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We’re currently embroiled in a family emergency. Please don’t expect any content from me or DD right now.

Thank you for being patient and awesome.

-Laur

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Here’s your weekend fic from the archives! hope you enjoy.

Happy Starbucks Sunday! For a prompt could you maybe do Bucky missing the warning signs of a seizure because he's feeling so awful with a migraine already, and Steve taking care of him with both. I don't know if there's something similar you've written before. Hope you have a nice day!

Hello!  Thanks for the prompt.  This will be Chasing Ghosts.

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James insists on coming back to the living room once he’s finished heaving his guts into the toilet.  He can’t open his eyes wider than a squint, nor can he move his feet faster than a shuffle, but he wants to be in the saggy recliner in the corner of the room and nowhere else.

“How ‘bout I take you to bed?” Steve offers.  “Then you could lie down.  I could bring you a cold cloth or something.”  It’s too late for imitrex, and they both know it..

“Nope,” James sighs.  He sits heavily in the dull velour upholstered chair and pulls the lever to lift his feet.  “I just... here...”

“Ok.”  Steve doesn’t sound like he’s even pretending to understand at this point.  “Water?” he asks.  “I know.  Gatorade.”

“It’d be the same thing as pouring it down the toilet,” James mumbles, wiping clammy sweat from his upper lip.  His head pounds horrifically with each word.  With each breath, practically.  

“No, it wouldn’t.  You need your lites balanced, even if you do throw up again.”  Steve rises to get a bottle from the kitchen.

Nausea plays around James’s throat, teasing him and making his jaw ache, his mouth water.  “Hold your horses,” he chokes, slamming the footrest back into the recliner.  “I’m gonna... anyway...”

The hall to the bathroom is barely 12 feet long, but somewhere in the middle of it, James begins to feel lost.  His vision vanishes in a wash of silver starlight, like the static on an old TV set.  The sound of his blood pounding in his own ears grows so loud that he wants to claw at his eardrums.  And he would, too, if his hand wasn’t suddenly shaking in a clamped, claw-like position in front of his chest.  The myoelectric prosthesis stays still at his side, though his stump shoulder trembles within the silicone sleve.

Vomit seeps out of the sides of James’s mouth as he falls forward onto his knees.  The side of his ribcage hits the floor before his head, but his elbow bashes into the low-pile carpet at the same time as his temple.  Both explode in agony that makes his eyes and mouth water.  James’s stomach heaves, his neck jerks, and his eyes roll backward in his head.  

“St--” he manages to choke, just as Steve’s running footsteps approach, sending waves through the floorboards.  

“Oh my god.  Buck?”  Steve runs the backs of his knuckles across James’s cheek, then carefully turns his head completely sideways so saliva and vomit can drain properly.  He ducks and avoids James’s flailing limbs like a boxer and gets his arms around his torso.  

“You’re ok,” Steve whispers.

James isn’t.  His head is exploding.  His bladder’s letting go.  All he feels is heat and pain and nausea and white stars bursting in the corners of his eyeballs...

And then it’s over.  Time must’ve passed, for Steve has a towel now, and a bag of melty ice cubes.  James’s shirt is drenched under the arms and around his neck.  He breathes in deeply several times, and he smells sick and sweat and piss.  But at least nothing’s blocking his trachea.  

“There you are,” Steve says when James can finally make eye contact.  “I thought I was gonna have to med you, but you were only down for four.  Seems like maybe the old school stuff did the trick?”

One more minute of seizing, and Steve would’ve had to administer the oral versed, then probably been forced to call a squad.  He silently thanks his body, however fucked up it may be, for letting him get away with this one.  

James nods absently, feeling every muscle in his head, neck, and shoulders ache horribly.  “Mmph,” he complains, bringing up his hand to rub at a sore spot, but having trouble coordinating the movement.  

“What do you say to a bath and bed?” Steve suggests, taking the cool towel off James’s forehead and beginning to dab at the carpet.  “You’ve got to be feeling awful.”

“Mm.”  James sighs.  “Bath and... back to my chair?”

“Stubborn one, aren’t you?”

“I don’t feel good.  I want my chair.”  James forces trembling lips up at the corners.

“Ok, then.”  Steve raises his hands in surrender.  “Bath, then chair.”

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I’m home!

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Aaaaaand today we're back in the hospital. Bloodstream infection again, but I seem to have noticed it sooner, so maybe the damage will be less severe.

To everyone with whom I'm in the middle of a DM conversation: I will get back to you when my fingers don't ache every time I type.

