#they turn up to therapy and they’re like ‘so how are you dr charles? oh you want to know how *I* am? well I’m just dandy :) never better :)’

[crockettmarcel]

um. I think that there should be mandatory therapy for everyone at med. they’re all a little bit fucked if I’m honest

[anotheronechicagobog]

Enemies to Lovers Noah Sexton x dawson!reader

requested by: @bitweird1​

written by: @anotheronechicagobog​

Warnings: swearing, mature themes, child neglect, slightly Dawson bashing but they really just didn’t know, canon compliant threats

You had spent your entire life struggling and working your ass off. No social life, extracurriculars for the sole purpose of applying to universities, and spending the majority of your life studying because according to your dad at least one Dawson had to become a doctor and your older siblings had decided that it wouldn’t be them, leaving you to do nothing but prepare for the future that had been hand-picked by the man you felt abandoned you. And then Noah fucking Sexton just waltzes in having put in half the effort and riding the coattails of his much more intelligent sister who gave up a career as a doctor because of sexism. He spent far too much of his time flirting with everything that had boobs and a pulse. You didn’t like him because he took nothing seriously and didn’t have a responsible bone in his body, and he hated you because you were incredibly uptight and didn’t have a sense of humour.

“Maybe you’d have more friends here if you didn’t have a stick shoved up your ass.”

“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to become a doctor.”

Everyone was getting really sick of your fighting, so they banded together and made things worse. They had badgered you until Doris had enough and dragged you to Molly’s. You refused to drink or eat anything, resulting in more snide remarks between you and Noah. Just when everyone was developing a migraine before they were anywhere even close to drunk your parents burst through the door and marched over to you. And suddenly, everyone in the bar, including your siblings, were subjected to and twenty-minute rant from your parents about how you should be grateful they pushed you towards medical school and all the activities that got you scholarships, that they didn’t abandon you, and that they clothed and fed you because a third child cost so much money, how you never took anything seriously and were always joking around, and how you were a disgrace to the family. Once they finished, your dad dragged you out by your arm, your mom followed muttering about why couldn’t you be more like Gabby and Antonio.

You walked into the ED the next day as robotic as ever. The pitiful and awkward stares were ignored with ease, it was something you were quite used to if you were honest. Your parents were always scrutinized by your teachers and DCFS. At the end of the day, though, they weren’t abusive enough for any charges or housing changes to be set. They weren’t like that with Gabby and Antonio, who had mostly moved out by the time you were in kindergarden, you were their last chance to help them prove to their family that they didn’t fail as parents. And they made sure you knew it.

“Dr. Dawson, you’ve got a patient in treatment one. Also, uh, are you okay? I feel pretty bad about last night.”

“Oh, don’t worry about anything. I’m fine, and my parents were right I should’ve been studying. It was a poor decision on my part not to. I’m gonna get to this patient, but you really don’t need to feel bad, okay?”

She nodded absently as you turned your back to her. ”Hi, I'm Dr. Dawson, can you tell me what brought you in today?”

---------------------------------

Your patient had just gone up to the OR to have a blood clot removed and you made your way to the doctor’s lounge, followed by Noah Sexton. ”Hey, Y/N, are you-”

”Yes, Noah, I am okay. Yes, I'm sure. I am fine, I am always fine.”

”From my experience when people say they're fine they're usually not.”

”Noah, I am okay.”

“I don’t believe you.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next few weeks were a maze of pitiful stares, hushed concerned words, and a silent Noah. All of it was completely unnerving. It all came to a head when Dr. Charles approached in the ED you about starting therapy with him, talking continuously about all the points ‘brought to his attention’, not even giving you the time to tell him the majority were false. “Excuse me?” 

Your stomach coiled in anger at his words. Not only were you more than capable of doing your job, but you already had a therapist. With basket case parents like yours, it was blatantly obvious that therapy was required. But the audacity of your co-workers to gossip so much that it came to the point over half the points Charles brought up were complete BS was astounding. Not only that, but he’d apparently spent the last few days internet stalking you to try and find some of your demons. “Dr. Charles, do you consider me a danger or liability to any of the patients or doctors at this hospital because of my relationship with my parents?”

“No, you actually seem to be well balanced mentally.”

“Then what, on earth, made you think it was appropriate to go around behind my back asking everyone at the hospital their opinion about me and what happened at Molly’s, or stalk me online to try and get a read on me, and then ask me blatantly at work, in the middle of the shift, in front of all my co-workers and superiors? What made you think it was okay to loudly bombard me with rumours and hearsay while I’m working?”

“Well, I thought that since it’s my job to check on all the ED docs, I’d check on you.”

“... You’re joking, right? I am the only person in this department who goes to therapy. Don’t kid yourself, you don’t check on anyone here. You judge them and make sure they know it. And quite honestly, you don’t have the best reputation for looking out for the mental and emotional state of your colleagues. This confrontation was not only completely inappropriate, but rude, obnoxious, presumptuous, riddled with unchecked errors, and unprofessional.”

“That’s not how I would word it.”

“It’s how I see it, and how I’ll word it with HR.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

No one was pitying you anymore, not since the tongue lashing you gave Dr. Charles, who was on very thin ice with the hospital. While bringing up Robin and Sarah may have been a bit of a low blow, it exposed some issues with Dr. Charles that needed to be addressed. The only person who acted as if you were made of glass was Noah Sexton. While he had been a bit of a pain in the ass, this was worse. He was being sickeningly nice to you and it was getting on your last nerve. Yes, your parents were abusive. Yes, you had a messed up and traumatic childhood. But did that limit your abilities? No. Did that make you mentally unstable requiring therapy and fragility from your coworkers? Absolutely not.

He came in with coffee exactly the way you liked it, again. With a muffin, again. “You have to stop.”

“Stop what, Y/N?”

“Stop acting weird. You don’t like me, you hate me, actually. The only reason you’re being nice to me is because my parents resent my existence. I do not need or want your pity. So stop treating me like a china doll, and start treating me like your coworker.”

“Okay, okay, I uh... I’m sorry. I just, I feel guilty, okay? I gave you such a hard time for being so frigid and then when your parents showed up at Molly’s and started screaming at you for existing and having a life of your own, it just all made sense. And I gave you shit and trouble for coping with your crazy-ass parents. And then Dr. Charles came by to talk to you and I just felt even worse because even though I didn’t tell him anything, it was our fighting that put the spotlight on you in the first place. You shouldn’t have had your dirty laundry aired to the entire hospital, that’s happened to me a few times and it’s horrible, and I feel bad because I know that I was a contributing factor to all the shit you’ve had to deal with at work.”

“I get where you’re coming from, but let’s be real, everything would’ve turned out exactly the same way if you weren’t involved. The gossip mill runs strong at Gaffney.”

“Yeah, it does. I still feel bad.”

“Well, you’re forgiven then. So you can stop treading delicately, buying me coffee, and being creepily nice to me.”

“I am not being ‘creepily nice’! And how can being nice be creepy anyway?”

“Yesterday you followed me around offering to help me take my gloves on and off constantly, to the point where a patient who came in for falling out of the ceiling above the women’s changeroom said ‘that’s just weird’.”

“... Okay. I’ll stop. But I gotta be honest, I don’t think I can go back to arguing with you all the time.”

“That’s fine, just stop acting so weird that a couple I caught having kinky sex after an STD swab said ‘that made us really uncomfortable’.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice. Seriously, you didn’t have to tell me twice.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

SIX MONTHS LATER

You and Noah had actually managed to become good friends and roommates. Shortly after he started acting like a normal person around you, not an instigator or a psycho, you found yourself enjoying his company. And yesterday, when you’d come home to find your room completely torn apart by your mother because your father had tried to frame you for using weed, you were done. Most of what you owned had been destroyed in your mother’s search, which sucked, but it made packing up all your stuff into your car much easier.

So far you’d ignored 43 texts, 12 calls, two visits from Gabby when she brought in a patient, and one visit from Antonio who didn’t even bother trying to lie to you. He also threatened to impound your car, you threatened to tell Voight about the time he and Lindsay got drunk and hooked up. It didn’t even matter that she was in New York now, Voight wouldn’t even blink before bludgeoning him down. He swore at you, “how could you break mami’s heart like this?”, and “can’t you just behave and do what you’re told for once?”

You looked him dead in the eyes, heart beating erratically at you older brother supporting your parents belittling and abusing you, “You sound like dad Antonio.”, watched his face fall, and left. Noah stopped him when he went to follow you. “You good?”

“Uh, not really. I don’t have a place to go tonight.”

“Did your mom kick you out?”

“No, I left. I can’t do it anymore. I break out in hives whenever I even think about my mother now. I just can’t go back.”

“Well, you don’t have to. I have been looking for a roommate, we can move you into my place after shift.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Now come on, it’s prank week. Stohl pissed off Manning last week and she’s been planning revenge ever since, you do not want to miss this.”

And you didn’t. You entered the ED to find one of the most hated doctors in med spitting out Gatorade. “WHaT thE heLL?! That was sooo-ughghghg-” he couldn’t even finish his sentence before running to the doctor’s lounge to throw up in the bathroom. To Natalie’s credit, she didn’t crack a smile or react at all as she gracefully stepped over the spilled orange Gatorade. She briefly reminded you of a fae, graceful, beautiful, and cunning as all hell. You made a mental note never to cross her. Later at lunch, Natalie opened her sushi container, slightly deconstructed each piece, loaded all the pieces up with wasabi, reconstructed them, and popped one in her mouth. Everyone sitting near her had their eyes flash in recognition. Stohl had a habit of stealing other people’s food, and no matter how many times anyone told him to stop, they were just bullied into compliance. As a result, everyone had to dictate their food choices around his palette. Which meant no spicy food. Something that sucked for nearly everyone because hot food was a favourite for most people in the ED. But Manning wasn’t taking his shit. Not today. Something that worried everyone sitting around her because she would get in trouble for eating her own food how she liked it. It wasn’t until one of the HR workers, Holly, sat down beside Natalie and engaged in conversation that everyone realized the full scope of her plans. Stohl plopped down beside you and stole half of your sandwich right out of your hand. Ranting and raving, insulting everyone, stealing food, he made his way all around the circular cafeteria table until he got to Nat. He scooped up to pieces and threw them in his mouth just after he finished the words ‘insolent underlings’. Everyone held their breath as they watched his pale face redden exponentially. His eyes widened. And then he screamed. 

He yelled, he swore. “I’m going to report you to HR! You tried to poison me!”

“You stole food from everyone, something inappropriate, unethical, and unprofessional. You stole her food. That she made spicy to her tastes. She didn’t try to poison you.”

“And just who the fuck do you think you are?!”

“Holly Scott, from HR.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You and Noah were doing great, as roommates and as friends. “Hey, do you have any plans for dinner tonight? My parents invited me over for dinner and they asked me to extend an invite to you. It’s nothing major, they wanted to meet my previous roommates, too. Make sure you’re not a hooligan.”

“Okay, sounds fun. What should I bring?”

“Yourself...?”

“It’s rude to show up at someone else’s home without a gift.”

“You don’t need to bring my parents a gift.”

“Oh, I’m bringing a gift. I’m just asking you for some input.”

“Okay, well they really like wheelie shoes-”

“Ha, oh my god, I meant for what your parents would like, not you. And want wheelie shoes? Those have been out for a while, Noah.”

“Hey, do not laugh at me! They are just a very effective and fun way to get around.”

“Would you like them to light up too?”

“... Is that an option?”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You knocked on the door while Noah rolled his eyes at you. “I grew up here!”

“Well you don’t live here anymore and it’s rude to just barge into someone’s home and act like you own the place.”

“Oh, you must be Y/N! I wasn’t expecting anyone to knock, usually, Noah just barges in and acts like he owns the place. Come in, come in. It’s freezing outside.” You gave Noah a side-eyed smirk as you took off your coat, while he looked bashfully embarrassed. “Uh, here Ms. Sexton, I brought some homemade empanadas, they can be put in the fridge or kept in the freezer, and it’s best to reheat them in the oven. 350 F, ten minutes from the fridge and about 20 if they were put in the freezer.”

“Oh, you really didn’t have to do that.”

“I was raised that when you go over to someone’s house for dinner or an event, you bring a gift. And it was either this or a house plant.”

“Ha, good idea going with the food, it’s a Sexton family trait that will kill all the plants we touch. Thank you very much.”

“Hello, you must be Y/N. It;s wonderful to meet you- and what smells so good?”

“Y/N brought empanadas, and they are going away so that you and I can enjoy them later. Now everyone, to the dining room, dinner is just about done.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Things started to change a bit a few months later when Choi had to physically restrain Noah from attacking a drunk bar fight patient who called you a slut in the middle of the ED. You’d been confused but Maggie just kept saying that it was a matter of time.

When you’d been hanging around at Molly’s with Noah, Sarah, and Darren, Noah had his arm casually wrapped around your shoulders, something your sister gave you the eyebrow for from her place at the bar.

After you’d been mugged and beaten, you’d run to the 21st, where your brother promptly unleashed the most fearsome demon hell has ever cowered from, AKA Hank Voight, he also called Noah. And when your brother finally made an arrest and got Voight to calm down a little, he’d entered the breakroom to find you fast asleep, curled up against Noah. Who sat in an incredibly uncomfortable position, holding you and stroking your back. You missed the dark look that crossed his face, or the one of fear that had crossed Noah’s but something of an understanding had fallen to Noah. The two of you needed to talk.

So you did, and it went well, so well that you planned a date. Then another one. And another one, until you two had been dating for six months and figured it was time to tell your families. You were shaking in your boots, the Sexton’s were all incredibly close and incredibly doting on Noah, so even though they liked you, you had absolutely no clue as to what the reaction would be. To your relief, it was happiness, they loved you as much as Noah apparently, and they relished in the changed you’d caused in Noah.

Your family, on the other hand, did not react well. Which was why you’d made sure that you told them in a very public place, and had only ordered waters before you told them. There was yelling, screaming, your father waving his arms around so much Antonio had to use his cop voice on him. In the end, you and Noah had been there for around five minutes before throwing some cash at the waitress as a tip for leaving her with your family, and hauling ass out of there. The two of you had ended up just eating pizza on the boardwalk in your fancy clothes and heading back to the apartment late.You both had work the next day, but while you were an intern, Noah was not. And while you were off giving a patient a sponge bath, your siblings cornered Noah at the nurses desk. “Sexton, is there a place the three of us can talk?”

“Uh, sure, this conference room is free...”

“Perfect.”

“So, I take it this is about-”

“Nuh-uh. You do not talk. We do.”

“You are dating our baby sister.”

“We may not be as close to her as you are with your sister, but she still means a lot to us.”

“We love her. We are two people with some pretty dangerous skills. It is for these two reasons that you will not hurt her. Ever.”

“And if you do, don’t forget who I work with.”

“No one will ever find your body.”

“Are we clear?”

“Uh, hmmh... Clear. Crystal clear.”

“Good. Now do you know where Y/N is? We’d like to take the both of you out to lunch or something, just the four of us, to make up for the dinner of many disasters.”

[elizabear]

body language will do the trick

OK, so I know this is going to be fully AU in about five seconds when The Falcon and the Winter Soldier airs, but those couples counseling scenes in the trailer got me WAY TOO EXCITED and I really couldn't help myself.

Title: body language will do the trick

Rating: Explicit

Category: M/M

Relationship: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes (background Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanoff)

Additional tags: frenemies to lovers, coworkers to lovers, couples counseling, because sam and bucky can’t stop flirting at work, post-avengers endgame, but it’s au because, steve rogers isn’t old, and natasha romanoff lives, captain america sam wilson, shield agent bucky barnes, past steve rogers/bucky barnes, but it’s minor, bucky and sam fall in love, but COMPETITIVELY, oral sex, anal sex, tender railing, idiots in love, praise kink

Words: 12,598

Link to AO3: here

Summary:

“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”

Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”

Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.

“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.

Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.

Bucky Barnes is pretty sure that these counseling sessions—supposedly for Bucky and Sam’s “interpersonal issues”—are Director Fury’s revenge for that whole fake assassination situation. Which, to be fair to Fury, came about as the result of Bucky’s very real assassination attempt, even if the subsequent “assassination” was fake, so Bucky can’t exactly blame Fury there. What Bucky doesn’t understand is why their possibly-fake counselor—is she a real counselor, or just another one of Fury’s spies?—chooses to conduct her “therapy” sessions in the unlikely and frankly suspicious location of an underground bunker.

Dr. Carson’s therapy bunker is probably just a temporary location, since usable office facilities with running water and electricity are still pretty limited after the Blip, but Bucky was definitely under the impression that modern American therapists’ offices were supposed to be more soothing than this. He’d expected a bland but tasteful space filled with a cushy sofa and watercolor paintings and the calming sounds of nature recordings. Instead, Bucky and Sam are sitting in uncomfortable chairs in a dim room with bare cement walls and unflattering fluorescent lighting. Is Fury even trying to sell this fake counseling op?

Bucky and Sam’s counselor/interrogator is most definitely hostile. Although Dr. Carson looks lovely in her delicate green silk blouse and expensive silk scarf, her expression is stern and sour. She’s styled her glossy dark hair neatly, in gentle waves that summon a distant memory of the way women used to wear their hair in the 1940s, and Bucky wonders if this is Dr. Carson’s authentic style or if it’s just part of another SHIELD spy game, meant to trick or manipulate Bucky into confiding in Dr. Carson because she looks familiar and nonthreatening.

Bucky considers it an insult to the memory of Peggy Carter if Fury thinks he could’ve worked with Carter for two years in the SSR and still underestimate a woman just because she has nice hair and a pretty outfit.

Also, if Dr. Carson’s trying to lull Bucky into a false sense of security, why is she doing it in this weird basement?

Honestly this whole counseling thing really does seem like it’s secretly just a poorly planned interrogation.

Like right now. Dr. Carson asks, “Are you having a staring contest?” and Bucky isn’t going to disclose valuable intel by admitting that while Sam is definitely having a staring contest with him, Bucky is just using this as an excuse to look into Sam’s eyes, which are warm and brown and make Bucky feel all sorts of confusing things. Bucky is trained to resist interrogation, and that piece of information definitely falls under the category of “unexpected and alarming potential weaknesses.”

Also Bucky’s still sort of figuring out how he feels about Sam’s whole eye and face and shoulder situation, so the staring contest is actually a pretty great cover for whatever the fuck is really going on with him. Half of successfully surviving an interrogation is letting your captors fill in the blanks themselves and then pretending like their waterboarding is the worst thing you’ve ever endured.

