his broad shoulders, as if trying to anchor yourself. You practically whined at the sight of Bob taking two fingers into his mouth, wetting them with his tongue. He lowered them to where your bodies connected.

Upon first contact with your clit, your head dropped to the crook of his neck, unabashedly moaning his name, hips moving in a now frantic motion.

“That's it, I gotcha.” Fuck, we he going to talk you through it? Was Bob Floyd a talker? Ironic, considering at work he was known as a man of few words.

“Feels s’good, being inside ya.” Fuck, he was a talker. You were doomed, “Wanna, wanna make us cum. Bet ya gonna feel even better when ya soak- fuck- soak my cock.”

Your brain was hazy. Was this real? If it was a vivid wet dream, you never wanted to wake up. Was it wrong to hope that you were in a medically induced coma, so that if this was indeed a dream, you wouldn’t have to wake up so soon? Surely, your friends and family would understand upon meeting Bob.

Then he pointedly thrusted his hips upwards, reminding you that no, this wasn’t a dream. No, you wouldn’t wake up feeling frustrated and unable to look him in the eye. After this, you two could go out to eat, on a real date. Not some hey let’s get dinner that feels like a date in everything except in name. You could also order delivery and cuddle up on the couch. Maybe you could even shower with him beforehand, and see his bare body, find out what was truly hiding underneath that flight suit. Oh, he was deceptively strong, you always knew that. But to see it, to feel the hard planes of his muscles? Oh, that would be quite the joy to experience.

“Sweet girl,” you clenched at that nickname, you wanted him to continue calling you that for eternity, “Let go. Know ya want it.”

“I-I do,” you all but whined. Bob found the noise cute. What other sounds did you make? What would you sound like if he kept fucking you after you came? What about if he ate you out for hours? Or teased you until you were teetering on the edge?

There were so many questions, so many areas to explore. But for now, Bob was satisfied with experiencing how tightly you clenched his cock, how you practically sang his name as you came. Your release triggered his, pulling your hips down until they were flushed against his. His lips smashed against yours, swallowing your moans.

Then there was silence. No words spoken. Only the sounds of panting, you both clearly trying to catch your breath, and kisses exchanged, ones that neither of you could resist giving.

Realization hits you like a freight train. “I’m on birth control.”

Bob’s eyes widened, “Oh thank God.” He was usually so good about asking, about pulling out. But you….you made his brain feel like cotton.

“You saying you don’t want to have kids with me?” You giggled, pressing a kiss to his warm cheek to let him know you were only saying it in jest.

“Not yet.” You sat up to find he had an earnest smile on his face, cheeks rosy and eyes shining in adornment.

Bob Floyd was going to be the death of you.

So you brushed several strands of sandy brown hair off of his forehead, replacing them with a kiss, "Gotta get me a ring first."

Luckily, you were going to be the death of Bob Floyd.

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sargebarnesx · 1 month ago

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JOE KEERY Wonderland Magazine BTS (2024)

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sargebarnesx · 2 months ago

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CHRIS EVANS at the ‘Red One’ NY Premiere (Nov 11, 2024)

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sargebarnesx · 2 months ago

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SEBASTIAN STAN as BUCKY BARNES THUNDERBOLTS*

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sargebarnesx · 2 months ago

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#Welcome back The Winter Soldier (insp)

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sargebarnesx · 2 months ago

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Someday

Pairing: AU 1940s Bucky Barnes x female reader

Rating: 18+ ONLY

Warnings: angst (with some fluff mixed in), mentions of war, mentions of gunshots, mention of death, mentions of heartbreak

Word Count: 2,076 words

Summary: Bucky Barnes has experienced many things over the last few years: love, loss, war, and heartbreak. The war is over and the woman behind his broken heart wants a second chance.

Author's Note: This idea came to me last night at 8:30 pm and I wrote over 2,000 words before bed, then spent this morning fine tuning it. This is my first attempt at angst and I’m already thinking of ideas for a happier part two 😈 hope y’all enjoy!

“Hey…you.”

There she was. Standing right in front of him on the street they had explored together many times and yet, they looked like strangers.

It took Bucky an absurd amount of effort to not call her sugar or honey or baby. To not pull her into his arms and breathe her in, breathe in that familiar and comforting lavender and vanilla scent. His arms ached as he fought the natural urge to hold her. It had been so long.

He recalled the last time he saw her, two years ago, in June of 1943. When she told him that she didn’t think they should be together anymore.

According to her tearful confession, the thought of him being deployed to Europe was too much for her to handle. She assured him that she loved him so much, but she just wasn’t strong enough to be the woman he needed while he was overseas.

Bucky thought that was complete bullshit, but he knew her mind was made up no matter how much he argued.

He spent two years fighting in the war and longing for her. 823 days worth of wondering if she was thinking about him too.

