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Merlin, legs shaking, slides down against the tree at his back. Arthur, breathing hard beside him, slowly sheathes his unused sword. The woman on the ground, a sorcerer, remains still, body crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. Dead.

Silence.

Painful, vibrating silence.

Merlin's fingers flex, brittle with tension. He feels unmoored, unbalanced. Mouth dry, throat catching as he swallows, he stares up at the taut line of Arthur's shoulders, stiff and still as an animal sensing danger, threat.

He feels torn—between begging, desperate, for Arthur's understanding; or shouting at him. He's angry. He's frightened—aching, already, at the thought of Arthur turning to him with a cold gaze, or worse, a fearful one.

Arthur lifts a hand to his face, and rubs at it.

"Well?" Merlin can't help but break the silence. Can't help the provocation that follows: "Are you going to execute me?"

"For God's sake, Merlin," Arthur says, quietly, and finally turns.

A stone plummets heavily through him at the look in Arthur's eyes. Not fear. Not hatred. Not distrust.

Shock.

Hurt.

He scrambles to his feet. "Arthur—"

"How long?" The words seem wrenched out of Arthur now, heaved up, like he's choking on them, body desperate with agitation. "How long have you—lied to me? I thought—"

"Arthur," he says, louder this time, stumbling towards him, head still light from the magic he'd cast only minutes ago. "I couldn't fucking tell you."

"Yes, you could have!" Arthur shouts, wrenching his gloves off and throwing them hard at the ground, fingers trembling at the fastenings of a vambrace. "What, did you think—Did you think I would—?"

Merlin reaches him, gets a hand on the back of Arthur's neck, bare skin to skin. "I couldn't afford to trust anyone, alright?" He presses their foreheads together, damp with sweat. Arthur's eyes are shut now, mouth twisted, grief-stricken. "Not with this. No matter how badly I—wanted to. I wanted to, every fucking day. Arthur, you prat."

And helpless, burning up with it now, he does the other thing he's wanted to do, every one of those days:

He kisses him.

unbalanced @merthurmicrofic {354 words}

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Sure Merlin, try to kill Tristan with fire when he’s standing right in the middle of the courtyard, that is not conspicuous at all

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Watching BBC Merlin after reading merthur fanfiction for a couple years now really has me go ‘oooh here’s blorbo from my fanfiction!!’

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Here's a quick au idea that just came to me today:

In a modern au where Merlin is still waiting on Arthur, historians recently discovered a whole batch of legal documents from Arthur's reign. These documents detail many changes he made to the laws of Camelot, including the repeal of the magic ban (which the historians assumed was just a halt on witch hunts).

However, one thing that the historians note as strange were the large number of laws that only applied to the king's personal manservant, who was never mentioned by name in the documents. These laws range from oddly specific, such as 'the king's manservant shall not accompany knights to the tavern', to downright bizarre decrees that make no sense, like 'the king's manservant is hereby forbidden from pointing out stew in the king's hair.'

The historians' first guess was that perhaps King Arthur was going a bit mad in his later years, but they didn't find any other ludicrous laws besides the ones pertaining to his manservant, which then led the historians to question the identity of this manservant and his relationship to the king.

All of this culminates in a historical exhibit showcasing the documents and postulating on this mysterious manservant of king Arthur. Many scholars flock to the exhibit, eager to examine the documents and debate their meaning and impact within a historical context.

Which then leads to a very tired Dr. Merlin Emrys, a medieval history professor, being dragged by his colleagues to see the exhibit and having to stifle is laughter as these world-renowned scholars tear their hair out trying to understand what was essentially a prank war between him and Arthur.

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BBC Merlin - 9-1-1 crossover fic

Merlin is a 9-1-1 dispatcher. He kind of invented the whole thing when he heard of telephones and then kept at it. He figured that when Albion's need was greatest, quite a lot of people would give 9-1-1 a call and therefore bring him closer to his missing King. (Or perhaps when someone found a guy walking out of a lake or smth, Merlin would know where to find him. Needless to say, Merlin had a lot of false calls.)

One day, as Merlin is on a call with a child who's cat is stuck in a tree, a fire suddenly breaks out and a firefighter captain takes over the phone: This is firefighter Pendragon. We have a fire at xxx-xxx, I repeat, we have a fire at xxx-xxx, require additional paramedic units etc. Etc.

For the first time in Merlin's entire career, Merlin is too stunned to react. He quickly catches himself though. "I'm sorry, could you repeat your name, please?"

"This is firefighter Arthur Pendragon, from station 204."

"You mean Arthur Pendragon as in-'

*Long sigh* "yes, as in the famous lawyer Pendragon. Uther Pendragon's son."

Merlin: I meant as in the legendary King Arthur. From medieval history?

Arthur: oh? *Sounding a little less annoyed* maybe? I didn't know he had a last name. I've only seen the Disney movie

Merlin: haha alright. Dispatch x-amount of paramedics now.

Arthur: Don't you want me to ask why I'm not a lawyer? Everyone usually asks me that.

Merlin: No, if you are who I think you are, then this makes much more sense than law school.

Arthur: who do you think I- oh crap, I gotta go. Thanks-

Merlin: Merlin

Arthur: *grins* like the wizard?

Merlin: with the hat and everything.

(originally, I wanted Merlin to then go to the 204 and apply to be their paramedic but this makes a ton of sense to me too.)

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Magic reveal in a terrible situation except whenever it's over and Merlin saved Arthur and the knights hes so tired and upset and angry and overwhelmed and he just sort of turns to denial and

"No." Merlin shakes his head slowly and then more sure.

Everyone looks at him appalled but before Arthur can even open his mouth, he's interrupted by tiny nervous giggles from Merlin rocking back and forth in front of them before stopping abruptly and looking up determinedly.

"No. You all-" he points at the knights (who only flinch a little thank you), "-are you going to pretend you never saw that and then- then!" Merlin says a little hysterically pointing at Arthur now who can't help but take a step back and the look in his eyes.

"You! Are going to wait and then when the time is RIGHT just like I PLANNED I will tell you I have magic! And it will be the perfect moment! And it'll be when I'm ready and I'll tell you everything and it'll be SAFE and and- and you'll be upset but you'll understand and this is just-" Merlin screams a little to himself making everyone's eyes widen.

Merlin looks down with his eyes closed and takes a long breath.

He looks up at them looking like he's about to cry before saying desperately in a small voice, "You guys didn't see anything, right?"

Silence greets him before Gwaine cuts in, in a much less boisterous voice than usual, "I didn't see anything." Looking at the knights beside him, he elbows Elyan in the ribs causing a grunt.

Wincing at the pain, "I don't know what you're talking about." Elyan looks at the others with a very obvious look of 'your turn'.

Percival shrugs solemnly, "I was blinded by the sun."

Leon looks hesitantly over to Arthur before straightening his shoulders, "It must have been a trick of the light."

Merlin's shoulders relax a little as he nods to himself before everyone looks to Arthur.

Arthur looks at his knights and then back to his trembling manservant before looking to the ground and then to the sky.

"We were simply lucky as we always are."

Merlin breaths and everyone ignores the tears falling down his cheek as he turns around.

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Reading Merthur fanfiction is a really specific experience, because every time, 20 minutes into the story, I have to go back to the start to see when it was posted.

Just, you know, to see if I should expect smartphones and recent internet stuff, or if it was actually posted in 2013 when the world was vastly different.

