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lene-loki · 3 years

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Never Too Close

Summary: After the events of Avengers: Endgame, (Y/N) Romanoff is mourning the death of her sister Natasha. She is unexpectedly finding comfort in the presence of someone who shares the pain of losing the people he loved.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff!Sister Reader

Warnings: Character Death, Spoiler for Avengers: Endgame, Angst, Grief, Suicidal Thoughts

Word Count: 2264 Words

A/N: I hope ya’ll liked this Imagine. Please let me know if you want to get tagged on future Imagines or Series that I want to write. This isn’t proofread and please excuse grammaticaly and verbal mistakes since English isn’t my mother tongue. And now please enjoy!! With Love, Léne xx

(Y/N) = Your Name

The pouring of the rain sounds like a faint whisper in the distance. When I close my eyes and listen precisely to the rustle I can almost hear the voice I long to hear. I open my eyes when the wind starts to blow into my ear, making my whole body shiver. A raindrop lands directly on top of my cheekbone and gets mixed up with a teardrop that escapes my eye. The wet droplet almost feels like a passing kiss. As if she is standing right beside me and kisses my tears away or maybe she cries from heaven herself and her tears end up on my face. I like to think that she watches me from above. Seeing my every move. Despite the rain a familiar warmth is spreading through my heart, making me feel safe and not alone anymore. My eyes blink the tears away, trying to focus on the words that are written on the wooden cross in front of me. The fact that her death is still so recent that she has to wait for a stone to mark her grave, makes me sob. I have looked so many times at that wooden cross that I started to hate it. She deserves a beautiful, carved stone. Not a dirty, broken cross where her name already starts to fade. But she has to wait. Her coffin isn’t set enough to put a heavy stone on top of the earth. I wipe the back of my hand over my tearstained cheeks before I kneel down in front of the grave. Everyday I bring a new kind of flowers by. Making the earth dissapear in a vibrant, little garden. It helps my own mental health to transform the place of grief into a little paradise for her. And I hope this is exactly where she’s at now. In a paradise. My eyes tear away from the flowers before I start counting them again like I always do. Because the number of the flowers is the number of the days since she passed away. My chest hurts, my heart starts to crumble inside when I once again think about the empty coffin under the ground. My sisters body dissapeard when she sacrificed herself to get the Soul Stone. Now all that remained of her is the memory.

Although it’s past midnight when I leave the graveyard I can’t help but to ring Clint out of his sleep - as well as his wife and his children probably. He picks up the phone with a yawn, his voice raspy from his deep sleep. He is the closest I have to family now and he knows. He always cared for me and Natasha and now that she’s gone he’s supporting me more than ever. Giving me a shoulder to cry on no matter how late it is. That is exactly whe he’s never annoyed when I call him at times like this. My loneliness leads the conversation as I tell him that I don’t know where to go. “Where are you right now, (Y/N)?” I shrug my shoulders even though he can’t see. “I think I’m near the Avengers compound.” My voice is barely louder than a whisper. My throats stil sore from my hour long crying at Natashas grave. “I can pick you up. You can stay at mines if you want.” He suggests and I can hear him fumbling with the bedsheets in the background. Ever since Natashas passing, I stayed at the Avengers compound in her former room. But sometimes it gets too much being surrounded by her memories and her whole life in just that little space. Everything in her room reminds me of her scent, her smile, her voice, the look in her eyes - especially that tiny twinkle in her iris that always appeared when she felt extremely proud of me. I have to pull myself together to not sob again and alarm Clint even more. As much as I want to escape from the compound for a little while, I don’t want to wear out Clints care for me. I feel like I already asked too much of him. “No, it’s okay. I’m sorry that I woke you.” I swallow the lump down in my throat in hopes he doesn’t hear how near I am to losing it all again. He sighs at the other end. “You’re sure?” “Yes.” “Okay, love. Don’t apologize for calling me.” His voice sounds so soft I could fall asleep immediately on the side of the road. He just has this soothing affect on me. I hang up after telling him that I love him and walk in the dim lights of the streetlamps to the compound.

Inside the building everything is pitch dark. The only light comes from Wandas room. It’s red and spreads in chaotic rays around the space of her own four walls. She surely is training her magic since she still hasn’t full control over her powers what burdened her more than usually the last couple of days. I decide not to disturb the Scarlet Witch and seek refuge in Natashas room. I really try to sleep but since Thanos happened my nights are as restless as my hurting heart. I’m still wide awake physically but dangerously exhausted mentally when I hear voices in the early morning hours in the kitchen. Wandas voice makes me wonder if she’s been awake the whole night as well. I leave the room in my short pyjama shorts and my plain white T-Shirt. I wouldn’t fall asleep anyway so I might as well just get up and start another day of inner misery. I round the corner to the kitchen island where Pepper placed a large bowl of exotic fruits on top. The blonde showed me a sad smile since she’s lost in her own grief. Pepper disappears out of the kitchen - leaving me alone with Wanda and a familiar brunette man which I recognize from Tony’s funeral. I can’t remeber his name but I recall the pained expression on his face and the devastated haze over his pupils. He seems like he always looks like pure misery. “Good morning.” I greet them both shyly since they haven’t notice me yet. Wanda immediately sends a heartful smile in my direction while the stranger’s corners of his mouth just twitch the slightest bit upward - almost to tiny to notice. I also perceive his new hairstyle. The last time I saw him he had messy, long waves. Longer than shoulder length and a full beard. Now he has his hair cut short and looking neat with his jawline covered in dark stubbles instead of the fullgrown beard. “Bucky, this is (Y/N). She is Natashas’ sister.” Wanda explains him in her thick, sokovian accent since he developed the same look of recognition on his face as me. Now the puzzle pieces click together. That is Bucky Barnes. Steves’ best friend and the other Super Soldier. His facial features unravel in realization. “Oh, right. Hello, (Y/N). Nice to meet you again and I’m... Sorry about your loss.” He frowns at the last part. “Thank you, it’s nice to see you again in less sorrowful circumstances.” I try to lighten up the mood a bit because I don’t want to start my day already with a bad encounter that reminds me once again how miserable I am inside. Unsure if we should shake hands, Bucky’s metal arm jerks briefly in my direction but he instantly lets it sink again - wrapping the room in an uncomfortable silence. “Well it was nice to see you again. I got to go now.” I excuse myself from the weird situation and leave without breakfast to go to my Natasha’s room. I still feel uncomfortable calling it my room since it was Natsha’s place to live for so many years. I didn’t completely lie to Bucky and Wanda since it’s a new day and time to pick up new flowers for my sisters grave. I change into comfy short, cotton pants and an old, blue pullover from Natashas wardrobe before I leave the compound.