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Yesterday was my...you know... that day we mark the completion of my annual trip around the sun? ☀️ 🚀

The anniversary of the day of my birth? Which happened 32 years ago? 🐣 🎉

I'd rather mark the day I debuted this tumblr account (it will be 8 years, 1 month from now) and the day DD and I began our relationship (7 years, one month from now).

Anyway. As a general update: I'm not feeling well today. I have doctors' appointments. I really don't want to admit how terribly behind I am on my to-do list (and how it's taking away my creative time.) But I've also returned to my DBT principles and how they apply to my thoughts and behaviors, as well as embracing a "one moment at a time" mindset.

I may post less frequently, but be assured I won't vanish. Writing fics and creating fan art are still among my highest passions.

Thank you guys for sticking with me. This platform and the connections I've made through it have truly improved my quality of life.

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Idk, guys. What do you think?

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Here's your weekly reblog from the archives. Mind your trigger warnings.

Interlude

Chasing Ghosts

tw for slight eating disorder talk, mental health talk, discussion of consent, alcohol and drug use… I think that’s it.

I know I said I wasn’t putting anything out while I work on the long-form fic. Unfortunately this story decided to take over my brain and provide hella distraction.

———————

Sunday

2:57 AM

Steve’s eyes fly open and he’s out of the bed in a flash. Knees hit carpet, and he’s disoriented for a second. His brain turns first conscious, then powered on as he rubs his eyes. Steve stays silent for a moment. Dead quiet rings out. He must be the only one awake.

Steve raises his gaze a few inches over the edge of the mattress. The back of James’s head is toward him, and the covers pulled across his stump shoulder give rise and gentle fall to his slow breathing. Steve is definitely the only one up. It never turns out like this; it’s always James who wakes first. The nightmare or bad memory or lack of balance on the way to the bathroom… they’re not Steve’s problems. Well, they are, in theory. He’s just generally not the one with an affliction.

That’s onerous towards James, though, so Steve stashes it back into a mental auto-delete folder. No, he doesn’t feel that way. He’s grateful for James’s trust. Forwardness to share his emotions about the opposing forces of healing and the self-loathing he’s grown over years of being wronged. Still, though. Steve can’t determine a time in recent memory when he’s felt this alone in the house.

The apartment is his—but only technically, he’s made very clear. Just by the lease and it’s tie to the account that holds the money for rent. He’s made very clear that the account isn’t a trust fund, even if he knows it is, even if just by a parsing or words. He keeps his bank passwords very private.

That’s the only place he has walls up, though. Steve’s surrounded in teamwork and academic camaraderie from all sides. Swimming has absorbed his free time, which he’d rarely spent alone anyway. Even this moment of silence and solitude feels strange. Like his ears are plugged and gently throbbing as they do when he keeps his head under for a long time in the deep end.

Steve would feel safer in the water. He’s not out of place there, practicing for competition with a rowdy team or tying up the ends of a group project in the library. None of it is meant to take the place of his home and family life. Something is definitely off about the atmosphere here in the house. He’s primed for danger. He feels like a fucking nightstalker.

He needs to get out of here, he decides. If there’s a monster under the bed, James will have to tackle it alone. Or Steve might accidentally tackle him.

Now that he’s settled into awareness, Steve feels anxious. He wonders if he’s breathing properly. His skin doesn’t feel hot, but he’s boiling. Maybe it’s his blood. Steve takes one more look at James’s slumbering form, then books it silently for the door.

The hallway is dark. Tasha’s bedroom door is closed, and there’s no light coming from underneath or around the doorknob. She’s asleep, Steve thinks. But no, it’s a weekend… She’s probably out, enjoying herself like the average coed in the false pool of safety that seems to surround the campus.

The average coed. That’s not Steve, not anymore. He’s probably never been close. He’s learned more since since he vacated the upstairs suite in his parents’ house than he ever had in his life up to that point. To say he didn’t come with street smarts… Steve packed and drove and moved across the country before he realized the dorm didn’t have a private bathroom. Thinking about it now, actually, makes Steve want to laugh at himself. At eighteen, he’d still been so young and helpless. He’d thought he was near invincible, though. Surviving the worst of pubescent gay lust in a high school locker room— that was a feat. That should’ve prepared him for everything. Steve never thought he’d be, for instance, stuck in the median of four lanes of traffic going both directions because he’d overestimated his walking speed relative to the squawking time signal.

James has always been accommodating of Steve’s relative lack of skills in self care. James always laughs it off and says the feeling’s mutual. It’s not, though. James isn’t that much older, it’s just that he’s lived through and with so many tresspasses of the unjust. The essay in Steve’s college admissions packet claimed to be the story of the worst day of his life. Somehow, he doesn’t look back and see his cut from freshman football in the same way anyone.

