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tuiccim · 1 year

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Though I Have Never Read It (Part 7)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 2985

Warnings: Angst, Family dynamics/drama, Discussion of controlling/abusive relationship.

A/N: Special thanks to my hype princess & beta reader @whisperlullaby.

Though I Have Never Read It Masterlist

Sitting in your car at the compound, you lean your head back against the seat and close your eyes. You take a few deep breaths and give yourself a mental pep talk before finally getting out. The butterflies in your stomach seem to increase with each step you take closer to Bucky's door. You were scared of what this conversation may bring. Would Bucky be angry? He hadn’t seemed so earlier. Would he think it meant something more than it did?

You lift your hand to knock and stop short. Closing your eyes, you bite your lip and consider running. You could pack your things and be gone in a blink. You’d done it before. But before, there wasn’t Eva and no matter what happened, you couldn’t leave her. Besides, dealing with Bucky was nothing like what had driven you to Estonia. Your real fear here was your own feelings. So, before you could let that cowardice take hold, you allowed your hand to fall and rapped on his door. It opened more quickly than you expected and you took a step back.

“Hi,” Bucky says, his face full of expectation and… fear? He looked like that lost, scared shell of a person that he had been when you first met him and it made you want to comfort him more than anything.

“Hi. Is now good?” You ask softly.

“Yes. Where, uh-” Bucky makes a vague gesture.

“Here is fine. Unless you’d rather go somewhere else,” you try to give him some room.

“Are you sure you’d be comfortable in my room with me?” He can’t seem to quite meet your eye.

“Are you comfortable with me being in your room?” you ask instead.

“Uh, sure, sure. Come in,” he steps back to allow you entry.

“Thanks,” you look around as you walk in and see mostly stark furniture with only a few personal touches. The one thing that is nearly full is his bookshelf. You let your eyes browse over the titles momentarily. A corner of your mouth quirks as you realize there was a little bit of geek in the quiet supersoldier but you smooth your expression when you turn back to him. He gestures towards the two chairs that flank the bookshelf and you take one.

“How is Eva? …and Mark?” Bucky asks.

“They’re great. She was happy to see her dad,” you chose your words with care to reinforce your earlier assertions of Eva’s paternity.

“Good, that’s good. How, uh, how are you?” Bucky fidgets with his hands.

“I’m okay. I can see you’re as nervous about this conversation as I am,” you try to lighten the mood.

Bucky cracks a small smile but still hasn’t looked you in the eye yet, “Yeah?”

“Bucky…” you wait for him to look up and when he finally does, you ask shakily, “Are you angry with me?”

“What?!” Bucky’s eyes widen in surprise.

“You won’t even look at me.”

“No! No, I’m not angry with you. How could I be? You’re the one who should be angry with me. After what I did. I terrified you,” Bucky’s voice nearly breaks.

“No, I mean, I was scared at first but you didn’t terrify me,” you assert. “Do you remember all of it? What do you remember?”

“I… God! I’m not even sure what I remember. I… did… did I-” Bucky groans in frustration and puts his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you reassure him. When he looks at you a few moments later there is a tinge of red around his eyes that tears at your heart. “Why don’t I tell you what I remember? And then we can work out the details.”

“Please,” Bucky whispers.

“I was living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. No electricity, rainwater plumbing that was frozen half the time, a tiny kitchen, a bed, and an armchair to read in. It was 4 miles to the nearest neighbor and several more to the nearest town. One evening I was bringing in firewood. There was a snow storm coming in and I wanted to be sure there was enough in the house for the next day. I had just taken off my jacket and was about to relock the door when it flew open and you came through it. I was scared for a minute. I thought you were there to kill me but when I asked you, you simply said shelter. You were even less talkative then,“ you give him a smile to reassure him as his face still betrayed some torment. “What you did manage to tell me was that you were running away from something, too. So, I decided that being scared wasn’t going to change anything. I fed you some soup and whiskey to warm you up, convinced you to get out of the wet clothes you were in since you were shivering, and managed to get you to lay in the bed to rest. You looked so lost at times. While we ate, you were able to remember the name James so that’s what I called you. I settled into my chair to read and you asked me to read to you. I had been reading The-”

“Princess Bride,” Bucky interrupts.

“Yeah,” you smile at him, “you remember that?”

“I, I overheard you reading it to Eva last night. It’s what triggered the memories. I think,” Bucky says.

“I thought someone was there last night.”

“I’m sorry. I just heard you and stopped to listen for a minute.”

“It’s fine, Bucky. Anyway, I read to you for a while until I thought you had fallen asleep. When I tried to settle down in the armchair to sleep, you were trying to get out of the bed, grunting no at me. You had so many bruises and scars. I insisted you needed the bed more than I did. I touched your shoulder to stop you from getting out and you gasped. I thought I had hurt you but then you just looked at me and said please. So, I ran my hands through your hair and you calmed down. I sat on the side of the bed and kept doing it until I thought you fell asleep again but the moment I pulled my hand away, you were awake again. You asked me to stay, so I just got in the bed with you and kept running my hand through your hair until we were both asleep. The next morning, um…” you falter, unsure how to explain the next part. Embarrassment and fear wrapping together to still your tongue.