Unfortunately, while Bucky is congratulating himself on successfully maintaining operations security—and winning their staring contest, no reason he can’t do both at once—Dr. Carson seems to reach her limit for the amount of shit she’s willing to endure from them today.

“You’re not taking this seriously.” Dr. Carson shoots them with a hard glare. “I’m giving you a five minute break, and if you’re not ready to open up and work on your communication and compatibility issues, I’m going to have to advise Fury to put you both on leave.”

Bucky’s fine with being put on leave, and he’s fully prepared to wait out SHIELD, Fury, and Dr. Carson. It took HYDRA fifteen years to break him down enough to send him out on missions, and no matter how much they tortured him Bucky didn’t shed so much as a single tear until they showed him newspaper headlines about what a bad pilot Steve turned out to be.

Also, Bucky’s not entirely sure that he’s not actually immortal, so he figures his patience will probably far outlast Fury’s determination to punish him for shooting him a few times when he didn’t even die. Actually, now that Bucky thinks about it, Fury’s probably less mad about the whole fake assassination thing than he is about Steve forcing him to offer Bucky a job and then grit out the most begrudging apology Bucky has ever heard in his life for SHIELDRA holding Bucky hostage as a brainwashed assassin while Fury was the Director of SHIELD. Right in front of Captain Marvel, too, Fury’s favorite Avenger, who had looked very disappointed in him. Apparently Danvers had her own history as a superpowered amnesiac brainwashed into working for the bad guys? Bucky’s unclear on the details, but when Danvers’s mouth tightened and her head shook in dismay, Nick Fury’s shoulders had slumped like a chastened schoolboy.

God, Steve is such a dick sometimes. Bucky loves him so much.

Dr. Carson’s high heels make clipped little clicking noises that speak volumes about her frustration with them as she strides purposefully out of the room. As soon as she closes the door, so firmly that Bucky can just tell that she had to have put conscious, controlled effort into not slamming it behind her, Bucky turns to Sam with a satisfied grin.

“Well, I think we’re doing great,” Bucky says. “SHIELD’s going to have to work a lot harder to get any real intel out of us, and I was definitely promised that they wouldn’t be using any drugs or brainwashing techniques this time so I think we’re going to nail this whole interrogation.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “This is therapy, man, not an interrogation. We’re supposed to be, like, opening up and becoming a better team.”

“Yeah, well, if this is real therapy then where are the goats?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow toward the most likely location of the nearest camera as if to say gotcha, Fury, your goatless fake therapy interrogation tactic isn’t fooling me.

“I’m sorry, goats? Why would there be goats?”

Bucky leans back in his chair and folds his hands behind his head. “I’m just saying, in Wakanda I always got to hang out with animals when I did therapy. And look how great that turned out! I hardly ever kill anyone anymore, and when I do it’s on purpose because I decided to. Anyway, I really feel like this is all just a plot by SHIELD to find out why we—”

Bucky and Sam bicker for a while about whether or not this is real therapy until they’re interrupted by Dr. Carson’s return, her face looking a little damp now, like maybe she spent her time away from them splashing water on it and doing some deep breathing exercises in the bathroom.

“OK,” says Dr. Carson, visibly relaxing her spine. “We’re going to take a new approach. Have you heard of the five love languages?”

Sam’s eyes widen in horror. “No, we are not doing the five love languages.”

Bucky hasn’t heard of the five love languages, but he can tell from the look on Sam’s face that they definitely don’t want to do this, and Bucky’s pretty good at improvising when he needs to. “Oh, you know, I think HYDRA already implanted the five love languages in my brain when they were doing the rest of the Romance languages. So we can just skip those, I already know them.”

Bucky offers Dr. Carson his blandest and most innocent smile, the same one that sometimes worked on Sister Mary Angela back at old St. Charles Borromeo, but Dr. Carson’s face remains as stony and unmoved as the church itself, still standing in Brooklyn Heights in the year of our Lord 2023. Instead she says, “I think we need to take a couples therapy approach.”

“Couples therapy,” Sam repeats, sinking lower in his chair. Bucky winces as Sam’s knee starts to crush his balls.

“According to this file,” Dr. Carson says, opening it up to read aloud, “the two of you are here because your colleagues have complained about your, quote, romantically-charged bickering, your constant flirting, and your unnecessarily sexual sparring.”

Dr. Carson punctuates these damning statements with some truly savage air quotes.

“Listen, when I slap Sam’s bare ass in the locker room after a good sparring session it’s with purely collegial respect for a worthy opponent,” Bucky says, folding his arms across his chest. “I only ever treat Sam with the same level of professional respect I give Steve and Natasha.”

Sam nods in support. “Steve and Natasha never have a problem getting sweaty and physical with us, and I’ve personally witnessed Steve and Natasha slap Bucky’s ass dozens of times.”

Dr. Carson raises a single judgmental eyebrow. “Don’t you think there might be a reason why Fury’s banned the four of you from using the gym at the same time?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “The other SHIELD agents get intimidated by Sam’s shredded abs and Steve’s and my super strength. Plus everyone’s scared of Natasha.”

Dr. Carson closes her eyes and visibly counts to ten. Bucky can see her mouth forming the words.

“All right, we’re just going to move on here, because I’m really only able to deal with just the one dysfunctional relationship at a time.” Dr. Carson passes them some worksheets and pencils. “I want you to fill these out, honestly, and then hand them back to me when you’re done.”

Bucky reads over the worksheets, which are filled with questions like, “Do you like it more when your partner reacts positively to something you’ve accomplished or when they do something for you that you know they don’t particularly enjoy?” There are a lot of questions about hugging, and holding hands, and Bucky gets distracted trying to picture holding hands with Sam, who has big hands, strong and capable and—

“Stop trying to copy my answers,” Sam says, when he notices Bucky glancing over at the way Sam grips his pen as he fills out his worksheet. Sam shoves his knee harder into Bucky’s crotch and Bucky stifles a gasp.

“I’m not!”

“Bucky, stop cheating.” Dr. Carson presses her lips together in a severe frown.

Bucky scowls and scooches his chair back several inches. It makes a loud scraping sound as it drags against the cement floor. But before going back to filling out his form, Bucky gives Sam’s ankle a sharp kick for getting him in trouble with Dr. Carson, and the two of them engage in a brief but brutal silent kicking war below the front of the desk where Dr. Carson can’t see.

When Bucky and Sam finish their kicking war and their quizzes, they hand their worksheets back to Dr. Carson for grading and rub their shins as they wait.

“Bucky, your primary love language is words of affirmation, and your secondary love language is physical touch,” Dr. Carson announces. “And Sam, your primary love language is acts of service, while your secondary love language is quality time.”

Bucky frowns. On the one hand, he feels like he’s received some pretty valuable intel about Sam that he could use to his benefit. But on the other hand, he’s probably given up some valuable intel of his own. He wishes there hadn’t been so many questions that made him think about hugging and touching Sam—somehow those made him so distracted that he forgot to respond with lies.

Bucky’s stomach knots up a bit at the thought of Sam learning his potential weaknesses, but really, how much of a psyop could Sam possibly launch with the results from a couples counseling questionnaire? (Natasha could probably execute a successful psyop based on the information from a Buzzfeed quiz meant to reveal your “celebrity mom,” so Bucky really hopes Sam doesn’t talk to Natasha about this.)

“Your homework is to try to learn to speak each other’s language.” Dr. Carson stands up and walks around the desk to touch Bucky’s shoulder. “Good job today, Bucky.”

Bucky smiles, and the knot in his stomach releases a bit. He is so nailing this therapy thing, he knew he’d be better at it than Sam.

Dr. Carson helps Sam back into his coat as she ushers them toward the door, and Bucky’s pretty sure she’s meant to be modeling an act of service except that mostly it seems like she’s just trying to rush them out of the office.

“See you next week.” Dr. Carson smiles stiffly, like she is not at all looking forward to seeing them next week. Her expression is full of determined professionalism right up until the click of the door latch, and then Bucky hears a dull thudding noise that is pretty unmistakably the sound of Dr. Carson hitting her head against the doorframe.

“There’s no way you’re going to win this,” Bucky tells Sam. “I am going to love language the shit out of you.”

Sam gives him a considering look. “You do seem like you’d be really good at that.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush with heat. “Thanks, pal, I—”

Sam smirks, and Bucky’s eyes narrow. He shoves his elbow into Sam’s side and stalks off, leaving Sam cackling behind him.

“Your ass looks great today!” Sam yells.

Bucky reaches up to flip Sam the bird, and he definitely does not feel grateful that he wore his good jeans today. Bucky’s ass looks great every day.

***

They’re on a mission together the next day, battling some Doombots in New Jersey, and wow is Sam committed to this whole words of affirmation thing.

When Bucky deflects a punch aimed straight for Sam’s head with his vibranium arm, Sam whistles and says, “Nice save, man, you’re killing it today.” Warmth rises up in Bucky’s chest at Sam’s praise, and Bucky is filled with panic and dismay when he realizes that the fight to squash it back down is honestly more taxing than their battle against Doombots. There’s absolutely no reason Bucky should be having such a physical reaction to basic battle camaraderie.

When Bucky stretches his leg up above his head to nail one of the bots with a vicious kick, Sam smirks and gives him a distinct how-you-doing sort of nod. “That was—seriously hot, man. Have you been doing yoga or something?”

So apparently Sam is choosing to interpret words of affirmation as “wild flirtation,” and Bucky’s cheeks are choosing to betray him by radiating at Sam’s attention. Bucky knows there’s a flush spreading down his neck, and he’s hoping Sam will attribute it to exertion from the fight, because there’s no way Bucky can let Sam know that Sam’s sort of winning at their therapy homework—not when Bucky’s entire mental health journey and, like, the honor of the Wakandan animal-assisted therapy program is at stake.

But after they board the Quinjet and set the autopilot on a course back to New York, Sam gives Bucky a slow up-and-down perusal with his eyes, and Bucky feels Sam’s gaze like a physical touch. “You look really good after a fight, Buck. That messed up hair and pretty pink blush are giving me all kinds of ideas.”

Bucky’s cock twitches at that, and huh. Bucky blinks and looks down at his crotch.

So that’s working again.

A dirty smirk spreads across Sam’s face, like maybe Sam knows exactly what just happened inside Bucky’s pants, and fuck, this whole situation is spiraling rapidly out of Bucky’s control. Like, yeah, Bucky kept Sam from getting a pretty gnarly concussion, and that was probably an act of service, right? But it’s pretty clear, to both of them, that Sam is winning this competition, and Bucky is not about to go down without a fight.

Which is—an idea.

Bucky drops to his knees in front of Sam and bites his lip in a way that he knows, instinctively, will make him look hot. Sam inhales sharply in response, and Bucky reaches up to grasp Sam by the hips before he can take a step backwards. The material of Sam’s uniform bunches up and shifts under Bucky’s hands, and fuck, Bucky’s cock is aching now, throbbing and filling up in his tight uniform pants. Bucky forgot he could feel so good.

“What are you doing,” Sam protests in a half-assed sort of way.

“Servicing you,” Bucky replies with a wicked grin, sliding Sam’s zipper down slowly over his thickening cock. Bucky can’t remember if he’s done this before, but the way his mouth waters and his throat aches in anticipation makes him feel pretty fucking confident about how this is going to go down.

But before Bucky can pull Sam’s cock out of his briefs, Sam slides his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tips his head gently backward, using his other hand to tilt Bucky’s chin up to look into Sam’s face. Sam’s pretty brown eyes are already darkening with arousal, but his expression is serious.

“You don’t have to suck my dick for therapy, man.”

Bucky huffs. “Sam, this is the first time my dick’s been hard since 1945. Do you know how many times Steve’s let me watch him jerk off trying to heIp me get hard again? I am definitely not doing this only to win at therapy, pal.”

Sam’s hands freeze in Bucky’s hair and his cock swells visibly in his briefs. “I’m sorry, Steve let you do what now? Dude, I thought Steve was straight.”

“Oh, he’s definitely, like, straight-ish,” Bucky assures Sam, with a little so-so wave of his hand that hopefully conveys the correct amount of ambiguity there. “He’s mostly just a really great friend.”

Sam’s eyes close for a long moment, and then Bucky’s scalp stings when Sam clenches his fist in Bucky’s hair and pulls. “Jesus,” mutters Sam, his voice gruff and husky. “Yeah, OK, baby. Go ahead and suck my dick.”

Bucky’s heart pounds as he pulls Sam’s cock out of his briefs and licks a wet stripe up the length of it, groaning at the feel of Sam’s skin under his tongue. Sam tastes salty with sweat, and his scent is musky and thick after their fight with the Doombots. Bucky teases him for a while, the way he’s seen people do in porn, trailing wet kisses along the shaft and mouthing at the head, and Sam lets out a ragged moan when Bucky’s mouth finally engulfs him. Bucky’s feeling pretty cocky about this, loves the rush of power he feels as Sam’s hips twitch and jerk to keep from thrusting into Bucky’s mouth—but then Sam fucking escalates shit, because Sam is an asshole.

“Christ, you feel good,” Sam murmurs, reaching down to rub his thumb against Bucky’s mouth, stretched wide around Sam’s cock. “You look so pretty with my dick in your mouth.”

And then Bucky’s the one moaning, eyelids fluttering shut and heat coursing down his spine at the sound of Sam’s husky voice. Bucky should have expected Sam to counter his act of service with more words of affirmation, but somehow he wasn’t prepared for the unbearable ache he’d feel at Sam’s dirty talk. Bucky feels inexperienced, outclassed at this sort of sexual warfare, and the only way he can retaliate is by sinking as far down on Sam’s cock as his throat will allow him. He reaches up to grab Sam’s hips, urging him to fuck his mouth, and then he hums a little inside his head to try to tune out the sound of Sam’s praise.

“Fuck,” says Sam. “God, that’s it, baby. You take it so well, Buck. So fucking good for me.”

Bucky whines, his jaw aching, eyes filling with tears as Sam’s cock stretches his mouth open. Sam keeps offering him filthy praise as he slides his mouth up and down Sam’s thick cock, and Bucky doesn’t know why this is doing it for him when all of Steve’s pale skin and strong thighs and big dick couldn’t, but maybe seventy years of torture and captivity have left Bucky with a few new kinks. Or maybe Bucky’s just healing or whatever. Bucky honestly doesn’t care, as long as Sam keeps letting him fill his throat with Sam’s dick.

Sam’s voice is rough when he says, “God, you fucking love it, don’t you,” and Bucky pulls off Sam’s cock just long enough to nod eagerly and gasp for air before diving back in. “Take your dick out, baby. I want you to come sucking my cock.”

Bucky’s rhythm stutters at that, his hand reaching down to pull his cock out of his uniform pants. He wants to be so fucking good for Sam, wants to come just how Sam says, wants Sam to keep telling him how good he looks, how much he loves fucking Bucky’s mouth, how much he likes giving it to him.

Sam’s praise grows hotter and filthier as he gets closer, and Bucky whimpers as he feels his own orgasm approaching. God, he hasn’t come in so long, hasn’t felt that hot rush and that familiar ache in his balls in forever and he wants it, wants to come, he just needs—

“Come on, baby, come for me, I know you can do it, just keep sucking my cock, God, you look so good, baby, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

And Bucky spirals over the edge, cock pulsing and spilling over his fist. He lets out a choked moan around Sam’s dick before his mouth is flooded with bitter, salty fluid. And then Bucky feels so fucking full, like he could drown happily in Sam’s smell and his taste and his fucking words of affirmation.

Fuck.

Bucky definitely did not win that round.

***

The whole blow job thing was an outstanding idea, really, one of Bucky’s best. But fuck, he did not anticipate Sam using that as an opportunity to completely turn the tables and affirm the shit out of him. Bucky can’t help but privately acknowledge to himself that Sam is completely winning at love languages so far.

They’re in counseling the next week, still in Dr. Carson’s depressing therapy bunker, and honestly, Bucky can’t imagine that this setting is good for, like, anybody’s mental health. His therapy in Wakanda always took place outdoors, under the warm African sun, surrounded by the wild, earthy smells of mud and animals and Lake Turkana. It made him feel open and free and connected to nature or whatever. It was peaceful.

Therapy at SHIELD is not very peaceful, especially because Dr. Carson clearly hates them, and she isn’t at all impressed by what Bucky considers some very impressive progress by them. Bucky and Sam are getting along.

“So,” Dr. Carson begins, apparently deciding to just start right off with more hurtful accusations from their colleagues, “according to Carl from the gun range, the two of you have been subjecting your coworkers to your, quote, uncomfortable bickering-slash-foreplay, and Maria Hill reports that you’re still, quote, cluttering up comms during missions with the most embarrassing flirting I have ever heard, I hate it so much.”

Dr. Carson’s air quotes are fucking vicious.

Despite the fact that they’ve only just started their session, Dr. Carson looks tense and aggravated already. She’s wearing another pretty silk blouse today, but her earrings don’t seem to match and it looks like she didn’t bother to curl her hair today. Maybe she just realized that Bucky wasn’t fooled by those forties waves?

Also, even though it’s Friday, Dr. Carson’s giving off a very Monday sort of vibe.

“Sam and I are working on it, OK?” Bucky says, with a mulish set to his jaw. “Obviously I’m doing my best here, but it’s hard to do therapy in a cement basement that gives me flashbacks to 1970s HYDRA facilities where I was tortured. And there aren’t even any pets at all to comfort me. Didn’t you receive the note from my Wakandan therapist stating that I require animals during therapy?”

A blood vessel in Dr. Carson’s forehead throbs, and she raises her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I’ll see if I can get us a room upstairs for our next session, but I’m telling you for the last time that we don’t have any therapy goats.”

“Well, I don’t have any issues doing therapy without goats,” Sam says, like the worst sort of teacher’s pet. God, Sam’s teachers probably loved his charming smile and his quick wit and his stupid handsome face. “Maybe Bucky is using the goats as an emotional crutch.”

“Listen, goat therapy works, OK?” Bucky counts out on his fingers as he lists the many examples of real progress he’s made since his time as a goat farmer in Wakanda. “I started off as an amnesiac brainwashed assassin, and now I have a steady job, a haircut, an apartment leased under my own shell companies, and I only kill people when I want to kill people now. And I wash my hair regularly. And if I don’t wash my hair, I use dry shampoo. And I don’t turn into a mindless killing machine when people speak Russian at me.”

“Dude,” Sam says.

“Anyway, it’s fine if you’re not as good at therapy as me.”