I take a cab to the same flower shop I visit everyday. Where even the owner knows me by name already. Today marks exactly thirty days since Natasha died. A whole month without my older sister by my side. I ordered a special type of flower for this occasion. A bouqet of beautiful Royal Azaleas - the most precious flowers of our native country Russia. As beautiful as Natasha and I like how it brings a bit of our home to her - making her little paradise even more exotic. At the graveyard I am so consumed in my own thoughts to where I’m going to place the Royal Azaleas on the ground in front of the wooden cross, that I don’t notice right away the broad figure a few feet away from me. He’s standing upset in his posture and bent a little forward above a grave. It’s the back of his head - his freshly done hair and the colour of his shirt that gives him away and I realise that it’s Bucky. I decide against it to walk up to him since he’s mourning in his own world as well and obviously needs his space. My eyes tear away from the picture of the broken man in front of me and I finally walk straight up to Natashas grave. I crouch slightly to put my bag on the ground. I brought a little shovel to set the new flowers into the earth directly in front of the cross - making the Azaleas stand out from the rest. It is when I walk over to the well a few feet away from me to pick up the watering can, that Bucky notices he’s not alone. The can is filled to the brink and quite heavy in my hand as I carry it to Natashas grave, losing waterdrops on my way there. I silently water the flowers - careful not to drown them in the lack of strength I have in my hand that is holding the water can. The whole time I can feel his stare on me and I can almost feel his inner battle if he should come up to me or not. A few moments later he starts nervously walking up to me while I clean the little shovel to stow it away in my bag. “Do you still the need the watering can?” He asks hoarsely as he comes to a halt beside my bend over figure - blocking the sun out of my view which throws a few rays on the water droplets. Making them sparkle inbetween the flowers of Natashas floral paradise. “No.” I smile softly at him and stand up again. He returns my friendly grin and takes the water can but doesn’t leave straight away. He hesitates a second unsure of if he should leave me alone again, but somehow I long for company - not wanting to speak with the wind again and hallucinate about Natashas voice. “I lost everyone. Natasha was the only one left of my family. Although Clint supports the weight of my grief to make me feel like I’m not alone I still feel like it. I always felt like I’m alone in this world and deep down I don’t feel like I belong to the Avengers either. It was Natashas community. Not mine.” My eyes start to sting with upcoming tears while I open up to Bucky. I don’t really know why I do this. I guess I never felt so out of place and so lonely like I did in the past days and it scares me. Bucky clears his throat, his glance burning holes into my soul as he watches every slightest movement of my facial expressions. “I went through losing the people I love so many times that I lost count of it.” He blinks the tears away which threatens to fall from his eyes. “After Steve left to live the life with Peggy he always dramed to have, I officially got left alone. Steve was so much more than my friend. He was my brother.” He sniffs. “And now I’m searching for a sign - just something that keeps me in this life.” I let my tears run freely as I identify his words as my own feelings. And I realise that we are two souls hurting from the same experiences building a connection to one another through the desperation of having lost any strength to keep living. “Without wanting to get too close to you, I think you just as broken inside as me.” He speaks up. His eyes are swollen and red, still glossy from fresh tears which haven’t stopped being reproduced and leaking out of the corner of his eyes. I strangely feel comfort in the detail that his blue pullover matches mine. My heart starts to pick up a pace as I cross a vulnerable line between us and say: “I think you can never be too close to someone. I’m sure closeness is what we both need the most now.” I gift him a teary smile which he returns with a faint tint of red across his cheeks. Our encounter feels like a big step for the both of us - coming out of our shells we’ve been hiding in like anxious snails and I could feel it in the beating behind my ripcage that it was towards the right direction.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky fic #y/n #bucky x original female character #bucky x y/n #bucky imagine #marvel #avengers #endgame #clint barton #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #black widow

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notquitecanon · 4 years

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Take Care of Yourself // Criminal Minds/ Marvel Crossover pt. 6

TW: drug use (prescribed medication), borders on depression, self-blame, talks about Spencer’s addiction

A/Ns: I’d like to preface this with the fact i’ve never taken prescription narcotics so if I’m way off base, I apologize. Secondly, this is mostly just a filler bit to showcase how I felt different characters would try to comfort a friend and also set up for the next part.