The nights were the worst. There were nights when he’d fall onto an uncomfortable cot and be woken up by the morning sun just as he’d drifted off to sleep. Some nights he took shifts with other men, dozing off on the hard ground hidden beneath thick branches, with gunshots haunting his dreams. On the good nights, he would dream of her.

He would see the diner, where the two of them would share her favorite strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream, blurred around the edges, shining bright under the afternoon sun. He would see her walking beside him, with teases of her soft skin peeking out underneath her V-neck dress. She would look up at him and smile. He loved when she smiled, but seeing her smile in his dreams made his heart ache with need. He wanted nothing more than to make it home and see that smile again.

“Hi, Bucky.”

Her hair had grown, and the ends curled towards her heart. Her face was full of emotion, almost like she had seen a ghost, and the shock drained the color from her face. Her eyes shone in the afternoon sun, and Bucky wondered if she was going to cry. She had stopped a few good steps in front of him, and the space between them felt foreign.

Space was never a concept that made itself known in their relationship. The two of them met in 1941, smack dab in the middle of the dance floor on a sweltering summer night. Bucky gravitated towards her and her electric personality, and it wasn’t long before his body was glued to hers, his hand resting respectfully low on her waist.

He walked her home that night, purposely walking just close enough that his arm would brush against hers. She stayed right next to him, throwing him flirtatious glances every time he said something charming. Eventually, their fingers were intertwined, and she pulled him onto her porch, away from the bright street lights.

He’d heard talk of the sparks, the butterflies, everything that people claimed to feel when they were in love, but he had never felt it until that night.

He felt it now, standing in front of her on the sidewalk. He hoped she felt it too.

“Bucky, I—“ she choked on her words, seemingly unsure of how to say what she was thinking. Bucky waited, not wanting to let her out of his sight, even for a minute. He reveled in the opportunity just to look at her, to take in all the features he had only seen in his mind over the last two years. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Something about that statement made Bucky angry. Looking for him? He’d been home for a week, and she knew where he lived; she must not have been looking too hard.

“Can we talk?” Bucky asked suddenly, his eyes darting to the diner, their diner, that was just across the street. She nodded, understanding immediately where he wanted to go. The two of them walked briskly across the street, still keeping a safe distance.

She reached for the door, but Bucky reached over her shoulder and gripped the handle first, pulling it open to allow her to walk through. He noticed that she walked straight to what became known as their regular booth, the same booth they occupied on their first date.

Bucky slid in across from her, ordering two strawberry milkshakes from the waitress who had met them at the table. The waitress scribbled their order down before turning on her heel towards the kitchen.

She was staring across the table at a spot stained with black marker. Bucky wasn’t one for vandalism, but there was something romantic about permanently branding their favorite booth.

The small heart with the date “06/15/1941” still looked as new as the night he wrote it. She had been giggling, looking over her shoulder nervously to see if anyone would notice. Bucky didn’t care. The diner was hopping; every seat was filled, and Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy was playing over the jukebox. “That’s pretty permanent,” she admonished with hints of a smirk playing on her pretty mouth, “Might last forever.” Bucky smiled, leaning over the table to place a kiss on her lips, “So will we.”

The trajectory of their relationship changed when he enlisted. He bought a ring a mere three months after their first date, and it still sat tucked in his sock drawer, waiting. He had considered popping the question before he shipped out, imagining how he’d beam with pride when the men in the 107th asked if he had a girl back home, and he’d tell them about her, his future wife. Bucky had known how much the threat of war frightened her, how she felt like time was a ticking bomb, waiting to explode. He just hadn’t expected it to threaten their future together.

Her father had been drafted into World War I in 1917. He was a hard-working, sturdy young man who left behind two small boys and a wife who would soon find out she was expecting. Seven months later, their only baby girl made her way into the world, and fifteen months later, her father tragically made his way out.

Bucky remembered the way she spoke of her mother, how strong she was to do it alone, how she had kept their father’s memory alive through the years. Her two older brothers had many stories of the man that she only knew as a photo on the mantle.

Bucky knew she was terrified that history would repeat itself.

“How have you been?” He asked, breaking a silence that wasn’t necessarily awkward but heavy.

She shook her head, “Please don’t ask me that. It sounds so insignificant when you think of everything that has happened over the last couple of years.”

Bucky chuckled and took a sip of his milkshake, “Well, you can see that I’m fine.”

“Physically, sure. But not all scars are visible.”

“No scars here, honey,” he shrugged, unable to stop himself. “Maybe one on my chest from where you ripped my heart out, but that’s nothing to write home about, I suppose.”

He watched as she opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again. Bucky pushed his glass to the side and leaned forward. The can of worms was opened, the elephant was in the room, and he had two years of pent-up heartache to share.

“I know why you did it, but I told you, I was going to do everything I could to come home to you.”