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There should be cheering. It is all Arthur can think about, that there should be cheering, that the people are moving on the stands, shaking, jumping, waving, they bend forth with their mouths open, so by all reasons, there should be cheering.

All he hears, is the thumping of his own heart in his skull, grave enough to rattle his teeth.

Guinevere is helping him with his armor, because all others who tried he'd shunned away with shouts and insults. He's not any happier with her, but he would never dare addressing her in such manner so he's having to tolerate the warmth of her fingers scalding his skin, the strength of her tugs shaking his organs like carrots in a sack.

"Arthur-" she tries to say and he shuts her up with an overbearing hand.

"Sword," he doesn't ask, doesn't say please or thank you, and Guinevere is too aware of the eyes on them to take him to task right now.

Merlin would have, but Merlin is not here now.

Rather, he is, Arthur can see the mop of his black hair as clear as day, because for all he's standing on the opposite side of the pitch he's not wearing an helmet. Nor a chainmail, it seems, nor a husberg or a leather armor, he doesn't even appear to be carrying a sword for fuck's sake. Some Champion he is, in a ratted jacket and loose breeches, with his stupid little neckerchief.

All he has is a shield and it's painted with a dragon and Arthur seethes at the mere sight because that is not his dragon, not the golden creature on Camelot red. It is, rather, a deep red on a dark blue field; curled in a circle and biting its own tail.

He didn't even knew they still had weapons with the Dragonlords' insigna on them. Geoffrey must have dug around for hours to find it, and that is telling enough on his hopes for this match. So long as Uther doesn't find out.

Guinevere is not Merlin: she doesn't know when to scold him regardless of public, doesn't know how to tease him to soothe the pre-battle jitters, doesn't have words of unexpected wisdrom to rain upon him when the figure of his father gets blurried in his head. Still, she shares his talent for incessant nervous blabbering: "If that's really his father, how could he not-"

"That-" Arthur cuts her off, turning his eyes away from his opponent to rest on the pyre erected in the middle of the field, right in front of the royal stand. To the man chained in Cold Iron on top of it, standing with his back against the pole, "-is an enemy of Camelot."

"He sent the dragon away, Arthur! He kept his end of the bargain! This is not right, you have to know-"

"I don't have to know anything," he hisses, turning fast on her before any of the guards by his tent hear her words and call for treason. He rips the helmet from her hands rather roughly, only to try and not meet her eyes when they are so full of sadness and disappointment. "I have to protect my kingdom, that is all."

He leaves the tent before she can utter a single breath more.

It shouldn't come as a suprise, because Balinor - around the fire of their camp two days from Camelot - told him this would happen, Merlin - refusing to leave after being dismissed after dinner the night before they faced the dragon - told him this would happen, Leon - when asked for private council - told him this would happen, and yet.

Arthur is so taken aback he can do nothing but drown in a sudden onslaught of shame that ran over him as his father's words echoed in the war chamber.

"Arrest the sorcerer."

Balinor, for his part, doesn't even change expression. He stands in the middle of the room, the savior of Camelot from the rage of the dragon, and lets mere soldiers clap him on iron. All the time, he stares at Uther in the eyes as if looking for something.

"The first time, I blamed your cruelty on grief," he says. "The second, I assumed madness. But now, for this breach of the knight code and all laws of chivarly, I can only say, you are a dishonorable man, Uther Pendragon."

Arthur feels the flush climbing up his cheeks, to his hairline.

"I am King of Camelot, I do what I have to ensure the safety of my people," Uther counters, and Arthur wants for nothing more than to beg him to be quiet. "I don't expect a beast like you to understand the greater calling of a sovreign."

"Is that how Camelot shows her gratitude, then? Do you suppose you will gain many allies, once the word spreads of how you reward them?"

"You are no ally of mine!" Uther screams ring against the walls and the windows and every inch of Arthur's skin. Calmer, more poisonously, "You, and your kind, are a plague upon my land."

"Yet I sat in your Council, once. You listened to my advice. I ruled over lands in your name." Balinor has not moved of an inch. He stands tall and straight and proud. There is only enough honour for one man in this room, and it is clear to whom it belongs. "Now you will not even grant me the right of single combat to defend myself?"

"You are a sorcerer, you lost that right a long time ago. We both know you'd use magic to cheat your way out of your sentence."

"But he did not lose the right to name a Champion in his place."

Arthur's eyes snap to the side, though he needs no confirmation, he's way too attuned to the voice, too familiar with the tone of unbridled impudence, the pitch of judgemental insubordination.

Merlin is looking at Uther alone, though, in a way that is a bit too deliberate, a bit too strained not to meet Arthur's gaze.

Balinor, for the first time, looks away from the Pendragons. His eyes settle on the boy with severity. "You need not doing this, Merlin."

"I really do," Arthur's idiotic friend replies, stepping away from the line of servants waiting by the wall and colums, standing tall as if on par with all the men that now look at him in disbelief. He takes place in front of Balinor, just a step to the left, and faces off the king just recklessly.

"Think well of what you're about to do, boy." Uther speaks in a voice that is deep and low, soaked in poison. "You might be Gaius' but that will not help you if you stand against me."

Merlin remains unshaken in front of the danger. Like an oak of centuries old, he has roots deep into the stone and his skin is thicker than all the blades in the king's glare. "I am Merlin of Ealdor, son of Balinor of Ambrosius, and I will stand as my father's Champion in his trial by single combat. That is-" he doesn't look at Arthur, won't look his way if the ceiling fell on him, "-unless the King of Camelot is too scared of a serving boy to accept the challenge, or he's sunk so low as to ignore his own laws as much as the rules of knighthood."

There are easier ways, Arthur wants to yell at him, to get himself killed. Simpler, quicker, cleaner ways. Less painful ways. There is no need to go and make a furious boar out of the king.

Not that it would work. Merlin makes an art of rebelling against any and all forms of authorities he can meet.

It takes Arthur a long time to realise. Just about enough for the king to yell and scream in outrage and for the councilmen to tentatively push for the solution that spares Camelot a crumb of honour and for Balinor and Merlin to be taken away to the dungeons and for Geoffrey to announce to the crowd that the duel will be held on the morrow at dawn. In fact, Arthur only figures it out when he is standing in the middle of the war room, the king's hand on his shoulder as he hisses in his ear that he better not have known of this, he better show his loyalty on the field tomorrow, he better prove to the people that the Pendragons stand united as King and Prince Champion, when it comes to him.

Merlin of Ealdor, son of Balinor of Ambrosius. A bastard's name still, but a father's acknowledgement nonetheless.

The man that saved Camelot and now rots in chains for it, is Merlin's long lost father.

They don't meet in the middle because Merlin is not as mentally addled as everybody seems to think.

Arthur charges, of course, but rather than face the humiliation of trying to hold him at bay with the shield, Merlin does the smart thing and ducks. Then ducks again. Jumps to the side to avoid a fendent from up high, and almost stumbles to pull back from a lounge.

Arthur's eyes are cold through the helmet's line and his teeth are clenched, but Merlin can hardly believe the rage painted there when he can see every attack coming.

He's trained with Arthur plenty of times, he knows his speed as well as any of his knights. The first times, when Arthur was still trying to get him to quit the job, Merlin had suffered the onslaught of his "practice" absolutely helplessly, just taking hit after hit that came too fast for him to react. Later, after one more bandit attack where Merlin refused to run and instead risked his life to keep to his lord's side, Arthur had decided to train him more properly, not certainly as a knight - he was far too old for that - but enough to earn himself some time in a fight.