I’m sorry it took so long to get this out, I wrote and rewrote it and I still don’t like it.

and sorry it is so long!

Other parts here

_____________

You closed your door behind you, not bothering to flip the lock but sighing as you dropped your go-bag off your shoulder. It had been three days since Emily died, and you had just gotten back from her funeral- the clock on your wall read a little past 4 pm. (Garcia was nice enough to let you stay in her Quantico apartment until after the service.) Dropping your keys on your entry table, you furrowed your eyebrows- all your mail was there and sorted, no doubt by Steve. A wave of guilt passed through you, you hadn’t even texted him since before that night. Not that you’d really spoken to anyone, most of the team was still processing- you were stilling mad at yourself.

The funeral had been a good service, elegant and honoring. Rossi, Hotch, Morgan, Spencer carried the casket, along with two of her older friends. Her mother flew in, tearfully thanking the team for trying so hard. Somehow that hurt even more than her blaming the team for her death. The entire team placed red roses on top of the polished coffin. The pastor said pretty words and prayed over the gathering. Then it was over, and the casket was lowered. Garcia, JJ, and Spencer hugged you as you left, while Hotch, Rossi, and Morgan chose simply to nod to you.

Natasha had been following the case’s progress, and called you- you didn’t pick up, instead of listening to her voicemail of condolences. She sounded worried, and you appreciated the sentiment. You passed by your desk to plug up your laptop, stopping to look at the picture by your lamp- a team picture, taken after a case that ended better.

The kid was saved, with no injuries, and the unsub had undeniable evidence against him. The whole team was still wearing their vests, smiling proudly at each other, even Hotch- the photo had been snapped by the local newspaper and Garcia had them printed and framed as Christmas gifts to the team. You and Emily were standing beside each other, Morgan had just clapped her on the back- you smiled remembering how he was teasing her about getting home for her hot date that weekend. Spencer was listing off some facts about the correlation between abductions and first dates, making a wild gesture with his hands while Rossi and Hotch shared a proud look behind him. That had been a good day.

You opened your computer, your lock screen held another memory: cooking lessons with Rossi. It was a candid shot caught by accident. You had handed Reid (who had no idea what he was doing) your phone to take a picture of the girls together. You thought he caught the nice picture of all of you smiling- instead, you got a picture of Garcia throwing plain pasta at your face while Prentiss, caught off guard, snorted laughter into her glass of wine, JJ was beside Garcia hands covering her mouth as she watched the events unfold. Spencer clicked the button too late, but it was your favorite picture. Even the guys in the background looked happy- except for Rossi. Hotch was standing by Rossi, who had just noticed what was happened you remembered him scolding “Italians don’t throw their pasta! Especially that close to my WHITE furniture!” Morgan was barely in the shot but was laughing as the pasta hit your hair.

Everywhere you looked there were memories of her. The blanket she got you for your birthday that you draped over the back of your couch, pictures of the trip to Atlantic City on one of her Gambling weekends, the soap she left in the shower she left the last time she crashed at your place, her favorite wine in your fridge… Sometimes you didn’t notice how much someone was apart of your life until they were gone.

You sniffed, the familiar sting coming back to your eyes, salty tears welling up as you gently dabbed at your face as not to irritate the bruises around your right eye. You finally were able to take the bandages off before the funeral, but they were still tender, purple and yellow dying your face like a bad tattoo and the skin was still split (fortunately, any other bruises or cuts could be hidden by your clothes… mostly).

Fingers knotting into that blanket, you took several deep breaths trying not to breakdown again. A few stray tears escaped, sliding down your cheek and darkening the baby blue material as you half-choked back a sob- the sound was sharp, high pitched, and sad. You watched as the mascara laden tears diffused into a black stain on the blanket, and that pushed you over the edge.

Your knees trembled as you sobbed, the ache of losing a friend was overwhelming but the anger you felt was a close match. But at the moment there was nothing to hit, kick, or shoot so both anger and sadness expressed themselves in pained cries and angry sobs. Normally, you were hard to sneak up on, but your guard was down so you didn’t even hear the doorknob jiggle.

“(Y/N)?”

You startled at the voice, but automatically realized it was Steve. Turning away, you carelessly wiped at the black smears under your eyes and winced when you applied even the tiniest pressure on the bruised and split skin.

“I should have knocked, I’m sorry, I didn’t think you’d be…” He trailed off, blue eyes training in on the inky bruises peeking from your collar and then to the way you were favoring one leg, “(Y/N), what’s wrong? You’re hurt.”

You sniffed, chest shuddering as you tried to get your breathing under control. In your peripheral, you could see Steve take a step towards you, his hand twitched like he wanted to comfort you but didn’t know how. Steve had seem a grand total of four women cry: his mother when his father died, Bucky’s mom and sisters when he was drafted, and Peggy when he crashed the plane. Well, heard that last one. He wouldn’t consider himself an expert in comforting crying women.

“I’m fine, Steve.” You croaked, still not completely facing him. He sighed as if he could smell the bullshit in your words. Hoping it would satisfy him, you turned to look him in the eyes, attempting to reassure him, “Really, I’m ok.”

Sometimes, you wished you weren’t so good at reading boy language, right now you wish Steve would at least try to hide his expressions. Your keen eyes watched as his raked over the black eye, split skin, and discoloration along your jaw.

“You look like hell.” He stated softly, shocked expression evening out into quiet worry. You wished your unladylike snort sounded less bitter.