She opened her mouth again, but Bucky held up a hand.

“I know that I had no control over that, but at least then I would have gotten on that boat knowing that you were still mine. I felt like you didn’t trust me,” his voice crackled, and he cleared his throat. “You hurt me when I needed you the most.”

Her eyes were closed, and tears were sparkling behind her eyelashes. Her shoulders lifted as she took a deep breath.

“Bucky, you have to believe me when I say that I thought I was doing what was best for us. I didn’t want you to worry about me when you had other things to worry about -“

“I was always going to worry about you! I was always going to think about you, I was always going to wish I was with you! Breaking things off wasn’t going to change that, it was just selfish,” Bucky interrupted, his words coming out sharper than intended. “I was going to ask you to marry me.” Tears slipped down her cheeks, and he felt a sharp pang in his chest at the sight.

“I’m a coward,” she whispered. “I let my fear get the best of me, and that wasn’t fair to you. Seeing how much my mother was affected by my father’s death…all I ever wanted was to marry you and start a family, but - war destroys families, and I let that fear dictate my choices. But they shouldn’t have just been my choices. Every time you tried to fight it, I just kept pushing back. I shouldn’t have pushed back. I should’ve let you win.”

“I stopped fighting because I respect your wishes,” Bucky admitted. “It wasn’t about winning. I just love you too much.”

“I will spend the rest of my life trying to make things right between us,” she insisted. “Even if you never want to see me again, which I’d understand.” Her voice faltered like she didn’t truly mean it.

Bucky sighed and took a moment to drink his melting milkshake. She followed suit, and another silence took over.

He had no intention of cutting her out of his life. One day she would be amused to find out that it took everything in him to not grab her by the waist and kiss her as soon as he saw her walking down the sidewalk. While he hadn’t stopped longing for their reunion while he was away, he had inadvertently built walls that she would have to break through. Or maybe chip away at it, little by little.

Things between the two of them had never been slow. Bucky knew from the moment he met her that she was the one. He knew from the moment his lips met hers on the front porch that he was a goner. She was it. His body, his mind, and his heart were drawn to her and only her. Even now, after she had destroyed him and sent him overseas with a broken heart.

Bucky was ready to give her everything he had left, but he knew it would take time.

“Notice how I haven’t spoken about my love for you in the past tense? I am still so in love with you, it drives me crazy. The memories of you got me through some of my worst times. Things between us will get better, eventually,” he said finally. She just nodded and continued to sip at her milkshake.

“I am so sorry, Bucky,” she reached across the table, hesitantly grabbing his hand. He had to stop himself from reacting outwardly because it felt like fireworks were going off inside of his chest. He slowly wrapped his fingers around hers, feeling the leftover chill from her frosty glass. They sat like that for a moment, connected in the most basic way, but connected nonetheless. She gave his hand a light squeeze. “I’m…so, so happy that you’re home. I think I always knew in my heart that you would make it home. I was just… scared.”

Bucky’s shoulders slumped a bit as the tension released, “I know. Me too.”

Things would be okay, someday.

He gently released her hand and pulled his wallet from his pocket. Bucky pulled out a few crinkled bills, tossed them on the table, and gave a silent nod of understanding to the waitress. He slid out of the booth and turned to her, his hand outstretched.

“Can I walk you home?”

#bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #1940s!bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #1940s!bucky barnes x reader #james barnes #james buchanan barnes

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sargebarnesx · 2 months ago

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sargebarnesx · 3 months ago

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Kind of a Sh*thead

(Rhett Abbott x F!Reader)

CW: Angst; family-type healing; allusions to and threat of violence; bit of fluff at the end.

Word Count: 5256

AN: This was originally requested by @elegantmusicdragon from a long-ago Christmas prompt list: "trying to hide their sadness during the christmas celebration" from the sad christmas prompts? Definitely angst...maybe with a little hope at the end?"

AN: This is the next piece in the "Mending Fences" miniseries, found here.

It will shame Rhett in the future, how long it takes for him to realize what has happened.

That night at the bar, he sat waiting for you: nursing a beer, his eyes on the door, ready to get a little loose with you and maybe head out to the open range and fool around.

Then Maria appeared in front of him. Like magic. Like an angel spirited back to Wabang and right in front of him. It threw him off completely, his world tilting sideways He found himself dazzled by the fact that the girl he pined over for years was suddenly in front of him, smiling, laughing, touching his arm and squeezing his bicep while he subtly flexed it under her fingers.

It wasn’t until last call that Rhett surfaced for a moment, the spell lifting for long enough to remember he was supposed to meet you, yet you were nowhere to be found.

She must have been held over late at work, he reasoned, and even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie.

It will shame Rhett in the future, but it will take months before he really feels that shame. He’ll find out you left early for school, but by then, he will be entirely wrapped in the magic of Maria, dumb with lust and love that he thinks is finally reciprocated. He'll send you a handful of texts, bland little things that you read but don’t respond to.

