Major John Egan was a man of contradictions, a charming rogue with a reputation that preceded him. Standing at six feet tall, his well-built frame and chestnut brown hair made him the kind of man who could turn heads without even trying. He was known to be a womanizer, his charm irresistible to many, and he had a natural ability to make those around him laugh, even in the darkest of times.

His temper, though usually well-checked, could flare up, especially when dealing with the RAF men, who he often found unbearably smug. The fight hadn’t been planned—far from it. But something about the way those men carried themselves, rubbed him the wrong way. Or maybe, just maybe, there was a part of him that had wanted the fight, that had needed an excuse to end up where he did.

It wasn’t until later, when he found himself lying on a makeshift cot in the medical quonset hut, his nose throbbing and his head swimming, that he remembered it had all been worth it. He stared up at your face leaning over him, concern etched into your features. The way you hovered over him, your soft voice asking how he felt, was enough to make him forget the pain altogether.

He would have gone through the fight all over again just for the chance to have you looking at him like that, to have you tending to him with such care. He knew it was wrong—knew that a Major and a nurse was a pairing that wouldn’t be accepted, that it could lead to all sorts of trouble—but in that moment, he didn’t care. He never did when it came to you.

It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself in your care after a fight, and it wouldn’t be the last. Bucky had a knack for getting himself hurt, intentionally or otherwise, and though he would never admit it, there was a part of him that did it for you. Just for the chance to have you close, to feel your hands on him, even if only to patch up his latest injury. He’d do anything for you—anything to see that look in your eyes. But you didn’t know,

and you could never know.