“There’s that famous vintage charm.” You sarcastically chuckled, trying to hold your head up as you smoothed out the blanket. Steve winced at the sharp wit, apologizing quietly before rephrasing.

“What happened?” He asked, but you just looked away- allowing the two of you to stand in a heavy silence (paired with your funeral black attire) telling him a good bit about what happened to your friend, “I’m sorry, is there anything I can do for you?”

You shook your head, finding the passing clouds outside your window, always amazing how even the worst days can be sunny.

“Have you eaten?” He asked quietly, again you shook your head. Meeting his eyes again, you watched as he nodded, affirming his plan in his mind before speaking it aloud, “Ok, you take a shower and put on something comfortable, I’ll pick something up from that takeout place you like. We’ll eat and then you can get some rest.”

The set of his jaw told you that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, and you were too tired to argue so you just nodded. He almost seemed relieved when you agreed, happy you were letting him help.

“I’ll be back in a while.”

____________

When he got back, you were toweling off your hair on the couch staring aimlessly at the wall. The pajama shorts and tank top gave him a full scope of your injuries: hand-shaped bruises on your arms, split knuckles, the brace on one of your knees, and bruises in a range of colors all over your legs. If you were looking at him, you would have noticed his tell-tale sign of worry/anger: the combination of a set jaw, furrowed brows, and the squaring of his shoulders. As he set down the brown paper bag of takeout, he took notice of the unopened pharmacy bag labeled with your name and hydrocodone.

“You might not be hungry, but you should eat something. The nice old lady at the counter noticed your usual order and sent some sort of family recipe soup. Told me to tell you to feel better… I think… she wasn’t speaking a lot of English.” The soldier rambled, breathing a sigh of relief when you cracked the smallest smile as you got up and shuffled towards your kitchen table.

Steve retrieved plates and silverware from your cabinets and set them down in front of you before taking the seat across from you. It was almost awkward the way he watched you scoop food onto your plate as if you were going to wither away if he took his eyes off you.

Finally, with you unenthusiastically picking at the stirfry he loaded up his own plate and the two of you ate in silence. Until he nudged the white pharmacy sack towards you. Fork stabbing a piece of broccoli, you raised your eyes to him.

“You should take your medicine. You’ll feel better.” Steve stated. You shook your head.

“I’m not big on narcotics.” You shrugged, “Don’t like how they make me feel.”

“Are you saying they can make you feel worse than you obviously do right now?” He asked sarcastically, and you actually laughed- even if it was a bit of a bitter, dry chuckle.

“Fair point, Rogers.” You conceded, ripping into the packaging and then into the pill bottle-. Setting the powdery white pill next to your drink, you continued, “I’ll take this when I’m done eating, don’t wanna fall sleep in my lo mein.”

Steve smiled, happy that you were at least talking now, and that you were kind of joking. “You want to talk about how you got this beat up?”

You tensed, and began to shake your head- but you caught how he deflated and felt a pang of guilt, “I, uh, got grazed by a sniper first.”

You began tapping the bandage you had rewrapped on your bicep before continuing, “The rest of these were from when we infiltrated Doyle’s warehouse. I told Derek to go ahead and find Emily while I handled Doyle’s henchman. Turns out, I may have bitten off more than I could handle.”

“More than you could.. what do you mean?” His eyebrows furrowed in a somehow scolding confusion. Ducking your head in guilt, you muttered.

“I took on 8 IRA members by myself so Derek could go find…” You cut yourself off, not saying her name. Instead, you watched Steve’s eyes widen as he opened his mouth to scold you before stopping himself.

Instead of the long lecture he had on the tip of his tongue, he settled for a quiet, “That was extremely reckless, don’t do that again."

"Yes sir,” you nodded, taking one last bite of the Chinese food before washing it down with your drink. Gathering the trash, you began to get up to throw things away but Steve beat you to it. Instead, he tossed you a bottle of water and pointed at the white pill still sitting across from you. With a sigh you nodded, placing the bitter pill on your tongue before taking a large swig of water.

Knowing it wouldn’t take long before the drugs kicked in, you swallowed another gulp of water before shuffling to the couch. As you predicted, time seemed to slow down once they kicked in. In about thirty minutes, that little white pill had numbed the sharp pains and throbbing aches throughout your body, replacing them with drowsiness and a pleasant feeling in the back of your head.

You were nodding in and out of sleep when you were woken up to Steve pulling that same baby blue blanket over you, muttering out a quiet and slurred, “ThanksssssTeve.”

“You can go back to sleep now.” He assured you, but was apparently still worried, even your hazy mind could see that as he perched himself on the armchair facing you. You giggled breathily, lidded eyes swaying away from him and settling on yet another picture on the team that sat on your coffee table. Unlike the others, this was a posed shot. The whole team was dressed nicely, standing in front of the restaurant where they had just celebrated Spencer’s 26th birthday. Everyone was smiling, even Hotch.

Steve followed your line of sight, moving closer so he could see the photograph, “That’s a nice picture, when was this taken?"

Pulling out of your memories, you answered slowly, "Couple of years ago, celebrating Spence’s 26th birthday. That’s the whole team, happy.”

The blonde glanced at you smiling softly, and prodded you to continue, hoping talking about happy memories might lull you into a deeper sleep. Sliding to the floor, his back pressed against the base of the couch by your feet, he pressed gently, “Tell me about them?"