There’s light somewhere at the other end of the apartment. In the living room, or maybe the kitchen. It’s dim, though. One of them probably forgot to turn off the glow under the microwave. None of them has figured out how to work its on/off timer, so Steve’s come to work it manually, which is to say he’s constantly turning it off. He says he’s saving power, which he supposes he is. It’s kind of an act; showing the others that he cares about the utility bill, even though he can always pay without even looking at the usage fee. Steve mainly wants to keep the light from bothering James’s sensitivities and headaches, not that he’d ever admit it.

A sudden shadow moves in the kitchen area. Steve hears the door of the fridge slam shut, then the sound of a running faucet. Unless they have a hungry burglar, it must mean that Tasha’s home and rustling up some dinner. Maybe breakfast. Steve’s sure it’s past midnight, though he hasn’t checked the clock to calculate hours remaining until sunrise.

“Hi.” Steve announces his presence and stands next to the table. He doesn’t want to scare Tasha; it’s pure chance as to whether she’s on an upper or a downer or something hallucinogenic. “Um. Good morning?”

The water stops running. “Fucking Christ…” Tasha’s braced in front of the sink with tight, overextended elbows. Her knees display an obvious tremor. When she lifts her head, the low light creates a halo of liquid amber around the messy bun atop her head.

Tasha flashes a glance over her shoulder. She doesn’t make eye contact with Steve, but it’s apparent she knows he’s there. “Fuck,” she curses again. It’s apparent how she feels about Steve standing there watching her, but now they’ve acknowledged each other’s presence, Steve can’t just turn around and go back to bed. Better to make sure Tasha’s ok rather than just frighten her and vanish. A ghost would probably be kinder than that. And Steve doesn’t want her to get the idea that the house has become haunted.

Tasha’s head dips out of sight, and weak coughing echoes from the walls of the sink. She gags. Spits. Then she looses one hand from her stabilizing grip, and her shadow shrinks down even more.

Steve steps forward, wondering if she’s about to faint. It seems a very real possibility, though Steve’s own stomach sinks as he puts two and two together.

“You ok?” Steve doesn’t know what else to say. It’s plain that Tasha is not ok in the slightest, but he wants to announce his progress across the room before just appearing behind her back and grabbing her shoulder. Steve feels the instinct to put hands on her. Protectively, of course. In good faith. He’s learned enough about trauma, though, that well-intended doesn’t always translate to appropriate.

“Yeah.” Tasha retches hard and pulls slimy fingers out of her mouth. “Go away.” Strings of ropy mucous hang off her fingertips, the dim light making them stand out like lines of freshly woven spiderweb.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” It’s a stupid thing to say; Tasha will probably take it as insincere pandering. Steve doesn’t plan on going away, though. Not with her body shaking like that. He’d prefer not to find her passed out on the floor when he and James sit down for morning coffee.

Tasha retches again, and this time it’s productive. Liquid spatters into the garbage disposal, and Tasha turns the water on again. It does a poor job of masking the sound, now that Steve’s only a few feet away and definitely aware of what she’s doing.

“Just, uh, clearing things out? Before you hit the sack?” It’s intrusive, and Steve knows it.

“Eh.” It comes out muffled; Tasha’s hand is down her throat again. She shrugs one shoulder, then hacks and dribbles more sick into the sink. She appears to have no shame, which Steve isn’t sure whether it’s actual boldness or putting on airs.

Steve decides to be bold back, though he prays he doesn’t cross the line and seem overly intrusive. “You want some water? Or something to, like, flush out?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he prattles on. “I can fill a cup in the bathroom so it doesn’t… disturb you?”

It takes a moment for Tasha to answer; she first unloads another splash of sick and wipes her mouth on the back of her dirty hand. “Are you getting off on this?” She turns her head sideways just enough to face Steve, as if she wants him to know she’s speaking to him directly. “Like, watching me?” Tasha clears her throat. “That’s really depraved. You don’t have hidden cameras in the bathrooms, do you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Steve replies with abject disgust. He feels the need to defend himself. “I just woke up. I’m not spying on you or anything.”

“Then can you go the fuck away?” Tasha shakes her hand, and flecks of vomit hit the sink, the faucet, and the window in front of her.

“Here.” Steve tears a paper towel from the roll and leans in to clean up the residue. His arm slides close to Tasha’s, and he’s sure their pricked hairs intertwine as he reaches past her. Steve breaks out in goosebumps, and he tries not to flinch. “Sorry,” he mutters before swiping the paper towel across the window glass.