This duel feels much more like those training days, with Arthur forcing himself into slowness just to give Merlin time to learn the motions and the tempo of a fight.

Arthur slams his sword downward and Merlin jumps to the side just in time to avoid it, but then the prince is on him, slamming into his shieldless side, and Merlin would fall on his arse for all of Camelot to see if not for the arm that sneaks around his, for the hand that grabs his and brings it forcefully to the hilt of the sword.

Grunts and shakes make it look like the blade is stuck in the sand, but Merlin can feel it move meekly to every small gesture of his or Arthur's and knows that it's perfectly free. So closely huddled, with their backs to the stands, it must look like they're figting for the one weapon available, which truly is a smart move on Merlin's part, he should have thought about it himself.

He had not given this whole thing much thought, in fact, strategically speaking. When Geoffrey had brought him his family's shield, he'd taken it mostly because he felt bad saying he didn't really need it.

Truly, the fight has been going on far longer than it ought to, all considered, but Arthur had thrown himself into it so fast and so fiercely Merlin had understood. The shadow of doubt must hang over the prince, now that his closest servant turned out to be a sorcerer's son: everyone in the castle knew and spoke of the unnatural closeness between men of such different ranks they ought to barely speak with each other; now they must also gossip about what the prince knew, what he'd allowed to happen in his father's castle, whether he himself had been involved in magic.

If they had not spoken the word out loud yet in coucil, it must have been whispered in the corridors plenty of times already.

Treason.

So, really, this is all for Arthur's benefit. Merlin was going to let him look good, like he's fighting with all his might and the evil, evil sorcerer in the end had no choice but to resort to magic to win a battle where he was so utterly overpowered.

The problem is, Arthur is not.

"What are you doing?!" Merlin hisses, pushing him with his hip even though he bets the chainmail won't let the other feel more than a vague push.

"Trying to keep that addled head of yours attached to your neck," Arthur growls back. "You bloody idiot, try and make it look real when you take the sword from me, will you? Or I'll be hanging right by your side, next."

There are plenty insults Merlin wants to offer the absolute buffoon who decided that a few looks and a handful of slowed-down lounges counted as sharing a plan, but all that climbs out his throat is a single, "Prat," and it sounds awfully fond as well.

Arthur elbows him in the chest - too hard for pretence, truly - and Merlin realises he'd dropped his shoulders in relief. He clenches all himself right back.

He knows this position, they trained in it often years ago, so he knows how to twist his leg around Arthur's, how to trip him backward using his height as advantage on the prince's sturdier bulk. It is the perfect moment to take the sword, pretend to free it from the sand, and point it at Arthur's throat. The duel is last blood or surrender, but no one expects the heir to the throne to die like this, they all will want him to yield rather than to die, and Arthur will smart in shame at being beat by a servant for a while, but he will live. That is, if Uther forgives him this failure, if he believes this charade at all.

Merlin is not willing to take the bet. It might be his father up there, but it's his friend, his king, his destiny all up against his body and he's not risking him for an easier escape.

Not to mention, Arthur assumes Uther will honour the fight's result just because there is an audience, while Merlin knows better than that.

He makes a show of coughing from the elbow, and stumbles back a few steps, leaving the sword where it is.

Arthur has the cold blood of a snake when he fights, so he remembers to make it look like he's unsticking the blade before turning to Merlin, but when their eyes meet his are full of melting rage. "What are you doing?!" he roars, and the people will hear him, but none will guess what it is really about. They must think the prince is calling him not to run.

Merlin shakes his head just once, subtly. "Sorry, Arthur," he says, louder. "That's your father and this is mine. Nothing more than that." We're okay, he hopes it's gotten through, I don't blame you. None of this is on you, and your father's shame is not for you to atone.

Then he tosses his head back, and he screams into the skyes.

A Dragonlord's gift passes down father to son upon death, but somewhere, in a tower that Merlin can see in his head but never gazed with his eyes, there is an egg that needs hatching. Normally, it would take close proximity and years of studying and then more of practicing, to hatch and raise and train a dragon, but, well. Merlin is a bit more than a simple Dragonlord, in the end.

He feels the shell slipping off his shoulders, sees the light unshielded for the first time; he learns what air feels like under his wings and he finds East from West and starts going.

Arthur is still looking at him, but now he's blanched. Merlin hears the echoes of his last words fade into the air, and it sounds like an animal growling more than anything a human could make.

The stands are quiet and still now. The air trembles for a second.

Uther jumps to his feet. "He's a sorcerer as well! Guards!"

A screech wrecks the air.

Arthur ducks instinctively, but the speck of snow white light that barrels towards the arena is not aimed at him.

Merlin stares at the most beautiful thing he's ever seen in his life, as she barrels into his father's pyre and snaps her jaws shut on his chains, crushing Cold Iron like it's nothing. "Aithusa!" he calls, and his dragon - his, he's, his, he's hers - turns his way and screams again.

Balinor pulls his arms apart wide, turns his head to the sky and roars.

Merlin had heard him call for Kilgarrah once already, when he stopped the dragon from slaughtering Camelot, but the feeling of awe and wonder that takes him is as strong as the first time.

In a breath, the creature that had been ordered to seek refuge in the North, in the ancient lands of his kin, is back into the city and the people are reminded of why, exactly, Uther had to bend and call for help from a sorcerer.

Arthur is between them now, between Merlin and his father, and there are two dragons at his back but he turns to his old friend instead, eyes wide and mouth thinned.

Merlin gulps once. In the chaos of people screaming and running and soldiers breaking into the arena, he dares to say out loud, "I'm not letting him hurt you."

He's not talking about his own father or the Great Dragon, he hopes Arthur knows.

His magic surges, and he grabs the prince just to toss him to the side, so hard he lands several steps away and rolls the rest to the wooden wall of the arena.

If Merlin gauged right he shouldn't have broken anything, but it will hurt tomorrow and a few days after too.

Aithusa jumps his way. She's a spry thing the size of a lazy housecat and Merlin opens his arms to let her land against his chest. He reaches his father holding her as close as he can, and the man grabs him by the scruff of his neck and pulls him up unto the stage of his executional pyre. "Arms around my waist, hold on with your thigh, don't let go for anything. Clear?"

"Yes," Merlin barely has time to say, because Kilgarrah lands in the sand and ducks his head so low his throat caresses the ground. Balinor drags them both to jump on the dragon's neck, and the landing is rough, good goddess Merlin needs sturdier pants than these, but in a moment they are flying and he is, in fact, too busy trying to hold on to think of much else.

The chaos dims in a second. In a few more, Camelot is as big as a pebble and it's impossible to tell where the people end and the houses begin. Merlin counts to a hundred and it's fully gone, just green land and dark forest and brown mountains.

"You were right," Balinor says, when Merlin finally stops looking back and hides his face in his father's coat, feeling the poke of his shoulderblades and wishing it was the softness of his mother instead. "He is a good man, your prince. One day, he will be a good king."

Merlin doesn't tell him, how will he get there without me?, because that would be arrogant, but he cannot stop the thorned vines that begin to coil around his chest.

Aithusa wriggles out of his grip, jumps and starts flying at their side with a cheerful chirp.

They are eight long months.

They are trapped and outnumbered. Arthur knows Leon won't say it out loud, but if his father allied with Cenred and Alined, already having Olaf and Odin on his side, there is hardly any other outcome to this war.