“I hurt you,” Bucky says grimly.

“No,” you stare at him, unsure if he meant because of the blood or something else. “No, you didn’t hurt me, James, Bucky,” you shake your head at your own confusion.

“Don’t. Don’t spare me. Tell me the truth. I remember. I remember forcing myself on you,” Bucky stands up to pace, clearly torturing himself.

“Bucky,” you start but he cuts you off.

“Tell me the truth. Please,” he says while pacing, staring at the floor.

You get up and stand in his path. Grabbing handfuls of his shirt, you force him to look at you, “You didn’t force me,” you say vehemently. Leaving any of your own feelings in the dust, you barrel forward with only the thought of giving him the reassurance and comfort he desperately needed. “You didn’t force anything. I woke up and you were rubbing against me. Pure instinct, you were still asleep. As soon as you woke, you stopped and stared at me with the most terrified expression. I pulled you closer. I pressed myself against you. And then you kissed me and it was intense and I wanted it. You whispered please and I knew what you wanted. I knew what you were asking for,” you pull him closer to you as you speak, ensuring he is hanging on your every word, “I pushed my pants down and you helped me get them lower. You didn’t. You didn’t force me. You didn’t force anything. You were soft and slow and gentle with me. I wanted that. I wanted you.”

“But… the blood?” Bucky asks incredulously. “Were you a virgin?”

“Ye-yeah. It was my first time but that doesn’t change how I feel about it. I wanted you,” you say sincerely. You stared up at him as you emphasized the words of reassurance. Your heart was beating wildly and with your hands curled in his shirt, you could feel his was too. Your faces were so close and you felt a yearning that frightened you.

“But I took that from you,” Bucky looks at you sadly.

You scoff, you can’t help yourself. Letting go of him, you walk back to the chair and sit, relieved he had given you the perfect out to separate yourself from him physically. Sighing deeply, you shake your head, “No, Buck. The 1940s called, they want their misogyny back. If anything, I gave it. It wasn’t anything special and, truthfully, I was glad to be rid of it. It doesn’t matter. You didn’t hurt me. Understand?”

“Yeah,” Bucky sits looking calmer, “What happened after that?”

“I was going to start breakfast when you heard something. You told me to get in the bathroom and stay there. You said, um, you said thank you. It was quiet for a few minutes and then it sounded like a tornado came through. Smashing and glass shattering and then smoke. The cabin was set on fire and you were gone.”

“They found me. I…” Bucky looks away as if things are falling into place in his mind, “I was commanded to destroy the cabin. I told them no one was there, that I’d gotten lost in the storm. It was the only way I could keep you safe. I had to make them think no one was there. I tried to make sure you could get out, that the fire stayed far enough away to let you get out of the kitchen window.”

“That’s exactly how I got out,” you say.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says.

“For making sure I could escape?” You raise an eyebrow playfully.

“For ruining your life there.”

“You didn’t ruin anything. It wasn’t much of a life. It forced me to come back here. To face up to my problems. It wasn’t easy but I’m glad. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been here to see Eva born or have that time with her mom. I’m grateful for that night. I don’t have any regrets about it,” you smile while trying to gauge his feelings.

“Why were you in Estonia?” Bucky asks the question you weren’t sure you wanted to answer.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night, doll.”

“I’m not kidding. It’s complicated,” You demure, unsure you wanted to share that much. Then again, maybe you should. Maybe there should be one person here who knows the whole story and it seemed right that it would be Bucky. After all, he was a part of it.

“It’s up to you. I’d like to know but only if you want to tell it,” Bucky tilts his head as he looks at you.

“Settle in,” you laugh lightly as you reposition yourself in the chair. “My dad was a businessman. He owned a mid-size company that was contracted by Stark Industries. My,” you sigh deeply before continuing flatly, “mother had some connections and helped him get in with Obadiah Stane. He was the CFO of Stark.”

“I've heard of him,” Bucky nods.

“She kept close tabs on business dealings and even closer tabs on me. She insisted I become a woman of high society. She wanted me to be a social climber, like her. It wasn’t me but I went along with it to make her happy. My father died suddenly when I was in college, the company was thrown into chaos and my mother begged Stane for his help. He agreed but insisted on controlling interest in the company. It was around this time that they started an affair, I think. Suddenly, Stane and his son, Zeke, were coming around often. Zeke was a few years older than me and he paid a lot of attention to me. At first, I was flattered. My mother started throwing us together as much as she could but then he started getting possessive. He acted like I was a belonging rather than a person. He started policing my clothes, my phone, my friends, everything. He was not happy that I was getting a degree in mechanical engineering. He said it was a man’s field but he knew it was one of my dad’s last wishes that I finish college. He was downright pissed, as was my mother, when I told them I’d been accepted into the Master’s program. That’s when Zeke finally threw in my mother’s face that he was done waiting for his part of the bargain. Apparently, she had struck a deal with Obadiah for me to marry Zeke in exchange for some other business dealings. I never really understood all of it but he lost his shit and started insisting that he was done waiting, the deal was for me to finish my degree and then he’d own me. That’s the word he used, 'own'.”