“Not as—not as good at therapy as you? Man, I am a certified peer specialist. I was so good at my own therapy that they let me give other people therapy,” Sam says, throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Yeah, in America, where they’re not even familiar with things like advanced goat therapy.” Bucky clucks his tongue and shakes his head. “Did you even keep up with your continuing education requirements while you were fugitives with Steve?”

Sam sinks lower in his seat and frowns. “No. But speaking of Steve,” Sam says, perking up a bit as he follows a new thread of argument. “Whose PTSD recovery was so complete and inspirational that Steve Rogers trusted them with the responsibility of carrying the Captain America shield, hm?”

“Listen, Steve is reckless as shit and he’s so irresponsible with that shield that he’s constantly losing it in rivers and getting it broken by alien supervillains,” Bucky points out. “I’m so recovered that the king of an entire country, a man so responsible that they put him in charge of running literally everything in the most advanced nation on the planet, trusted me with a prosthetic arm powerful enough to crush the skull of an ordinary man with a single blow. Probably even his skull, and he’s been enhanced by some weird plant that makes him even stronger than Steve.”

“Yeah, well, I’m so recovered that—”

Dr. Carson interrupts them here, pinching the bridge of her nose. “OK, listen, I think there’s actually something pretty interesting here in how you each relate your recovery to your ability to wield weapons. Why don’t we stop bickering and discuss that a little further?”

“Yeah, OK,” Bucky mumbles.

Sam sighs heavily. “Fine.”

***

So the blow job thing is working perfectly—like, so perfectly, God, Sam’s dick is amazing—except for the fact that Sam is able to talk the entire time. Words of affirmation spill from Sam’s pretty lips every time Bucky swallows his cock, and Bucky is still fucking losing the love languages competition.

It’s time to create a Pinterest strategy board to figure this thing out.

Bucky is a visual planner, and he believes in tactical flexibility. He might not remember a lot about sex, but there’s tons of porn on the Internet. He just needs to find a couple of ways to service Sam while Sam’s mouth is otherwise occupied. How hard could that be?

After a lot of research and the creation of several Pinterest mood boards, Bucky calls Steve down the hall to his apartment to help him out. They all live in the same building since it has the best security in the city—and Bucky and Natasha are very particular about security—and it makes sense for the four of them to basically live together when they already spend all their time together. When Steve arrives, they head right to Bucky’s bedroom, get undressed, and survey the porn board on Bucky’s laptop.

“OK, so what about sixty-nine,” Steve suggests. “Let’s try that.”

They get themselves into position, mouths hovering over each other’s flaccid dicks like totally normal best friends.

“See, I feel like this works, but is it really servicing Sam if he’s, like, servicing me at the same time?” Bucky flops over onto his back in frustration and worries at his lower lip with his teeth.

Steve nods and tilts his head in thought. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Depending on the grading rubric, the two acts might cancel each other out. How about rimming?”

“I feel like rimming is a great idea, and I definitely want to do that, but how do I shut him up while I do it?”

Steve frowns. “Can you reach up and cover his mouth with your hand? Hold on, let me bend over and we’ll see.” Steve gets on his hands and knees, tilting his ass up for Bucky to simulate a rim job.

“You know, your ass really is kind of amazing.” Bucky takes a moment to admire the jewel of Howard Stark’s empire. “I mean, it was cute as hell when you were little too, but Scott Lang definitely wasn’t wrong in that podcast episode about which superhero has America’s ass. Don’t tell Sam I said that, by the way.”

“Thanks, pal,” Steve says, flashing Bucky a quick grin. “Your ass is great too, Sam’s a lucky guy. Now bend over and pretend to rim me.”

Bucky leans down and uses his hand to cover Steve’s exposed hole, then presses his mouth against the back of his hand to simulate a rim job. He reaches forward with his other arm to see if he can put his vibranium hand over Steve’s mouth. He could—maybe? If he releases the catch on his shoulder?

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Bucky says with a frown. “Here, maybe try getting on your back and holding onto your legs?”

“Like this?” Steve asks, shifting gamely into position. Bucky folds him over and pretends to rim him while covering Steve’s mouth, which—works, actually. And this is probably the most erotic scene Bucky’s ever been a part of—Steve really does look incredible like this—so it’s kind of a shame that it does absolutely nothing whatsoever for Bucky’s dick.

Except then Bucky pictures Sam in Steve’s position, bent over and whining under Bucky’s vibranium hand, and Bucky’s cock gives a little twitch. Fuck.

Bucky sighs and releases Steve with a short nod. “Not bad, pal. I think this one’s gonna work. Let’s write it down.”

They test out a few more positions, taking careful notes on the comfort and degree of mouth coverage of each one. Bucky finds a few more pictures to add to his Pinterest board, and they sort through every image and assign them to the correct position number. Then Bucky and Steve print off their pictures and tape them to Bucky’s wall for inspiration, mapping out a sequence of actions that will lead to orgasms for both Sam and Bucky with a minimum amount of talking on Sam’s part.

Which is a shame, really. Sam’s dirty talk really does it for Bucky.

Still nude, Bucky and Steve stand in front of the vision board and assess the plan.

“I think position two is really going to work,” Steve says, stroking his chin, and Bucky’s brain flashes back to an image of Steve in pretty much this exact pose, assessing a map of HYDRA facilities in Western Europe with no less gravity and passion. God, Steve Rogers is a great fucking friend. “And if you really want to service the guy, I mean, you’ve already got him all loose and open. You might as well give him your dick too, right?”

Bucky nods in agreement. “Yeah, I mean, as long as I keep kissing him, he won’t be able to affirm me too much. I think this really is the winning scenario.”

“Great teamwork, pal,” Steve says, slapping Bucky’s bare ass. “This was fun! Just like the old days.”

Bucky smiles wistfully. “Yeah, there’s nothing like planning an op with The Man With the Plan. Hey, you want to grab dinner after this?”

“Nah,” Steve says, too-casually, angling his pelvis away from Bucky as he pulls his pants back on. “I think I’m gonna go see if Natasha’s busy.”

Bucky grins. “Give her my best.”

“Will do. Love you, pal,” Steve says, giving Bucky a quick kiss before he leaves.

Steve doesn’t bother putting a shirt on before he goes, and Bucky can hear him whistling cheerfully all the way down to Nat’s apartment.

***

Steve and Bucky’s plan was great, so naturally it goes to shit as soon as Sam gets involved.

Bucky’s sucking Sam’s dick, which OK, yeah, wasn’t technically in the plan, but God, Sam’s got such a great dick. How far behind can Bucky really fall in the standings from just one blow job?

“Your mouth feels so fucking good, baby,” Sam says, sliding his long fingers through Bucky’s hair—which Bucky washed before he came over, because he is killing it as a recovered assassin and also because this afternoon Sam grabbed his hips and leaned in, breath hot against Bucky’s ear, and murmured how much he wants to smell Bucky’s shampoo on his pillows tomorrow morning.

Which was both smooth as hell and very convincing. Bucky immediately bought like three more bottles of that shit and accepted Sam’s invitation over to his apartment that night.

So now they’re in Sam’s apartment, and Bucky’s sliding his mouth along Sam’s cock, and Sam’s telling him how much he loves the way Bucky sucks him, loves the way Bucky’s pretty face looks with Sam’s cock in his mouth, lips slick with spit and tears leaking out of his eyes. And then Sam says—

“Are you gonna let me fuck you tonight, baby? Gonna let me see how well you take it?”

And before Bucky knows it, he’s moaning around Sam’s cock and nodding his head, and Sam’s pulling a condom and lube out of the side drawer, and then Bucky’s face down on Sam’s bed, gasping and clenching around Sam’s long fingers.

When Sam finally turns him over and pushes inside him, Bucky feels his brain just—fully vacate his skull. Pleasure buzzes up and down Bucky’s spine like an electric current, and he’s only barely conscious of the wet-sounding gasp that comes out of his mouth when Sam finally slides all the way home.

Sam gives it to him slow and sweet, fucking into him at a dreamy, leisurely pace as Bucky grabs fistfuls of Sam’s sheets and scrabbles at any leverage he can get to try and push back against Sam’s cock. Bucky wants Sam to grab his hips and pound him hard, overwhelm him with stimulation and keep him from sinking under the gentle wave of that languid rhythm. It’s too intimate, too vulnerable, and Bucky’s chest is cracking wide open for Sam to look inside. He’s a little afraid of what Sam might see within him, but instead Sam’s expression is full of awe, his face open and tender as he runs a thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, so fucking sweet for me.”

There’s a lot of eye contact after that, and romantic face touching, and Sam telling Bucky how much he loves the way he feels, loves the way he looks and smells and tastes. Warmth pools deep in Bucky’s gut, spreading through his veins like the burn of whiskey, until Bucky feels like he’s going to burst into flames around Sam’s cock. Instead he comes, long and hard and messy, all over his stomach.

Sam’s eyes are hot as he looks down at the sight of Bucky’s abs covered in pearly fluid, and then he slams his hips into Bucky three more times, hard, before groaning and collapsing on top of him.

Fuck, Bucky thinks.

He takes a few minutes to catch his breath, and then suppresses a half-hearted sigh when he realizes that he completely blew the plan. Like, yes, that was some fucking amazing sex, Sam gave him the dicking of a lifetime, but somehow Bucky ended up even further behind in the love language competition. How does Sam keep winning?

It’s too late now to offer another act of service. Even if Bucky could get it up again, Sam definitely couldn’t.

Shit.

But wait, what was Sam’s secondary love language? Quality time? Perfect.

Bucky rolls over to give Sam a few open-mouthed kisses on his shoulder. Sam is sweaty from exertion, and he tastes salty and amazing. God, Sam is the best.

“You mind if I stay the night, sweetheart?” Bucky murmurs.

Sam’s lips curve up in a soft and pleased smile. “Yeah, baby, I was hoping you would.”

“C’mere, you can be the little spoon,” Bucky says, reaching around Sam’s waist to reel him in, and Sam huffs out a surprised grunt and then a happy sigh when Bucky wraps his arms and leg around him.

They fall asleep within minutes, and it turns out Sam really was into the smell of Bucky on his pillows because they fuck again in the morning, and this time Bucky forgets to keep track of who’s winning at therapy homework.

***

They fuck constantly after that, which is amazing, but unfortunately Bucky is still staying in this game only by the skin of his teeth. Like, yes, Bucky is performing acts of service for Sam on the regular, but somehow Bucky finds his self-control dissolving like sugar melting into caramel when Sam spreads him out under his dirty mouth and his clever hands.

So now when Sam collapses on top of him at night, fucked out and shaking, Bucky nuzzles his face into the back of Sam’s neck and wraps his arm around him to pull him close. Bucky stays the night, every night, and at work he sticks to Sam more tightly than one of Steve Rogers’s t-shirts. But the more quality time Bucky offers Sam, the more acts of service Bucky ends up performing—which, sure, sounds like a plan that would put Bucky pretty solidly in the lead, except for how Bucky always ends up a sobbing, needy mess dripping onto Sam’s sheets while Sam smirks and tells him how good Bucky is for him.

They fight together even better now, in sync in a way that Bucky hasn’t felt since he worked with the Howling Commandos, and when they finish a skirmish they turn to each other, flushed and grinning, flying high on adrenaline and oxytocin and arousal. They kiss savagely, mouths wet and open, and they don’t care who hears them pant and groan over the comms.

“God, you were so fucking hot—”

“Sam, yes, god, please—”

Bucky and Sam have died and come back to life already this year and somehow they’re still bringing each other back to life. Bucky swaggers through SHIELD headquarters with champagne flowing through his veins, bright and bubbly, and Fury yells at them twice for passing dirty notes to each other during briefings. They’re obnoxious about it, obvious and messy and shameless, and Bucky’s pretty sure that Maria Hill is going to resign in protest if she has to work surveillance for even one more of their ops.

Somehow they’re generating even more complaints to HR than before.

***

Dr. Carson has finally managed to find them a room with a window for their counseling sessions. They’re on the fifth floor, and there’s not much of a view—just the brick wall of the building next to them—but sunlight streams in through the sheer curtains and highlights the cut ridges of Sam’s frankly incredible cheekbones. God, Sam’s so fucking handsome.

Bucky and Sam are grinning broadly, but Dr. Carson looks stressed out and irritated today, even though they just started the appointment. Her hair is stringy and a little greasy at the roots, and Bucky wonders if Dr. Carson knows about dry shampoo. He isn’t sure how to ask, or if it would be rude to offer her a few sprays from the travel bottle he keeps in one of the pockets of his tactical pants? She’s still wearing a nice silk blouse, but it looks like she’s buttoned it incorrectly, and the tail is hanging out of the top of her slacks.

Are those even slacks? They kind of look like yoga pants.

Privately, Bucky thinks that an outsider might be hard pressed to figure out which of them was supposed to be the mental patient here. Are Bucky and Sam actually driving this woman insane?

“So you’re sleeping together.” Dr. Carson’s tone is flat and dismayed. “You know this is against SHIELD employee regulations, don’t you?”

She taps her pen against their folders in agitation, and Bucky wonders if those folders are their actual permanent records. Does Bucky’s folder still have all of the notes from Sister Mary Angela about his “distracting” and “unnaturally close” relationship with Steve? God, Sister Mary Angela hated Steve.

Sam waves a careless hand and props his ankle up on his other knee. “We’re independent contractors, and Steve and Natasha made sure that our contracts didn’t include any kind of anti-fraternization policies. They were extremely thorough about it.”

Dr. Carson sighs heavily, and it looks like she’s doing literally everything in her power not to roll her eyes. Instead, she tips her head back and looks at the ceiling, probably hoping to roll her eyes where Bucky and Sam can’t see them. “Nevertheless, the two of you are still required to be discreet and professional when you’re at work. We’ve received complaints from several of your coworkers about your behavior in the last week. According to Carl, you’ve been bringing, quote, unwanted and uncomfortable sexual energy to the workplace.”

Bucky scoffs. He knows how to handle this sort of situation. “Listen, I didn’t lose my life fighting Nazis so that a little homoerotic banter and ass grabbing would get me in trouble at work. And anyway, this is how Captain America and I behaved at work back when we were fighting fascism and defending the free world—in the 1940s, even!—so I can’t imagine that somehow you’re just not allowed to give each other friendly hand jobs in closets in 2023. If anything, I should be able to give Sam a friendly hand job outside of a closet. Those are exactly the kinds of freedoms I fought and died for.”

Sam nods in support and says, “That’s a great point, Buck,” and Bucky feels warmth curling in his belly before he realizes, fuck, Sam’s doing it again, and right in front of Dr. Carson too. Jesus, Sam is so good at therapy. “And it sounds like Carl might be just a tad bit homophobic. Maybe we should be complaining to HR about him. You know, I didn’t serve during the long years of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell just to hear—”

“Carl is happily married to his male partner of thirty-seven years,” Dr. Carson states, clenching her jaw. Bucky has literally fought people to the death who look less bothered by his general existence. “Also, you didn’t actually die fighting Nazis, Agent Barnes.”

“It was a metaphorical death,” Bucky defends, because this is important to him. “The old Bucky Barnes died in that ravine. We went over it all in my therapy in Wakanda, the most scientifically advanced country in the world. What even are your credentials and where are your goats?”

“I have a Bachelor’s degree in psychology from Harvard and doctorates in clinical psychology and neuroscience from Oxford. I was a Rhodes scholar, I’ve received a MacArthur Fellowship for my work in PTSD and polytrauma in returning veterans, and I literally wrote the textbook for most Introduction to Psychology courses.”

Bucky waves his dismissive hand at this. “Yeah, well, Sam did eighty hours of coursework and an eighty hour practicum to become a certified peer counselor. Plus he has experiential knowledge, which is more important than book learning. Also, Sam isn’t HYDRA. Are you HYDRA?”

The wood in Dr. Carson’s pencil cracks a bit under her hand. “I’m not HYDRA.”

“But, like, would Nick Fury know if you were HYDRA?” Bucky presses.

“That’s an excellent point, baby, you’re killing it in therapy today.” Sam pats Bucky on the thigh and then leaves his hand there, bare inches away from Bucky’s cock, and Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to keep from moving his hips or making any noises. “Nick Fury would definitely not know if Dr. Carson were HYDRA, his Nazi-finding track record is, like, dismal at best. I vote that we suspend therapy until there’s been an independent investigation into whether or not Dr. Carson is HYDRA.”

“You can’t suspend therapy,” Dr. Carson says, her expression pinched. “These counseling sessions are mandatory.”

“Look, we’ll keep doing the love languages thing as a show of good faith, and once the investigation’s concluded we’ll come back so you can decide which one of us is winning at therapy,” Bucky says. “In the meantime just, like, prepare to have all of your secrets uncovered and all of your loved ones and ex-boyfriends questioned extensively about your most private and intimate memories.”

Dr. Carson covers her face with her hands. Is she trying to muffle a scream?

“For the last time, no one wins at therapy,” she grits out.

“I mean, I think I’m pretty obviously winning,” Sam says. Bucky tips his head in reluctant agreement. “Anyway, we’ll talk to Natasha and Steve about the HYDRA thing since they actually know how to find Nazis. If Steve and Nat clear you, then Bucky and I will agree to let you judge which one of us is winning the love languages competition. In the meantime, it would be nice if you could get some therapy pets for Bucky. He likes animals. Goats might be a bit unreasonable for downtown D.C., but I’m sure you could rustle up some cats or something, right?”

Bucky hums. “I like dogs better.’

“All right, cool. Dr. C, get us some dogs.” Sam raps two knuckles against the desk. “Bucky and I are going to go to the gym to work out a bit. Bucky’s shoulders are looking really good lately.”

“Sam!” Bucky hisses, squirming a bit in his seat. “Not in front of Dr. Carson!”

“Sorry, baby,” Sam says, holding out a hand to pull Bucky up out of his chair. “See you next week, Dr. C!”

***

It hasn’t exactly escaped Bucky’s notice that Natasha has been avoiding him ever since Bucky and Sam started their love languages competition, so when Bucky sees Steve walking alone down the hallway toward his office, he reaches out from the broom closet where he’s hiding and yanks Steve inside.

“Is Natasha helping Sam win the love languages competition?” Bucky hisses.

There’s no real reason that they need to have this conversation in a broom closet instead of Steve’s office, but Bucky’s feeling nostalgic today, and Steve doesn’t seem at all bothered to suddenly find himself in a broom closet with Bucky.

“I mean, probably?” Steve says with a shrug. “It seems only fair, since I’m helping you. Also her dirty talk has really leveled up lately, and that’s probably not a coincidence. Why, what’s Sam doing?”