Queen Annis and King Bayard take the news in stoically. Arthur would feel shame for the way his face falls at the messenger's report, but at the moment all he feels is cold and numb.

The enemy troops are at the horizon and the sun is rising. Winter is at the door and the air is already crisp with chilly wind, but not so much as to freeze the ground under their feet. After the rain of the past few days, it is all mud and it will make for an horrible terrain to fight and slip and die on.

"Steady on, young Pendragon." Annis' words are harsh, but her voice is not and her hand on his shoulder is as firm as it's warm. "These men followed you past the line of duty and into treason. Do not let them see you falter now."

"We have not much time to make a decision," Bayard adds. He's right, of course, because the troops with the red capes of Camelot are already in full sight and will be on them come morning. According the messenger, it won't be futher than midmorning that the troops from Essetir descend on them from the other side, from the Eastern path that Arthur hoped to use for retreat. At their back now stand just steep mountains and there is nowhere left to run, nor time to relocate, to try and lead the battle somewhere more suited.

"I didn't think-" he cuts himself. No one thought he'd get two well affirmed kings to side with him either, when he left Camelot in disgrace after turning against his father, yet here he is. Three, if one counts Nemeth, but their troops are facing Odin's in the Valley of the Fallen Kings.

"Your father knows you have the people one your side," Bayard scoffs, as if in disgust. "He needs snuffing your rebellion out as fast as possible, before winter comes. If he doesn't, the villagers will starve as a consequence of this war and come spring there will be many more willing to join your fight against him."

"But Cenred, he's...bloodthirsty. Hungry for power. He cares not for his people, nor for his soldiers, only to push his borders further. Who knows what he asked for in exchange of his allegiance!"

Silence meets his exclamation because they all see the truth that he doesn't dare to vouch: that his father is prone to madness, and that the same cruelty he showed magic users after the loss of his queen, he's now turning upon his son.

"My people will fight," Annis says. "They are fierce and they will take down many, but I won't delude myself into thinking we can end the battle against Camelot before Essetir arrives."

"They pushed us into a dead end," Bayard nods. He doesn't seem overly worried, Arthur thinks, and it must appear on his face because the older king sighs. "It was a possibility, Arthur. We considered it, when we chose to come at Camelot from the west. We thought we had prevailed upon that risk when we struck bargain with Nemeth, but it was nonetheless something we foresaw could happen."

It is not said out loud, but they are leaving the final choice to him. Because this is his land, because it is his people, and because the enemy on the other side is his father. He wishes they'd stop. He's twenty-eight, and they are, what, forty and fifty? This is the first campaign he runs himself, and most of the advisors he'd listened to his whole life remained in Camelot, loyal to their king.

"This is shaping up to be a slaughter," he speaks into the air, because they are all thinking it and it is not his habit to hide behind a single finger in hope not to see the monster coming. "We have to consider the option, for it will save most of our people,-" fuck, it burns in his throat, the word itself, "-of surrendering."

Neither of the other rulers seem as ashamed as he feels bringing it up. Bayard nods at him. "You will not find reproach from me, for considering this. There is no shame in yielding, when it spares many lives. I will not oppose, if this is what you choose, but it must be your choice indeed, Arthur."

"Why?" he can't help but snap. "You have as many men in this as I do! Even more so!"

"Because unless I die today on the field, not much will happen to me by sundown," Bayard argues back, sharp and unforgiving. "Your father will demand a ransom to my sons, but he will eventually let me go. The same can be told about Queen Annis, for her people will pay to have her back if she is to be taken prisoner." Just a touch kinder, "It is a much different situation for you."

"You will die, Arthur, both if we lose and if we surrender." Annis waves away Leon's outraged objection. "Let us be very clear on the matter, because you are still young, and for many in youth death seems abstract and far away." She meets her eyes firmly, the wrinkles around her eyes making her look a lot like the nanny that used to rock Arthur to sleep as a baby, though he'd never say it to her face. "You have defied your father and attempted to take the throne. He cannot let you live, not even if you're his only heir."

"I might not be," Arthur interrupts her. "I'm told my father found a wife a couple weeks after my disertion. My spies say he brought her along to the campaigns for the first four months of war, then sent her back to the castle about eight weeks ago."

"You think he got her pregnant," Annis sumrises, and Arthur nods. "Then he won't hesitate, Arthur. He will make an example out of you, so that no one dares to rise against him again and that his new heir's succession remains unquestioned. It will be slow, and it will be painful, and it will be public."

"Your only chance at survival is fighting and winning." Bayard picks back up. "But that means, many men will die for your attempt at saving yourself."

"May I address the war council, sire," Leon interjects, jumping to his feet. The tent is so small his red curls brush against the top of it.

Arthur watches him hold himself back from just spitting what he wants to say, so much that he trembles with the effort. "Go on," he grants, just to ensure that he doesn't lose his best commander to a sudden burst of flames.

"Arthur is our king," Leon immediately says, aimed at the two rulers with little care for propriety. "We all knew the risk when we chose to follow him, and we knew what we were turning our backs on. This has not changed. We will fight for our king, because we believe him to be just and honourable and fair; all sorts of things that King Uther has never been." He turns to Arthur, eyes almost feverish with devotion. "I would rather die for you, than live another day under your father."

For a moment, there is silence in the tent. It is only broken when Annis chuckles gently. "And that, is why two old boars like us chose to side with a rebellious prince," she says, exchanging a knowing look with Bayard from above the flames of the brazier in the center of their circle. When she turns to Arthur, he finds her offputtingly serene, for a queen at the eve of battle. "That sort of loyalty is not easily inspired, Arthur. It is a rare gift, and you should think twice before throwing it to the wind."

"Shouldn't I reward it, though? Shouldn't I be as willing to die for them as my men are for me?" he asks, but it lacks conviction.

He's always been unsure of himself, since the day he turned his back on Camelot. He'd never known how much his courage depended on his father's approval until the day he lost it, but now he feels it in his chest, like coals breathing back to life. It is not his father's ever-fickle encouragement that sends the blood pumping in his veins; it's something much firmer and greater, that breaths asynchronous with each and every man outside his tent right now. It is the colour of Leon's eyes and Gwaine's hair and Elyan's skin and Percival's armour.

"Your men risked house and family to follow you here," Lancelot speaks up, even if he's not asked permission to, even if he stands at the tents flap as a post-guard and doesn't belong to the coincil itself. Arthur placed him there for a reason, and the man knows it. The faith in his expression is impossible to miss, especially when he looks at Arthur head on, unimpeded from class difference. "They will not be grateful to you, if you tell them it was for nothing without even giving them a chance to earn the promise they saw in your leadership."

"But they will be thankful for a chance to be slaughtered in my name?" Arthur returns, but it sounds humorous to his own ears. Apparently, he already has the answer in two of his most loyal.

"Yes, Sire," Leon doesn't hesitate.

"It is the oath that we swore," Lancelot adds. "It wasn't taken lightly, my lord."

Arthur looks at them one more moment, looks at his friends in the pale blue livery with the white dove. In his head, he swears he will see them back in red and gold one day.

He turns back to Annis and Bayard. "If you will trust me one more day, I will ride out at dawn for my people's freedom once again," he decides. "I will not hold you to the oath of my knights, but-"

"Do not be stupid, little prince," Annis scoffs. "Caerleon's rulers never left the battlefield running in all history of the kingdom, I am not about to be the first."