You hummed in agreement, one finger fighting through the blanket to point to the farthest right, "That’s Derek Morgan, he’s from Chicago. He’s like an older brother to me. He has a good heart, he’s brave and determined. He’s also hilarious and a total player, and likes to tease Spencer.”

Though your words were slurred, Steve still listened, nodding along as you point to the next person, “Beside him is Garcia, sorry Penelope. She’s our computer analyst so she rarely sees field action. Garcia is honestly the sweetest person alive, she likes to flirt with Derek but he’s more of a game for them than anything serious. She has this crazy fashion sense that works for her…"

You trailed off with a smile before pointing to the next person, "That’s Rossi, he partially invented profiling. ‘was in the FBI in the 80’s but quit to become a writer, but came back. He’s basically the dad of the group. Very sarcastic, very Italian. Has been married 3 times.”

Steve quietly chuckled as your train of thought devolved, going from relevant information to random facts as your mind became hazier.

“Next is,” you paused for a yawn, “oh. me. You know me. Then there’s Spencer- sorry, Dr. Reid. He’s the youngest, but also had 4 P.hd’s at 23. He might have gotten another one, who knows at this point. He’s a super-genius, can read something like 20,000 words per minute, which is completely excessive. But he’s also just super awkward and sweet- he writes letters to his mom every day.”

Steve watched as you stopped looking at the picture, “Let’s see, then there’s JJ, who’s your classic mom friend. She had to quit the FBI, but now she’s working at the pentagon. She’s so nice, but also a badass. And she has the cutest kid, Henry. Spencer and Penelope are his godparents.”

“Then, there’s Hotch who’s pretty much our boss. Sometimes I think he’s definitely not human- the man can turn off his emotions. He’s actually part of the reason I’m at SHIELD. But he’s a good man, he always makes the right calls and keeps us in line. He’s a good leader and he’s got a son named Jack- the one I babysit every now and then?”

Steve watched as you slipped your eyes closed, “And then there was Emily. Crazy smart, an amazing profiler, total badass, hilarious. Honestly, one of the best friends you could ask for. She always had my back, and this cat named Sergio- I wonder what’s going to happen to him.”

You went quiet for a while, causing Steve to think you’d finally fallen asleep, but instead, you were just staring at the ceiling, “I went to her funeral today, Steve. The mission failed, we didn’t save her.”

“(Y/N), yo-” He started softly, not wanting you to get worked up, but you cut him off.

“We got there too late, and I let Doyle get away. I had the shot and I didn’t take it.” You admitted in a shameful whisper, eyes trained on the ceiling as a singular tear escaped the corner of your eye. “Prentiss died, and I let her killer get away."

Steve knew this pain, the loss and anger at yourself for not doing the impossible. It was a terrible pain; he’d felt it when Bucky died. Your hand had gone limp, and in an attempt to comfort you, he laced his fingers through yours, thumb brushing your split knuckles. If you noticed this, you didn’t say anything.

"He smiled at me, Steve.” Your already quiet voice broke, “Smiled like he knew he was going to get away with it. And he did.”

Knowing there wasn’t any stopping this spiral, he quietly shushed you. Hoping you’d go back to sleep, there was no point in trying to give real comfort or advice to you in this state. But you quieted, eyes closing and breathing evening out. A minute of silence went by, the only noise was you instinctively curling into a more comfortable position.

“I should have taken the shot, Steve.” Was the last thing you murmured as you succumbed to sleep. Steve frowned deeply, wishing there was something he could do to help. He’d always been a fixer, a helper- even before being Captain America. You’d been an excellent friend, going beyond “orders” to help him, and now he could only sit there as you were hurting. You sniffed again, eyes leaving the ceiling and falling to his, “I should have taken the damn shot.”

Fifteen minutes later, you had slipped into a deeper sleep. It had taken a while, but your ramblings turned to indiscernible mutterings and finally quiet snores. Steve stayed on the floor, staring at the picture until he was sure you would wake up. Then, he scooped you up in his arms almost effortlessly and carried to your bedroom- one of the very few times he’d actually been back there. Finally, he settled down on your couch, googled hydrocodone, saw the wrong side of WebMD, and decided it’d be best for him to sleep on your couch. He didn’t know how else to help, but he’d try his best.

_______________

The next day, you’d woken up at 11 AM to find Steve still patiently waiting for you to wake up. And despite your still aching body, you valiantly argued that he had better things to do, and promptly kicked him out to make him go on his run. He hesitantly left after making you promise to take care of yourself, and you didn’t miss any of his worried stares as he walked out.

At around 1 PM, you responded to a knock on your door as you changed the bandages on your bicep. You swung open the door, fully expecting it to be Steve back to worry about you.

“You look like shit.”

Was not what you were expecting to hear, and you definitely weren’t expecting to see Natasha standing in your doorway with Clint (badly disguised in a pair of sunglasses) behind her.

“Thanks, Barton.” You drawled sarcastically as he shouldered past the redhead and yourself to infiltrate your kitchen. You watched as he went before turning back to Natasha for an explanation.

“He’s right you look terrible.” She nodded, “If you don’t let me in, Clint’s going to eat all your food.”

Wordlessly, you motioned her in just in time to find Clint with cold lo mein dangling out of his mouth. Natasha gave him a pointed look to which he responded with a defensive (and noodle muffled), “What?”

The spy sighed, turning back to you, “We heard what happened to your friend, and wanted to make sure you were…”

Natasha trailed off, knowing “okay” was the wrong word. You also knew the “we” definitely meant that she forced Clint to come, but you still appreciated the notion. You gave her a tight-lipped sympathetic smile. Motioning over your rather extensive physical injuries, you tried to joke to lighten the heavy atmosphere of your apartment.