“Your mother sold you?” Bucky asks in shock, realizing now why you had given her such a cold reception on the phone call he had overheard.

Your eyebrows lift in realization of the accuracy of the wording, “Yeah. She sold me. Zeke, he, uh, knew I was a virgin and he wanted me. He wanted to have that. He wanted complete ownership over me. I was terrified of him. I hated who I was with him. I was weak and scared. I cowered under him. He had nearly complete control of me. They started planning the wedding. It had to be a grand event. A status symbol. God, I hated it. I hated everything. I hated myself. I hated who I had become. It was my best friend that came up with the plan to get me out. She had watched my light go out and she couldn’t stand it. She convinced me to escape and with the help of a few other friends, I did. I left to go to a dentist appointment with a small purse and the clothes on my back. Thirty-six hours later, I was in a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere. I was free. And I was so happy… for a while.” You look away reliving the joy and sadness of that time for a moment.

“A while?” Bucky prompts.

“The loneliness started to get to me. I wanted a life. A real one. I was trapped the same in that cabin as I had been under my mother’s thumb. Living in constant fear of being found. Then you showed up. You were my catalyst. You forced me to go back and face it all. I met Tony and Pepper and Happy. We found out the Stane’s were doing a lot more shady dealing than anyone ever imagined. When I confronted Zeke, he went insane. He, uh, he tried to kill me. Zeke had built himself a suit similar to Tony’s. Luckily, Happy was there and managed to keep Zeke at bay until Tony showed up.”

“Tell me he’s dead,” Bucky growls.

“He’s… incapacitated. That’s what drove me to Estonia,” you pause for a moment, realizing you had to ask Bucky, “Did you tell anyone that we were in Estonia?”

“I told Steve and Sam about meeting you,” Bucky looks at you with furrowed brows.

“But did you tell them it was in Estonia?” You question.

“No. Why?”

“I need you to keep that part just between us. If anyone, like my mother, ever found out I was there, they’d know exactly who helped me. It could jeopardize their livelihood, their business, their life. Please-”

“I give you my word, doll. It stays between us,” Bucky promises.

“Thank you. Anyway, I came back here. Tony got me back in the Master’s program, gave me a job, and… you’re all caught up now,” you let out a little laugh.

Bucky studies you for a moment before asking, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“At first, I was waiting to see if you remembered me. I knew you’d been through the brain blender a few times so I was gonna let you take the lead. Then, I don’t know, I didn’t want to bring you any pain. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to go back there. When I thought about telling you, it was for it to be easier on me and I didn’t want to be selfish in that way. I thought maybe it was better to protect you,” you explain.

“You don’t need to protect me, doll. That was the best night I had had in those years. Thank you for that,” Bucky smiles and you can see the emotions in his eyes.

“You’re welcome. Well, um, it’s getting late,” you say lamely. A tension had formed in the air and it was unnerving you. You found yourself wanting to fling yourself into Bucky’s arms, wanting to find that release he had once provided. You stand swiftly, reminding yourself that one night didn’t mean anything. At least, not romantically. It was just two people seeking comfort in each other. Survivors finding solace together and you couldn’t get wrapped up in it. Because, the truth was, you wanted to fall for the man in front of you and you didn’t trust yourself to. “Good night, Bucky,” you say as you cross to the door.

“Uh, night, doll. Sleep well,” Bucky says quickly.

“You, too,” you say as you exit. You flee to your room, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come any time soon.

Part 8

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pisupsala · 1 year

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 7 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings |Mature content | 18+ only[WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 5.7k

Library

Chapter 7 - I’ve Got Sunshine In The Morning

After you hoof it out of Bradley’s room, you feel completely frazzled. You haven’t even stopped to put on your coat, let alone your hat. Technically, you don’t need to, because you don’t need to go outside. You just need to get two buildings over through the maze of servant corridors and side doors. Still. Rooster doesn’t need to know that. No one needs to know that. But you just needed to get out of there.

When you finally slip into your own apartment, breathing heavily and still clutching your coat, through the dark hallway, you tiptoe past Eva’s room, who has taken up residence in the guest room since your parents moved back to their cottage in the countryside out east. Just as you make it around the corner to your own bedroom, you hear Eva’s door open.

“Anya? Is that you?”

You purse your lips and don’t reply from the darkness.

“Fine.” Eva scoffs as she closes her door a little more forcefully than strictly necessary. You’re just really not in the mood to talk right now because you desperately need to think. Something you’re clearly not very capable of in the proximity of those warm chocolate eyes. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you shuffle to the privacy of your bedroom.

Getting changed into a nightgown, you cocoon yourself in your cover. You’re mortified. Compatible. With Rooster. Just the memory of the conversation makes you grimace.

He’s probably a little too compatible with everyone.

Everyone but you.

You toss and turn, eyes closed, but sleep won’t come. Fuck. Your brain just won’t stop replaying Rooster laughing at you. God, he must think you’re pathetic. It’s all just a bit of fun, he said—it probably is for him. But you strangely feel like you’ve been kicked in the gut.