"And I'm not about to be outshone by a woman and a boy," Bayard assures, somehow making the latter sound more like an insult than the first. "It is decided, then. We better give the men their orders. Dawn is not far out."

"No," Arthur agrees, rising to his feet as well and finding Leon's vambrace instinctively, a brother's silent thanks. Immediately after, he seeks Lancelot's. "Dawn is not far indeed."

Dawn comes, and the trumpets ring out.

No party rides out to meet them, and Arthur realises how foolish he'd been to think his father would give him the chance of surrendering. Annie was right: today is to become an example, for all that oppose Uther.

Arthur rides in the front, lifts his sword high to the pale blue skies and bellows out, heart and soul: "For the love of Camelot!"

After that, it's a confusing mess of metal and flesh.

At midmorning, Essetir is nowhere to be seen and the armies are pressing into each other. Uther's men are weary of Annis' warriors, and Bayard's slaughter Olaf's without hesitation. It is not to say that they are winning, not at all, but they are not defeated yet and it's more than anyone thought when the sun rose.

Four hours into battle, Arthur's body begins to seize. He's tired beyond anything he's ever felt and he's getting sluggish. What keeps him alive is merely that his enemy is equally worn down, and soon enough it will be down to luck, who lives and who dies.

Luck runs out and Arthur loses his sword, slipped out of his grip from the blood that's running down his arm, when his back is against a rock wall. Four enemies surround him, and he thinks an apology to Leon and Lancelot for failing their trust.

He doesn't close his eyes, which is stupid but he refuses to give them the satisfaction. It is also why he sees the speck of red coming, before he hears the screech.

A sound like striding metal curls the bones inside him, and the soldiers around him jerk and turn, yelling various things that end up swallowed by the roar of the flames.

Arthur watches them burn, taken back, and then there's a crashing thud above him. He looks up, past the falling dust and debris, and sure enough hanging on the rock wall, tail up and long neck stretched down towards the field to scream again, is the Great Dragon.

Arthur's knees tremble, but he couldn't even tell if from fear or exhaustion.

There, on the dragon's neck, finally outfitted in some proper chainmail and leather armour, is a familiar assembling of sharp cheekbones, messy dark hair, and earnest blue eyes. Familiar lips shape in his name, and Arthur realises, the battle has gone quiet.

Merlin nods once, hands tight on his dragon, and looks at him expectantly.

Arthur turns around. The four men, and many others in a line behind them, are dead. The rest have stilled, enemies and allies alike, to stare in frozen horror at the creature that towers upon them all.

It is fairly clear what Merlin awaits from him - it's familiar, in fact, almost like second nature.

He digs the sword out of the mud, tightens his fingers on the hilt as much as he can bear and finally rises it again for all to see. "For the love of Camelot," he whispers, mostly to himself, before letting the blade fall and bellow the order: "Fire!"

Merlin roars something in that strange roaring language of his, and the dragon complies.

Everything becomes fire and ashes.

At midday, the battle is over and Essetir has not arrived yet, but smoke rises in the west now and Arthur understands why it took Merlin four hours to join the fray.

Now though, with the men cheering in victory outside, with the shadow of ruination banished for a bit, Arthur doesn't find himself happy or even relieved. He's angry in a way he's rarely ever been before.

Leon, who is a smart man, has food brought to his tent and leaves Arthur well alone, keeping a good wide berth of his quarters at all times. The men and the other rulers either follow his example or his advice.

All but one, of course, but that's fine because Arthur has owed him a good punch for months now.

Merlin falls in a heap right at the tent's entrance, where Arthur descended on him like a hawk, and holds his yaw with one hand. When he doesn't immediately rise again, Arthur yells at his neck. "Get up! If you're a lord and a knight, get up and fight back, you coward!"

"But if I'm a servant, it is not my place to question my master's choice of discipline," Merlin retorts, and it's so dully spoken Arthur recoils from the words.

"Shut up!" he orders, but it's too close to the way they were before, too intimate, so he turns and upends the table instead. Plates and food and water fly everywhere with a clash. It is not as satisfying as Arthur had hoped, so he kicks the chair away as well.

He's breathing hard, when he hears the rustling that says Merlin is finally getting up. Shame creeps up his neck, so Arthur doesn't turn to look. He listens though, and he gauges the chair being righted and moved.

"You're still soaked in blood and grime," Merlin tells his back. "Get here, for peace's sake. You'll kill Annis' physician, if you keep refusing treatment much longer."

There is much of Gaius in his approach, and Arthur falls for it out of nostalgia and little else. Indeed, the chair has been brought by the brazier, and Merlin holds the backrest.

Arthur sits down heavily. "Where have you been," slips out of him, tired and heavy.

Merlin starts moving at his back, a cacophony of clangs and rings as he tries to fix Arthur's mess, possibly just moving it around and tidying up nothing, as he's always done with his rooms. "Many places. We looked for more eggs for the first five months. We kept far from Camelot."

Might be the first smart choice Merlin has ever made in his life. "Found some?"

"Two. It's not many, but it's more hope than we had before. Aithusa is guarding them now."

Arthur watches the fire dance in its bronze cradle. He finds his anger to have been tamed much the same way. He says, "Merlin, I-"

"Don't." Suddenly, Merlin is at his side, with a goblet of wine in one hand. Arthur turns the other way to check: the table is up, everything is neatly arranged on it, and there is not a crumb nor a drop on the floor. He looks back at Merlin, who pushes the goblet closer. "You know how awkward and insulting you get when you try to apologise. I'll settle for a thank you."

Pointedly, Arthur drinks and doesn't say a damn thing. Merlin calls him a prat under his breath.

Merlin also settles down, legs crossed on the furs that make the floor of Arthur's tent, and before the man in question can complain, he's already leaning to the side and using his knee as headrest. "The Goddess alone knows why, but I missed this. I fucking missed serving you. Can you believe that?"

"You never served me this diligently, before."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. It's probably going to pass soon."

Arthur runs his hand through Merlin's locks to try and tame them, but finds the effort much harder after hours riding a flying dragon. "What shall we do until then?" he asks.

For the first time since he left Camelot, a sort of quiet has descended in his head. His most trusted advisor is here, his best friend is back, and he seems to have been forgiven by the brethren he'd wronged the most in his life; that they all happen to be the same person is but a lucky coincidence.

Merlin turns his head up, so that Arthur can see his eyes, the clear blue depths of them. "We make for Camelot," he says, simple as that. "Your father seeks refuge in the capital after news of your victory. If we want to take him down before winter, there is where we must go."

"I know Camelot like the back of my hand, including it's defences and the siege tunnels. Why would my father go there?"

"He plans to use his people as a shield against you. You need not fear, though. Morgana dreamt this long ago, and we took precautions. Come winter, you'll be king."

Arthur's hand stills. "Morgana."

Merlin holds his gaze. "I know you were told your father's men drowned her in the lake for sorcery. He certainly believes that. But Sir Caradoc served under Gorlois before Uther, and he and his men helped her escape instead of carrying on her sentence. She made it to the lake, only to cross it to the Isle of the Blessed." Slowly, a hand reaches to squeeze Arthur's knee in support. "She called the druids in council at Beltane. Every tribe sent a delegation. She spoke on your behalf, and now they march to Camelot to ward it against your father. They will not fight, it is not their nature, but they will put up shields for your people so that they cannot be harmed."