Months later, when Wabang is sliding fast to a cold winter and Maria is gone again, disappeared as quickly as she appeared, Rhett will feel shame.

And you’ll be long gone.

*****

Wyatt wishes he knew what he was doing. Hell, he’d be happy for an inkling.

When his sister and brother-in-law died, he didn’t even hesitate to step up and take his niece in. No brainer. Blood is blood, but Wyatt loved his sister something fierce, and taking you in was like holding on to a part of her even if she was gone.

Didn’t hurt that Wyatt loved you for you. That he had loved you from the first time his sister set you in his arms, a bundle only a few days old. You’d set your wide eyes on him and blinked sleepily, then puked up a torrent of milk on him that reeked something fierce.

Love at first sight, it was.

But hell, love wasn’t enough, was it? What did he know about raising a little girl? What did he know of walking that tricky line between being overprotective and being too blasé, of giving you space but making you feel safe?

Cecilia had stopped over a lot in the beginning, had soothed his fears. Had reassured him that love was enough, that he was doing a good job. He was kind and well-meaning, and you had been a smart kid who became a smart woman, and on the balance, he would have agreed with Cecilia and said he did alright.

Nothing about this feels alright, though.

Wyatt always guessed it was Rhett Abbott who left you stranded at that hotel when you were a senior in high school. Little fucker skulked around that entire summer, scampered away like a cat with a lit tail when he saw Wyatt coming. Something had happened between the two of you.

When you came back to Wabang finally, you took up with the little fucker again, and Wyatt thought maybe he had been unkind. Ungenerous. He tried to be nicer to Rhett, but the kid barely ever met his eyeline.

What the hell, Wyatt thought. The Abbotts can be a squirrelly bunch. As long as he doesn’t hurt her.

All those years ago at the hotel, Wyatt was never sure who it was that left you stranded and tear-streaked. This time, though?

You confirmed it that evening when you got home, eyes unseeing as you charged past him, thundered up the stairs, started packing. When he confronted you, you burst into tears and spilled the entire sorry affair.

You and Rhett, hanging out all summer. You in love, and Rhett…not. Not with you, anyway.

Wyatt wasn’t stupid. When you said hanging out, he could guess what you meant.

Seeing his niece hurt like that made him see red, but he has a modicum of maturity, which means he bides his time in most things.

*****

Maria’s been gone for months.

You’ve been gone for longer.

Winter in Wyoming is no joke. Wabang gets less snow than other parts, but the wind cuts marrow-deep, and the days are short, grey affairs. The holidays could be a break from the doldrums, but Royal has been on a tear lately, lighting into Rhett for every little thing, so Thanksgiving, then Christmas are tense and joyless.

For the first time in his life, Rhett truly considers his future. What his life may look like in five, ten, twenty years. Will he always wake to grey mornings that sit on his chest like a stone? Will he become bitter and mean, the way his father has despite having a wife and sons and a granddaughter?

He sends you texts. Little one-liners, asking how you are, saying he misses you. He tries to feel you out, but you leave him on read and never respond.

Once, he gets blisteringly drunk and tries to call. You don’t pick up, and he doesn’t leave a message.

By now, the shame has settled into him and made itself at home.

He can guess that you came by the bar that night. He can guess that you saw him and Maria, and that’s what caused you to flee. Layered on top of the shame is an annoyance with you and your knack for running. He may be an asshole but you’re a child to run and hide when shit gets tough.

Then, on top of the annoyance, another layer of shame. Of course you run. The death of your parents left you with that wound, the inability to handle hurt in a healthy way. You flee and tuck yourself in a corner, tend your wounds alone. It’s a flaw, but it’s understandable why you do it.

Rhett had been your best friend, and for the briefest summer, he was your lover too. He should have been the one person to help you work through that fear. Instead, he only cemented it further.

*****

March. The leaden skies start to take on some blue, high up in the atmosphere. The sun burns a little warmer. The barnyard thaws into a swamp, and Wyatt has to handle the anxious animals, pawing and snorting and half-mad from a winter of cabin fever.

March is a tough month, though, because you call and tell him you aren’t coming back to Wabang for the summer. You got a coveted internship with a specialty vet hospital in the city, and while Wyatt knows it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you, it’s far easier to blame that fucking asshole Abbott boy.

It’s easy to blame Rhett when Wyatt eats dinner alone each night. When he runs a vacuum over the floor of your bedroom, keeps it dust free like you may turn up any day and take your place back on the family ranch. When he studies the row of family photos on the mantle, sees his sister’s face and feels like he’s failed her in the care of her daughter.

He’s not irrational about it. He knows he has to let you fly and trust you’ll return. Vet training is a long process—it’s not like you went off to Cheyenne for a handful of bookkeeping courses. He knows, deep-down, you would have always left for your schooling.