Angrily untangling yourself from the sheets on your bed, slip into your warm gown and slippers and quietly make your way into the kitchen. You need something to calm your nerves and clear your head. You have some powdered milk somewhere, and there should be some honey left. It makes it at least somewhat palpable. Gently, you heat water on the stove, stirring in the powder.

Down the hall, you hear Eva’s door open. Bleary-eyed and yawning, she walks into the kitchen, tying her gown. Her hair, almost the same shade as yours, is neatly rolled and pinned. You didn’t bother tonight, simply braiding yours.

“Make me some too, won’t you?” She asks casually, as she fishes her glasses from her pocket.

You nod as you add more water and powder to the small pot on the stove. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Nah, but I figured this would be the best time to ambush you.” Eva replies with a grin as she slides onto the kitchen table. You chuckle in response. Pouring the hot milk into two mugs, you start scraping some crystallized honey from the jar.

“Don’t we have some honeyed rum left?” Eva asks innocently.

“It’s the middle of the night, and you want rum?” You question, eyebrow raised.

“Well, you look like you could use it more than I do.” She shrugs.

“Please,” You scoff lightly, screwing the top back onto the jar.

“You don’t tell me very many things anymore, Anya,” Eva starts, arms crossed. You shoot her a guilty look. “I’m not guilt-tripping you.” She amends, shrugging lightly. Your ‘extracurricular activities,’ as Eva dubbed them, remain a point of contention between you. “But we’ve been best friends for over a decade, and you honestly look like that time that upperclassman rejected you for the end-of-year ball.”

You open your mouth, offended frown on your face. And then close it again. Eva just cocks an eyebrow at you. “So, get the rum.” She directs you. Eva was in med school before the universities closed. She’s really meant for it, if only for her uncanny ability to pick up on people’s pain—physical or otherwise. And her annoying habit of precisely trying to get to the bottom of everything. She’s as sharp as a whip, and you love that about her. You keep each other on your toes. Eva knows you’re doing… something. Something not strictly legal, something that is possibly connected to the resistance, although you’ve never confirmed it to her. She thinks you’re putting yourself at unnecessary risk. You think it’s your duty to do something, anything, to help, right now. And that’s how you’ve arrived at a stalemate. You simply don’t discuss it, both going to your day jobs as cleaners, Eva diligently studying in her free time, while you trade goods on the black market and forge documents.

It just works.

Throwing up your hands in defeat, you go to retrieve the near-empty bottle from what once was the liquor cabinet in the living room. Adding a healthy pour of the rum to each mug, you hand Eva hers and slip yourself onto the kitchen counter across from her.

“Cheers.” Eva holds up her mug, before taking a careful sip. “So tell me, you got a boy up your bonnet? Finally?” “It’s not a boy.” You roll your eyes in a futile attempt to not have this conversation. And technically it’s not even a lie. Of the many words you could use to describe Rooster, boy definitely doesn’t fit.

“Man, then.” Eva counters, undeterred. Of course.

“It’s nothing.” You shrug dismissively, waving your hand as if to chase away a fly. “It’s just someone I met by chance, and he’s just passing through.” Shaking your head, you blow into your hot milk. “It’s a whole lot of nothing, really.”

“But it’s bugging you.”

“Yes, Eva, it’s bugging me.” You bite out bitterly. “Nothing will ever come of it, and considering everything, it doesn’t even matter.”

“God, everything with you is for flag and country these days, isn’t it?” You shoot Eva an angry look at her exasperated tone. “So dutiful,” She practically scolds you. “Time didn't stop. You are still allowed to do things for yourself, things that you enjoy, you know? That includes the mystery man that’s keeping you awake at night.”

“Bold of you to assume the feeling is mutual.” You don’t want to sound defeatist, but Rooster is only flirting with you for his own entertainment. “He said it himself: it’s just a bit of fun.”

“So? Have fun then.” Eva makes it sound like the most obvious thing in the world, but you almost choke on your milk. Laughing, she gets up from the table and pats your back, and you violently cough.

“It- it’s not that simple.” You choke out.

“It’s only as complicated as you make it, Anya.” Eva tells you kindly. You wrap your arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a hug. You sit together in silence for a while, sipping your milk. You missed Eva. After sharing a desk with her since the first year of high school, you’ve been at odds with each other as much as you were partners in crime. And now, while you work the same job after stopping your studies, you tend to work opposite shifts.

“Aren’t you on the morning shift tomorrow?” You ask suddenly.

“Yeah, but it’s only cleaning, I could do that in my sleep.” Eva snorts. “More pressingly,” Eva picks up your messy braid from your shoulder and pretends to inspect it. “Are you seeing him tomorrow?”

You groan in response, rubbing your eyes tiredly. For a hot second, you forgot about Rooster.

“Get your rollers and pins.” Eva nudges you off the counter. “I’ll make us another drink and fix your hair.”

“It’s two in the morning!” You complain.

“And you used to take better care of your hair.” Eva counters in a mocking sing-song voice. “Now go.”