“Well, if it hadn’t of been for your training, this could have a lot worse.” You smiled, leaning against the back of the couch as her emerald green eyes analyzed everything down to the brand of knee brace you were wearing. She crossed your living room and undid your bandages.

“These are too loose, you’ll get an infection.” She offhandedly remarked, easily undoing the gauze and rewrapping them tighter like an expert. You quietly thanked her as she tied them off. “I guess weekly sparring is postponed for a while.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to wait 3 to 5 weeks to kick my ass.”

She laughed at this, “I’ll just have to settle with kicking his ass.”

As she said that, Clint looked up from his your Chow Fun with furrowed eyebrows. You genuinely laughed as the archer tried to defend himself. From there, it was mostly easy conversation between you and Nat with occasional chiming from Clint. The company was nice, and you didn’t even mind as the conversation turned to more serious topics. You had suspected it would, so you just willingly recounted the tale, yet again.

“And then he just smiled at me. And when the train passed he was gone. I should have taken the shot.” You finished lamely, blocking any emotion from your voice. After extensive debriefings, the funeral, and Steve, it was becoming easier to tell the story. Clint had finally stopped eating,

“He won’t get far. He has the FBI, CIA, Interpol, and SHIELD on his tale.” The archer tried to comfort you. The sentiment was nice, but you knew it was more of an empty promise. Doyle had evaded the government for years, and likely would for years to come.

Both Clint and Natasha’s phone buzzed after a bit of silence, and you knew it as the universal sound of “we gotta go”. They both quickly stood, walking towards the door. Clint was already in the hallway, instinctively doing a sweep for any enemies. Natasha turned back to you, “I’ll spare you the ass-kicking but don’t think you’re getting out of dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You smiled, holding the door open for her as she left. Suddenly, a flash of uncertainty ran across her face- which you didn’t miss. It was quite uncharacteristic for her, but you soon understood when she rushed forward to hug you- something she had never done before. Over her shoulder, even Clint looked surprised. After the initial shock, you relaxed into the embrace and hugged her back.

But as soon as it came, it was gone and the too master assassins were down the hall and gone. As they left, you did feel lighter. The pain of losing a friend and guilt over not bringing Doyle was still fresh after four days, but the searing anger and sadness were morphing into more of a dull ache in your heart.

Now reading 4 pm, you were sure Steve would return soon to check on you and looking back into your empty apartment- you decided you could use some “fresh” city air. So after slipping into real pants and a warmer shirt, you threw your jacket on and grabbed your headphones. Then you were off.

You weren’t sure where you were headed or when you’d get back, so you just let your wandering mind translate to your feet. The sun was beginning to go down when you found yourself in a suedo-familiar part of town. Looking up to a familiar building, your eyes found the prior apartment of Emily Prentiss. That familiar feeling flared back up in your stomach, but you suppressed it- allowing yourself a moment before continuing your walk.

With the sun’s retreat, it became progressively colder but you didn’t let it bother you as you continued. Allowing yourself to zone out, you, once again, let yourself wander aimlessly amongst other pedestrians walking home from work. You’re phone buzzed, bringing back to the present. Trying to stay out of the way, you found a bench to sit on so you could fish your phone out and look at the multiple texts, all from Steve.

Steve: Went by your house.

Steve: You weren’t there

Steve: Everything ok?

You quickly texted him back to appease his worries, knowing he was probably assuming the worst. Truly you regretted telling him about all the serial killers, stalkers, and rapists you had put away- that and introducing him to dateline tv. Like any other 90-year-old, he was now overly paranoid. Slipping your phone back into your pocket, you looked back up, people-watching as you enjoyed the chilly breeze.

Almost instinctively, you squinted down an alleyway- where two tall and lanky figures were shuffling between themselves. Your mind went through a hundred different possibilities- drug deal, prostitution, mugging, murder, assault… Lips setting in a fine line, you watched the interaction. Their silhouettes gave more information than one would think, and even though you weren’t on duty- you couldn’t just watch if someone was getting hurt.

Finally, you determined that whatever was happening wasn’t hostile enough for you to intervene as they parted ways- until the second figure stepped back into the busy street. Your heart froze, bathed in the yellowish-orange street lights and setting city sun was a rather haggard looking Spencer Reid, shoving a suspiciously unsuspicious crumpled up sack into his jacket pocket.

Frowning, you ran through every situation you could to make this not seem bad. With a snap decision, you were after him- zipping across the street and speed walking to catch up with him. Weaving through the other pedestrians, you finally caught up with him.

“Spence!” You called softly, gently tugging the elbow of his coat to slow him down. He visibly tensed, halting in his tracks, and eyes widening as he turned around to see you worriedly looking up at him.

“(Y-Y/N) w-what are you… where are… wh-why are….” He stammered, and you could see the wheels and excuses churning in his head.

“I just needed some air.” You explained, eyes on the poked out edges of the sack in his pocket. He quickly shoved it out of sight, causing you to purse your lips.

“What did yo-… did you-… how long did…” He awkwardly stuttered. Sighing, you took his hand out of his pocket.

“If you’re asking what/ if I saw. I’m hoping I didn’t see what I think I saw.” You softly scolded, trained eyes looking for anything to tell if you were too late. His eyes were alert, albeit red and puffy- which paired with his red and runny nose. His hair was messy and greasy, and his clothes were wrinkled- as if slept it. Unable to hold your gaze, he looked away guiltily. You pressed your lips into a fine line, hoping you weren’t too late.