Still, that fucking Abbott boy has built up a tab, in Wyatt’s eyes. March is when that tab comes due.

-----

He knows the boy drinks at the Double Deuces. It’s common gossip how he overdoes it and either gets ornery with the Tillerson’s or pukes himself silly in the parking lot. There’s whispers of the fights between Royal and the boy, how the elder Abbott is tired of bailing out his youngest son, though no one would ever accuse Royal of having any patience, especially where Rhett is concerned.

If it were anyone else—any other dickhead young buck—Wyatt would chuckle in sympathy. He used to do the same when he was younger. He knows what the Wabang drunk tank looks like. Hell, maybe his name is still there—he scratched it into the pea-green paint of the wall decades back to commemorate his first overnight stay.

But Wyatt doesn’t confront Rhett at the Double Deuces. He doesn’t seek him out at all.

Rhett comes to him.

It’s a Saturday night, and Wyatt is lazing in front of the TV, watching the recaps of the week’s basketball games. He’s half-asleep when he hears the heavy, scuffing tread of boots on his porch, then a thumping fist at the door.

When he peeks out of the window to see who it is, it’s the fucking asshole. Rhett sways unsteady on his feet. Wyatt opens the door, and he can smell the reek of cheap beer and brown liquor. When he peers out farther, he can see where the fucking asshole parked his truck, half in the driveway and half in the yard, the tires sunk deep in the soft spring turf.

“You drive here like that?” Wyatt asks, though it’s obvious.

The kid nods.

Wyatt sighs, scrubs his hand over his jaw. “Tell me you came from next door. Tell me you were drinking at home and not out on the roads fucking loaded.”

Rhett stares at him, his eyes bleary and blood-shot, his blinks slow and deliberate. “Came from t’bar,” he slurs.

“Fucking prick.” Wyatt breathes it out.

His vision wavers for a moment, the rage that courses through him is so hot and sudden. He moves towards the kid just as Rhett sways towards him, and in a blink, Wyatt finds his hands on him, his sweat-dampened t-shirt twisted in his fists. This close, the beer fumes make his eyes water, and when Wyatt studies the kid’s face, he sees blank stupefaction.

“You fucking little prick.” He pivots, turns, hauls Rhett away from the front door, down off the porch. He half-drags, half-carries him, and once they are on the soft grass of the front yard, Wyatt shoves him away.

“Stupid, selfish. So fucking selfish.” The rage feels good, like a narcotic in his veins. “You could have killed someone, driving like this.”

“I didn’t…” Rhett sways on his feet, struggles to get his balance. “Didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t t-think—”

Wyatt is on him again, his hands firm on Rhett’s chest as he shoves him in earnest, sends the kid stumbling back on his ass. “You never fucking think, do you? Jesus fucking Christ, my sister…her husband…they were killed by a fucking drunk driver, and you have the fucking balls to…you asshole…you fucking piece of shit. You—”

But he can’t even finish. His sister and brother-in-law, your parents. Years ago now, but the pain is still fresh, a keen edge of a knife blade that takes his breath away. It was after a rodeo, a random Saturday. One stupid fucking decision and Wyatt lost his family, you lost your parents, and the rest of the world had the bad taste to keep on going.

There’s a roadside memorial on the road out of Wabang that marks the site of the crash. It makes that knife blade of grief twist in Wyatt’s gut every time he sees it.

Anger—rage—is such a close neighbor to grief. Grief is something one has to feel, but anger? That’s something to embrace, to lean into. To do.

Wyatt advances on Rhett, his big fists opening and closing as the kid struggles to get back on his feet. Wyatt wants to beat the shit out of him, wants to see him bruised and bloodied on the ground: for hurting you years ago, for hurting you more recently, and now this. For taking his life and the life of anyone else on the road into his own stupid, selfish hands.

Rhett manages to find his knees, and he kneels in the grass but can seem to get no further. Wyatt towers over him.

“Get up,” he orders. His voice is low, deadly, and his tone must penetrate the booze-fog because the kid tilts his head up and looks at him.

“Get up,” he repeats. “Get up and face it like a man.”

Rhett only manages a dumbfounded, “huh?”

“You wanna drive a big truck like a big man? Drink at the Double D’s like a big fucking man? You wanna fuck around with my niece and break her fucking heart like a big man? So stand up and take what’s coming to you like a man.”

The kid seems to track Wyatt’s meaning. His bleary eyes clear a fraction and fix on where Wyatt’s fists wait, eager to offer some payback for his sins. Rhett nods, as if to himself, and he takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes, opens them. He struggles to stand, staggers a little, but eventually finds his feet.

“Make it her.” It comes out one slurred word, makeither, and Wyatt’s anger cools by the barest degree. He unclenches his fists, holds them looser.