“He’s, like, constantly flirting with me. And the touching! God, Steve, I’m horny all the time now. And you wouldn’t believe the things he says to me in bed! Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on all the sex routines you and I’ve choreographed when Sam’s telling me how pretty I look with his cock in my mouth?”

“Natasha is definitely helping him then—she says that to me all the time when she’s using her strap on,” Steve says, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “Are you sure you can’t keep it together enough to service him without getting distracted by his words of affirmation?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, his cheeks growing hot. “You have no idea, Steve, like Sam just gets so filthy. I know my brain’s been fried like an egg and I don’t actually remember a lot about sex, but I don’t think people talked like this in the ‘40s, right?”

“I mean, you and I shared a bedroom in an apartment with paper thin walls and then spent a few years in a warzone. There’s not much opportunity for dirty talk when you’re just doing your best to get off without waking anybody up,” Steve says. “But that does give me an idea. Sam’s secondary love language is quality time, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“So date him! You may not have the sexual repertoire of someone who’s watched hundreds of hours of modern porn or even someone who remembers much about having sex before like three weeks ago, but you do know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing.”

Bucky’s forehead wrinkles. “Do I, though? Do I still know how to pull off a good old-fashioned wooing?”

“I believe in you, pal.” Steve claps him on the shoulder and then looks around the broom closet thoughtfully, taking in the dirty mop and the shelves of cleaning supplies and filthy rags. “You’re honestly not even doing a bad job of wooing me right now. Want to trade hand jobs for old time’s sake?”

Bucky shoots Steve a withering look. “I’m not wooing you right now, Steve, you’re just easy. Go find Natasha if you’re horny.”

Steve shrugs. “Eh, it was worth a shot.”

***

Two months later, once Steve and Natasha have completed Dr. Carson’s background check and confirmed that she isn’t HYDRA, Sam and Bucky return to therapy. Even though Dr. Carson hasn’t seen them in months, she looks pinched and irritated, and the deep wrinkles in her forehead and the sudden explosion of gray in her hair make her look as though she’s aged five years since she started giving them therapy.

Bucky frowns and squints in suspicion. “We haven’t gotten Blipped again, have we?”

“What?”

“You just look—” Bucky gestures toward her hair and the bags under her eyes.

Dr. Carson’s expression shifts from exhausted indifference to polite fury, and Bucky’s just about to apologize when Sam gestures toward the floor under the window and says, “Hey, look at that! It’s about time you got Bucky a therapy puppy, you know that his doctors in Wakanda strongly encouraged it.”

When Bucky follows the line of Sam’s arm, he sees the cutest puppy in the world sitting in a fuzzy little dog bed with pictures of bones on it. Bucky gasps in delight. “He’s so cute, Sam, look at his little face!”

The puppy’s face is perfect, with big brown eyes and a short little snout with a tiny black nose. When he wags his tail, his little butt wiggles and Bucky wants to die about it. He loves this puppy so much.

“I’m naming him Paddington after my favorite movie,” Bucky declares.

“I love it,” Sam says immediately, pulling out his phone. “Put him in your lap so I can get some pictures for Steve and Natasha. They’re going to be so jealous when they find out that we got to have a dog in our therapy.”

Sam and Bucky spend the next ten minutes playing with Paddington and taking photos of the two of them with their adorable new therapy dog while Dr. Carson rubs her forehead like she just fucking knew this puppy would be a distraction.

“I think we should get started,” Dr. Carson interrupts, glancing pointedly at her watch.

“Yes, perfect!” Bucky pulls a small notebook out of his back pocket. “OK, so let me catch you up on everything we’ve done to each other since our last meeting, and I especially want your input on the scoring system that Sam and I have developed—”

Bucky and Sam spend the next half hour recounting their every interaction over the past couple of months in explicit, pornographic detail while Dr. Carson repeatedly clenches and unclenches her fists. When they spend ten full minutes alone on the rim job Bucky gave Sam last Saturday, Dr. Carson’s eyes go distant and glassy like a shell shocked veteran of the Great War or something. Bucky has literally seen torture victims make less of an effort to dissociate from their surroundings than Dr. Carson right now.

Honestly, who would have expected a therapist with thirty years’ experience to be so faint of heart? It’s absolutely critical to Bucky and Sam’s scoring system to determine whether Sam let out a “choked moan” or a “strangled gasp” while Bucky ate him out, and Bucky doesn’t appreciate Dr. Carson’s frankly lackluster participation when they stage a reenactment of events to try and settle the matter. She doesn’t even seem very decisive when she finally renders her judgment, like maybe she just doesn’t care what kind of sound Sam made, even though it was the most erotic noise Bucky’s ever heard in a hundred years.

When Sam concludes his argument for why words of affirmation during sex should count for more points than praise at work, Dr. Carson sighs heavily, looks off into the distance for exactly ten seconds, and then states, “I think we should discuss how you two can erect boundaries between your work relationship and your sexual relationship.”

Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow at Dr. Carson’s audacity. “Do you really feel like you’re qualified to counsel us on that particular issue?”

Dr. Carson’s jaw clenches. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, after everything that went down between you and Dr. Fitzgerald back in Philadelphia, I hardly think—”

Dr. Carson’s face whitens like curdled milk. “How did you find out about that?”

“Remember Natasha’s background check? Anyway, I’m just saying that it’s a tad bit hypocritical of you to suggest that Bucky and I shouldn’t be fucking during work hours, I mean, Bucky isn’t even married—”

Dr. Carson bites her lip so ferociously that she draws blood. “Bucky may not be married, but he is technically your subordinate, and that means there’s an uneven power dynamic to consider here—”

Sam smirks like he’s fucking Benjamin Matlock and he knows he’s just one pointed question away from making the guilty party break down and confess right there on the witness stand. (Bucky makes a mental note to ask Sam later why he and Natasha always snicker when Bucky and Steve get together to play cribbage and watch Matlock on Sunday afternoons.) “You mean like the uneven power dynamic at play between you and that doctoral student whose dissertation committee you chaired at UPenn?”

Dr. Carson gasps, and her face turns as red and furious as Sister Mary Angela’s that time she caught Steve’s skinny arms nailing a copy of Martin Luther’s Ninety-five Theses to the heavy wooden door of St. Charles Borromeo.

Bucky’s mind wanders a bit at that memory. God, Steve Rogers really was such a bad influence—maybe Sister Mary Angela was right about their distracting and unnaturally close relationship. Because of course Bucky couldn’t leave that stubborn asshole to face Sister Mary Angela’s wrath alone, so Bucky had ended up confessing to abusing his powers as editor of the student newspaper to let Steve use the school’s small printing press. Bucky emerged from the experience with an ass that burned for a week and a few uncomfortable new kinks.

Now, Bucky looks speculatively over at Sam’s strong hands and shifts in his chair.

“I just remembered, Sam and I have something really important to do,” Bucky announces. “So we’ll see you next week, right? OK, cool. C’mon, Paddington!”

Bucky grabs Paddington’s cute little dog bed and Paddington hops down from Sam’s lap to follow them out of the office, his tail wagging happily as he trots along beside them. God, Paddington is so fucking cute, Bucky cannot believe what a great dog he is.

Dr. Carson calls out after them through gritted teeth. “You’re not supposed to take the therapy dog with you!”

“Sorry, what?” Sam shouts back, cupping his hand around his ear. “I can’t hear you!”

“Bucky, I know you have super hearing!”.

“Sorry, I’m a hundred and six years old and I left my ear trumpet at home!” Bucky raises his hands in an exaggerated shrug to convey the hopelessness of trying to communicate at this great distance of about forty feet.

“God, I need a fucking vacation forever,” Dr. Carson mutters.

***

Later, after Bucky and Sam collapse against Sam’s sheets in sweaty exhaustion, Bucky mentally tallies their points and comes to the frustrating conclusion that Sam is still absolutely wiping the floor with him in this love languages competition. God, how is Sam so good at everything? He’s so fucking handsome and charming and athletic and just, like, absolute dynamite in the sack—

God, no wonder Bucky’s losing. There’s no way he can win this competition with his dick alone. Time to channel Tommy Dorsey and play it from the heart.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky murmurs, leaning up to nuzzle his nose against Sam’s jaw. “Let me cook you dinner tonight, doll. Wanna treat you right.”

“‘M not your doll,” Sam grumbles. “But yeah, OK.”

Bucky kisses Sam’s shoulder and plots.

Three hours later, Bucky and Steve survey Bucky’s dining room with the smug satisfaction of Scarlett O’Hara stealing her sister’s fiancé to get her greedy hands on his general store and sawmill.

“I think we nailed it, pal,” Steve boasts. “This looks just like your date night mood board.”

“I mean, I feel like half the credit should go to Pinterest user donkeydick2004—who would’ve guessed that he’d have such a sensitive soul.”

Bucky’s dining room table is covered with rose petals sprinkled over Bucky’s mother’s best lace tablecloth, liberated from the archives of the Smithsonian along with the rest of the contents of Steve and Bucky’s old Brooklyn Heights apartment. Two lit candles rise proudly from the gleaming silver of Sarah Rogers’s candleholders—the only wedding gift she’d managed to save from the pawnbroker during those lean years of Steve’s childhood—and the Victrola crackles with the smooth tenor of Enrico Caruso singing an aria so romantic it once brought a tear to the clear, flinty eye of Bucky’s father. Bucky’s grateful now that the Barneses were a Victor Talking Machine Company family—those Edison wax cylinders decayed faster than American democracy after the invention of Facebook.

The first time Bucky saw the familiar red logo of that Caruso record again—faithful Nipper the dog, his head tipped toward the horn of a gramophone playing the sound of his dead master’s voice—Bucky drove straight out into the desert and screamed until he was hoarse.

And now tonight Bucky’s using that very record to romance the shit out of Sam Wilson, so Nick Fury and Dr. Carson can fuck off with their so-called “therapy” because Bucky Barnes is doing great.

Steve clears his throat and gives Bucky a meaningful look. “You know, if this is all just some competition between you and Sam, you didn’t have to drive out to Maryland to dig all of our most personal and intimate memories out of storage for this dinner.”

Flustered, Bucky replies, “You have no idea what a canny opponent Sam is! Every time that man talks, my heart flutters and my stomach’s all full of butterflies. Besides,” Bucky says, “my grandfather paid fifty extra dollars to get the Circassian walnut veneer put on that old Victrola—he would haunt me if I didn’t ever use it, Steve.”

“You know your Aunt Margaret spit on her own father’s grave when your grandfather left that Victrola to your dad instead of her?”

Bucky laughs. “Is that why they had that big falling out? I couldn’t remember.”

“Peggy said that your Aunt Margaret wrote Howard Stark a letter every month until the day she died demanding the return of that Victrola.”

“Well, I hope that greedy old hag is looking down at me right now,” Bucky says, shaking his head in disbelief. “She deserves to watch me seduce my gay lover with that Victrola, it serves her right. You know she called you a fairy once?”

Steve gestures toward the intimate tableau featuring all of Bucky’s most precious memories and dryly states, “Well, as long as you’re clear on spite as your motivation for all of this.”

Bucky bites his lip as a sudden fear strikes him. “Do you think Sam’s going to like the chicken? People still roast chicken, right? It’s not just, like, sushi and gluten free vegan desserts nowadays?”

Steve opens his mouth to respond but is interrupted by a knock at the door. Paddington dives off the sofa like he’s responding to an Avengers Assemble alarm—which, oh my god, could Paddington wear a little outfit and come with the Avengers on ops? Bucky needs to look into this immediately—and dances around in elation when Bucky opens the door to reveal Sam, who is looking fine as hell in a lavender button-down and navy trousers.

And Bucky’s heart is—honestly not reacting much differently than Paddington right now.

“Aw, hi, baby!” Sam says, leaning down to pet Paddington and scratch him behind the ears. When Sam’s finished giving Paddington the attention he so richly deserves, Bucky’s pulled in for a long, heartbreakingly tender kiss that sends a shiver of want down the entire length of his spine. Sam and Steve exchange their own greetings while Bucky surreptitiously reaches up to rub at the goosebumps prickling at the sensitive skin at the back of his neck.

“Steve, you’re going to be OK watching Paddington tonight, right?” Bucky’s voice is threaded with the justifiable suspicion of someone who has known Steve Rogers for a lifetime.

Steve’s mouth drops open in offense. “Yes! Bucky, I know how to watch a dog.”

Bucky lifts Paddington’s tiny body and curls his arms protectively around him. “OK, well, Paddington is the most important thing in the world to me, and you are literally the least responsible person I know, so.”

“What? Bucky, I’m—that’s—I’m Captain America. I’m famously responsible.”

“Sam is Captain America, Steve. I feel like you’re not moving on. Also my brain might be a giant lump of small curd cottage cheese now, but I still remember that you’re a reckless idiot.”

Sam gives Steve a sharp look of his own and says, “Steve, Paddington is very important to Bucky’s therapy and also to our therapy as a couple—” Sam pauses, then adds, “of coworkers. So make sure you give him his favorite treats, but don’t give him too many treats, and make sure he doesn’t pull the squeaker out of his stuffed alligator—”

Bucky and Sam lead Steve to the door while Sam continues to debrief Steve on all of Paddington’s most important feelings and preferences. “You should really be writing all of this down, Steve,” Sam says with a frown.

Steve sighs. “I have an eidetic memory.”

“All right, well, if we pick him up in the morning and he has an upset tummy, I will literally kill you, and Sam—the trustworthy Captain America—will be my alibi,” Bucky says.

Sam nods in solemn agreement.

Bucky and Sam part from Paddington with identical expressions of worry as Steve walks him down the hall to his apartment.

As soon as Steve’s door closes, Bucky is all over Sam, pressing him against the wall and skimming his lips over the warm skin of Sam’s neck. God, Sam smells incredible, like tobacco and vanilla and oiled leather, and somehow the masculine scent of him travels down Bucky’s windpipe and directly to his cock.

“Hi,” Bucky breathes.

“Hey, baby,” Sam murmurs, tipping his head back to let Bucky’s lips trail along his throat to his jawline. Bucky’s just getting really into it, his hips pressing insistently against Sam’s, when the timer for the oven goes off.

Over dinner, Bucky and Sam talk and laugh about their coworkers as the candlelight does frankly amazing things for Sam’s bone structure. Bucky squirms in his chair and tries to will away the flush he can feel spreading up his neck when Sam compliments Bucky on the romantic lighting and the beautiful place settings. Fuck, he’s supposed to be giving Sam quality time here, and instead Sam’s using that quality time to offer Bucky more words of affirmation. Bucky’s not really ready to concede this battle just yet, but he’s definitely starting to craft a defeat narrative for himself about the lack of shame in being beaten by the best.

And Sam is definitely the best.

“That chicken was incredible.” Sam pats his stomach and groans in satisfaction. “You know that’s just how my mama always makes it?”

Bucky wonders if it would be weird to divulge that he actually broke into Sam’s mother’s house to sneak a look at her recipe cards. That’s normal intelligence gathering, right? Bucky made sure Sam’s mom was out of the house when he entered, and afterward he sent a team of security specialists to give her a better alarm system setup—”compliments of SHIELD, ma’am”—when he realized that her house was way too easy to break into. And Bucky’s dad always said to leave things better than you found them, so if anything Sam’s mom is probably safer now than she was before the world’s most legendary assassin crept into her house to rifle through her personal belongings.

He feels like Natasha would agree with him but he also feels like Natasha is probably just as batshit insane as Bucky and Steve are. Bucky has literally no normal friends and he should probably start spending more time with Sharon Carter.

After dinner, Sam looks relaxed and sated, his eyes warm and heavy-lidded as he watches Bucky shiver under his praise. “You know you have a praise kink, right?”

“Yes, Sam,” Bucky says, and tries to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Steve and I did a ton of research and watched, like, hours of porn together. We figured it out.”

“You and Steve have some serious boundary issues.” Sam shakes his head and grins in amusement. “But seriously, though, you’re not just hooking up with me because you imprinted on me after I made your dick hard or something, right? I mean, I remember the first time I got a boner after being deployed. I cried like a baby, so I get it, man, but—”

“Actually, I sort of wanted to talk to you about that,” Bucky says, his stomach swimming with nerves. This is the moment he’s been anticipating and dreading since he planned this whole date night op. “I was thinking—how would you feel about taking this competition to the next level?”

Sam’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I just think we’d both have more time and energy to devote to this competition if we were competing, you know, exclusively.”

“Ah.” Sam’s expression clears and a slow smile spreads across his handsome face. “You want to be boyfriends.”

“I want to be boyfriends,” Bucky confirms with a decisive nod.

He may be losing this love language competition by about a hundred and fifty points, but Bucky still has some fight in him yet. And between work and sex and co-ownership of Paddington, Bucky’s already spending so much time with Sam that there’s no real way to increase the amount of time in “quality time”—but he can improve the quality of that time. If Bucky and Sam are boyfriends, Bucky figures, all that quality time should automatically count for more points than the quality time they spend together as coworkers with confusing feelings for each other, right?

Bucky’s lungs burn as he holds his breath held in anticipation of Sam’s response.

“Yeah, let’s be boyfriends,” Sam says, with a grin tugging at his lips.

Bucky’s heart soars in victory.

***

Bucky and Sam have decided not to bring Paddington with them to any future therapy appointments just in case Dr. Carson tries to take him away like Cruella de Vil.

This week, however, Dr. Carson shows up their session with a whole new vibe. Instead of striding imperiously into her office in her usual stern fashion, Dr. Carson blows in fifteen minutes late with the casual energy of a high school senior during the last week of school. She walks over to her desk, flip-flops slapping against her feet, and reclines back in her chair to prop her feet up onto the polished surface of her solid oak desk. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie like a suburban mom in an airport waiting to fly down to Miami for a Caribbean cruise.

“So how’s it going this week, boys?” Dr. Carson asks, slurping from the straw of her Big Gulp soda.

“Um, great.” Sam eyes her cautiously. “Bucky and I are boyfriends now.”

“No shit!” Dr. Carson says, and tilts her head back to squint down at them. “Huh. What do you know about that.” Then she shrugs. “Tell me how it happened.”

So Bucky and Sam tell her every detail of the last week, including the way they tenderly made love after Sam agreed to be Bucky’s boyfriend. Dr. Carson is clear-eyed and engaged the entire time, even during the five full minutes Sam devotes to the ripple of Bucky’s abdominal muscles as he strains toward orgasm, and Bucky’s just starting to think that maybe they can get some real therapy out of Dr. Carson when she says—

“So Fury’s transferring me to Hawaii.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open. “What?”

“Yup.” Dr. Carson burrows deeper into her chair and lets out a relaxed sigh before taking another loud sip of her soda. “This is our last session!”

