YOUR MEDIC!READER X JET HAS BREATHED LIFE INTO ME. MAKE THEM HOLD HANDS. I BEG. THE PINING IS INSANE. The atla jet fandom is DRY so you're doing god's work out here 😭 😭 (Or anything tbh! I'm absolutely in love with your writing 😭❤️)
🌾 ・ HAND IN LOVING HAND
summ. Jet comes into a dawning realisation. It starts with a mission gone wrong.
pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader
w.count. 0.7k ( just a blurb! )
a/n. Ask and you shall receive! I’m so glad you love medic!reader as much as I do!
He figures, later, that it might have started with Operation: Creeping Cricket.
Courtesy to Smellerbee for the unique mission name, ofcourse.
That had involved, to date: A handful of Freedom Fighters itching for a fight, an imprisoned pair of orphan twins they’d planned to break out, a couple of dumb Fire Nation spies, and the leaky walls they called the borders of Omashu.
Except, ofcourse, it wouldn’t be a mission without a series of unfortunate events, of which occurred: a storm that changed Sneers’ accurately-predicted course of said Fire Nation spies, which meant their little hostages that they’d come to rescue would be headed down a different path, which also meant their traps lining on the trail towards the borders of Omashu— that The Duke had spent a frustratingly long amount of time setting up— would be rendered useless.
They settled on a brute force ambush instead, much to your disdain; you were, after all, a better healer than you were a fighter.
“This was a terrible—!” You pause to dodge a burst of white hot flames from a Fire Nation soldier. The rain is quick to dampen their efforts, luckily for you. “This was a terrible plan, Jet!”
He strains to hear you underneath the torrent. “Don’t blame me, Pipsqueak started it! Duck!”
You duck. Another spy crumples behind you, thanks to the swing of Jet’s tiger blades, and as the soldier lands on the ground— that’s when you notice it; the quaking rumble of earth, the jumping of stones.
Earth Kingdom Guards have caught wind.
In the distance, Longshot produces a birdcall from high above— shrill and piercing, one that’s rarely ever been used amongst the rebellion— a warning. Retreat. The Freedom Fighters are outnumbered. Scatter.
The ground erupts beneath you, and you scream. You practically sweep Jet off his feet as you snatch his hand and take off to higher ground to avoid the rising tempest. Hot on your heels, both of you can feel the snap and crackle of roots tearing deep underneath as the kingdom guards begin their manhunt.
“Quick!” you urge, as he trips over his footing. You glance at him over your shoulder, giving him a squeeze in your intertwined fingers as you check, “Hey, you hurt?”
“I— uh, no,” he stumbles, for some reason. Nothing but superficial cuts and bruises, anyway. He’ll live. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
It could’ve been minutes or an hour of just running, he isn’t quite sure— he’s too busy noting how your hands fit awfully perfect against his, and how despite the rain and muck, you still managed to look... collected. (Collected, he thinks, because he refused to admit anything unforgivably romantic.) Jet lets himself be led across the maze of woodland and grass, and catches himself wondering whether the hand holding had been a conscious move at all.
At the time, he’d decided it didn’t matter.
It shouldn’t, Jet had reasoned to himself, as you tugged him underneath an overhang and into a hidden crevice. Beyond the roguish charm and borderline flirtatious jokes he liked to play at— both of you were, at the end of the day, amidst an unending war. You were the Rebellions’ resident medic, and he was their token leader. There was no time to entertain fairytales and pipedreams.
“I think we lost them,” you pant, peeking over. “Do you think the others are okay?”
Jet looks at you, fights back the urge to tuck the rain-wet strands of your hair behind your ear so he can see your face better; how the light hits your profile and sets your eyes alight, down to the tip of your nose, and to your mud-stained cheeks. Collected. Capable, he reminds himself. Not pretty. Not pretty. Not—
“What’s wrong?” you ask, when you’d caught his gaze. “Jet?”
“Ah. Uh, nothing,” he blinks away— too fast; too quick to hide the obvious lie. “The others can handle themselves. Let’s, let’s wait for the storm to pass.”
This is simply camaraderie, he’d convinced himself, and stifled down the barb of disappointment that crept in him when you were the first to finally let go.
Right?
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No no because I love your depiction of Jet??? Oh my god?? Like hell yeah hes a fearless leader of a freedom fighting rebellion group he built from the ground up but he’s also?? JUST A TEEN!! JUST A BOY!! Teenage boys get butterflies too!!??
🌾 ・ POCKETFUL OF BUTTERFLIES
summ. Operation: Creeping Cricket was a botch. It looks like you and Jet aren’t gonna be headed home anytime soon.
pairing. Jet x f!medic!reader
w.count. 1.1k
a/n. ANON YOURE SO RIGHT. Sometimes we forget Jet is really just a teenage boy grappling with hormones and feelings and everything inbetween! Enjoy this short continuation to Hand in Loving Hand!
You take a mental note to thank Longshot and his squirrel-like tendencies to hide emergency stashes up in trees for times like these.
“Here,” Jet says softly, “Y’might catch a cold soon.”
The change of clothes he offers you is weathered, but a warm welcome respite from the frigid chill that’s settled into your bones.