“What the fuck you trying to say?”

Rhett coughs, sways. Coughs again, then enunciates, clarifies.

“Make it hurt. Make sh…sure. Make sure it hurts.”

Wyatt’s fists uncurl more. “Now what are you—”

“Am. Piece of shit. I am.” The kid sways more but takes a wide step, braces his legs wide to keep himself upright. “Y’right. Imma piece a’shit.”

As quickly as Wyatt’s rage came on him, it flees him just as fast. He sees it just as clear as day, how Rhett Abbott ain’t a man. He’s just a boy playing at it, fucking up as he goes. Wyatt knows as well as anyone the sort of father the kid has, Royal Abbott is no model of what a man should be.

The kid standing in front of him is just a hurt animal: hurt by his own father, hurt by his own behavior because he has no idea how to not take out his hurt on others.

He waves his hand at the kid, a dismissive gesture, and he starts to turn away. He is halfway back to the house when he hears the kid coming for him, feels the weak glancing blow of the punch that has no aim or power because the kid is too drunk.

He wants to be punished, he thinks as he turns back around to face Rhett. He knows Royal is hard on his youngest son, can guess that the kid’s been knocked around plenty. His own father…well, he keeps that buried in the past, but sometimes it pops up like a bad penny. Like now.

He wants to be hurt because it’s the only thing he knows, he thinks. Like I used to.

Maybe Wyatt only fell into fatherhood because of a tragedy, but he gets more of it right than he will ever give himself credit for. He faces the kid, and when the kid comes swinging at him again, spoiling for a beat-down Wyatt will never deliver after all, Wyatt only opens his arms and lets Rhett step into them. The kid struggles for a beat but he’s drunk, and he seems tired down to his soul.

It only takes a moment for the kid to stop struggling in Wyatt’s bear-hug, then sag against him in exhaustion, then weep in dry, barking sobs that feel like they’ve been building up for his entire life. And Wyatt knows exactly what sort of pain the kid is bleeding out because it was his pain, and his sister’s too, until they both fled their unhappy childhood home and made a happier one here on this ranch.

“Christ almighty,” Wyatt says after the kid calms. He doesn’t let him go—he only gets an arm around his shoulders, and he leads him inside.

No sense sending him home to his father. He’s here now, so he might as well sleep it off on the couch.

-----

It’s less than a month before Rhett returns. Maybe a handful of weeks later, the kid turns up on Wyatt’s step, sheepish. Looking small.

Wyatt will never be clear exactly why Rhett and Royal fall out so terrifically. Who can say? The Abbotts can be squirrelly fucking assholes, back to Royal’s father and probably even further back, but Rhett finds himself kicked out with nowhere to go.

He takes the couch for a night, but the next day, Wyatt thrusts some fresh sheets in the kid’s arms and directs him to the guest room down the hall. Past your bedroom.

“Might sleep better in an actual bed,” he tells the kid, his voice gruff.

“I’ll be out as soon as I can.” Rhett’s ears burn red in shame. “Just gotta line up a place.”

“No rush.”

“Seriously, I’ll—”

“I got plenty of room. You ain’t putting me out.”

-----

Wyatt is never sure the right way to tell you that Rhett Abbott is currently crashing with him. A month passes and then another, and he starts to feel guilty that the kid who broke your heart has been living down the hall from your childhood bedroom, sitting at your kitchen table. That he parks his truck beside yours, and that he’s caught the kid—more than once—lingering by your bedroom door, lingering by your truck, like your ghost might manifest if he stands still enough.

Every time you call. Each Facetime. Wyatt wants to say something and doesn’t.

Wyatt ends up taking the coward’s way out: he sends you an email. Keeps it short and sweet, apologizes for not saying anything sooner. He alludes to the situation between father and son, but clarifies that Rhett is in no way forgiven for how he treated you. It’s just that the kid needed a soft place to land, and he had the ability to help, so he felt it was his God-given duty to do so.

But I can ask him to leave, if you want, he writes. If it makes you uncomfortable. You’ll always be my first and top priority, kiddo.

It takes you two days to reply, but that means nothing. You have a brutal schedule and often go radio silent for stretches of time. When you do reply, it makes Wyatt smile.

I can’t be mad about it, you write back. How many times did you look the other way when I brought a stray home? I guess you deserve a stray of your own. Might want to take him in for his shots though. :-)

Wyatt grins when he reads your email, then glances over at where Rhett is sitting on the couch, watching TV. The kid does act like a stray; he cringes the barest bit if Wyatt moves too suddenly or too close to him, but like a stray, he relishes the comfort of a warm home, food in his belly, and even the tamest praise.

You got a heart of gold, kiddo, Wyatt texts you, and your response is immediate.

Got it from my uncle.