Shooting her a surly look, you shuffle out of the kitchen sourly. A few minutes later, you are sat in a kitchen chair, with Eva on the table behind you. She’s combing your hair gently. Between the milk, honeyed rum, and the soft scratching of the brush against your scalp, you finally start to relax.

“I needed this.” You sigh. “Thank you.”

“I know you do.” Eva replies levelly. “You’re just not around anymore. Even when you’re here, it’s usually only physically.”

“I know…” You mumble into your mug. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Eva…”

“You’re doing what you think is right, Anya,” Eva tells you coolly. “Don’t apologize for that.”

She sighs.

“I admire you for that.” Her voice is careful, as she fidgets with a roller. “You always stood up for what is right, to a fault. To your own detriment. God, the notes your parents must have gotten from you arguing with teachers. Those detentions you’ve been in.” Eva chuckles fondly at the memory before worry etches her face. “I’m just… I’m just scared that one day you won’t come home.”

You don’t reply, sadly peering into the cloudy liquid in your mug. You can’t lie to her and tell her that won’t ever happen. That you’ll always come home. No matter how much you want to offer your best friend a semblance of comfort, you also know she will not appreciate such a blatant lie from you.

“So all I can do is believe.”

At that, you turn to look at Eva strangely. She has a sad smile on her face.

“All I can do is believe as much in you as much as you seem to believe in yourself whenever you confidently walk out that door to do god knows what.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to shake off unpleasant thoughts. “Trust your gut, Anya. It has gotten you this far.”

“Thank you.” You tell her softly.

“And get that stick out of your ass. Or ask your mystery man for help with that.”

You shoot Eva a sharp look, but she just giggles.

It’s only a little while later when you find yourself back in bed, Eva’s words echo in your head like a mantra before you finally doze off.

Trust your gut.

***

It feels so good to be outside again. It’s cold, but the sun is shining, and Bradley never thought he’d miss the simple pleasure of sunshine and fresh air. He basks in the warm rays of the sun for a moment as you lock the door behind you. This is not the same entrance you took him when you entered the building a month ago, exiting through a pair of massive cherry wood doors flanked by two statues. The building is a cheery pastel green.

When he opens his eyes again, you are standing in front of him, expression soft as you straighten the lapel of his dark coat. This morning, he heard you pad up the stairs bright and early. He was leaning on the ledge of the small window, smoking, as he called for you to come in.

When you came in, you weren’t smiling—he wasn’t expecting you to, really—but Bradley is relieved that you didn’t have that hurt look in your eyes either. If anything, you looked serene. Like overnight, a calm descended on you. You have everything under control.

You are the person who is going to get him out of here.

He wants to apologize for the previous evening—it was clear he needled you a bit too much, and you felt embarrassed. He had wanted to tell you that putting marrying your fake identities was actually clever, but it caught him off guard. And you blurting it out with so little grace or preamble was just genuinely funny.

But you just had to follow it up with that comment about being compatible. It stuck in his brain for the rest of the night. Hell, every time he looks at you now, he can’t help but think of every way of how he could convince you exactly just how compatible you are with him. If only you’d let him.

But he also knows damn well he really shouldn’t be focused on that, when you are the person quite literally keeping him alive. When you are risking your life to keep him alive.

Don’t fuck the hand that feeds you, Bradley scolds himself.

You make it so goddamn hard for him, though. When you touch him, when he manages to coax out a genuine smile from you, it’s like everything around you just melts into the background. And the worst thing is? You seem so completely oblivious to it because you just scoff at him like he’s yanking your chain.

From his spot at the window, he watches you march into the room, duffle bag in hand. You place it at the foot of his bed before you turn to face him.

“Sleep well, Rooster?” Your voice is light, calm.

“I did.” That’s a half-lie. He’s anxious to get out. “You?”

You just nod in response, as you move past him and pluck his mug off the window sill. You are so close, he can smell your soap again. Bradley’s stomach clenches. Under the small brown hat, your luster hair is styled neatly. He wants to run his fingers through it, hold it as he angles your lips against his.

“I’ll get you more coffee?” You ask as you move away from his again, glancing over your shoulder. Bradley nods as he takes a drag from his cigarette. “There are new clothes for you in the bag. Get changed in the meantime.”

And with that you waltz out, closing the door behind you. Bradley listens to your footsteps disappear down the stairs.

Fuck. You are dancing in circles around him, and every time he reaches out for you, you step just beyond his touch.

When you return, Bradley is just zipping up his pants. He hears you coming up the stairs and calls out he’s still getting dressed, but to his surprise you ignore him. Pushing the door open with your shoulder, your gaze lingers on him for a moment too long as he tucks in his undershirt.

“Your coffee.” You announce, holding up his mug before placing it on the table. Again you breeze past him to his spot at the window, where you pluck a cigarette from the carton and light it. Bradley’s gaze follows your trajectory through the room, although you don’t meet his eyes again.

He chuckles softly. So you’re going to play it cool, then?

That’s perfectly fine with him.

He can play it cool just as well.