Morgana, Arthur's mind won't stop to spin. Morgana and Merlin, both back. Forgiving.

"Guinevere as well," Merlin adds, as if unhappy with the miracles he already brought his king. "I asked the Fae to whisk her away from the dungeons when your father had her arrested-" when he tried to bend Arthur the hard way, with the whip on his back first and with the axe on his beloved's neck after, "-and now she's with Aithusa. She eagerly awaits to rejoin you, though, and she wasn't happy that I wouldn't let her ride Kilgarrah with me in battle today."

For all she'll be angry at him too, Arthur cannot help it but be glad that she was never put in such danger. The words awaken a doubt, though. "You ride the Great Dragon now. Your father, where-"

"He's dead," Merlin speaks quietly, pain still etched in his voice but beginning to be sanded down by time. "He fell during the retrieval of our last egg, five months ago. That's when I chose to visit my mom. Gaius had gone to her hoping she would know where I was. He told me what happened."

Aeredian had happened. Uther had summoned the witchfinder to investigate his own son, but the man had revealed Morgana's magic instead. After her mad run, after she'd been taken for dead, after Guinevere's sudden disappearance in arrest, Arthur had turned on Uther definitely and begun his campaign to dethrone him.

"You really think I can do it?" Arthur asks earnestly. "Do you really think I can rule Camelot better than he did?"

Merlin blinks once. Slowly, he turns so that he's plain kneeling, right in front of Arthur, and looks up to him. "I think I'll have chicken for dinner," he says stupidly. Then, "I know you'll be the greatest king the world has ever known."

Arthur fights the boulder in his throat. "Will you help me get there? Will you help me protect my people and my kingdom?"

"Until the day I die," Merlin answers without pause.

"Will you advise me with sincerity and not for personal gain?"

He blinks twice, confused, but adds, "Of course."

"And will you swear-" Arthur finishes, seeing realisation dawning on the man at his feet, "-to conduct yourself honorably, and to uphold my laws and the rules of chivalry above all?"

Merlin's hand on his knee is shaking so hard, Arthur can feel it through his clothes, though there is no trembling in his voice when he answers, "Yes, my lord."

"Then I will need to find myself a new manservant," Arthur whispers, smiling genuinely for the first time in long months, as he climbs to his feet. "Arise, Sir Merlin, Knight of Camelot."

When Merlin obeys is to throw himself in Arthur's chest, stealing a hug that Arthur doesn't defend too much.

On the first snow of the year, Camelot cheers three times on her new King's name.

[anatheareads]

Fic idea where after the whole Accords fiasco Steve just starts working as a bartender at a pub in a small town in Ireland.

And it's just ridiculous.

He gets this thick Irish accent two weeks in, and at the beginning people don't realise it's him. But his name tag says STEVE and he never hides his superstrength.

You can see him carrying too many beer barrels for it to be normal, or cursing Stark/The Avengers/Accords new policies and its hilariously accurate/only an insider could come up with such detailed takes.

His bartending game is 10/10 and his sense of humour, no nonsense attitude towards bigots makes it so people in the town just decide that he is their local himbo.

So when he is recognised, his identity is kept like an open secret. Everyone in the town knows Cap is the guy serving Guinness down the street, but if a tourist/UN official shows up? That's just Steven, he was born and rised here, he's Siobhan's grandkid, what are you talking about.

Bonus points if Rogue Avengers (Bucky, T'Challa, Sam, Nat, etc) just keep showing up with like: zero disguises and sometimes even Cap merch.

The UN is going fucking crazy, and one day Tony Stark himself goes there to check. Steve pulls a fake mustache and just pretends like he doesn't even know who Tony Star, CEO of Stark Industries is. It gets on his nerves so much he starts rising his voice and all the regulars at the pub just kick him out. "How dare you speak like that to Siobhan's boy!"

Bonus points if Grandma Siobhan just looks absolutely nothing like Steve.

[anatheareads]

Many think that your power is the strongest in all the lands. “An ever changing and growing power” they say. Your power is called “legacy” and it’s effects are based on what your opponent thinks it does.

[anatheareads]

NYE Pact Mentality by relenafanel

Steve/Bucky, New Year’s Resolutions, Comedy, snark, etc…

“I came out to Peggy last night. We were playing a game where everyone made up one resolution and then put them in a hat. I got ‘find a boyfriend’.”

“You came out to me this morning,” Bucky observed, squinting at him. “I think. Jesus, I’m pretty sure I drank that whole bottle of vodka myself. Since when have you wanted to find a boyfriend?”

(Also known as millennials spending a year trying to find love and falling on a lot of dicks instead)

What can I say, if you didn’t read this fic you really missed out on some A+ hilarity. 

[anatheareads]

Fireplace

The house Steve and Bucky buy for their retirement has a big old fireplace with a stone mantelpiece that gets filled with photos of their friends and found family.

There's a woodshed in the garden that they keep stocked with firewood (Steve tries to impress Bucky with his tearing a log in half trick, but Bucky one ups him by chopping single handedly through a log with his metal arm).

They light the fire whenever it's even slightly cold at night and sit by it, with Bucky reading aloud, his head in Steve's lap and Steve's hand carding through his hair.

The smell of woodsmoke reminds them of their days with the howling commandos and they swap their memories of playing poker by firelight, remembering how Steve swept the pot the first few times they played because none of the howlies expected Steve to lie, and Bucky had played along with thr rouse; learning dirty French slang from Dernier; listening to Dum Dum's terrible jokes.

Neither of them are the same person they were back then, but then neither were those versions of themselves the same as the ones who shipped out from Brooklyn. They know that. They know they have each other. And they know they'll be together until the end of the line, and that's all that matters.

(More domestic stucky headcanons)

[anatheareads]

obsessed with the idea of Bucky picking up Mjolnir just to move it out of the way—he’d almost tripped on the damned thing. Thor looks at him funny, but whatever—‘s not like it’s that heavy; it’s not like he hasn’t seen Steve lift it. Bucky doesn’t get what everyone makes such a fuss about.

Steve’s looking at him funny, too, though—with something like awe and pride. But he doesn’t mention it again until they’re alone, walking back to their apartment. (Holding hands because they can do that now in public.) “You’re worthy of it—the hammer.” The setting sun paints Steve golden. “It ain’t about strength. It’s your character.”

Bucky stumbles a step; stops walking. Obviously, there’s been some kind of mistake. He frowns. “It’s defective, then. Someone should tell Thor.”

“Doesn’t work like that, pal. It saw everything. And it decided you’re good.” Steve grins, dropping his hand to sling an arm around his shoulders; to kiss the side of his head. “You have a good heart, Buck.” (It sounds like I told you so.)

And what’s he gonna do, argue with the fuckin’ hammer? His only choice is to believe it.

[anatheareads]

Read a story online earlier about someone who buys two cups of tea and sits and pretends that their father has just gone to the bathroom when he's been gone for several years, and I couldn't help thinking, what if this was Steve? What if just after waking up from the ice he goes for a walk and finds that the diner he and Bucky spent every afternoon in just sitting and enjoying the others presence, Bucky reading the new Si-Fi novel he got from the library and Steve sketching the other diners, both of them getting something to drink for free becase they help out the owner whenever they could, is still there. So he goes in one afternoon, and the booth they'd always sit at is still there, yes the seats and table top is diffrent, and so is the decor, but the booth is still there, and he orders two drinks, soda maybe, or water, and pushes one across from him and sets a Si-Fi book he bought earlier that day next to it, because as much as he said he didn't like them, they still remind him of Bucky and decides that maybe, maybe it wouldn't hurt as much, to pretend, just for a little while, that Bucky is just in the bathroom, or mabe taking up a girl at another table, and he'll be back soon. He'll come back and pick up his book and he'll tell a joke, and they'll both laugh and all of a sudden everything is right again, just for a few minutes, just while he pretends.

oh my god. here's a fic.