Operation Creeping Cricket had been a complete bust. Your narrow escape is a stroke of luck with all things considered, and at least the rain has finally stopped. It doesn’t help that both you and Jet are soaked head to toe, however, and the fact that the temperatures in the forests by Omashu can drop critically.
Your cheeks are raw; your fingers ache— but you manage to begin peeling off the layers of your clothes one by one to dry by the campfire. From across, Jet’s already managed to change out. He frowns in concern from where he’s sitting by the fire, watching you tip over a boot of water.
“You’re shaking.”
“Shivering,” you correct, trying to stop the chatter of your teeth. You wonder if biting on a wheat straw like how Jet is doing right now would help. “But, yes. Same thing I suppose.”
Then you’re untying the strings of your tunic, and pulling it swiftly over your head.
Jet barely has time to react.
He practically snaps his neck turning away, eyes wide.
The whiplash, the innocent attempt at privacy, has you biting back a laugh.
Ever the gentleman.
“You can look now,” you finally say, after a quick minute, and Jet is careful to turn.
The garments that Longshot had stashed practically drowns your figure, sleeves bundling at the wrists; collar wide and dipping low enough to reveal the corded necklace you never remove. And then there’s the glow of the fire, honeying you in amber light as you run your fingers through your damp hair.
You’re… effortlessly beautiful. He’s not quite sure there’s any other way to describe you.
“That bad, huh?” you ask, pinned under his gaze.
Jet startles. “Sorry, I— No, you just, look cold, still.”
He clears his throat as the tips of his ears burn. He hopes to the Spirits beyond you hadn’t noticed them go red. (You did.)
“Well, so do you.” You reach back into Longshot’s knapsack and tug out a blanket from inside, before making your way across to the log Jet’s settled on. The material is tanned and threadbare, but it would do for the night.
Your hands brush as you wrap the cloth around the both of you.
It’s difficult not to focus on just how warm Jet is. Even more difficult not to lean against him.
It hadn’t mattered much in the end, though; Jet shifts closer, and presses his shoulder against yours.
“Y’okay?” You ask, gentle.
Under the dim firelight, his hard edges seem to soften. The fearless leader of the Freedom Fighters can be surprisingly endearing. Suddenly, Jet is simply another survivor; another casualty of war.
He shrugs lightly, careful not to jostle you, and makes a face. “Eh. We’ve faced worse, haven’t we?”
You laugh, ducking into his shoulder. Jet wonders if you can physically feel the butterflies taking flight in his chest.
There’s a spill of flowers behind you— budding Moonflowers, he recognises; native to Earth Kingdom wildlife— and has half the mind to pluck one and hand it to you.
He chews harder on the straw in his mouth instead.
( He knows you don’t see him that way, anyway. You’d made that clear before. ‘We’re family,’ is what you’d told him; Him and the rest of the Freedom Fighters. ‘Found family.’ And while he isn’t complaining, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t imagine atleast once what it’d be like to be something more with you.
Even if you did, he’s not quite sure he’d act on it. He’s not quite sure he can allow himself to be that vulnerable to someone. Not when he's a wanted man; not when subjecting someone into his dangerous lifestyle is the last thing he wants— even if said someone had signed up for it. )
“I’ll take first watch.” he says, after a moment.
“Y’sure? I don’t mind doing it. I promise I’ll wake you up this time.”
He laughs at the old memory. The smile, however, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be fine. You need rest.”
Quietly, you read him. Measure the micro-expressions that pass his face. Having fought alongside Jet throughout the years of survival made it easier. Whenever night falls, and the weight of his duties could settle if only for a little while, you could finally see all of him. Just a teenager who’s fighting for what he believed in; a kid who had to take on the world too early.
That illusion of 24/7 confidence falls around you often, though never around the younger rebels. You’ve kept the privilege close to your heart.
“You’re worried.”
He picks on the hearth for a moment, listens to the crackle of the fire.
Jet doesn’t doubt the Freedom Fighters’ capabilities. Longshot’s probably camping out somewhere in the trees with Smellerbee and The Duke, and Pipsqueak and Sneers can navigate these forests even better than him. They’ve all probably made it home already, knowing them.
And yet. And yet—
“Yeah,” he says. He didn’t like admitting it, because it implied they couldn’t protect themselves. It’d have meant he isn’t confident in them; that he, to some degree, didn’t trust them. It’s a twisted mindset, he recognises, but he can’t quite help his way of thinking these days. He didn’t like admitting he cared more than he really should— it’d be a concession. An admission.
An admission that he might truly snap if he lost any of the Freedom Fighters; that he might truly break if, Spirits forbid, he’d lose you.
The thought sends a frisson up his spine.
That shouldn’t scare him. It shouldn’t.
He blinks, shakes his head. “That obvious?”
“No. But I’ve known you for years now,” you nudge. “It’s okay to worry, y’know? You can care. You do care. There’s nothing wrong with that. You don’t have to act like you don’t for the sake of appearing calm and collected and… cool.”
He cocks his head at that, musters a playful smile. “Ah. So you think I’m cool?”
It’s meant to derail the conversation. Fortunately for him, it’s successful. Jet watches you bow your head and laugh; the bright one, the kind that makes his heart sing.
Camaraderie, he reminds himself, swallowing thickly as he reluctantly turns away from you. Nothing more, nothing less.
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