“Right.” Tasha gives Steve a look of disdain. He’s in her way, and she’s definitely not thrilled about it. “I’m sorry.”

Tasha doesn’t acknowledge the apology. She looks miserable, her eyes swollen to puffy slits and her wet, red lips pulled into a thin line. Her nose drips, and she inhales hard with a loud snuffle that seems to displace more gunk than it saves. Steve catches her slight wince and heavy swallow.

Knowing his time is up, Steve looks away first. He deserves to have Tasha gawk at him for a while. It’s more than a fair trade. He busies himself with crumpling the soiled paper towel. Steve isn’t sure what to do with it, though, as Tasha’s knees block the access to the trash bin in the cabinet under the sink.

As he looks down at the damp towel in his hand, Steve notices the color of what he’s just wiped up. Pinkish red. His mind jumps to the worst case scenario, even though it’s more likely to be a thousand things more innocuous than blood.

“You’re not spitting blood, are you?” Steve asks anxiously.

“Huh?” Tasha drags her focus away from her hand, which is halfway to her mouth again, and looks at Steve.

He lifts the towel to show her. “I… um… Is your throat ok? Or your stomach?”

“Oh.” Tasha’s mouth twists as she sucks on her tongue and the insides of her cheeks. Having to stop and think as to whether she tastes blood… It can’t be a good sign.

“Have you ever heard of a strawberry daiquiri?” Tasha looks at Steve as if he’s lost it. “Vodka and cranberry?”

Steve’s still suspicious. As far as he knows, Tasha isn’t one to drink her calories. Or eat them, if she can get away with it. Poweraid zero? That comes in red, right? But the thought of Tasha managing her lytes is definitely fictitious. James is usually the one pressing her to hydrate once she leaves her room and drags her hungover zombie body into the main part of the house. Typically sometime after noon.

Tasha shakes her head and sneers at Steve. “You’re the one who crammed a whole pan of lasagna in the fridge.”

So it was a binge? Or maybe she was just hungry. Ate too fast or something like that. It shocks Steve all over again that it’s the middle of the night and that he and Tasha are actually having this conversation. They’re sharing secrets, even if the action is completely forced and only present via circumstance.

“You, um…” Steve isn’t sure how to phrase it without being awkward. A moment’s thought gives him no help, so he plows ahead in brutal honesty powered by guilt. “You don’t have to, like, stop. On my part, I mean.”

“Ok.” Tasha’s face goes ashen. She opens her mouth, then closes it and holds her wrist over her eyes. It barely blocks any part of her face, she’s so bony.

“I just want to be sure you’re ok,” Steve says, though he knows it’s pointless. “But you do you and all that stuff.” He takes a breath and says the rest in a rush. “And you don’t have to eat my cooking. You know?”

“Yeah.” Tasha’s voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “But maybe I will anyway. Free will and shit?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Tasha bends back over the sink, her jaw sagging and strings of spit spilling over her lower lip. “So you’re going to go away, right? If I offend you, you don’t have to watch.”

“I don’t.” Steve’ll give her that one. He decides to give himself one more shot at explaining his behavior while they’re at it. It’ll at least eat up the time before Tasha inevitably pukes again. “But it’s like, I don’t know. The buddy system?”

“You’re not asking for an invite are you?” Tasha sounds disgusted. “You wouldn’t like my kind of parties, anyway.” More disgusted than one usually would when they’re that sick. Drunk. High. Exercising their right to test the limits of a youthful metabolism against the brute force of an eating disorder.

“No, no, not that,” Steve says quickly. It’s all he has time for. Tasha gives an immense dry heave, then breaks into another coughing fit.

“But can I, like… Stay with you?” Steve presses.

“Ugh.” Tasha spits and sticks out her tongue. “Why? I’m all messed up. Always a disappointment.”

“You’re not—“

“And if you keep trying to be sympathetic, I’m going to kick you in the balls.”

“Well.” Steve tries not to show any signs of amusement. “That’d be your choice, the, wouldn’t it?”

“Involuntary reflex.” Tasha’s expression changes as she acknowledges her own joke, though it evaporates just as quickly.

“Exactly.” Steve capitalizes the opportunity to continue explaining himself, even though he’s probably extending past his moment. “Same as being here to catch you if you pass out.”

“I’m not going to pass—“ Tasha cuts herself off with a heave, this one seeming to come on unexpectedly.

“I know you’re not,” Steve says, although she’s shaking so much now that he wants to lay a hand over the bumps of her spine. Her delicate body may not stay in one piece if she tumbles backward. Steve imagines her head cracked on the linoleum floor. Then there would be blood for sure. He shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought. It’s infinitesimally more disturbing than the idea of Tasha spitting up blood, and Steve is left wondering why.