-----

Through the summer and autumn, the two men fall into a rhythm. It isn’t so bad living with the kid, once he starts to get his sea-legs under him. Once he starts to feel like the bottom won’t drop out. Rhett puts in an honest day’s work on the ranch, and Wyatt pays him. The first time he presses money on the kid, he tries to push it away, embarrassed at what he thinks is more charity on top of the charity of room and board…

“You work for me, you work for me,” Wyatt said, blunt. “Means you get paid by me. Take it or leave.”

Wyatt won’t know it until years from now, when he’s an old man and Rhett has grey in his own hair, but this stretch of time—the two men working and living together—is when Rhett starts to learn how to be a man. That Wyatt is the gruff but kind, slightly awkward father-figure Rhett always needed.

There are lessons embedded in their days working the ranch. The lessons ease Rhett out of the fog of his life, the strange liminal space of being in his early twenties but still just a kid.

When Rhett royally fucks up a stretch of fencing, ruins a day of work. Wyatt only grunts, shakes his head, then claps Rhett on the back.

“You can either take the time to plan out a job, or plan on doing the job twice,” is all he says, and he guesses that Royal would have belted his son into the dirt for such an error.

When Wyatt tasks Rhett with a simple rewiring job in the barn, replacing some light fixtures, and the kid has no idea where to even start. He spends half the day sweating about it, a sick feeling churning in his stomach, until he decides to throw up the white flag and admit he has no experience working with electrical fixtures.

“Well, hell, kid. Why didn’t you say something?” Wyatt jerks his chin towards the barn. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

When at the rodeo, Rhett is tossed from the bull within seconds, a humiliating display. Afterwards, his body bruised but his ego far worse off, Wyatt only chuckles at him, says life will throw you off like that sometimes and it’s the getting back up that shows character.

“You got back up,” he tells Rhett. “That means something.”

“Means I didn’t want to get trampled,” he grumbles.

“Still means something.”

-----

Always, though, there’s the specter of you.

Wyatt catches the kid standing in the doorway of your bedroom sometimes still. Peering in at the time capsule of your stuff: the clothes you’ve left behind, the framed photos, the beat-to-shit stuffed bear on your bed.

Wyatt mentions you in passing, but he never brings up that long-ago night at the hotel or your sudden flight from Wabang the summer before. He guesses Rhett already feels terrible all the time, so why bother bringing it up and making it worse?

The kid eventually broaches the subject all on his own, just as winter descends on Wabang again. It’s been over a year since either of them have seen you in person, though Wyatt Facetimes you at least once a week.

Rhett makes himself scarce during those calls, but Wyatt’s always had the impression he’s not far off, maybe straining to make out your voice through the wall.

In early December, you break the news that you aren’t coming home for the holiday break. Wyatt would suspect that Rhett might be the reason, but your eyes practically glitter with excitement as you talk about a massive stray animal sweep you’ve helped plan, a Christmas-into-New Years take-to-the-streets movement to find and rescue as many street dogs and cats as you can. You’ve been working with local Girl Scouts to build feral cat cold-weather shelters, and you’ve been raising money and donations, and you’ve built a strong foster network, and local clinics are ready to spay and neuter and administer vaccines—

Heart of gold, indeed. It makes Wyatt tear up, first from so much pride it feels like his chest might burst, then from that knife edge of grief that his sister isn’t here to see what a force for good her daughter turned into.

When Wyatt breaks the news to Rhett later, though, the kid sorta deflates, and that’s when he brings it up himself.

“It’s my fault,” he mumbles. “She’ll never come back if I’m here.”

“Not true.” Wyatt goes to the refrigerator and snags two bottles of beer, then hands one off to Rhett. He settles in his easy chair and studies the kid. “You know she loves animals. She’ll come back eventually.”

“She hates me.”

“Nah. I don’t know if hate is something she can even feel. Dislike, maybe. Disappointment. Not hate.”

“She should hate me. I deserve it.”

And then it spills out, one clipped sentence at a time. The entire history of you two, from best friends in childhood to passing acquaintances to an awkward moment in a hotel that Wyatt now knows was not actual sex but just some fooling around that ended in cruel words. When Rhett gets to the part of the story about your summer together, Wyatt holds up a palm, says, “yeah, don’t want the details at all,” and Rhett slouches against the couch and sighs.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her, you know. Sounds fucking stupid, but at the time, I didn’t even realize what I was doing to her.” Rhett glances over at the man, fixes his eyes back on the floor. “Looking back, it felt like I was sleepwalking through that summer, and now I’m awake and see all the damage I did.”

Wyatt chuckles sadly. He knows the feeling. He has his own hurt women in his past, experienced the same sort of heartless sleepwalking.

The kid shakes his head and continues. “Wasn’t worth it. Maria, I mean. I don’t even know what I saw in her.