“Spence…” You trailed off softly, hoping he didn’t mistake your sorrow for judgment, “Please tell me you didn’t…”

He was quick to answer you this time, voice quiet- ashamed, “N-not, not yet.”

There was a flash of relief, and almost instinctively, you threw yourself on the young genius. Normally, Spencer wasn’t much for physical affection, but for once, he practically melted into the embrace. He buried his face in your hair and balled his fists into the fabric on the back of your jacket. Pedestrian traffic hustled around the two of you, but you ignored them in favor of focussing on Spencer’s shuddering breath as he tried not to cry. You were soothingly patting his back, wishing JJ was here- she always knew how to comfort him, and right now you were just trying not to make things worse.

“Let’s go somewhere.” You quietly suggested.

_____

After five minutes of walking, the two of you shuffled up to Spencer’s door. You were watching him jiggle the key in the lock as you thought of how to help. The walk back had been mostly silent after you’d disposed of the Dilaudid he’d obtained. Once inside, he shrugged off his coat and hung in on the rack, which you did the same. And since his apartment was -as per usual- weirdly warm (Spencer had always run colder than most) you went ahead and shed your sweatshirt as well. You didn’t miss the change in the air, feeling Spencer’s concerned look just as you had felt Derek’s, Steve’s, and Natasha’s.

“They look worse than they feel.” You shrugged, hoping to avoid the conversation altogether. Spencer didn’t look convinced.

“As a very smart friend of mine once said, ‘You wanna lie more convincingly, or go ahead and tell me the truth’?” He asked, one eyebrow quirked. You sighed, recognizing your own words.

“I hate it when I’m right.” You muttered before truly answering him, “My ribs and my knee still hurt the worst, and the cuts are healing but still sting every now and then. I’m managing.”

Appeased with your honesty, he moved to the kitchen spouting off facts about knee and leg injuries as he went. Over his voice, you could hear him making coffee at nearly 7:30pm. He returned with a fresh cup of coffee in a mug printed with a physics joke on it and handed it to you, “I did a lot of research after I got shot in the leg.”

“I remember.” You smiled, thinking back to when Hotch basically had you babysit him to make sure he was following a doctor’s (medical doctor, you had to clarify) orders until he was cleared again. Then, there was a pause of comfortable silence while the two of you sipped your drinks. You knew you had to break the silence and bring it up.

Setting the mug down on a coaster that sat atop a stack of well-worn hardbacks, you took a deep breath, “Why tonight, Spence?”

Immediately, he tensed, the doctor frowning as he anxiously drummed his fingers on the side of his mug. His mouth opened and closed a few times as if he couldn’t get his words right before finally, he confessed, “I know we all miss Prentiss, but I just… I ju-. I just miss her so badly, (Y/N). I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”

Your expression faded into understanding sympathy as he collected himself before continuing, “And I know Emily wouldn’t want this, and I know I could lose my job, and I know I’m nearly 4 years clean. Believe me, I know these things, I’ve run through so many possibilities and reasons why I shouldn’t… But, it just hurts, and I didn’t know how to make it stop. I just want to stop hurting, even for a little while.”

As he finished, his hazel eyes lifted to you- almost as if begging for a solution to his pain. You wished you had one for him. “It’s going to take some time, Spence. And you’re right, it hurts. But you’re not alone. Have you tried talking about it with anyone- Morgan or JJ?”

You paused, “JJ helped you a lot when you first got clean, right?”

“I tried, but I got desperate. JJ’s not answering her phone, and I’ve got to her house for the past three days. Hotch finally told me that she got called away on Pentagon business, something urgent. I didn’t want to bother Will, and didn’t want Henry to see me like this.” He explained. Something about that didn’t sit right with you, but you brushed it off and let him finish, “And no one’s heard from Derek since the funeral.”

You took a deep breath, collecting your thoughts, “Well, the important things are: 1.) You’re still clean, we got rid of the supply, 2.) You’re right, Emily wouldn’t want this, and 3.) You’ve got me, and no matter the assignment, hour, whatever, if you need me, you call me. I’ll answer.”

You finished your promise with an assuring smile, watching as Spencer returned it with a characteristically awkward smile back as he nodded. Deciding it would be best not to dwell on the sad stuff, you force a brilliant smile, “Now! when was the last time you ate? I’m thinking… Indian Takeout?”

Though he already knew your strategy, he went along, chuckling, “You hate the Indian place here.”

You scoffed, mocking offense (though he was right) as you went the binder by the fridge where he stored his takeout menus, “Since when?”

Spencer snatched the binder away, protective of his meticulous organizational method (first by cuisine type, then by alphabetical order, with a color-coding system for price range, and a special sticker for delivery options), as he teased “Since you are it before going out with Garcia and JJ. And learned that Indian doesn’t pair well with ½ priced Margaritas.”

“…Right… well, I can eat rice.” You shrugged, pretending to be indifferent, but really you were just happy he was smiling again. “And for the record, at that point, nothing would have paired well with ½ priced Margs.”

_____

The next morning, you woke up on Spencer’s couch. The TV was off, which was confusing since you fell asleep to Spencer correcting the physics of Star Wars. Slowly waking up, you winced at how stiff and sore you felt, rubbing absentmindedly at your ribs. Couch + no medicine = no bueno. With a little focus, you could hear Spencer shuffling about in his bedroom. You tried for your phone, wondering how long you had slept for. Dead. So with no concept of time, you slowly sat up and allowed your sleepy mind to acclimate.