“You’re not supposed to care about me like that.” Tasha’s knees begin to buckle, and Steve puts much more stock into her actions than her words.

“It’s not like you can really stop me.” Steve hovers at her shoulder. “I’m allowed to keep you from hitting the floor, right?”

“Wow. Consent.” Tasha props herself up on her elbows and rests her forehead on the edge of the sink.

“Well, yeah, but that’s not…” Steve trails off, shaking his head. “It’s my floor.”

“Huh?”

Is she becoming foggy? Does that mean danger is imminent? Steve pushes down his anxiety and says, “If I pay the rent, I’m the owner of the apartment?” Coming out, it sounds utterly ridiculous. Pretentious. And more than a touch belittling.

“Fine, take the kitchen. But my room is my room.”

“You’re not actually on the lease,” Steve points out. “But, yeah, your room is yours. Like your body. Your choices.”

“I’m not going to kill myself.” Tasha catches Steve’s eye. He knows she’s being serious.

“You wouldn’t on purpose.” It’s the best Steve can do.

“Yeah, I’m not that kind of fucked up. Save that for James…”

“Sure.” Steve decides to leave that one where it lies. “I guess I just don’t want you to hork yourself to death. Not in the middle of the night. Not all by yourself.”

“But I can commit my other sins in private, right?” She turns her head completely, looking up at Steve while she rests on one ear.

“Eat or drink or, what, inhale?” Steve gives a single breath of laughter. He’s sure he isn’t phrasing it correctly. At the same time, though, he’s sure that Tasha knows he’s doing his best.

“I’m not on paint fumes.” Tasha shakes her head and does nothing to hide her growing grin. “That’s little kid stuff.”

“Ok, well, needle or under the tongue or swallow with a jello shot…” Steve’s reached the limit of his knowledge on that topic, and he’s completely fine with showing his naiveté. They’re baring their souls, after all. “And what you do with your food. Even if I cooked it, you’re still free to—whatever.”

“Yes, sir, captain.” Tasha’s slurring a little. Whether she’s succumbing to fatigue or drunkenness, Steve isn’t sure. And he isn’t going to ask.

Steve nods. He doesn’t want to muck up the conversation even more.

“I’m going to bed,” Tasha declares. “You’re not going to escort me or hold my elbow or whatever, right?”

“Oh, no.” Steve’s glad he didn’t give in to the urge to touch her, now or earlier. “I know you’re alright. That much, at least.”

“Yeah, very reassuring.” Tasha straightens up and rubs the heel of her hand into her eye socket. “You going to sleep, too? Or there’s milk in the fridge.” Tasha shrugs. “Lasagna.”

“Sleep, I think,” Steve says. It seems somehow wrong to stay in the kitchen once Tasha’s vacated it. “I’ll just hit this.” He crosses the kitchen to the microwave and beeps the dial a few times. The bright reflection bouncing back over the stovetop cuts out. Darkness presses in, but Steve still sees Tasha’s skinny outline.

“If I’m allowed to ask,” Tasha starts, “Why’d you get up in the first place?”

Steve tells no tales of gallantry or subconscious protectiveness. “I knew I forgot to turn that stupid light timer off.” It’s not like he’s sure or anything. It just sounds right.

“I can hit it when I get home,” Tasha offers.

Steve detects no pretense or sarcasm, so he just says, “Yeah. That’d be great.”

“Cool.” Tasha gives a curt nod, as if they’re sealing the deal. And they are, in a way. Steve doesn’t intend to break Tasha’s confidence. And he knows she won’t rat him out, either. Waking up to turn off the light? Steve’d be glad to leave that one to the annals of memory, too.

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I've been really sick for the past few days (including copious vomiting) due to a severe allergic reaction. I have zero energy at the moment. I 'm going to try to keep up with the weekly reblogs, but don't expect new content for a little bit. Thanks for being so patient. It's very much appreciated.

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I have a feeling you won’t have an answer but I figure it’s worth a shot.

Here it goes:

Your pacing your paragraphs run seamlessly from one thought to the next. Your imagery is so clear without over explaining. But most of all none of your fics not one has choppy writing. What is your secret? Also even when you write characters I’m not into I still catch my self weaving through your paragraphs here and there and getting inspired. But I need to know, how do you do it? I’ve been writing for at least twenty five years and I still don’t know the secret to not sounding choppy.