“So do we have a new therapist after this, or?” Sam waves his hand uncertainly.

“Nah, I’m just gonna go ahead and tell Fury that you guys are doing great. You’ve officially graduated therapy.”

Bucky chokes on air. “Excuse me, what? We graduated therapy?”

“Sure, why not?” Dr. Carson says with a lazy shrug. “Despite literally all of my expectations to the contrary, it seems like you guys have actually formed a stable partnership. Just, you know, maybe stop fucking so much at work.”

Bucky scoffs. “Listen, I didn’t give my life fighting Nazis in World War II—” he begins.

***

After Bucky and Sam’s appointment with Dr. Carson, Sam receives a text asking him to meet Fury in his executive suite.

Bucky heads back to his own office—his real one, buried deep within the bowels of SHIELD in a secret interrogation room someone bricked up the entrance to and then forgot about years ago. Bucky discovered it while crawling through the air ducts to place surveillance equipment in the offices of Nick Fury and the major SHIELD department heads. Once Bucky disposed of the mummified body he found inside—which, wow, super gross—it made the perfect private office space and server room.

Bucky opens his surveillance software just in time to hear Fury tell Sam that Bucky broke his best therapist.

“Dr. Carson is a highly trained professional at the top of her field,” Fury says, his voice stern. “I had to offer her a fifty percent raise to lure her away from private practice, and now I’m sending her away from D.C., where all of my elite agents reside, to Honolulu, which is where I send all the useless nepotism agents I’m forced to hire by the World Security Council. I don’t know what Barnes did to that woman but he just cost me a very experienced and expensive mental health professional.”

“And what makes you think Agent Barnes is at fault?”

“Dr. Carson is obviously not at liberty to divulge any specifics about what was said during your therapy sessions, but she did note that your bickering was ‘maddening’ and that she, quote, hadn’t even realized it was possible to overshare during therapy. She also indicated that Barnes instigated an invasive and traumatizing background check that caused her a great deal of personal distress.’”

“Given Agent Barnes’s history with SHIELD, I think it’s perfectly understandable that he may have sought reassurance that Dr. Carson wasn’t an agent of HYDRA.” Sam’s voice is bland and pleasant. “It’s hardly Agent Barnes’s fault that Dr. Carson turned out to have a surprisingly messy personal life.”

“Be that as it may, I’m suspending Barnes from active duty until he passes a second psych eval from another therapist.”

“With all due respect, sir, Agent Barnes has been nothing but cooperative in this retaliatory investigation into his mental state. He’s a skilled and creative fighter, a selfless and generous partner, and a brilliant tactician. He deserves to be treated with the same respect as any other SHIELD agent who hasn’t shot you.”

Jesus Christ, is Sam offering Bucky words of affirmation even when he’s not there to hear them? What kind of love language master is Sam? God, how can Bucky possibly compete with this?

Fury’s voice is strangled. “Retaliatory?”

“Yes,” Sam says firmly. “As far as I’m aware, Agent Barnes has cleared all mandatory psychological evaluations and then some. If you have a problem with his—or my—behavior in the workplace, I suggest you carefully review our employment contracts and initiate the appropriate disciplinary proceedings. In the meantime, I will be continuing with Agent Barnes as my partner. There will be no suspension.”

The sound of Fury’s office door slamming shut is unexpectedly erotic.

By the time Sam slides through the secret passageway into Bucky’s office, Sam looks calm and collected, like he hasn’t just returned from facing down a man with the power and authority to send him to one of a half-dozen black sites so secret they probably exist on other planets.

“So how’d the meeting go?” Bucky asks, suppressing a grin.

“Oh, it was fine,” Sam says with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “We don’t have to do therapy anymore.”

Bucky lets his smile spread across his face. “Oh, yeah? No more retaliatory investigations into my mental state?”

When Sam realizes how Bucky must have overheard that remark, his eyes widen in delight. “I’m sorry, did you bug Fury’s office? Bucky Barnes, you crazy asshole, I love you so fucking much.”

Bucky freezes. Sam loves him? Adrenaline and exhilaration race through Bucky’s veins, spreading through his entire circulatory system until he feels like he’s going to buzz right out of his skin. For the second time in Bucky’s life, he’s been flung straight over the side of a cliff, except this time Sam has wings to catch him. God, this is why they call it falling, isn’t it?

Bucky is feeling so fucking affirmed right now. He has never felt so affirmed in his entire life.

And Bucky’s lost that stupid competition now, hasn’t he. There’s no way Bucky can compete with that declaration, no way he can pull off a victory after Sam just earned himself, like, fifty million points—but when Bucky looks at Sam’s gap-toothed grin, he thinks maybe, just maybe, he’s secretly won after all.

And he does have one last, best card to play.

“Hey, Sam,” Bucky says, with a wide grin, “how do you feel about moving in together?”

[cupidmarwani-archive]

Let It Burn Out (Jockett)

Summary: Crockett’s really trying to keep going, but it’s hard. (The backstory fic). 

WC: ~8k

Warnings: Death, Grief, Graphic Attempted Suicide

As far as Crockett has run, it simply hasn’t been far enough. There’s no amount of distance he can put between himself and his past, himself and his family, himself and a grave, that will free him from this ache in his chest that simply refuses to fade. How many months has it been, he wonders as he stares at the calendar on his fridge. It’s not quite a year. He was in the hospital himself for a long time before he packed up and left, but the days and weeks blurred with so few visitors and the majority of his time spent working up the strength to walk as far as down the hall to the bathroom himself.

Some part of him knew, when he kept working as a trauma surgeon, that it wouldn’t help the pain go away. Most, if not every single case, will bring the same memories back to him, but he can’t stop doing it. That would be giving up, and he owes it to himself and to the two people he loved with his whole heart not to give up on those who need better help than they received.

He kicks his fridge and it rattles ominously, a bottle inside falling over and rolling around to be picked up much later down the line, when he has the ability to concentrate and he’s not dangerously close to falling and hitting his head on the tile floor. Logically, he knows he should go to bed. Sleep it off. Pop an aspirin and some orange juice in the morning, maybe get some fluids in before his shift starts, and carry on with his life like the pain he’s been trying so hard to suppress hasn’t suddenly taken him over in a tidal wave.

His phone shows three missed calls when he fumbles to plug it in. He didn’t even hear it go off. Two from Dr. Manning. One from Dr. Choi. There’s tons of texts. All of them can be dealt with in the morning, and not as he curls up alone in his queen sized bed, still dreaming of what it felt like to have his husband holding him through the night.

When he left New Orleans, he didn’t bring his wedding ring with him. He buried it with its match in the casket. The only real memories he brought with him, he can’t bear to look at, so they stay boxed up in his closet for the hypothetical day in the future that he’s able to handle it. Deep down, he doubts that day will ever come.

Luckily, the amount of booze in his system and the exhaustion of the day catch up to him once there’s a pillow beneath his head, and he’ll be able to sleep without dreaming, if what he experiences can even be called that. They’re closer to hell than to anything that could be compared to the softness evoked by the thought of a dream. Nonetheless, he gets nothing of the sort when he closes his eyes for the night. Sleep brings no rest. 

His hangover is best described as hellish when he crawls out of bed to the shrill alarm. His head throbs, almost as bad as the sensation of his chest being torn apart by grief that has never even begun to fade. As he makes his way slowly to the bathroom, fighting the urge to vomit, he seriously debates the merits of staying home as opposed to going to work. Dr. Manning will ask him questions, and the patients who need his attention will only bring more hurt to his attempts at recovery. 

They wouldn’t want him to stay home.

With a grimace, he takes two aspirin and brushes his teeth to rid himself of the taste of stale liquor and sleep. Cold shower running down his back. No more sweat left on his sticky skin, only bags under his eyes and a faint tremor in his palms that he’ll have to eliminate before he gets back to work. Surgeons need steady hands. He forces himself to breathe deep until they stop shaking.

Going about his morning routine is like walking through molasses, ever so slow in the mire when he chokes down coffee and double knots his shoelaces. Traffic isn’t significantly better or worse than usual. He parks, goes inside. The flask in his locker offers him a small sip to numb him just a little more. There’s no real, physical evidence of the day before left in the hospital. That one little girl who Dr. Choi treated has been transferred to the ICU, and the other patients have been sent home or to recovery. Part of Crockett wants to go check on the kids from yesterday, but he can already tell that he’ll break if he does. They survived this.

He shoves his backpack into the locker with slightly more force than necessary. No one knowing provides a certain loneliness, but if he told them- the pity, the pushes to go home or to therapy or both- he just can’t handle it. Maybe his grieving process isn’t normal, but it’s working well enough for him. He’s still upright on his own two feet with a job and an apartment, which has to be worth something.

“Good morning, Dr. Marcel,” Noah says brightly, tablet in hand with the charts of the morning. “I was going to do a consult in six, did you wanna join?”

Normally, he would say yes. Noah needs his guidance to learn, and Crockett wants to teach him- there’s something so innocent and child-like in him that reminds him of someone he used to tuck into bed at night. Today, he can’t. 

“Why don’t you do that one yourself, I’m not on the clock for a few more minutes and I’ve got something to do first.”

“Oh- okay. Everything alright?”

Crockett waves him off and goes into a treatment room, drawing the curtains and sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, arm out. He can insert his own IV, has done it plenty of times before and put a decent share of other things into his blood for less medicinal reasons. That part is no one’s business but his own. With the IV kit in the cart and an improvised rubber glove tourniquet, he starts himself on a bag of fluids and closes his eyes, willing it to give him some energy.

A darker part of himself, one that rears its ugly head on the worst of days, reminds him that he has access to things like morphine and oxy and xanax, any number of ways to calm him, but he can’t bring himself to do it. They’d be disappointed in him for that, too. 

Eyes shut, breathing slow,w, he lets the fluids drain into his body to replace some of what he’s lost before spending a long moment going through the motions of removing the IV, applying pressure, disposing of the used equipment, and pasting a neutral look on his face. No one needs to know about why he’s here in Chicago or the way he wants to collapse to the floor and shatter into a million pieces. 

Noah’s still with the patient, talking them through whatever procedure is on the table, so Crockett has a moment longer to take a deep breath and put himself together. At least, he had hoped so, but then Dr. Lanik is beside him, watching him with that almost-concerned expression usually turned toward Dr. Halstead’s latest bullshit.

“Dr. Manning is worried about you.”

He dutifully pretends not to have heard, and studies his nails. Short and clean, like always. Much more put together than the rest of him, he thinks. His scars are hidden beneath the crisp fabric of his scrubs, torso and legs. Plastics did a good job with his face. They told him his nose broke in the crash, but by the time he woke up, it had almost fully healed. He never noticed a difference.

“Crockett.” He slowly raises his eyes, meeting Lanik’s. “We’re all worried about you. Clearly, yesterday hit close to home, and-”

“It didn’t-”

“You have bourbon breath and your hands are shaking.”

When he looks back down at his hands, they are, even though he swears they weren’t seconds ago. Lanik’s hand cups his shoulder as he walks him to the doctor’s lounge, nudging him to sit down on the squeaky couch while he himself remains standing over him, imposing.

“I had a sip this morning, not even a shot. I’m not drunk, if that’s your concern.”

They spend a long moment staring at each other before Lanik sits beside him and picks up Crockett’s left hand. It’s not a clinical touch, but one strangely gentle, as though Lanik feels he’s holding something delicate. Up close, there’s still a faint tan line on his ring finger, where a symbol of a union used to sit. A gentle touch brushes over it, blue-green eyes soften.

“It’s okay to talk about it, ‘Kett.”

At the shortening of his name, Crockett rips his hand away and stands up. Too familiar, too painful, too much. He can’t deal with it. He adjusts his shirt and walks away in hopes Lanik won’t follow, just in time to see Noah approaching with another chart. The patient needs surgery and it’s one Noah isn’t too familiar with yet, so Crockett has to be there to help him, guide him, assist him. He’d rather be at home, but there’s no choice. Scrub in. Steady his hands. Don’t think about them, don’t think about the children from yesterday, don’t think about Lanik, and he’ll be alright, he tells himself. He has to be.

By the time the surgery is over, he just wants to go home, crawl under the covers and sleep. Dr. Charles might be able to give him something to put him at peace enough to avoid nightmares without giving himself alcohol poisoning, if he asks. It would be awkward, though, and he knows that will come with questions and urging toward counseling. 

Even now, though, when he shuts his eyes, he remembers too well. The music playing, Crockett’s hand on his husband’s leg while their daughter chittered away in the backseat about her ballet class that day. A recital was coming up. Crockett even had the day off so he could be there to see her. 

He desperately opens his eyes, but he still remembers the sound before it’s replaced by the ding of paramedics bringing in a patient. Stab wound to the abdomen, not too severe but not great either. Crockett can focus on that, does focus on that for as long as he’s able because he refuses to lose a patient today.

By the time that one is stitched up, there’s a car accident victim in her mid thirties, free fluid in the belly. It’s worse. But he does his job and he saves her too, the way doctors in New Orleans didn’t, with a promise to her waiting family that she’ll make a full recovery before they know it.

“Crockett,” he hears at the end of his shift, his flask already halfway to his mouth in the doctor’s lounge. Lanik is leaving for the day as well, hanging up his coat and cracking his neck while he watches out of the corner of his eye. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never better.”

“Why don’t I- I-”

He turns to look at Lanik, waiting for him to just spit it out already so he can go home and drink himself into a stupor. Crockett is tired of being here today. He’s extra tired of the way everyone stares at him and tip-toes around him all of a sudden.

“Let me buy you dinner, at least.”

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but it comes out of his mouth anyway. “I’m flattered, but I’m not looking for something like that right now.”

“Not as a date,” Lanik immediately corrects. “Just to talk. You look like you need it.”

Despite his first instinct being to refuse, Crockett does need to eat at some point, and this is a good way to make sure he remembers to before he gets drunk or otherwise incpacitated. Then there’s the puppy eyes Lanik is giving him, the outstretched hand, and it’s so difficult to say no to him. It was hard to say no to them, too. 

“I guess I can make the time.”

Lanik smiles and offers him a ride, to the restaurant and then back to the hospital for his car, provided he’s sober enough for it. They wind up at a family owned greasy spoon diner, with bitter coffee and sweet pancakes, a homely air as the radio plays on the overheads. They don’t serve alcohol. Crockett pours a decent amount from his flask into his coffee mug, despite the disapproving look it earns. 

“Should I be worried?” he asks idly as Crockett puts his flask away again.

All he can do in response is laugh dryly. No one worries about him anymore, not seriously. If they do, it’s only in the context of his capabilities as a surgeon, not his personal life or emotions. While alcohol hasn’t improved the taste of the terrible coffee, it makes him feel at least somewhat better to know that he’s on his way to a decent night’s sleep.

“Tell me about New Orleans,” Lanik says finally. “What was it like? Working there, living there?”

To find a memory that doesn’t hurt won’t be easy, but just brushing him off would be rude, and Crockett was raised better than that- he was raising his child better than that. His shoulders rise in a half-shrug, grasping in his mind for something to say.

“Hush puppies,” he blurts out.

“Hush puppies?”

Crockett puts his index finger and thumb together to make a little ball. “They’re this big, kind of like little savory pancakes. We deep fry them. Sure, they’re not super healthy, but I had those for breakfast all the time, and after long days at work. My-” his voice catches. “My family and I would make them on Sunday mornings.”

“What’re they made out of?”

“I use cornmeal, some flour. And milk and eggs. You gotta add onions and garlic and seasoning, though, give it something to- to cling to so it isn’t bland.”

He hasn’t made them since he came to Chicago. Not since before the accident, really. Every time he’s tried, it’s turned into tears over a hot stove and a distinct sense of loss that runs deeper than anything else manages to get. Just talking about them again is more than he’s done. 

There are tears clinging to his eyelashes, just reaching his cheeks, that he doesn’t notice until Lanik reaches across the table to wipe them away for him. Slow. Careful. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t pull his hand back, instead cupping Crockett’s face. Some piece of him that craves being loved again leans into the touch.

“Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

He ducks his head and takes a few long pulls of his spiked coffee. His heart is beating fast. Too fast. It tells him to think about the contact and to lean forward and to ask for a night where the bed isn’t as cold, but that’s too much of a betrayal to seriously consider. Crockett forces himself to pull away. 

The pancakes are cold by now, but he eats them just for the sake of getting something into his system. Passing out at work because he hasn’t been eating would only add to the humiliation of how he’s visibly falling apart in front of them after a tough day that everyone else handled in stride. They weren’t as affected by the outbreak either. He’s willing to bet he’s seen worse than them, living in the deep alleys of New Orleans and helping those who so often died on the table from another stab wound, another bullet into soft flesh, but since coming here, it’s like he’s become a child again. Fresh out of med school, not used to the horror yet. He needs to get a grip, although that’s much easier said than done.

Even though dinner was offered by Lanik, Crockett still pays his fair share and tips generously before they leave. Home. Drink. Bed. Try not to cry. He has a routine that it’s easy to stick to if he wants to survive in this post-love haze that has sunk into his very bones.

“Come home with me,” Lanik says. “Again, it’s not- not a flirting thing. I’m just worried about you, and- and I get the feeling you could use the company.”

Refusal would be easy and simple. Crockett is better off dealing with his pain in solitude, and he has bourbon at home, and sometimes if he shuts his eyes he can still remember the way it felt to be held through the night. But he doesn’t want to be alone, at the same time, and this offer is the most intimacy he’ll have felt in ages, so he accepts with his head down and his jacket pulled tightly around his body. 

Lanik lives nearby, with a cozy apartment and a pull-out couch he offers. It’s not as comfortable as his own bed, but the covers are warm and he forgets how to breathe for a moment when Lanik fluffs the pillow beneath his head and brushes an errant strand of hair out of his eyes.

“I’ll be in my room at the end of the hall,” he says gently. “Bathroom is on the left.”

“Thanks.”

“Goodnight, Crockett.”

He burrows deeper into the blankets. “Goodnight, Dr. Lanik.”

“Jimmy.”

“Jimmy,” Crockett amends, and shuts his eyes. 

Sleep comes surprisingly easy, but it is not restful. Without an aid to empty his thoughts, he’s given memories that start off so sweet and perfect. Cradling his little girl in his arms, singing her a lullaby while his husband sets up the changing table. Her first night home from the hospital, oh-so-small, face shiny pink and hand so small that it could barely close around Crockett’s thumb. He’s happy, they’re happy. A first day back at work and crying because he misses her, getting worried the first time she got the flu, driving her to ballet class, buying her new shoes. 