-

“Can I get you anything else, hon?”

The man looks up from where he’s idly sketching the soda machine, a glass of chocolate milk half finished next to him. Across the table, there’s another glass of chocolate milk-- this one full-- and a sci-fi pulp that looks like something Lucy would find in her grandmother’s library placed neatly next to each other. 

Smiling, the man shakes his head. “No, thank you,” he says, before ducking his head to return to his sketch. A clear invitation to leave him alone.

Lucy flashes him a grin and nods. “No problem, hon. You just let me know if you change your mind.”

The man nods and mumbles another, ‘thank you’, but doesn’t look up from his sketchbook again. It’s not unusual for people to come into Jan’s Kitchen to idle, but Lucy feels a tug at her heartstrings; the poor guy looks like he’s been stood up for a date. He’s been sitting in the booth for some time now with two drinks, the other a clear placeholder for someone, and every so often Lucky will catch him staring around the restaurant expectantly. Still, it’s none of her business, and she’s not there to judge any which way. So she leaves the man alone and tries not to feel too worried for him when an hour later, he closes his sketchbook and plucks up the other book, leaving one empty and one full glass of chocolate milk on the table, along with a ten dollar bill. There’s a note written on the corner of a sketchbook page when Lucy goes to clear the glasses. 

Keep the change.

-

The next time Lucy sees the man, it’s during a Saturday lunch rush. He comes in with his sketchbook and the same pulp novel tucked underneath his arm, and specifically requests the booth in the back-- the same one where he’d sat the previous time. Harried, Lucy tells him that it’s not available.

“Oh,” the man says, and for a moment, Lucy could have sworn she knew him from somewhere. Maybe a low scale movie? Some odd TV show? All corners of New York yielded itself to some amount of famous people. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been in something before. “That’s okay. I’ll come back.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucy says, mostly because she hated feeling like she’d disappointed a customer. 

The man smiles, waving a hand, and even though his eyes hold a certain sadness-- a weight-- he looks genuine. 

“No, it’s really no problem. Thank you for your help.”

He strolls out of the restaurant then, and Lucy watches him go. He dresses sort of oddly, too. In straight khakis and an old looking button down. His hair-- while short-- is neatly parted. Huh. odd. Shaking her head, Lucy turns to greet the next patrons. 

-

When Lucy shows up for her shift at Jan’s on Tuesday night, the man is already sitting in the booth in the back, sketchbook open and two cokes sitting on the table. Like the last time she’d seen him, one was still full and pushed to the other side where the sci-fi pulp was neatly placed. It’s thankfully quite sparse in the restaurant, and Lucy takes her time tying her apron around her waist, watching the man’s hand guide the pencil smoothly across the page. He looks exhausted, eyes heavy with dark, pronounced bags underneath them. His skin is pale and there’s a fine tremor to his hands as he sketches. 

“He’s come the last three nights,” one of the other waiters, Harvey, says, leaning over the counter by her side. “Sat in that same booth, ordered--”

“Two drinks? Yeah, he was here one other time I was working, then came in a couple days later asking for that seat. Had to turn him down, ‘cause it was a rush, but…”

“Yeah, I dunno,” Harvey says. “First I thought he was being stood up.”

“Me too,” Lucy says, crossing her arms. The man’s shoulders are tense, nearly drawn up to his ears. “But I’m thinking that’s… not the case.”

“Yeah.” They watch as the man erases something forcefully, then looks out the window. His hand is clenched so tightly around his pencil that Lucy thinks it might break. “What do you think his deal is?”

“I dunno,” Lucy says. “But he looks kinda familiar, doesn’t he?”

Harvey cocks his head. “You know, kinda? He’s definitely military. I mean, look at the way he’s sitting.”

And now that he mentions it, Lucy can see it. The way he’s choosing to sit on the side that faces the entirety of the diner-- a vantage point. Eyes darting around every few seconds, clearly clocking everyone coming in and out, even when he’s distracted. 

“Shit, you’re probably right,” she says. 

“I just hope he’s okay,” Harvey says. “Like, either way, he looks damn lonely. I hope he’s got someone at home, or something.”

Lucy shrugs, but she can’t help the way her chest aches. The man seems sweet, if anything. She sure hopes he’s not all alone. No one deserves that sort of hell.

The door jingles as someone comes in and the man jumps, clearly torn from some sort of reverie. Yeah. Definitely a vet. Or something like that.

“Yeah,” Lucy says. “Me too.”

-

“Just two waters, please.”

“Sure thing,” Lucy says, smiling at the man. He’s been coming into Jan’s Kitchen regularly for nearly two months now, always at the same booth. Though never at this hour. It’s nearly 4:00 am, and he looks like he’s been through hell. His shirt is rumpled and his hair is sticking up in the back. There’s remnants of a flush on his cheeks, and his eyes are blown wide and a little glazed. Biting her lip, Lucy thinks back to her conversation with Harvey about him possibly being a vet. Maybe he had a nightmare? Either way, he doesn’t look good. “Lemme get those for you.”

The man doesn’t answer her, and Lucy goes to grab the two glasses, along with a slice of cherry pie. They have extra, and he looks like he could use a pick me up.

“Here,” she says, strolling back up to the booth. “And I got you a slice of pie on the house.”

The man looks up at her, eyes wide. He looks close to tears. 

“You didn’t have to--”

“I know,” Lucy says, placing a fork down for him and nudging it forward. “You don’t gotta eat it if you don’t want it, but it’s there if you do.”

The man bites his lip, looking down at the pie. His eyes look misty, and Lucy wants to ask. More than anything she wants to sit and ask if he’s okay. But it isn’t her place. 

“Thank you,” the man whispers. 

Lucy smiles. “No problem,” she says. “Just holler if you need anything else.”

Before she can turn to leave, she catches sight of the man’s sketchbook. On the page, there’s a half-finished drawing of a man-- short hair flopping over a handsome face. There’s a boyish smile etched onto the lips of the drawing, portrayed with such palpable and evident fondness that suddenly, Lucy feels like she’s invading some sort of privacy, and it hits her all at once. Oh. Oh.

“I think he lost someone,” she says to Harvey when she gets back behind the counter. “There’s a-- he’s drawing someone, in that sketchbook. I saw it. It looks… I don’t know. You’d have to see it, but I think-- I think he’s grieving.”

Harvey looks up from where he was logging tips in the register. “Shit, really?”

Across the restaurant, the man is poking at the pie with his fork. They both watch as he eats a bite, then pushes around some of the filling before sliding the rest of it across the table towards the other water glass and the sci-fi pulp. 

Here, he seems to say. You finish it

Lucy blinks. Next to him, Harvey deflates.

“Yeah,” Lucy mumbles. “Shit.”

-

Of the sheer amount of shit that tends to happen in New York, aliens invading was not one Lucy had been expecting. 

Luckily, she’s out of town that week, visiting her grandparents in Pennsylvania with her parents and her brother, but she watches as the invasion unfolds on the television. 