NOTE: this is not meant to be belittling or pedantic. I'm answering a question; I'm not making a rubric, nor am I teaching creative writing 101. Always be yourselves. If you disagree, I'm 100% ok with that. Please do not spam my inbox.

I've also been writing for 20+ years, and practice does do a lot for refining technique. If you're up for suggestions, I do have a few:

1) Read well-written books. Sharp Objects (Gillian Flynn) is top notch when it comes to vivid imagery and metaphoric descriptions. HUGE trigger warning for that. I also recommend Call Me By You Name, which is a very slow, almost boring read, but the language is gorgeous. And I recommend checking out anything by Becky Chambers (sci-fi, basically no tws). Again, beautiful words and very thought provoking.

2) Variety is your friend. Make some sentences short. Make some long. Make some compound. Use semicolons. Make non-grammatical sentences or one-word sentences (ex. "He's tired. Exhausted. Done."). Use complicated SAT words. Use ordinary short words. Use slang. Use foul language. Write dialogue as people would actually talk; use "like" and "um" and "gonna." Don't be afraid to use rude words either; such as sexual references, descriptions of gore, etc. Basically no word is off-limits, no matter what your high school English teacher told you.

3) Use similes and metaphors, and try for unique metaphors that you can extend through several sentences. (ex. "The sound of the helicopter's propeller beating the air hits his ears like a swarm of bees. He doesn't want this mission. He'd rather take on the bees.") Caution, though. Don't use too many in a row; you want to keep your reader engaged with plot/action as well as drawing them with imagery.

4) Don't edit, or just edit as you go. I don't go back and read through my stories before I post them. Take what's in your head and put it to page. I find it easier to just let things flow. Going back and editing and making changes or swapping out words does not make the story better (in my opinion).

I hope some of that is useful. If not, please ignore. I aim to be a helpful resource, not a diagnostician.

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Here's the archive fic of the week (and I'm trying to get back in the habit of doing this regularly)

Needle and the thread (MCU Captain America sickfic)

This is a repost from A03.  

This is ridiculously dark and has absolutely no plot.  It’s in the same vein as Who are the stars, so it’s just about sadness, basically.

Contains vomit and a general bad place for mental health.

If you want to know about my inspiration behind this, ask and I’ll tell you the story.

The punching bag gives too much under Steve’s taped knuckles. ��He sends it swinging with every hit, his fists jamming into the fabric and forcing it to bend and flex against its padded inners.  The bag looks ready to split; the chain that suspends it clinks gently as it strains against the carabiner holding it to the ceiling.

Steve isn’t sure how long he’s been at it.  The dusky light coming in through the tiny windows at the top of the gym wall has long since faded to darkness.  He’s tired, quickly running out of available energy and feeling the burn of lactic acid in his muscles.  It’s uncomfortable, verging on the beginnings of pain.  But the searing in his forearms and shoulders is also amazing.  His brain is cataloguing the sensation as a little more gratifying than the hollow jab of fist against the punching bag’s thin skin of plastic.

Maybe he’d feel better if the thing would crumple and shatter beneath the force of his punches.  ThenSteve’d have a couple of busted knuckles and maybe a broken finger or two to keep him company rather than just the looming emptiness of his apartment.  A tongue of achy loneliness nips up from Steve’s stomach and settles in his chest.  It makes his rib cage feel tight and tender, and he struggles to think of anything but Bucky as he puts every ounce of bodyweight behind the next jab.

If only he could feel the crunch of bone, his own or someone else’s, like Red Skull’s or Zola’s.  The punching bag splits.  Steve can feel the synthetic stuffing against the tape around his hand.  The softness is utterly distasteful.  He retracts a little and wipes the accumulated sweat from his forehead. Steve’s breath is coming in gulps, and euphoric discomfort is steadily throbbing through his upper body.

He leaves the bag as-is, mentally promising to drop some extra cash on next month’s membership in order to make up for it, and leaves through the front door.  The 24-hour fitness center is deserted at this hour, so no one sees Steve loose his fist on the façade of the foreclosed storefront next door.  The brick crumbles a little, but doesn’t give like the punching bag.  The smarting pain in the back of his hand comes as a relief.

The gym is a few miles from Steve’s apartment, and he can easily jog home in a matter of minutes.  He invents a meandering route, though.  Running aimlessly through the DC suburb seems preferable to heading back to his too-quiet residence that doesn’t yet feel like home.

Sweat pours off Steve’s brow, but the frosty autumn breeze turns it to a dry chill almost immediately. Each strike of his sneaker-clad foot against the pavement brings a throb to his forehead and a sear to his quads to match the diminishing one in his shoulders.  It brings a sense of purpose, a sense that he’s actually doing something instead of perseverating on memories that should be gone forever. Even if something happens to be trying his very best to wear down a body that’s now built not to be worn down.