He remembers hearing her scream, in the instant between the crash and the silence.

Going fast, not fast enough. Someone else ran the light. Passenger side, going fifty miles per hour into the crumpling metal door where there was a father playing with the radio and a rambling little girl, catching the brunt of it while the driver’s airbag exploded into his face. She had time to scream in pain. The body beside Crockett was silent. His daughter cried. 

“Daddy, it hurts,” he heard.

“Daddy, I’m scared,” he heard.

“Daddy, wake up,” he heard.

His ears were ringing. Blood on the side of his face, nose throbbing, a deep ache in his chest where debris decided to pierce the skin. One of his legs was numb. He drifted in and out a couple of times, listening to crying and sirens. The last thing he heard was the silence. Dead silence around him. Nothing in the air. Nothing.

The room is dark when he wakes up, painfully so, and the sound that claws out of his throat. Raw, animal, feral and loud to the point that it hurts as he dissolves into sobs that shake his entire body and sound like dying things trying to break through his skin and swallow him whole. He cries like he’s never cried. While he can’t breathe and his world crumbles, there’s a presence that comes beside him.

The lights turn on, he can feel the yellow against his eyelids. A dip in the mattress marks a new weight, an arm around his shoulder and a hand on his damp cheek. Speaking, but nothing that Crockett is able to hear. Or process, is a better word. There’s too much and not enough around him to survive upon when he’s just absolutely overcome with the pain of what’s happening to him and has happened. It’s the past, the present, the future. His life and death. Every cell of his body is screaming while he just cries against a bare chest and his hair is stroked by a disembodied hand.

“Breathe, Kett. You’re okay. Just breathe for me.”

He falls asleep again, somehow, still crying but held.

When the morning truly comes, his face feels slightly sticky with what’s left of last night’s tears, and there’s a steady heartbeat against his cheek. For a moment, it’s peaceful, until he inevitably remembers that the heart does not belong to the love of his life and he’s not familiar with the scratchy sheets beneath him. Panic takes over for a moment, that he found his way to a drunken one night stand even though he swore to himself he would never betray the love he once felt. But then, the memories of the night before hazily filter into his mind. A diner meal and the briefest mention of hush puppies. Coming to Jimmy’s and sleeping on the pullout couch. The nightmare.

He leans away from Jimmy and buries his face in his hands. This was a mistake, and all he wants to do is go home and lay in bed, never get out of it again because he simply doesn’t have it in him. The opening up thing, he tried it last night. Just enough to be certain that it doesn’t work.

Beside him, his host stirs to life. One sharp inhale, a heavy exhale. “Kett?”

“Stop calling me Kett.”

When he swings his legs over the edge of the fold-out, he knows he’ll call out of work tomorrow. He has today off. Tomorrow, he’ll say he’s sick. And maybe by then, he’ll either be feeling better or have figured out a way to push the grief down to a tolerable level again. If he was a praying man, he’d already be on his knees. 

“Are you okay?”

It isn’t even worth it to answer. He hails an Uber on his phone, trying to remember if he still has something to drink at home or if he should take the ride to the hospital to get his car for grocery shopping. Pints of ice cream and cheap whiskey to fill in the cracks where he’s splitting apart. 

“Please, talk to me.”

Crockett doesn’t remember taking off his shoes, but they’re next to the door and fight him a little when he tries to slip them on. Eventually he gets them onto his feet, though, and throws open Jimmy’s door with the sole intent of isolating himself from whatever excuse for an outreach stole the night before.

“I know how you feel, I-”

“You have no idea,” Crockett growls, hand so tight on the knob he thinks his fingers will break, “how I feel. You cannot even begin to understand how I feel. And if God is merciful, you never will.”

He slams the door hard enough on his way out to splinter it slightly. It’s a strength he didn’t know he had. But he pretends not to notice as he goes to the curb to wait for his ride. Only a few minutes, according to his phone.

When he first got out of the hospital, having built up the strength to do basic tasks like bathe and dress himself again, he had almost given up. In a single instant, he lost the only two people who mattered to him in an accident where he sat at the wheel. Survivor’s guilt is more potent when the survivor was in the driver’s seat physically, not just metaphorically. That first night when he got home, he looked at the painkillers prescribed for the still healing incision. The whole bottle in his palm seemed so easy. He very nearly did it, too, because there was nothing left to live for.

The only thing that stopped him was the picture of his daughter on the mantle, and he couldn’t do it when he didn’t even know where she was buried.

Once he was eventually cleared for return to work, he went for a day. Everyone knew, and they treated him like a child, and wouldn’t even let him do his job. That’s why he came to Chicago, to get away from it and from everyone who knew, but it’s somehow made everything both better and worse. 

There’s a hanging ceiling fan, unbelievably sturdy, in Crockett’s living room. He knows how to tie a noose. It would be simple, and put an end to all his suffering for good, and by the time anyone comes looking for him, they would simply be too late to do anything. No more nightmares. And, if the churches are to be believed, he’ll be reunited with his family, which he’s wanted more than anything. What he wouldn’t do to hold them again.

His Uber driver honks, apparently having arrived already, and Crockett forces himself to get up and into the backseat. Home will solve everything. He’ll figure out what to do next, and whatever happens, happens. If his life ends, if he drinks away the nightmares, if he lays in bed until his body turns to dust- he doesn’t care anymore. Any attempt at conversation on the driver’s behalf falls flat.

Like it’s waiting for him, there’s a half-empty bottle on the counter with a smooth glass neck practically made for Crockett’s hands. Bitter, painful taste in his mouth. He doesn’t mind it, welcomes it even as he goes to his own soft bed. They’d be disappointed. Not that it matters, because he can’t feel anything except pain right now, and he’d rather they be disappointed than out of his reach entirely. All of his memories of them have been tainted by the accident. 

It would be easiest to just die already, he thinks, as he crawls under the covers. Finally, his suffering would come to an end. It would be over. At long last, it’ll be over. He’s almost calmed by the idea as he drinks and drifts off to sleep. Through the day, through the night, through the rest of his life, if he can.

He doesn’t know exactly when he starts to drift off, just that he does and his phone’s shrill alarm wakes him up, telling him he’s needed at the hospital. The ED needs him to come be a surgeon, and people will ask questions if he doesn’t go, but the mere idea of facing the world again makes him want to die. Even a phonecall seems too much. His hands shake far more than they should when he emails Mrs. Goodwin of his absence, and promptly shuts his phone off.

His chest aches as he chugs what’s left of his liquor and lets the bottle fall to the floor. Everything just… hurts. There’s not a single blood vessel, a single cell in the entirety of his body that doesn’t feel like it’s falling to pieces like ashes in the wind. He should have died, all those months ago, with his daughter and his husband and the driver of the other car, as opposed to this survival that’s a poor excuse for life. The time spent learning to walk again, stumbling over his words because his brain was rattled around, staring at graves whose funerals he never attended- it’s a waste.

Face buried in the pillow, missing the scent of his love’s cologne, he wishes to just die. Even if he doesn’t kill himself, which would take a courage and energy he lacks, he would rather be dead than live like this anymore. 

Then it comes to him- he could walk into traffic. No one ever stops for jaywalkers in Chicago, and it would be nearly poetic to die the way he should have so long ago. Crockett forces his legs over the edge of the bed and wonders if he’s about to do this. If this is what he’s been reduced to. A once brilliant, confident, borderline arrogant surgeon who was also a father, now a drunkard going to make someone else take the poor excuse for his life. 

Before this moment, he never really understood psych holds; he trusted patients to make their own decisions, and he would normally trust his own, but he understands how he’s a danger to himself. He’s aware of it. He knows he’s going to die. But he doesn’t care, craves it even, and if he was anywhere near Med, they’d have him committed before he could even blink or explain why it’s imperative that he leave this all behind. 

Barefoot. Hair mussed. Still in scrubs from two days before. He walks out of his little condo complex where a busy street is racing with cars on either side, surpassing the forty speed limit by as much as they feel necessary to get where they’re going. He usually hates having such a busy road so close to home, but now, he’s grateful. 

He takes a deep breath and waits for the traffic to have no stops, no gaps, nothing but rushing vehicles. And he jumps into the fray.

It doesn’t hurt, is the thing.

There’s the impact. The sound of bones breaking, brakes screeching, people screaming. He hits his head fairly hard on the asphalt, or at least he thinks so, because everything is wet. He can’t move. The sky overhead, grey with clouds that seem ready to spill, reminds him of clean sheets and an arm over his face, of making hot chocolate for three when it snowed. His eyes seem stuck open, hard to shut.

Hands on his face, on his chest, and he’s excited to see finally see them again.

At peace with the world, with himself, with his death, the world goes fuzzy around him and disappears. 

When he wakes up again, the first sound he makes is a croaky “No,” difficult to say with how raw his throat is. No. No, he doesn’t want to fucking be here. They should have let him die. His eyes seem stuck together, not that he particularly cares, as he starts trying to take stock of his body. Moving it. Struggling. He can wiggle his toes, so he isn’t paralyzed. His fingers move fine on one arm, but on the other, they’re stiff, and the limb is heavy from the elbow down. His head is pounding, and his chest aches, and he should have written a DNR or something before he did this so that he wouldn’t have had to continue to live, let alone like this. He can’t do months of recovery and pity again, and he has nowhere else to go. 

There’s a palm against his cheek, and for a moment he pretends it’s that of his husband, but he can’t when the voice accompanies it. “Can you hear me?” It’s Jimmy again, at his bedside, overstepping boundaries and refusing to let him just put an end to all of this already.

“Go away.”

At least he’s not being touched anymore, but he can tell that he’s not alone. They likely won’t be releasing him any time soon, not when whoever called 911 undoubtedly reported that he just threw himself in front of a car that obviously wouldn’t have had time to stop. It’s blatant, and it should have worked, but he’s here and his monitors remind him of the heart still stubbornly beating in his chest. If he could, he’d reach in and remove the thing himself. Bloody and raw, like he feels, and then as he dies, he’ll be free to rejoin his family at last. 

By some miracle, he pries his eyes open, and spends a few long seconds adjusting to the bright fluorescent lights attacking him. The sheets are clean, and the room he’s in suggests he wasn’t in a coma for weeks, like after the accident. His stiff arm is wrapped in a heavy dark blue cast, from his wrist to his elbow, securing itself over his thumb and showing off a little bit of cotton placed to protect his skin from the harsh plaster. 

Jimmy still sits at the bedside, watching him as though waiting for a complete meltdown, which doesn’t exactly feel too far off. Crockett reaches for the water bottle at the bedside with his good arm, fumbling with the cap with his teeth to get it open. His broken arm is like dead weight. Once again, he tries to move his fingers. They slightly obey. Not to the extent he thinks they should.

“Do you want me to bring your doctor in, to explain your injuries?”

Crockett grabs the cannula off his face and discards it, even if he notices the change in his ease of breathing almost immediately. He weakly bats Jimmy’s hand away when he reaches to replace it, and ignores the words of protest. All he wants is to get out of this place. He unclips himself from the monitors, and fumbles in the drawer beside his bed for a cotton ball to place against his arm when he carefully removes the IV of God knows what. The rational doctor in him figures fluids, painkillers, and antibiotics, but the father and husband in his mind doesn’t care. 

“Wait, you need to lay down-”

“I’m going home.”

Jimmy is in front of him, hands out, as Crockett struggles to put his weight on his legs. They’re weak. He remembers this feeling, and he hates it. But it’s fine, he’ll be able to walk before he knows it, he tells himself. Just keep moving. 

“Crockett, stop. Don’t make me do this.”

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re on an involuntary hold.”

That doesn’t surprise him, but he doesn’t really care, either. All that matters is getting the fuck out of here, so he pushes Jimmy out of the way with as much force as he can muster to continue his not-so-daring escape, holding a cottonball against his inner elbow and stumbling more than walking. He must look like a mess. It doesn’t matter. As soon as he’s out of this hospital, he’ll do it again, and maybe this time, the cars will actually kill him like they should have so long ago. 

But of course, halfway down the hall, there’s security latching onto him and picking him up off the ground, in spite of his kicking feet and arguing with them. He’s in full presence of mind, and he doesn’t want to live. He wants his family back.

“Just let me die!” he screams at them, struggling to get out of their iron grips. “I don’t wanna be here! Let me go!”

Everyone stares at him. Each nurse and doctor on the floor, Jimmy included, as he’s returned to his bed and secured with the soft restraints so that he becomes a prisoner in this sterile little hospital room. As a nurse gives him a fresh IV, and Jimmy resupplies the oxygen, he wonders if maybe he did in fact die, all those months ago, and this is the hell he must endure.

“I want a DNR,” he says stiffly, tugging with little conviction against his restraints. “And a DNI.”

“You’ve been deemed non-decisional, by Dr. Charles when you came in.”

He makes a frustrated sound from deep in his chest. “I wasn’t even conscious.”

“Multiple people saw you try and kill yourself, and that stunt you just pulled didn’t exactly help.”

Crockett squeezes his eyes shut and clenches the fist he’s able to. When will it end? He needs it to end, finally, and yet he’s buried in their forced care and he wonders if they’ve tried to call his family. His emergency contact used to be his husband, and he doesn’t think he updated it. That number would have received no answer. If they even tried. He wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t, because no one who has someone to call would have done what he just tried. 

“As soon as I’m released,” he says slowly, “I’m just going to do it again. Can’t we get it over with already?”

Jimmy’s face is soft and small, a child’s innocence and worry written into every wrinkle, when he leans forward and places a hand on Crockett’s cast. “We’re not going to let you kill yourself. You have a future. People care about you, and-”

“And I’m done living.”

With that, Jimmy presses his lips together and seems to consider it for a moment, before he stands up and tosses a comment over his shoulder that Crockett’s doctors will be in momentarily to talk about his recovery. Doctors, plural. If he had to guess, he’ll be seeing one for his main care, and one to try and convince him that dying won’t make the pain stop, even if Crockett’s pretty damn certain it will. One cannot grieve when they are gone and reunited with their family.

Dr. Charles and one of the GPs in the hospital join him, Dr. Charles hovering near the door while the doctor approaches to test his body, see if it’s working. She makes Crockett wiggle his toes and squeeze her hand, shines a light into his eyes and makes him follow it without moving his head, until she’s satisfied that he hasn’t sustained much brian damage. Then she reviews his injuries with him.

“You did sustain three rib fractures, but they’re minor and should heal on their own, so long as you don’t do anything too strenuous. The oxygen is to help keep your sats up even though you’re breathing shallower than normal. We also treated a half-inch depressed skull fracture, and a subdural hematoma, but we’ve got the bleeding under control and you should heal fine from that. In the accident, you also suffered a traumatic dislocation of your left knee with ACL damage, which we’ve repaired surgically, and we expect you to make a full recovery.”

Crockett raises his eyebrows and looks at his cast covered arm. Now, the doctor won’t meet his eyes. 

“Your arm was an open fracture with a lot of debris from the asphalt and road surface. We were able to reset it with an internal fixation and grafted skin from your right thigh. Dr. Lanik told me you’ve already shown some movement in your left arm, and that’s a good thing-”

“What aren’t you telling me?” he interrupts. 

She clears her throat. “There was significant damage to the muscle tissue and nerves in your forearm and wrist. Now that you’re awake and lucid, we’ll be able to make a better determination of what that will look like for you long-term.”

What she doesn’t say is the most important thing. They don’t expect him to be able to use his arm the same way again, which means losing the one thing he still has left. Had left. Trying to save people the way the doctors in New Orleans couldn’t save his daughter. Another reason he should have just died, if not in the first accident, then the second. 

“Do you have any questions?” She asks.

“Can you bring me the paperwork to sign a DNR?”

She hesitates, and that’s when Dr. Charles pulls up a chair and asks for the chance to speak to him alone. No paperwork, then, just a conversation to try and convince him that this isn’t the answer. As if he deserves to live, especially with even his career taken from him too. 

Crockett stares at him, almost daring him to speak. For a moment, he thinks he’s managed to silence the doctor with nothing but a glare, but then Dr. Charles asks him how he’s doing today, like he’s just a child. He just wants to sleep and never wake up.

“Dr. Marcel, can I um, can I ask you how long you’ve been feeling this way?”

He looks at his broken arm. A drink would be stellar, to cut off some of the pain threatening to tear him apart. The question isn’t so simple, and even if it was, he definitely wouldn’t be answering. He doesn’t want help. 

“I took a look at your file, and it shows that you were in a car accident in New Orleans a while ago, before you came to Chicago, was that an accident, or-?”

“Shut up.”

“I also uh, was able to get ahold of your sister, Elodie? She’s coming up from Louisiana, said her flight should be landing at O’Hare within the hour. You know, she’s really worried about you.”

The last time he talked to his sister was before he got out of the hospital after the accident. She came to check on him, and he had been awful to her. It was the grief and the pain, but he hasn’t had the chance to apologize. Perhaps he should, since he’s here for now. He’ll have the chance to do so when she arrives and cries at his bedside, asks him why he did this, holds his hand and prays for him. Just like when they were kids and he got punched for mouthing off to the school bully. They were close, when they were young. Even when they were older, before Crockett lost everything.

“You know, I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t want your help, and I don’t want to talk to you.”

Dr. Charles sighs. “You know you’re on a psych hold. We can’t let you leave until we’re sure you’re not going to hurt yourself, and I just don’t see that happening if you don’t talk to anyone.”

“I want to talk to my husband and daughter,” he says simply.

Then he watches confusion and concern flit over Dr. Charles’ face, trying to figure out how to make that happen because he didn’t know Crockett had a family. The key word is had. Crockett misses them more than anything in the world, and if they were still here, he certainly wouldn’t have done what he did today, and he would still be at home in New Orleans, in their little house, cooking dinner each night with leftovers packed for lunch. He misses helping their daughter pull on her tights for church on Sunday mornings and tying his husband’s tie. He wants to have all of it again. 

“Can you tell me why you tried to kill yourself?”

“I want to talk to my husband and daughter.”

At that, he ignores everything else that Dr. Charles attempts to say to him, shutting his eyes and turning away until the man finally leaves and he’s left to cry in peace, unable to do something so simple as wipe his own eyes. This isn’t a life worth living. His husband would have understood, and would have signed a DNR for him.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for visitors to return, but he feels even worse when they do. Jimmy comes in first, checking that Crockett is awake, followed by Elodie, who looks a mess. Her makeup is smeared remnants of mascara beneath her eyes, and her usually put-together outfit has been replaced with rumpled sweatpants and a tee shirt. She looks the way his heart feels when she lunges forward to wrap her arms carefully around him. 