“You were thinking with the wrong brain,” he tells Rhett. Wyatt may have no lost love for Maria Olivaries, but he’d admit she was a pretty gal. He could see why the boys went a little stupid around her.

“Wasn’t thinkin’ at all.” Rhett says your name, a sigh in his mouth, then adds, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Look.” Wyatt sets his empty beer bottle aside, leans forward. “You gotta try to make it right with her. How you square it up is up to you. Maybe she’ll forgive you, maybe she won’t, but you gotta make an honest try at it.”

“How?”

“Damned if I know. But take it from me, kid. I had a girl when I was your age, and I fucked it up completely. Even once I realized how badly I fucked up, I was too proud to try and set it right. Now it’s been years and it’s far too late. So you gotta try, so even if she never forgives you, it’ll set right in your chest that you did everything you could.”

Rhett stares at him for a long beat, then nods. Then there’s a beat of glassiness in his eyes, near-tears, that Rhett blinks away almost angrily before he turns and clears his throat.

“I don’t mean to, you know. I don’t mean to be a piece of shit,” he says, his voice rough-edged.

“Aw hell, kid.” Wyatt heaves himself out of his chair and starts to make his way back to the kitchen for another beer. He stops in front of where Rhett sits, slouched over, and he lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think you’re a piece of shit,” he tells him. “I just think you’re kind of a shithead.”

Rhett snorts. “What’s the difference?”

“First one is a lost cause,” Wyatt says. “Second one is just an idiot trying to do his best. Like most of us.”

*****

Christmas day at a bachelor’s ranch is not as sad as it might seem.

Wyatt brings in a tree but they only throw some lights on it to give it a bit of cheer. They build a fire in the fireplace, exchange no gifts, settle in and watch the football games.

Christmas dinner is a pot of Wyatt’s ulcer-inducing chili and a pan of cornbread. Cecelia drops by in the morning with a plate of cookies and a handful of gifts for Rhett, but it’s just the two guys for most of the day.

Until you call to Facetime your uncle.

You take Rhett unawares; you call off-schedule. You usually call in the evening but this is the afternoon, and Wyatt mutes the football game and take the call from the couch. Rhett starts to stand up, but the man waves him to sit back down. No need to hide out like he usually does.

So Rhett gets a full accounting of your life from you directly. He can hear your voice, and you sound like you have a sore throat. You tell your uncle about your big rescue mission, how it’s bitterly cold in the city but how you’ve saved so many dogs, so many cats, and how you can’t wait to head back out after you warm up a bit.

“I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas,” you tell Wyatt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Your uncle glances over at Rhett, nods in his direction. “We’re doing okay for a couple of guys.”

“You decorate a tree?”

“Just string lights.”

“The prettiest part of a tree anyway. What about dinner?”

“Chili.”

You laugh, and the sound makes Rhett smile – when was the last time he heard it?

“Happy Birthday, Jesus. Here’s some indigestion,” you joke.

“Good thing the kid went to Costco and got a gallon bucket of Pepto,” Wyatt jokes back.

It draws another laugh, which makes Rhett laugh, which makes you stop and ask your uncle if Rhett is there too.

“He is,” Wyatt admits. “We’re watching the football game.”

There’s a beat of silence from you that seems to stretch out forever but is probably only a second or two.

“Merry Christmas, Rhett,” you say, and Wyatt hesitates, then tilts the screen so Rhett can see you and you can see him. He almost doesn’t want to look but he can’t help himself.

You’re smiling at him. Not as broadly as you usually smile when you’re delighted in something or someone, but it’s a medium-sized one that touches the corners of your eyes.

It’s genuine.

It’s a place to start. It’s a sliver of hope. It’s not a door slamming shut in his face but a door left ajar by a fraction, and maybe Rhett can toe it open if he can just find the right way to try and square things up with you. It’s confirmation that he’s not a piece of shit, just kind of a shithead, and if he tries his best, maybe that will be enough.

“Merry Christmas,” he replies, and if you notice the gruffness in his voice, you don’t react.

“Thanks.”

Wyatt holds his phone there a moment, starts to turn it back to him, but Rhett blurts out, “be careful out there, okay?” so Wyatt turns it back.

Your smile grows the barest bit. “Will do.” A pause. “Don’t let my uncle work you too hard.”

A toe in the door. A sliver of hope. The fire snaps in the fireplace and the string lights twinkle on the tree, and Rhett may be an idiot just trying his best, but maybe that’s enough.

“I barely work at all,” he jokes. “Gotta leave plenty of work for you when you come back.”

It makes you chuckle. It’s not a laugh, but it’s something.

“In that case, Uncle Wyatt, work him into the ground,” you joke back, and Wyatt turns his phone back to him this time, and Rhett is left with perhaps a bit more than a sliver of hope. He leans back against the couch and thinks that yes, maybe he can salvage this after all.

Maybe trying his best will be enough.

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