Finally Steve comes to his neighborhood.  He circles the block a couple of times before finally pointing his feet in the direction of his building.  As he slows his crisp jog to a walk, exhaustion sweeps over him in a crushing wave.  The ache in his head surpasses building nausea and skips straight to vertigo that sends him leaning off the front steps to heave up a bleary surge of mucous and bile.  It seems that dehydration hit a long time ago.  He’s so dizzy that the shadowy grass starts to look like a deeply icy chasm, and the blood pounding in his ears resembles Bucky’s terrified heartbeat in the final moments that he clung to the edge of the train…

Steve dry retches a couple of times and lets his body dissolve into tremors from combined decades-old and minutes-old adrenaline.  He leans back against the building’s front door, feeling guilty as he begins to catch his breath.  He deserves to feel sick, to be in pain.  It’s all his fault.  Every last thing he feels is the result of a choice he’s made.  His fault he’s been awake and on edge for going-on 24 hours.  His fault his heart’s throbbing up at the base of his skull and bringing with it an awkward wooziness that feels familiar and alien all at once.  His fault that the train kept chugging down the track while he lost his grip on Bucky and everything that mattered…

The hall is dark and echoy, and Steve weaves a little as he makes his way to his apartment.  It’s sad that this is as close as he can get to being drunk in his enhanced state.  Instead of cushioning the pain like a glass of scotch used to be able to do—before it pushed him into the realm of incoherent sickness—the disconnect between Steve’s head and feet is just adding to the crushing sadness in his chest.

Once in the kitchen, Steve starts making coffee, more out of habit than anything else.  He still doesn’t feel well, and he doubts the hot bitter liquid will make any kind of positive difference.  He’d be better off with ginger ale and dry toast, but he feels that he somehow doesn’t deserve it.  He’d rather burn his tongue and let his blood sugar keep plummeting.

Steve vaguely thinks he should shower.  He’s sweaty, salt dried salt beginning to crust in a dusting on his skin.  It reminds him of being in the heat of battle, of times when he’s been fighting for something.  And really, he’s still fighting for something.  Only now it’s his own sanity rather than the good of the nation.  And that makes him feel guilty.

The first sip of coffee is astringent and sickening, but the warmth brings the lightest touch of comfort. The ghost of a memory surfaces, and Steve imagines himself sharing a canteen of something steaming and leaning as heavily into Bucky as he can with other soldiers all around.

Steve sets the mug down and collapses into one of the rickety kitchen chairs.  The reminiscence is all he has left to hold onto, but it’s almost too excruciating, more painful than the ache of muscle soreness in his shoulders and shattered tremble in his knees.  Steve’s head throbs; his throat feels tight and sharp.  He drops his elbows to his thighs and his forehead to his hands, trying not to feel the echo of the comforting hand he wishes would come down on the back of his neck.

Bucky would tell him he’s thoroughly stupid.  Grab a fistful of the front of Steve’s shirt and drag him into the bedroom to get some rest.  Serve up something overly rich to eat and lift the fork to Steve’s lips himself if he tried to say he wasn’t hungry.  He’d insist Steve doesn’t deserve to suffer.  But Steve knows he does.

The memory of Bucky’s touch drifts up and across the side of Steve’s face.  The surge of pure longing that shoots from his head to his chest to his stomach and back up again is harder to take than any of the self-induced pains he’s experienced so far tonight.  He thinks perhaps it would be easier to die than sit there while his heart turns itself inside out.  But he sighs and relishes every second.

Steve presses his fingertips into the line of his eyebrows.  The urge to throw up again competes with the urge to start bawling, and both sit there, battling it out, behind the lump of untouched emotion at the back of his throat.  Tremors of illness and exhaustion and anger slip from his arms to his legs.  He would be freezing were it not for the insistent, growing warmth tenting the front of his gym shorts.

It’s too much to feel at the same time.  Steve slams one fist down on the table, making his coffee mug rattle and spill over the edges.  He can’t stand it.  He needs to calm down, but he’s afraid that if he does, he’ll never feel anything ever again.

The shower spray is lukewarm on Steve’s back as he braces against the wall with one hand and grips himself with the other.  His breathing is rough and shallow.  Dizziness threatens to drop him to the slick plastic floor, and colors flash on the back of his closed eyelids more quickly than he can take them in.  Pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain, and both are caught in a maelstrom he both can’t wait and can’t bring himself to escape.