“You can’t do that,” she says, the tears too evident in her shaking voice. “When they called- Kett, you can’t- what if you had died?”

And he doesn’t have the heart to say that’s what he wanted, but Jimmy meets his eyes and looks just as broken in a different way. He nods at Crockett and cocks his head toward the door before leaving, mouthing that he’ll come back later. Not that it really matters. If he tries really hard, he can probably convince Elodie to sign a DNR and get him released AMA, and then he can peacefully die in his home without the hospital’s intervention. So simple, it seems.

Elodie cups the back of his neck and presses their foreheads together, just like when they were kids under a blanket fort, hiding from the rest of the world. She doesn’t cry loudly, but it makes his heart jerk in his chest until she sits beside him and rests a hand over his cast.

“Mom and Dad couldn’t make it, but they’re worried too. And I- the doctor said your arm was in bad shape.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Crockett says.

He means to keep his voice the same as always, but she hears the pain in it. She’s too good at it, when she considers the way he doesn’t even twitch at her gentle prodding of his fingers. The sensation of touch is there, but like it’s through plastic and not really on his skin.

It seems like Dr. Charles didn’t tell her the intention he had when he walked into the street, the smallest of miracles he can breathe deep into his chest in response to the emptiness inside of him. Elodie is the sort of sister who will stay here, not run away now that she’s seen that he’s alive, which means she’ll have to know that he died when he was within her reach, a grief he wouldn’t wish upon her, but is a necessary part of the process if he is to rejoin his family.

She tells him to rest, which he does only because there is nothing else for him in this hospital room. He’s biding his time until they let him go, at which point he’ll happily repeat the process as many times as it takes for him to finally ascend from his broken body.

When he wakes up again, she’s gone, and Jimmy is beside him again, typing on his laptop as though he’s relaxing in the cafeteria as opposed to keeping sentry’s watch over Crockett. It’s both sweet and irritating at once. He bites his tongue. 

“You do have to talk to someone,” Jimmy says without looking up. “You tried to kill yourself.”

“Everyone keeps saying that to me like I don’t know.”

His sigh can only be described as irritation, which is fair. Crockett looks at the soft restraints on his wrists and flexes them, as though it’ll set him free. “Did Elodie go home?”

“She’s staying at a motel, I told her to get some rest and I’d stay with you.”

“Do you have a thing for my sister, James Lanik?”

Jimmy just stares at him. He looks tired. “First of all, I’m gay. Second, you have to stop deflecting. Everyone’s really worried about you. You don’t need- there’s reasons for you to live.”

It’s a fair statement that Crockett has said to patients, to Elodie before. But even if there’s some reason, maybe a handful, to stick around, they don’t outweigh how badly he misses his family. His family, who he suddenly remembers, wouldn’t have wanted this for him. The dam breaks. The tears start, and the shaking that comes with each gasping breath when his body is struggling around sobs, and he just hates that he knows they’d want him to live but he simply can’t stand to continue on without them. 

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, Kett.”

Jimmy holds his good hand, like he really does believe in the future, and kisses his knuckles.

“I know you have a long road to go, but I believe in you. It’ll be okay.”

[lampmeeting]

since i can now do this ldsfk 1-Metalocalypse (obvi) and 2 Chickles back at you :3

oh HELL yeah *rubs hands together* okay this’ll be long so i’ll do a cut

Favorite character: PICKLESSSSS

Least Favorite character: everyone says rockso and like I GET IT he’s revolting, but my ultimate least-fave is toki’s dad. fuck that old man.

5 Favorite ships (canon or non-canon): CHICKLES, HAMMERTOOTH, uhhhh (what else is there?? i’m kidding) nathan/abigail, charles/magnus, nathan/toki

Character I find most attractive: oh fuck don’t do this to me. i have too many types!! i can’t pick! fuck. i’m just gonna say charles. even though it’s magnus. wait. no. it’s pickles. charles. toki. fuck. magnus. i can’t do it dfkgjhf

Character I would marry: realistically?? like, i would say charles but unless i’m a member of dethklok i’m gonna be getting like .02% of that man’s time. honestly i would pick toki or nathan. toki would be so sweet and attentive, all the huggings and kissings, awww. nathan i feel would be the same, but only in private. you gotta kinda work on him a lil bit haha.

Character I would be best friends with: my heart says pickles but my soul says murderface. i would FOR SURE laugh at one of his off-hand under-his-breath comments because that’s just what i do, i fucking laugh at everything, and he’d be like OH? someone thinks i’m funny?? and then my life would never know peace (in a good way)

A random thought: i wanna hear all the dethklok albums from before the show started. like that album where their abs were airbrushed, wtf did that sound like?

An unpopular opinion: season 4 was good. :O i feel like i hear the sentiment from quite a few people that season 4 on the whole was bad. i love all the seasons equally actually.

My Canon OTP: CHICKLES. may i present to the court, exhibit A *points to my icon* (shhh no, let me dream)

My Non-canon OTP: toki/magnus :’) i think this is just about as non-canon as you can get, really. but the heart wants what it wants.

Most Badass Character: DEFINITELY charles.

Most Epic Villain: sorry, mags... salacia.

Pairing I am not a fan of: i think i’m willing to at least entertain most any ship. i’ve read some interesting things for sure. i draw the line at seth/pickles though (i’m glad that doesn’t really seem to exist anymore? it was around more back in the day).

Character I feel the writers screwed up (in one way or another): aside from magnus and abigail, who both needed WAY more screen time?? i would say dr rockso in a sense. he was sort of that kooky rascal you wave your finger at when he gets in trouble, and then they had to go and do the whole dory mclean thing. and i get the point of the episode, but after that i wasn’t rooting for rockso anymore and he kinda became more of this sinister kinda figure? i dunno. i think that whole angle could’ve been done away with and it would’ve been a lot better. also him trying to fucking drown toki in the christmas episode. 8( ouch, man.

Favourite Friendship: probably nathan and pickles, since they’re the lynchpin of the whole outfit.

Character I most identify with: pickles with some toki on the side. :’) ahhh.

Character I wish I could be: i wanna be that girl that nathan was dating for a while, the one the boys end up befriending and playing scrabble with. i want to be their friiiiiiiiiend

OKAY CHICKLES TIIIIIIIME

When I started shipping them: WELL....okay so i actually just went back and looked at my old deviantart account and the first drawing i did of them (yes i’m linking to 14-year-old art pls don’t judge me) was on Oct. 18, 2006, so like...the dethfam episode hadn’t even aired yet. god damn. there was someone in the sausage festival livejournal community who had drawn the two of them, and then i fucking went ravenous for it real quick and it became like the only thing i drew for months hahaha. i had been nickles up until then. :O

My thoughts: MY THOUGHTS??? this is so vague. i have many thoughts. uh, for one? they’re perfect together? the straight-laced workaholic and the lazy degenerate? yes please, gimme. they’re like yin and yang, opposites attracting. and yet i feel like, once they get past that, they realize they’re both so similar at their cores. and pickles helps charles loosen up, and charles gives pickles some structure. they both give each other someone to lean on when shit gets bad. pickles can be a surprisingly good caretaker when he wants to be. :’)

What makes me happy about them: everything?? i really don’t know how to adequately describe just how much i love them and just how much that means hahah... you ever ship something for 14 years?? i know some of y’all have. it gets in your blood. that’s like over a third of my life right there. not to be dramatic or anything hahaha but they’re important to me. that ship helped get me through some rough months back when i lived alone in a crappy apartment, and it’s hilarious to me that i’m getting back into it hardcore like i was back then considering everything that’s going on right now, just current events-wise and personal stuff-wise.

What makes me sad about them: god damn, anything about those 9 months charles spent “dead”. anything post-doomstar. anything snakes ‘n barrels where they’re together for a short time and then never see each other until charles becomes dethklok’s manager. pickles pining after him for like a decade after the band forms. or charles pining, having to watch pickles party and do drunks and sleep around. or BOTH of them pining and not realizing it, or REALIZING IT and not acting on it because what if it hurt the band somehow? maybe charles wouldn’t want to jeopardize it but pickles would be okay with it, and charles would have to be the one to say no. ahhhhhhhHHHHHH

Things done in fanfic that annoys me: oof, i agree with you here, Ash. i’ve read a couple fics where, like, the bdsm aspect wasn’t even fun. i probably know the exact fic that left a bad taste in your mouth because there’s one specific one i’m thinking of that left a bad taste in mine (actually two...). like i had to actually get up from the computer and go do dishes hahah... uck. but yeah. don’t like charles being abusive to pickles. i think pickles does like some punishment from time to time, and he definitely has some daddy issues. but i don’t want it to get fucking sinister haha y’know? pickles, at his heart, is a good-times guy. he likes good feelings. he wants to feel nice. and charles, at HIS heart, is all about service.

Things I look for in fanfic: are they in love or just hooking up?? i mean i’ll take either at the end of the day, but i’m a romantic and i need the love, i crave it.

My wishlist: give to me all the fics about snakes n’ barrels chickles. how i haven’t written one baffles me (though i did have that huge plot write-up from months back haha...i should turn that into a real fic sometime). would also love a huge fic about their marriage, complete with canon-typical buffoonery. fics about them retiring together. ;0; fics about them just having nice peaceful moments. literally just.....any fic haha...

Who I’d be comfortable them ending up with, if not each other: my soul literally begins to shatter apart if i consider them ultimately ending up with anyone else hahaha... other relationships can come and go, but at the end of the line i need those boys to be together. <3

My happily ever after for them: after galaktikon II, dethklok has kinda run its course. the band uses their near-infinite resources to help rebuild the earth. shortly after, it’s pickles who proposes in a surprising turn of events. shaken after the battle, he doesn’t wanna waste any more time. they get married barefoot on the beach probably in like fiji or something (pickles’ idea) with friends and family present (the okay ones haha, also magnus is there with toki because this is my dream, damnit). pickles has white flowers in his dreads in lieu of a bouquet. T~T everything goes well, no one crashes the wedding. they have a lovely honeymoon there when everyone else leaves. pickles says he’s decided to retire from music, but it’s not long before he’s working feverishly on new music in the home studio at their new place. some real expansive stuff. he’s kinda doing it as a weird therapy, coming to terms with some stuff. he never gets clean but he’s not using drugs and alcohol as a band-aid for his problems quite so much anymore. charles retires from managing bands (he doesn’t have the heart for it if it’s not dethklok) and ends up doing the adjunct professor thing whenever he gets bored. but he practices guitar a lot, pickles teaching him some advanced stuff, they jam together sometimes. he takes up sailing because it’s something he’s always wanted to do but never had time for. after pickles releases his first solo album, charles takes him on a long, romantic sailing trip. everything is perfect, everything’s gonna be good forever. 8′) forever. the end.

[sinsiriuslyemo]

Our Dearest Readers,

Hey all! @missjennifercole​ has had quite the week and I figured I’d take something off her plate. Here is episode 49 of Cuba v DR. We’ve got one episode left and I am FREAKING OUT! I really hope we’ve done this series justice.

I’ve been reading through some of the previous season the last few days, gearing up for whenever we decide to start going through them to edit, and I think along the way I’m comfortable saying that we’ve had some stumbles, but hopefully the ending we have in mind leaves you guys satisfied. We love you all so much and especially those of you that have been with us since the beginning of this series, the amount of love and support for not only the story but for us as the writers has often times been overwhelming and I think I speak for both Jen and myself when I say that we have the most amazing readers on the planet.

Sinceriously,

Amanda

EPISODE 49

After work Roxie was happy to be home, she loved her job but lately she found that she had started missing Liam more. She’d had her first talk therapy session that morning and despite it only having been one session, she had already begun to feel better. At least the thought of seeing her baby was much less anxiety-inducing as it had been the day before. 

“It was so wonderful to watch you work, Roxanne. The camera loves you, darling,” Helena said, beaming with pride at her oldest daughter.

“Thank you, mum. I loved having you there as well. My co-host can be a bit much to deal with at times.” Roxie rolled her eyes at the thought, it had seemed that Aaron had been coming up with any excuse for them to have to reshoot this or that. “I was thinking we should take Liam to get some pictures done, professionally, baby portraits. It will be a chance to send it out to the family,” she said to her mother as she fumbled for her keys in her purse. “Plus Rafael and I have only been taking pictures on our phones and he’s doubling in size regularly. Soon he’ll be thirty at this rate.” She opened the door walking inside. 

“Oh, that would be lovely! Your father and I would have a photo of him to hang in our living room,” Helena answered.

“Precisely my thoughts,” Roxie answered as she pushed the door open. “We’re back,” she called out to her husband, moving into the living room where she usually found the two snuggling on the couch. When she found an empty room, Roxie turned to her mother. “That’s strange. Rafael left me a message telling me they were already home.”

“Well, perhaps they went out to pick up something to eat,” Helena replied with a bob of her shoulders.

“It’s close to Liam’s bedtime, I can’t imagine a reason why they’d leave.” She heard a cry from the bedroom, immediately sighing in relief as she moved into the room. “There you are-“ she paused, looking around and frowning. “Rafi?” 

She picked her son up, patting him on the back and gently rocking him as she moved into the guest bedroom where Helena was staying, and searched. There would be no reason for him to be in there but she was quickly running out of locations. 

“Love?” 

“Something wrong, darling?” Helena asked from the kitchen.

The lights were out, eerie silence of the room only deepening the pit in her stomach. She moved to the guest bathroom, then their bedroom, their adjoining bathroom as she felt real panic settle in. Rafael barely set Liam down at all, he’d never just leave. 

She turned to her mother, brows furrowed. “He’s nowhere.” 

“What do you mean, he’s nowhere?” Helena asked as she closed the fridge. “Perhaps in the bath?”

“I’ve checked everywhere, mum. He's not anywhere,” she said, moving to pick up her phone in her free hand. 

“Something’s happened,” Helena said, her previous task of warming food for her and Roxie completely forgotten. “He would never leave Liam alone.”

“I’m calling the police,” Roxie replied, thumb already moving over the flat screen of her cell phone.

“Isn’t his sister close by? You should call her after. Perhaps she knows something.” 

Roxie nodded, dialing 9-1-1 and listening to the longest three rings of her entire life. Even as she began to talk to the operator, she felt like this couldn’t be real. Rafael would never just leave their son alone in the apartment, she was offended just at the thought. But anything was more preferable than thinking something horrible happened. 

Her husband wasn’t shy of enemies from court cases or even by proxy of Nevada and that put him in a dangerous position. She couldn’t help but feel something had happened here, something truly bad. 

When she hung up the phone, she was trembling.

“I can call his sister, darling,” Helena offered, putting her hand over Roxie’s to take the phone. Roxie just shook her head, taking a breath to steady herself.

“No, no I need to do it. Will you stay with Liam for me while I’m in the other room?” she whispered. She could barely stand the thought of taking that baby out of her sight now, but she didn’t want his little ears hearing that his father had disappeared. Even if he couldn’t process it.

She dialed your number, feeling a rush of anxiety wash over her. 

“Hey you,” you answered with a smile. “What’s up?” 

“Y/N, something’s happened,” Roxie said, trying to keep the panic from rising further. “Rafael isn’t here.”

“What?” 

“Liam was by himself, he wouldn’t just leave the baby here. He would take Liam or call you. There would be no reason to--“ 

“--Roxie,” you said firmly. “Okay, I get it. Just calm down. Is there any sign of a struggle or anything?” 

“What? What the bloody hell are you talking about? I’m not a detective, Y/N! Where is my husband?!” 

You gave it a moment to let her panic, waiting until she calmed again. “The police are going to look for the same thing. Look, it doesn’t matter now, are you alone?” 

“No, I’m with my mum.” 

“Okay, stay there,” you said, standing up and pulling on a jacket. “I’m calling Nevada to see if he knows anything and I’m coming over. Lock your doors, close all the windows. If someone did come for Rafael, I don’t think they’re coming back but you can’t be too safe.” 

Roxie nodded as if you could see her, wiping a stray tear that had ran down her cheek. “Okay, I’ll lock everything now.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” you assured her as you moved out the door and downstairs to your car. Hollower words had never been spoken. You didn’t know that. You couldn’t assure that and more than anything else you weren’t even sure of it yourself. But she needed that assurance right now. “Rafael is going to be okay. I’m coming now. I’ll call you when I’m there. Don’t open the door for anyone but me or the police.” 

Roxie nodded again. “Okay, okay, please hurry, Y/N,” she begged.

“I’m coming, I promise I’ll be right there.” 

As you ended the call and got into the car, you looked at yourself in the mirror for a split second, you looked scared. You had to pull that look off of your face before you got to Roxie. There was no room for more than one person panicking and none of that would help Rafael.

You dialed your phone again, this time calling your husband. “Come on,” you mumbled, growing more frustrated with each ring. “Come on, Nevada, pick up.” 

---------

Rafael’s temples throbbed as a wet, sticky trickle ran down the side of his face. There was a slow drip coming from his right side and a low rumble beneath him vibrated against his bottom. A tight, sharp grip cut into his wrists and an attempt to move them elicited a hiss from him. His eyes opened to the darkness of a cold, damp room as the pain in his head doubled and he pressed his forehead against the wall next to him. Taking a deep breath, he carefully tilted his head up to find handcuffs around his wrists over a rusted metal pipe. 

He tried to pull his hands free by pulling down on the pipe with no success. His eyes were finally beginning to adjust to the dark and his legs moved in an attempt to stand but he couldn’t establish a firm footing. His muscles sore and screaming, he slumped back against the wall and continued to look around the room for a possible way out.

Where the hell was he?

He remembered Charles standing in his living room, holding his son. The image swarmed his mind and his pulse quickened.

“Liam,” he groaned, looking up at his wrists again and using a newfound strength to pull himself further up against the wall behind him. Straining his ears, he tried to listen for any familiar sounds and it was then that he realized he was gently rocking from side to side. The muted sound of crashing waves confirmed that he was on a boat of some kind. 

His eyes darted around the room, looking for something--anything--he could use to cut himself free. The room had obviously been prepared ahead of time, but he would’ve expected nothing less of Charles Heeley. The man had always been one to account for every detail. Looking along the floor around him, he scoured the filthy surface for something, anything to pick the lock of the cuffs. He hadn’t the slightest idea as to how to pick a lock, but he was determined to try anything.

He didn't care how long it took him, but he had to get free and find a way back to his family.

---------

“Holy shit.” 