It feels like an out of body experience, watching giant space whales and ugly looking lizard-type-things ravage her home. She feels frozen. Utterly helpless. Next to her, her brother is crying and she can hear her parents and grandparents talking in the other room. Surreal barely covers half the feelings in her gut. 

On the screen, Iron Man flies past, and it feels wrong to be surprised by that, too-- the presence of superheroes, fighting the aliens on screen. None of it makes sense. None of it.

She watches in horror as the Hulk slams a couple of aliens into the ground and Thor uses his magical hammer to behead another. It’s as disturbing as it is captivating. 

The camera switches and Captain America flies through the window of a bank, landing hard on top of a car. His helmet had been lost somewhere between the last time camera footage caught him and now, and Lucy gasps, hand clapping to her mouth.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, feeling lightheaded, and of course. Of course the man from the diner is Captain goddamn America. So that’s where she’d recognized him from. 

Her head's still spinning as her screen lights up with a text. It’s from Harvey.

well. we were right about him being a vet

-

When Lucy returns home from her grandparents’ house, she doesn’t go back to work, because there is no work to go back to. The diner was amongst the buildings destroyed by the Chitauri Invasion-- details they now know on the other side of the tragedy.

Still, she goes to help clean up the debris. Everyone in the city is pitching in, it seems, and it all feels so huge. Too huge to tackle. But she figures she can start in a familiar space. 

The man-- Captain America-- is there when she arrives. He’s dressed in worn jeans and a black t-shirt, covered in dust and grime. He looks tired. Stripped down and snuffed out as he stares at the remnants of the diner. Clearly, he’d been helping with the relief effort, but right now, he just looks stuck. 

Lucy watches as he reaches into his back pocket, extracting something. She recognizes it immediately as the sci-fi pulp. There’s a paper poking out of the top now, and for a long time, Cap just stares at it. His hands are trembling; Lucy tries to think of the last time she’d seen them still. They were always shaking when he came in. 

A battle seems to wage in his mind before Lucy sees him abruptly shake his head. His eyes squeeze shut and his grip tightens around the book, then he bends down to place the book in a pile of already cleared rubble-- the stuff that’s ready to be loaded to a landfill. 

He turns to leave after that, shoulders slumped and head bowed. He doesn’t look like he knows where he’s going. Lucy is almost certain he doesn’t. Everyone lost their home, it seems. And he must have lost his long before the rest of them.

It’s a terrible, juvenile curiosity that has Lucy picking up the book when she later passes it. It isn’t her business-- she knows that-- but there’s a part of her that can’t help it. The spine cracks as she opens it, and the page falls out. On one side, there’s a letter, and Lucy doesn’t make it past the Dear Bu-- before she turns it over. Not her business. 

On the other side, it’s the drawing of the other man. The one with the handsome face and the boyish smile. Lucy recognizes him now, she realizes. She’d read the history books. Seen the reels. Sergeant James Barnes, KIA 1945. Captain America’s best friend. Looking at the picture now, Lucy wonders if that’s all they’d been.

Not her business.

And clearly, Cap wants to lay this particular bit of himself to rest. She places the book back into the rubble, burying it a little more thoroughly than he had, and praying that he finds the closure he seems to be craving. He deserves it, she thinks. Anyone would.

-

Dear Bucky,

Jan’s is gone now. Destroyed by aliens, if you can believe it. Though, I guess you wouldn’t believe that anymore than you’d believe that I died and came back to life, or that the future has phones you can put in your pocket now. Or maybe you would, judging by this goddamn sci-fi I’ve been lugging around for you. In any case, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to keep anything of ours alive. I tried, though. I promise. Made sure to drink a couple cokes for us. Even sat in our booth. Our names are still carved underneath, did you know? I don’t think anyone would realize it’s more than just random wood-scratchings if they didn’t know they were there, but I did. 

Anyway, I miss you tons still. I don’t think that’ll ever stop, but I think losing Jan’s is making me miss you extra right now. It’s like parts of you keep dying over and over again and I cant

I miss you. I love you. I love you so much. I hope you’re resting easy up there, Buck. 

Love,

Stevie

-

Thanks for reading!!!

[anatheareads]

This fic is one of the best fics I have read in a while. Despite it being a longer fic than I typically read, I read it in one sitting because I just had to know what happened next with Steve and Bucky.

There is a rape/non-con warning, so do be mindful about that if it's a trigger for you. Though this doesn't happen between Steve and Bucky and refers to a past relationship.

This fic is truly amazing and I hope everyone checks it out ❤️

[anatheareads]

Historial AU | 52K | Explicit | @thiccbuckybarnesfic

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“Primogeniture (prīmōˈjenəˌCHər) is the right, by law or custom, of the firstborn legitimate child to inherit the parent’s entire or main estate in preference to shared inheritance among all or some children, any illegitimate child or any collateral relative.” ❀❀❀ Despite being the son of a gentleman, James “Bucky” Barnes could scarcely allow himself the hope of one day being tied to another in happy matrimony. In a society where the first-born children are revered and inherit all of a family’s wealth, last-born Bucky feels trapped in a life he did not ask for.

When he makes the drastic decision to run away and become a tutor for a wealthy family, he is hoping to save enough pennies to someday have a dowry and be worthy for marriage despite his disposition. What he is not anticipating, however, is falling into the rough and skilled hands of his employer, the rakish widow Lord Steven Rogers.

~

I absolutely loved loved loved this fic! So hot, so sweet! 

[anatheareads]

Save the Date

Save the Date || a Stevebucky wedding escort au 🎊💖 a twitter thread fic originally posted here.

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Bucky's a PhD student who turns to escorting when his debts and bills pile up. During wedding season he's always fully booked, accompanying single men and women alike who don't want to turn up to weddings alone.

Bored at the bar whilst his client fails to flirt with the ex she's clearly still in love with, Bucky strikes up conversation with a handsome blonde who sounds too good to be true. Bucky can't flirt too much, he won't embarrass his client like that, but god he wants to.

Bucky can't get the man out of his mind and the following Saturday, they meet again at a different wedding, with the guy on the arm of a much old gentleman this time—with a completely different backstory. Either he's cheating—or he's an escort like Bucky...

It turn out he is an escort too, and they keep running into each other at events across the city. Each time they do, it gets harder for Bucky to stay professional and keep his hands off the guy.

Steve, Bucky discovers, has a much nicer website than he does and they end up becoming friends, sharing horror stories and funny moments from past clients, and tips and tricks of the trade.

Each time they cross paths Bucky falls a little more in love. They even meet at some events where only one of them is working, but they seem cursed to never be able to get together.

Until Bucky's invited to the wedding of a guy he'd had a pathetic crush on for years in highschool and doesn't want to turn up alone.

He decides to hire Steve to be his date—using his real name, forgetting Steve won't know it's him. Steve's shocked and delighted when he finds out he gets to be Bucky's date for the day.

But Bucky's plan backfires. Steve acts like the perfect boyfriend and Bucky falls even more in love with him than he already was. But Steve's only pretending, just doing his job, Bucky thinks. And it's torture.

By the end of the night he's dying of sexual frustration and he's miserable, until Steve presses Bucky to explain what's wrong. Tipsy, Bucky confesses he's been crushing on Steve for weeks.

Steve admits he's been crushing on Bucky too and wasn't planning on charging him for their 'date'. They hook up properly and live happily ever after.

The End.