Steve’s breath hitches, and he carries water in his hands to splash the evidence from the tile wall.  His fingertips tingle slightly, and he imagines each droplet hitting his skin is the stab of a needle, dosing him with enough discomfort to get him back to normal.  But then the smarting spray begins to feel like the insistent presence of rogue snowflakes carried on the breeze.

Steve doesn’t bother to wash.  He turns off the water and towels himself semi-dry, then grabs his gym shorts from where he’d abandoned them on the bathroom floor.  His quads protest with soreness as Steve pulls them back on, and he gets a similar screech of aching from his triceps as he throws his t-shirt over his head.  But the pain is good.  This pain is good.

Back in the kitchen, Steve drains his now-cold coffee and laces up his running shoes.  He rolls his neck to interrupt the stiffness with a sharp pop of effervescent bubbles, then picks up his keys and steps out the door to continue the beating of his feet against the sidewalk.  Because lord knows he won’t be sleeping tonight.

[builder051]

(Loud power tool noise coming from another room)

WTF is DD doing?

I don’t want to interrupt, so I default to it being something involving great power and great responsibility.

[builder051]

If I have messaged you recently saying you’re a giveaway winner, can you please fucking message me back?

If you enter any giveaway ever, you have to claim your prize!

Other 2nd place person. Check your DMs. It’s on the other side of the blog activity when you click the little lightning bolt.

I’ve already pulled a new 2nd place winner, since the original person hadn’t responded for several days. Come on, guys (in my loving gender neutral millennial slang). Check your messages.

I have posted the cards to grand prize winner and one of the second place winners.

[builder051]

Proof of life at our stop for the Shinedown Dance, Kid, Dance tour.

[builder051]

The giveaway is now closed. I will notify the winners this evening.

[builder051]

Just a couple days left! Thanks so much for helping me get the word out! I’ll get some actual content put up soon. :)

Ok, it’s big announcement time!

(AND A GIVEAWAY)

I have moved my professional blog to its own official website.

The URL is llcuppauthor.com (the first two characters are L)

It’s still produced by Tumblr, but having a .com site allows more of my Battle of Troy and gen pop short stories to reach the public.

As you may know, KindleVella has shut down, so anything I wrote on there is no longer available.

I eventually will get the site set up with navigation features, my Vella content, and more info about my novel.

Now for the giveaway: please navigate to my site, llcuppauthor.com, and click the follow button.

Each follow earns a ticket for a raffle. One ticket per person.

The grand prize winner will receive a card featuring ~30 of my Marvel drawings. I’ll then draw two second place winners who will receive a card featuring one of my drawings. All come signed and with a personal note.

Giveaway will close April 30. Winners will be selected May 01.

Have fun, guys. And help me get the word out. :)

[builder051]

Thanks so much for your likes and reblogs!

I’m working on adding art and short story pages. Progress is slow, but great things are in store. :)

Ok, it’s big announcement time!

(AND A GIVEAWAY)

I have moved my professional blog to its own official website.

The URL is llcuppauthor.com (the first two characters are L)

It’s still produced by Tumblr, but having a .com site allows more of my Battle of Troy and gen pop short stories to reach the public.

As you may know, KindleVella has shut down, so anything I wrote on there is no longer available.

I eventually will get the site set up with navigation features, my Vella content, and more info about my novel.

Now for the giveaway: please navigate to my site, llcuppauthor.com, and click the follow button.

Each follow earns a ticket for a raffle. One ticket per person.

The grand prize winner will receive a card featuring ~30 of my Marvel drawings. I’ll then draw two second place winners who will receive a card featuring one of my drawings. All come signed and with a personal note.

Giveaway will close April 30. Winners will be selected May 01.

Have fun, guys. And help me get the word out. :)

[builder051]

Ok, it’s big announcement time!

(AND A GIVEAWAY)

I have moved my professional blog to its own official website.

The URL is llcuppauthor.com (the first two characters are L)

It’s still produced by Tumblr, but having a .com site allows more of my Battle of Troy and gen pop short stories to reach the public.

As you may know, KindleVella has shut down, so anything I wrote on there is no longer available.

I eventually will get the site set up with navigation features, my Vella content, and more info about my novel.

Now for the giveaway: please navigate to my site, llcuppauthor.com, and click the follow button.

Each follow earns a ticket for a raffle. One ticket per person.

The grand prize winner will receive a card featuring ~30 of my Marvel drawings. I’ll then draw two second place winners who will receive a card featuring one of my drawings. All come signed and with a personal note.

Giveaway will close April 30. Winners will be selected May 01.

Have fun, guys. And help me get the word out. :)