As he gets dressed, you stare out of the small window, smoking and sipping on your own coffee. Bradley tries catching your eye in the reflection of the window a few times, but you don’t seem to be looking at him at all, rather lost in thought.

When you’re both looking over the map again, your finger drawing out the route you will be taking, pointing out landmarks on the way to help with orientation, your tone is businesslike. You tell him exactly what he needs to know, no more, no less. Your walls are pulled up so high again, Bradley can barely see you.

It’s only now that you are in front of him, on the quiet street, the sun shining on your face, a shadow of a smile passes over your face again. Your fingers latch on the lapel of Bradley’s coat like you’re holding him in place. Your eyes quickly flicker around, checking the street for traffic. When your eyes meet his again, a mischievous grin plays over your face. The exact smile he’s seen on you before when you know damn well you’re not supposed to do something, but you’re practically daring someone to stop you. The sunlight is merrily dancing in your eyes—Bradley swears he can feel his heart do a little jump.

“You look good, Rooster.” You tell him simply, voice soft, petting his chest. He feels prickly heat creeping up his neck—it’s been a long time since anyone has made him blush. And you seem to do it so easily, with just a smile and a few simple words. He wants to say something back, a dozen thoughts flash through his brain about how he could make you blush right back, but he decided against it. You will just sidestep him again, depriving him of that beautiful smile.

So he grins at you, simply offering up his arm. Happily, you loop your arm through his, resting your free hand on his bicep.

Trust your gut, you keep repeating it in your heart. There was no particular reason you told Rooster he looks good—there was really no joke on your part or a power play of some sort—the gray suit just fits him exceptionally well. You have to hand it to yourself, that was a fantastic call on your part. The long black winter coat and hat just finish the picture. So it just felt right to tell him. You’ll take the blush that crept up his skin as an apology for him laughing at you last night.

That said, you are so glad you let Eva fix your hair last night because you would have looked downright frumpy next to Rooster otherwise. You catch a glimpse of your reflection together in a shop window. You do make a handsome couple. Will anyone truly believe you’re married when they see you walking together like that? Are you, yourself, not going to be a dead giveaway that it’s all a ruse? Your heart squeezes at the thought.

Subconsciously, your fingers tighten around Rooster’s arm as you bite your lip. Wordlessly, he covers your hand with this and smiles down at you in response. A kind, fond smile. It feels so genuine, you almost start believing it.

Together you walk around the city like that every other day. A different route every time, exactly like a married couple might go on a quiet stroll together. Rooster plays his role as your not-husband so well, it almost hurts.

When you’re cold, he takes your hand and holds it in his own, slipping them into his pocket. When you’re waiting to cross the road, he tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. As you board a tram, his fingers travel down your spine as you walk up the steps, only for his palm to rest on the small of your back.

But you give as good as you get. When you stop at a landmark, so Rooster can look around to orientate himself among the thousand spires of the old city, you wrap your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes, your cheek against his jaw. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pressing you against him, turning in a slow dance. When you need him to notice something, you twirl around him, putting your hand gently on his face, aiming his gaze. Rooster is surprisingly pliable, not flinching when your palm brushes over the freshly forming scars on his face, allowing you to lead and move his much larger frame with ease.

It’s the moments when he holds your gaze slightly longer than is strictly speaking necessary and his touch lingers, you can’t help but think how wonderful it must feel if it were real. How beautiful it must be if he meant every gentle touch, every warm look, every small sweet gesture. Whomever Rooster settles with, will be very lucky indeed. Until then, you are going to enjoy every bit of attention he bestows on you.

With every walk you take, Bradley thinks he gets to know you a little bit more. He feels like he’s learning to read every small expression that plays out on your face, suddenly plain as day to him. The small crease that appears between your eyebrows when you’re focused or worried was one of the first things he noticed about you, but now also sees the way you scrunch your nose up when something bothers you and how you bite your lip lightly when you’re lost in thought. And he now knows which way you’re going just by the way you squeeze his arm. He feels like he’s been let in on a secret. And selfishly, he hopes he’s the only one.

But by far his favorite thing is how more and more unguarded you seem to be when you hold his gaze right back. The youthful softness in your expression, which before seemed fleeting, almost a trick of the light, now lingers. When the heavy burden melts from your shoulders in those moments, Bradley thinks he sees the playfulness and innocence you keep so carefully shielded from everything around you. He likes to think only he can see it.

As you offer him a bite of something that looks like a puffy fried doughnut, powdered sugar raining down on his dark coat, he can see the mirth in your eyes as you brush it off him. The laugh that falls from your lips is clear like a bell, reverberating through his head, almost making him dizzy.

When he wipes his thumb across the corner of your mouth, where a dusting of powdered sugar settled, he half-expects you to avert your eyes and turn away. But you don’t. You hold his gaze almost defiantly, like you’re daring him to finish what he started.

In the end, it’s Bradley that pulls back, heart beating in his throat.

He may have underestimated you. By a lot. But you’ve put yourself forward as such an unassuming figure, quietly moving through the background, it’s easy to forget that you are probably someone who is not afraid to take a risk. You put yourself at risk every single day, after all. For him.