The whisper sounded in the otherwise silent lab, where a technician was testing the partial fingerprint and DNA sample found at a crime scene they were convinced had been sanitized. Quickly moving to print out the matches he’d found, he wrenched the pages from the printer and shot up from his chair. File in hand, he raced out of the lab, deciding to take the stairs up to Captain William’s office. In retrospect it wouldn’t have made any difference to take the elevator, but he had been one of the many who doubted they would be able to find anything at the scene, let alone connect it to a suspect. His genuine shock had clouded his rational thought and he ran as quickly as his legs would carry him up the stairs from the basement to the third floor of the old precinct.

Shoving the door to William’s office open, the tech heaved and bent at the waist as he tried to catch his breath, one hand holding the file up.

“Don’t you knock?” Williams asked with furrowed brows at the sweaty technician.

“Sir...w-we found a m-match...for both the partial print...and the DNA.”

Williams’ face fell and he stood, snatching the file away to read the results. Eyes widening, he pointed at the report in his hand as his eyes met with the tech. “You’re sure about this.”

It was more of a statement than a question, this was what Leonard had been waiting for since he’d arrived in the Heights.

The tech nodded, breath still coming in heavy pants. He took a moment to right himself, swallowing as his breath finally began to slow. “Yes sir, there’s no question. The DNA sample belongs to Oscar Diaz Jr and the partial print has a seven point match with Nevada Ramirez.”

Williams dropped the report on his desk and grabbed his jacket before going into the pen and calling out to his lead detective. “Let’s go pick up Ramirez and Diaz.”

“We got them?” 

“Like a mouse in a trap,” Williams answered as he charged out the precinct.

---------

Nevada's phone rang loudly in the office building he'd just entered and he pulled it out to look down at the screen, seeing your name. Dropping the call, he stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for the top floor. He usually always answered when you called, but now all he could think of was getting out to where Natalia was. After what she'd done to Izzy, he couldn't wait to watch the light leave her eyes.

"Mr. Ramirez, it's so good to see you again!" Jasper's secretary said, flashing Nevada a bright smile as soon as he stepped off the elevator.

"Hola mi amor" he answered as he walked to her desk. "He in there?"

"Yes, go on in," she replied.

"Thank you. You look nice today, by the way," Nevada said with a smirk as he walked past her desk, up to Jasper's office.

"Always so sweet," she replied with a smile.

Without knocking, Nevada went into Jasper's office and nodded to the other man.

"Nevada," Jasper said with a smirk, looking up from his laptop. He stood and buttoned up his jacket, extending a hand towards the man in leather to shake.

Nevada shook his hand. "Oye, bro, I don't mean to bust in on you pero I need a huge favor."

"Name it," Jasper replied.

"Need to borrow your boat."

"Going on a trip?" Jasper asked with a smile.

"Not exactly," Nevada answered. "We found Natalia. She's off-shore--" His phone rang again, and he pulled it out to drop your call again before he looked back up at Jasper. "I wanna rearrange that bitch's face and hang her by her intestines."

"That seems like mercy compared to what I'd like to do to her," Jasper answered. "Your sister-in-law is a good girl. I was looking forward to seeing her succeed with her gallery. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's criminals who drag civilians into our business."

"You wanna come with?" Nevada asked as though they were planning a vacation.

Jasper grinned widely. "I thought you’d never ask."

---------

It took nearly two hours of pulling, his muscles screaming in agony as with his teeth clenched and a deep, loud grunt Rafael finally had been able to break the rusted pipe. Compressed air rushed out of the broken metal as Rafael collapsed to the floor. He took a moment to catch his breath, then despite the protest of his legs, he stood up and went to the heavy steel door on the opposite side of the room. Gripping the metal wheel at the center, he grunted as he turned it to the left, opened the door and peeked out into the corridor. This seemed too easy, but upon seeing no one in sight, he slowly stepped out of the room. The real task would be to find a way out and hoping that he was some place familiar. 

Were they docked at Chelsea Piers? Coney Island? 

Choosing to go left, towards a set of metal stairs, his eyes stayed alert for any movement other than his own. A whistle accompanied by footsteps sounded from the stairs and Rafael quickly went into the room to his immediate left, tucking himself behind the door. The whistle was closer, heavy thud of each step keeping a tempo as the man made his way down the corridor. He looked down at his still cuffed wrists and wondered whether the Whistler had a set of keys. Rafael turned his eyes back up, ducking and waiting for the man to walk past the door he was hiding behind before he came out and hooked the man’s neck with his cuffed wrists. Clenching his jaw, he used all his strength to pull the struggling body against his, pressing the chained metal against his neck. 

The man, surely much more rested than he was, rushed backwards and slammed Rafael against the corridor while his hands scratched blindly at his attacker. One hand reached for the gun at his waist, but was having trouble getting it out of it’s holster. Rafael pulled with renewed vigor, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head to one side. Never in his life did he imagine himself ever killing anyone for any reason, but he was determined to get back to his family no matter what, even if he had to commit murder. The man stomped and slammed him over and over into the corridor, attempting to get free, but Rafael only pulled harder, growling with his efforts. 

The nails against his skin slowed their digs as the life drained out of the man pressed against him. With one last yank, he heard arms go slack and slap against his victim’s sides and Rafael opened his eyes to find the man’s eyes were closed. Rafael let the body fall to the floor and looked to either side of the corridor just as a heavy door groaned in the distance. He heard footsteps approaching and voices of more than one man. 

More were coming and he didn’t have the strength to fight them off. Moving as quickly as his body would allow, he gripped the back of his victim’s shirt and dragged him towards the door he’d been hiding behind. Sweat dripped off his nose as he pulled the dead weight into the dark, empty room and carefully pushed the door shut just as the men turned into the corridor where he’d committed his first felony, and Rafael held his breath as he waited for them to pass his hiding place. 

“It’s fucked up is all I’m saying, how he left the kid all by himself,” he heard one of the men say.

“What the hell would he do with a baby? Good riddance. The little brat’s mom probably got home eventually,” another replied.

Liam. Charles must have left Liam at the condo. Rafael felt a silent sigh pass through his mouth at the news that his son was safe with his mother. Now he just needed to get out of this alive and all would be well again. 

Turning towards the unconscious man, Rafael couldn’t help but check for a pulse. He sighed in relief at the faint flutter beneath his fingertips and began to look through the man’s pockets. Finding a set of keys, he looked for one that looked like the one Liv carried for handcuffs and used it to uncuff his wrists. Rubbing the raw, cut up skin, he looked back down at the man, then down at himself. He was barefoot and his cashmere pants were certainly not made for a situation such as this. Working quickly, he changed into the man’s clothes and shoes, tentatively placing the gun in it’s holster on his belt before he left the room, closing the door behind him. 

He wiped the blood off the side of his face as best he could and made his way down the corridor, looking for an exit.

And that was when he saw it.

A window.

Moving double time, he stepped up to the small, circular glass that offered a view of outside. 

Water...and not just any water. Ocean. Open ocean.

They were out at sea!

---------

OJ whipped his head towards the door of the club at the sound of it bursting open, brows knitted and fists clenched as Williams and seven other detectives walked into the club. He was sick and tired of this new Captain coming into the club whenever it suited him and OJ stood, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Something I can help you with, pendejo? Buffet doesn’t open till dinner time,” he sneered with a smug expression.

Williams burst into laughter as he closed in on OJ. "Oscar Diaz Jr," he said, grinning at him. "Where's your boss?"

"Not sure. But I'll tell him you stopped by," OJ answered with a smirk.

"That might be difficult seeing as how you're under arrest," Williams replied, earning a scoff from OJ as the larger man stepped behind him and cuffed his wrists. “You got the right to remain silent and I, for one, wouldn’t be offended if you exercise that right--”

"--You got nothing on us, bro. This is fuckin' harrassment," OJ growled, turning his head to one side to peer at the Captain over his shoulder.

"We’ve got your DNA...bro," Williams replied, turning to his men. "Find Ramirez.”

"Yes, sir," one of the detectives answered as he and the other moved past the Captain and OJ.

Williams turned his head to address his detectives once more. “And put cuffs on every person you find! I don't care who they are, if they're here, they're either an accessory or an accomplice!"

---------

When you arrived at your brother’s apartment, Roxie ran right to you, hugging you tight. You squeezed her back, hand moving to the back of her head to gently cradle her before turning back to where Detective Carisi was standing beside Helena with a notepad.

“Y/N,” he said in a greeting, brows furrowed. You knew how much Sonny adored Rafael so this couldn’t have been easy for him either. 

“Do you know anything?” you whispered desperately as you let go of Roxie.

He shook his head. “Still taking a statement, Roxie said she just came home and Liam was alone. No sign of Barba anywhere in the apartment.” 

“He would never leave our son,” Roxie continued to repeat as if no one was listening to her.

“We know that, Rox,” you assured and laced your hand with hers, giving it a tight squeeze.

“Alright,” Carisi said, looking at Helena and then Roxie. “How long were you gone for, Roxie?” 

“The whole of the day, since this morning. I went out with my mother and then I had to work. Rafael had been with Liam, he needed to go to One Hogan Place to drop off his resignation. He left me a voicemail about half an hour before we got home,” she said, wiping tears again. “He said he and Liam had just gotten back and that he would see us soon.” She couldn't help but laugh a bit. “He wanted to know about my day.” She loved Rafael more than she could ever put into words. The idea of living without him was something she wasn’t prepared to entertain.

“This is all good Roxie,” Sonny said, offering a reassuring smile. “Any detail helps. Did you notice anything outta place when you got home? Anything knocked over? Broken?”

“No, everything was just as it should be except Liam was alone in his crib.” 

“Had there been threats by anyone lately?” Sonny asked.

“No, not that he mentioned.” Roxie shook her head, gripping your hand tighter. “He had just resigned, there were no new cases where he angered someone...no reason for anyone to be cross. Who would want to do this?” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” you said softly. 

“Did you call Nevada?” Roxie asked, turning to you and not caring that Sonny was listening. “Did you ask him i-if he knew anything.”

“He’s not picking up, but I’m going to try again okay? Let’s let the police do their jobs.” You couldn't remember the last time you’d said that.

Liam started to fuss in Helena’s arms, screaming until his tiny face started to go red despite his grandmother trying to rock and calm him. 

“Roxie, why don’t you take a seat with Liam, feed him, whatever you need. I’m going to talk to Y/N and your mom,” Sonny offered. “You have all of SVU on your side, Rafael has always been and will always be family and we don’t take this lightly. We’re gonna find him.” 

Roxie nodded wanting to protest but hearing her son cry changed her mind. She took Liam into her arms and holding him tight. “It’s alright, Liam, it’s going to be okay,” she whispered, moving to the bedroom to rock him and feed him.

After Roxie was gone, Sonny turned back to you.

“Listen, off the record, okay? Any threats made on your end? Towards Rafael, I mean,” Sonny asked. 

You shook your head. “I don’t know what’s happening, Rafael hasn’t pissed anyone off recently that I know of. Unless he was hiding something. He might not tell me but he definitely would have told Roxie. If she doesn’t know, then there was nothing.”

Sonny sighed and closed his notepad. “I just had to ask. Alright, Liv’s out with Fin looking for him and Rollins is tracking his cell phone. We’re gonna find him.” He looked up just as the CSU team walked into the apartment. “Mrs. Hume can you show me to Liam’s room so these guys can dust for prints?”

Helena nodded. “Yes, yes of course, anything to help.” 

---------

Nevada checked the safety on his gun while Jasper dropped anchor before the former got into the inflatable life raft on the starboard side. He could see the yacht a mile or so in front of them and from what they could see from their distance, there didn’t appear to be anyone on deck. Jasper handed off a backpack, which Nevada carefully placed at the front of the raft while the Englishman climbed in.

"How many do you reckon are aboard?" Jasper asked as he yanked on the pull string to start the small engine.

"I don't know. Boat that size, it's gotta be at least ten, right?" Nevada answered. 

"Let's assume fifteen," Jasper muttered, steering the raft towards the large yacht.

"She packs a lot of heat, so we gotta be on point," Nevada said. 

"Just keep them off me while I plant the bomb. We'll have five minutes after I activate it to get back," Jasper replied.

Nevada knitted his brows as he took in the vessel they were headed towards. It seemed far more luxurious than anything Natalia would have, especially considering she wasn't nearly as rich as she had been when he'd first met her. In fact there was only one person he knew of that could easily afford a yacht like the one they were approaching.

"Heeley," he said, almost to himself.

"What?"

"Heeley, that motherfucker. That's gotta be how she got out, how she's been able to make moves without drawing any attention," Nevada replied. "We might get two for the price of one."

"So, twenty men aboard," Jasper mumbled as they came up to the stern and pull up next to a small boat that was tied to the yacht. Tying their raft to the larger vessel as well, they crept onboard, Jasper turning to look at Nevada. "Ten minutes, meet back here."

Nevada nodded, and the two split up, Jasper to plant his explosives in the engine room and Nevada to find Natalia. Stalking along the port side of the yacht, Nevada made his way towards the bow, gun at the ready. A movement from his left had him raising his weapon and firing off a shot, clipping the body coming out onto the deck before he took cover behind a corner as the person shot back and shouted for backup. 

Moving quickly, he fired off another round just as two more men appeared. He shot one in the throat before ducking into a cabin wall just as the second fired round after round in his direction. Waiting for the sound of empty chambers, Nevada held his position until the telltale click. He came out of his cover to shoot again, hitting the man in the chest as he stalked once more towards the bow. He knew with all the gunfire that it would only be a matter of time before more men came, but he had one purpose in that moment.

"Where are you, you fuckin' cunt?" he growled under his breath.

---------

Roxie sat down at the precinct with her son, rocking him back and forth with her arms as she tried to calm him. She had a feeling he could tell something was off. He was crying for nothing. Not for food, not to be changed, nothing. He was just crying. 

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Daddy will be home soon, alright?” 

The waiting so far had been the worst part, not knowing what had happened, wondering if he was alive or dead in a ditch somewhere. 

“As soon as Daddy is back, I’m going to take a week off and we can stay home and spend time together, alright? Just us three.” 

The baby calmed after another moment of rocking as she bounced him gently in her arms. 

“There we go,” she cooed. “All better. You don’t have to worry, Liam. Mummy is here for you. No matter what. She’s here. And daddy will be too.” 

She wasn’t lying, Rafael would be here. She knew he would. He had to be. 

“Roxie,” Olivia called as she moved out of her office and took her usual confident strides over to the British woman, pulling her into a hug. “How are you and Liam holding up?” 

Roxie hugged back. “We’re managing, please tell me you have something.” 

“Fin and I couldn’t find anything on our canvas, but Rollins traced his cell phone,” Olivia began. 

“Oh thank god, and you found him?” She jumped to conclusions too soon, desperate for any hope she could cling to.

“No, it led to a warehouse. I sent Rollins and Carisi there but it was a dead end. All they found were his wallet and phone,” Olivia said regretfully. “But that’s not gonna stop us, we’re going to find him. I have CSU combing every inch of that warehouse, if there’s any prints or anything to tell us more about who was there with him, they’ll find it.”

Roxie offered a bit of a smile. “I know you will,” she mumbled and looked down at her baby then over to where you were talking with another officer.

She watched your phone ring as you looked down at it and walked out of the room. She felt a glimmer of hope, perhaps it was Nevada calling about Rafael. It had to be.

You answered once you were a safe distance away from law enforcement, frowning down at the caller ID. It wasn’t your husband like you’d hoped, it was Sawyer.

“Sawyer?” you answered. Sawyer never called you, there was no reason to. If she was calling there had to have been something wrong. “Are you with Nevada? I can’t get a hold of him.” 

“No I’m not. I’m calling because Captain Williams came to the club,” she said in a panic before her voice lowered to a harsh whisper. “Dama, he’s looking for Nevada.”

“What?” You frowned. “Why?” 

“He’s wanting to arrest him,” she said. “He came to the club and arrested everyone, Dama. Everyone. Me, Chibby, OJ, the dancers...even the guy who refills the vending machine in the break room. I don’t know what he has on us but it’s bad. It’s really, really bad.” 

“Oh my god. Okay, has someone called Rita yet?”

“I think so, yes. They gave me one phone call and I used it to get in touch with you. I needed to warn you. If you see Nevada, tell him to stay away,” she pleaded. 

"Alright, time's up," you heard from behind her and your heart sank. Sawyer wasn’t made for prison, neither was Chibby. You felt sick to your stomach for more than one reason.

“Thank you, Sawyer, thank you,” you whispered, hanging up and trying your husband again. “Come on, come on, Nevada, dammit!”

---------

Rafael made his way to the deck of the yacht, looking around frantically for a way off the boat. There had to be a life raft somewhere, he just had to find it. Turning towards the stern, he began to look for the raft. He had heard shots from somewhere on the deck and knew he didn't have very much time before someone inevitably spotted him. With any luck it was Olivia or Carisi coming to find him.

He could just jump into the water, but with no land in sight there was no telling what might happen if he did. Then he saw it, far into the distance but there nonetheless, another boat. If he could just get to the stern without incident, he could swim to it and hope that whoever was onboard would take him to shore. Keeping low and close to the cabin wall, he made his way towards the stern. 

A figure that walked with a purpose stomped in his direction and Rafael gasped, ducking behind a wall, hand quickly reaching for the gun at his side. He looked down at the weapon to take the safety off and waited with baited breath until the footsteps came closer. As he rounded the corner and raised the gun, he was met with a familiar face.

"Nevada?!" 

His brother-in-law stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widened as he stared back. "What the fuck are you doing here, Rafa?" Nevada demanded, lowering his gun.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Rafael repeated. 

Nevada ignored the question. "Where's Natalia?"

"What?!" Rafael shook his head.

“Natalia, I know she’s here. Where the fuck is she?” 

"I don’t know, I didn’t see her. Look, it doesn't matter, let's just get outta here. Heeley is somewhere on this boat and he wants me dead."

"I want that bitch--"

"--Nevada! My son needs his father, my wife needs her husband and my sister needs hers, too. Let's go!" Rafael answered, engage the safety once again on his gun and grabbing a fistful of his brother-in-law's jacket. He pulled him towards the stern, eyes continuing to scan their path for hostiles.

Nevada clenched his jaw. His vengeance would obviously have to wait until Rafael was safely off the yacht. There wasn’t enough time to get to Natalia and save Rafael. Turning his eyes to his brother-in-law, he shook his head idly. "How the hell did you get here?"

"Heeley kidnapped me out of my apartment," Rafael answered, leg muscles burning from his pace. “I don’t remember much, he must’ve knocked me out somehow.

"It was a challenge, for certain." The sound of Heeley's voice came from behind them and the two men whipped around to face the blonde villain, who was pointing a gun at them. "Now exactly where do you think you're going, Rafael? We haven’t even had a chance to talk."