“Oh, morning.” Spencer chirped as he moved past the living room to access the kitchen for what was probably his second cup of coffee. Then he breezed back by you to collect his iconic leather messenger bag, “I would have let you have the bed, but I fell asleep in the chair.”

You waved him off before he could apologize. Trying to clear the sleep out of your voice, you quietly croaked the question, “What time is it?”

Spencer checked his watch, “7:23 AM, Hotch wants the team there ASAP, time-sensitive case, probably. “

He answered as you stepped into your shoes and weaseled into your sweatshirt. You yawned as he finished packing his messenger bag and then stood. Pulling on your coat, you announced, “Well, I suppose I’ll get out of your hair. Call me if you need me.”

You were about to close the door behind you when his voice caught your attention, “I’m glad you were there. The chances of us being in the same place at the same time and noticing each other are astronomically, exponentially low. But I’m glad you were there.”

You cut him off before he could thank you again, with a smile you nodded, “I am too, Spence. Be careful on your case.”

__________

Still troubled from the previous evening, you spent the walk home mostly thinking of ways to check in on Spencer- but also annoyed by how far you walked the previous night. You must have walked for three hours that night, rambling in odd patterns, because it took a full hour to walk back to your apartment. (It would have been much shorter if you hadn’t of left your public transport card at home).

Finally, at 8:30 AM, you stumbled into your apartment. After putting your dead phone on the charger, you popped some extra-strength ibuprofen and took a hot shower-which worked wonders on the sore parts of your body. Finally, as you got dressed, you fielded the dozens of texts and emails that you missed.

“Guess I’m popular this morning.” You muttered, running a towel over your hair as you read and responded to Steve’s worried messages. Then you answered Penelope’s questions about if you heard from Spencer, Derek, or JJ and if you were ok. Finally, you flipped through your emails and with a deep sigh opened one from Phil Coulson.

The subject line read, “Work to do.”

You skimmed all the attached documents, most of which were extremely redacted. From what you gathered there was a satellite crash in the deserts of New Mexico and for some reason, SHIELD was tasked with handling it. Fury had decided to send you with Coulson and Agent Barton for an undetermined length of time in the desert. Great. And you were leaving later that very afternoon. Even better.

After a quick google about the weather in New Mexico in early April, you threw together yet another go-bag. You hadn’t even unpacked the one from Boston, it sat like a hollow corpse by your closet- picked through for things you needed but left full of bloodied clothes and now irrelevant files. You stared at the bag for a moment before snapping out of the daze of painful memories and moving on to grab a fresh bag out of the hall closet. Making quick work of it, you packed both professional and comfortable clothes.

At 10 AM, you dropped the packed duffel bag by the door. As you turned away from the door you began running numbers on your schedule- it was 10 AM you had to be SHIELD headquarters at 3pm… Your thoughts were interrupted by a strong telltale knock on the door. With a sigh, you turned back around and opened the door.

Unsurprisingly, Steve stood in the doorway- wide-eyed at how fast the door had opened. Smiling, you ushered him in, closing the door behind him before moving past him and into the kitchen. You hadn’t eaten anything but white rice in the last 24 hours, and you were quite hungry.

“I didn’t know if you’d be home. Is your friend alright?” He started, following you into the apartment. You knew the underlying question wasn’t actually about Spencer, but you ignored his worry.

“Crisis averted. Sorry for going MIA, I fell asleep on his couch and my phone died.” You explained over your shoulder as you rummaged through your fridge. You frowned at the empty Chinese containers left in there, muttering a quiet, “Dammnit, Clint.”

Emerging with sandwich fixings, you presented them to him with a quirked eyebrow. He simply shook his head, so you went about making yourself a rather pathetic look meal.

“Did Fury tell you?” Steve broke the silence with a rather ominous question. You didn’t look up but furrowed your brow.

“Fury doesn’t tell me much, so probably not. Did Fury tell me what?” You questioned back, returning a few items to the fridge.

“I’ve been cleared to take physical evaluations and receive modulated training sequences from SHIELDl.” He explained, blue eyes watching your crouched figure. You were glad the refrigerator door was blocking your face- You hadn’t told the Director anything of the sort. Could be why he was sending you out to the desert, to distract you. Impatient Asshole. After your inner thoughts evened out, you wiped the surprise off your face and smiled at the soldier.

“No, he didn’t. But that’s good, you don’t have to sit around here bored all the time. I haven’t been the best tour guide lately.” You shrugged. The soldier hummed in response.

“As much as I appreciate your help, it will be nice to have something to do.” He admitted, always careful not to offend. You nodded back to him, taking a rather unladylike bite of your meager brunch. “I saw your bag by the door, you going somewhere?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m being assigned to New Mexico- super boring, middle of the desert. Something about a satellite crash.” You told him, shrugging. You were expressly stoked for the assignment, figuring it was mostly a distraction to keep you from 1.) Yelling at Director Fury for not listening, and 2.) Going after Doyle yourself, which you had already considered.

Steve nodded for a moment, before his face knitted into confusion, “Why do they need a profiler at a satellite crash?”

Your own eyebrows furrowed, you hadn’t thought about that. There were a dozen different assignments that they could task you with. Why this, what were you missing?

“You know, Rogers, that’s a good question.”

_______________

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