All too soon, heavy winter storms put a temporary stop to your outings. Even the most romantic couple doesn’t go for leisurely strolls in the icy rain. Instead, you spent time together— reading, playing cards or chess, or simply talking. You tell yourself it’s to help Rooster pass the time. But it feels like something has shifted between you, and some tension has ebbed away, creating space for conversation without double meaning or hidden motives.

“Stalingrad held all through the winter,” You read from the headline. “Something, something, heroic sacrifice, strategic regrouping.”

“So the Nazis are retreating on the Eastern Front?” Bradley looks up from the game of solitaire he’s been carding through, sitting across from you at the table in his small room. You scrunch your nose for a moment, as you skim the article further.

“Is that what strategic regrouping means?” You look up at him for a moment, lowering the newspaper.

“Advancing backward works too.” He catches just how your eyes crinkle in a smile before your face disappears behind the paper again.

“Can’t happen fast enough, if you ask me.” You mumble as you leaf through the news. You sit in silence for a while, both focused on your own thing.

“Any news on when the weather will clear up?” Bradley asks suddenly, as he looks over his shoulder, where the rain is beating against the window pane. You shake your head.

“Snow storms from the mountains tend to turn to rain here in the valley,” You reply distractedly as your eyes skim past the national news headlines—railway sabotage in the east of the country has disrupted evacuation trains coming in from the front. What the news doesn’t say, it’s also stopping the transports east. The transports that no one comes back from. Your fingers tighten over the paper. It’s been two years since your neighbors were taken. Their daughter was only a year older than you, and while you weren’t exactly friends, you had known her since childhood. You have no idea what happened to her and her family, but chances are, they aren’t alive anymore. It feels strange, incomprehensible.

“How long does it stay like this?” Bradley’s question pulls you from your spiraling thoughts. You lower the newspaper that you had stopped reading, looking past him at the dark gray sky outside the window.

“‘Till spring, roughly.” You shrug. “Spring can be pretty weird too, though, with sudden torrential rains and storms.” “Is there a nice time to be here?” Bradley asks conversationally, his question only slightly tinged with sarcasm. You ignore the undercurrent in his tone.

“May. That’s when the city is most beautiful.” You reminisce. “It’s sunny and warm, lilacs bloom in all colors, and around the city the cherry and apple trees blossom, and the air smells so sweet, and it’s…” Trailing off, you lean your chin on your hand. And it’s your birthday. But suddenly that feels like it’s too personal to reveal, a little bit too real, and the words die in your throat. You look back at Bradley, who is patiently waiting for you to continue. “…it’s my favorite time of year.” You finish lightly.

“That sounds a lot better than what we have now.” Bradley agrees. “I miss the sun. England has been too rainy and cold for my liking.”

“Even in summer?”

“Especially in summer.” Bradley grins. “I like it when the days are long, and it’s warm. The best feeling in the world is diving in the cool ocean on a hot day.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It is. Have you ever been to the ocean?”

You shake your head. “I’ve been to the Black Sea. But I was just a kid back then—all I remember about that is getting sunburned.”

Bradley chuckles, and you can’t help but smile at the miserable memory.

“I’d like to see the ocean once.” You add, almost as an afterthought.

“I’ll gladly take you.” He says it lightly, borderline jokingly, warm smile on his face. Your stomach twists because part of you wishes he would really mean it— but he’s your not-husband, you think bitterly. Enjoy it while it lasts, you remind yourself. Just have fun. But still, your smile falters.

Bradley carefully gauges your reaction—he purposefully didn’t say it too seriously, but you once again stepped out of his reach. Your eyelids flutter, like when you’re about to get angry, but are stopping yourself.

He really just can’t seem to figure you out. Never has he had such trouble getting through to someone. He’s pretty easy-going, he thinks, and most people readily and easily get along with him.

Not you. You throw him one curveball after another.

It’s fascinating to him. He wants to figure you out so badly, but he knows you will make it anything but easy. The challenge makes it all the sweeter.

You sigh, glancing at your wristwatch. “I have to leave for work soon. A game of cards before I go?”

“Sure, but not poker.” Bradley huffs, although he is glad you’re staying a bit longer. But he has already spent too much time trying to figure out your tell, and he should probably be grateful you were not playing for money.

“I’m disappointed, I thought sailors were supposed to be good at card games?” You needle him, folding up your newspaper, face perfectly neutral.

“Not a sailor, doll face.” Bradley knows you hate being called that as much as he hates you calling him a sailor. It’s another fucking curveball.

“You’re in the Navy, I’m from a landlocked country—it’s really all the same to me.” You add dismissively, but the corner of your mouth quirks up in that mischievous smile. “And don’t call me that.” You add a little more sharply, as you always do when he calls you doll face.

“At least ‘doll face’ fits you.” He says it matter-of-factly—to hell with threading lightly.

You purse your lips as you look straight at him, the little crease between your brows again, like you’re thinking.

“Deal the cards, lieutenant.”

***

The moment you walked out of the building, hiding under an umbrella, you feel strange. It’s that uncomfortable pressure in your sternum again, like something is stuck in your windpipe.

Keeping your head down, you walk to the nearest tram stop. Something doesn’t feel right. The anxiety has you on edge.

And soon you find out why.

In the less than twenty minutes that it takes you to get to the Ministry of the Interior for your late shift, you’ve had your documents checked twice. And not in a routine way, either—at a checkpoint by police, for example. No. These were uniformed Gestapo officers flanking both sides of the streets, pulling people out of the crowd at will essentially.

You wonder if they can smell Rooster on you because you get picked out twice.

Of course, your papers are in order. You carry your real papers with you to work, as it is part of your cover of just being a regular citizen going about their day.

But this is bad.

They might be looking for someone—but if they know whom they are looking for, they wouldn’t bother with this public display. No, they would find that person directly. This is a preventative measure. They suspect something is about to happen, so they show up in full force to make sure everyone knows damn well who is in charge, and remind you exactly how unpleasant they will be when they decide you are a suspicious person.

This is rarely as a one-off. They move through the seeming at random for a week or more, raiding houses for good measure, until they are satisfied they have instilled enough fear in the population.

You slip into the ministry through the service entrance, droplets of icy water falling from your coat. Before you can even get your bearings, pulling a handkerchief from your purse to pat your face dry, a colleague comes rushing past unbuttoning her coat already.

“I don’t know what about you, but there is no way I’m staying a second longer than I have to tonight.” She is breathing heavily like she just ran. “Fucking Gestapo everywhere.”

“Yeah, I saw them.” You nod as you speed up after your colleague to hang up your coat and hat. “I hope my floor isn’t too bad, and I can call it an early night.”

“See that you do,” She says as she hangs up her coat and pulls on her apron. “You shouldn’t be out late by yourself on a night like this. I’m calling my husband to pick me up.”

And with that she practically stomps out of the room. You follow suit, your sternum still feeling tight. No matter how unpleasant, the ID checks are not a particular problem for you. However, they pose a massive issue for Rooster.

He can’t go out. His cover is so thin, it would be a stretch to get past a police check. Gestapo is just not going to happen. He’s not going to be able to get across the city right now to the main station, let alone take a train to the engineer. Which means he can’t get to the radio and send his message.

Fuck.

You’ve been dusting the same shelf for two solid minutes now, but your brain is in overdrive. You force yourself to go through the motions. Rooster can’t get to the radio—the risk of getting caught is just too great now. Bringing the radio into the city is not an option either. If found, it exposes the existence of the rest of the network. A single person cannot pull off an operation like that. And just because the Nazi authorities suspect the resistance is still actively trying to establish contact with the Allies, having actual proof will bring down what will most likely be the final blow to the organization.

Suddenly you feel tired. Completely exhausted, you drag your mop across the floor. It was so much easier to do this when there still was a network, and you had people you could rely on to help you. Now it’s just you. You have no way of reaching Emil or Jan, who are god knows where, doing god knows what. They haven’t been in touch with you either. In all the weeks that you’ve been harboring Rooster, the only sign of life from the resistance you’ve gotten was a letter from the engineer’s wife. It was a simple letter, asking you to come by mid-March to help weed the garden and catch up. P.S. Bring a friend.

It says nothing of the radio—and of course it wouldn’t. The engineer and his wife know better than to even allude to it in a letter that is easy to intercept. But the message is clear. You need to bring Rooster to the engineer, so he can transmit his emergency code and let the Allies know he’s still alive.

How the fuck are you going to get that done now?

The longer Rooster stays, the greater a liability he becomes. The longer he is missing, the harder it will become to get him out. Time is of the essence, and you’ve lost enough of it because you need Rooster was so hurt. Walking is non-negotiable in this scenario.

Finally, you make your way down the stairs, your bucket of dirty water still heavy. You haven’t been as thorough as usual, but it hardly matters. You need to get out of here, get some fresh air, and get a grip on your thoughts. Still, you are the last to leave—annoyingly, you can’t be that obvious—even though it’s only by a minute.

Shrugging on your coat, which is still damp, you resolutely leg it past the old night guard. There’s a light waft of alcohol in the air. You bid him good night, as you hurry past.

“I didn’t see you on the schedule for this weekend.” He suddenly states, stopping you dead in your tracks.

“I - I’m traveling.” You reply awkwardly. The knot in your chest feels suffocating now.

“Careful girl, there are emergency rail works this week.” He croaks as he takes a sip from a chipped mug. You narrow your eyes, but default to a neutral expression when the guard looks your way with sharp eyes.

He’s drunk, isn’t he? Rambling. Surely.

“Thank you.” You reply politely. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

And with that you turn on your heel, dashing out the door and into the rain, not wanting to spend another moment in a badly lit hall exchanging cryptic ramblings with a drunk.

You have enough troubles already.

note | I actually wrote up the whole plot this week, because I needed to sort the timeline and all the story beats in a different place than just my head. It clocked in at 3.5k words haha. I'm excited~ hope you are too! edit: for some weird language contamination reason that i didn't catch during editing, i called it 'patience' instead of 'solitaire'. Oops.

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