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keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 month ago

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Adrenaline Jolt to the WIP - Always & Forever: Part II - Elejah fanfic

Giving an Adrenaline Jolt to the WIP for @surpriseelejahmonth! One day, one day, I will go back to this, but in case I never do, enjoy what I have so far.

Premise: Elena goes to New Orleans seeking Elijah's help with her sire bond to Damon.

Word count: 3.5k

⭐︎ Part I ⭐︎

The first inkling that Klaus had that anything was amiss the moment he stepped through the door was the utter stillness around the Abattoir. He paused in the archway, listening intently. He could hear Hayley upstairs, rummaging in the attic, no doubt looting anything and everything remotely related to the history of werewolves in New Orleans—and possibly about magic curses and how to undo them. Next to hers, the baby’s heartbeat was as light as a feather and even he had to strain to hear it.

It was the quietness coming from the study that perplexed him.

Elijah was far better at remaining still for an extended period of time than he was, but there was an unnerving quality to the stillness and it unsettled him. Briefly, he ran through the events of the day, wondering if he’d done something he really shouldn’t have and for which he was about to receive one of his brother’s spectacular tongue-lashings.

That was until he caught the other scent floating about—one that definitely shouldn’t have been there.

He was up the stairs and onto the main landing in less than a second, hackles raised by the thought of an interloping little intruder of the Petrova variety, when he found himself hauled up by the lapels of his shirt and thrown halfway through the house right back into the courtyard. He was so stunned that he stayed on the floor for a breath longer than strictly necessary, trying to piece together what on earth had just happened.

“Brother, whatever it was that you were thinking of doing, might I suggest you reconsider?”

There was an edge to Elijah’s voice that Klaus had no trouble identifying: he had threatened something precious to him, and was about to find out the rest should he not toe the line. He’d heard that tone enough times in the past and was intimately familiar with the torment Elijah would rain down upon him should anything happen to that particular Petrova.

His brother had always been a lovesick fool.

“Well then, brother, perhaps you might share the reason behind my favorite doppelgänger’s intrusion into our home?”

“Elena is my guest, Niklaus, and as such is to be afforded every courtesy. Am I making myself clear?”

He was half tempted to argue, but the day had been a long one and frankly, he had other things to worry about than a newly turned Petrova doppelgänger, annoying as this one was. At least it wasn’t Katherine; he might truly have done something regrettable then.

“And what is the lovely Elena doing here, and as your guest no less?”

Klaus didn’t miss the slight sneer his brother couldn’t quite manage to conceal when he used his preferred moniker for the otherwise perfectly ordinary girl now sleeping in one of their guest rooms. Actually… He strained his hearing, locating her heartbeat, and didn’t bother hiding his grimace.

Elijah had actually put her in his room. The idiot.

Klaus was certain that, hadn’t he already been dead for a fair few centuries, the sheer monumentality of that discovery would have killed him on the spot. He simply could not wait for Rebekah to find out.

“She came to New Orleans seeking my help with a… problem. I promised her I would help, but it seems the evening exhausted her.” Elijah actually had the audacity to point a menacing finger towards him. “And should you, or anyone, disturb her rest, for any reason whatsoever, I assure you, brother, I will make certain you regret it.”

He had no doubts about that and if the stuttering heartbeats he could suddenly hear coming from somewhere behind him were any indication, so would the vampires of the French Quarter before the hour was out.

When Elijah Mikaelson made a threat, everyone toed the line. Privately, although he would never be caught dead admitting it, Klaus often thought his brother far more terrifying than he was. At times, even he was scared of the beast Elijah kept a very tight rein on, unleashing it periodically whenever someone did something spectacularly foolish.

Harming Elena Gilbert in any way, shape, or form fell squarely into that category. Given the strain lining his brother’s eyes, he could tell that someone had, so to speak, fucked around and was about to find out.

⭐︎☾⭐︎

Elena woke up disorientated. The light in the room wasn’t coming at the right angle and it was too quiet. No birds chirping on the trees outside, no groaning planks of wood or splintering beams, no arguing brothers…

Her eyes snapped open.

She immediately regretted it as soon as the sun hit her full force, blasting her eyeballs into painful oblivion. For a few seconds, all she could see was pure white, until she blinked a few times and the fog dissipated. Inhaling deeply, she was hit by two pieces of information at almost exactly the same time: one, she was not in her room at the Boarding House, and two, she could smell Elijah Mikaelson everywhere.

Why on earth would she smell him everywhere? And more importantly, how did she even know what he smelt like? When had that become a part of her brain chemistry?

She sat up, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands when the memories registered with painful clarity.

Damon and the sire bond, her no humanity road trip with Rebekah, seeking Elijah out in New Orleans so he could help her remember… What did he help her remember, again?

And then, because she hadn’t suffered enough shocks to her system to last her the morning yet, she remembered.

She barely had time to bolt for the bathroom before she emptied the meagre contents of her stomach into the sink, coughing against the block in her throat. Shaking, she turned on the water, studiously ignoring the mix of bile, blood and alcohol as it swirled down the drain, her mind drawing a blank. She slid to the floor, her back against the sink cabinet and took deep breaths, attempting to regulate her heartbeat, careening wildly in her chest. She wasn’t entirely successful until she felt a pair of warm hands around her face, brushing against her cheekbones.

Slowly, Elena cracked one eye open, as soon as she felt her heart begin to slow down enough for her to actually speak.

“Sorry about the mess,” she croaked, “I didn’t have time to aim for the toilet.”

He chuckled, helping her up with one arm around her waist. His other hand was still busy caressing her cheek and she was in no hurry for it to stop.

“It’s quite alright, Elena. I’m impressed you managed to aim at all.”

She opened her eyes wide before narrowing them suspiciously. He had his trademark Elijah Mikaelson Big Bad Original Vampire smirk, even if his eyes were a little sad. And suddenly it registered.

“Did you just take a dig at me?”

Elijah placed a hand on his heart, his smirk turning into something more playful. “I would never.”

Elena was nearly tempted to shove at him with all of her baby vampire strength, just because. She surprised herself by laughing out loud, placing a hand on her mouth in shock, before dissolving into giggles again.

It felt good to laugh.

But the whirlpool of emotions she had gone through in the space of a few moments had left her more than a little drained, and Elijah sensed that as soon as her legs began to buckle underneath her. He had her sitting on the bed—his bed, she’d just realized—before she could even begin to feel herself fall. Slowly, he tilted her head to the left, eyeing her greying complexion, before zooming out of the room and back inside in less than a second, a bag of blood in one hand and a warm damp towel in the other.

Elena took the blood bag wordlessly, sipping at it without even thinking about it, a sure improvement on the last few weeks. She let him run the towel on the side of her face. She hadn’t even realised she had started crying.

She finished the last of the blood just as he stood to put the towel back in the bathroom. Elena took the opportunity to look around the room. She was still a little dazed, but not enough not to understand the fact that, out of all the rooms she was sure this place must have, Elijah had chosen to put her in his. Part of her truly wasn’t sure what to do with that information, and another part of her was more than a little thrilled. She shut that one up immediately. She was here for a reason, and had had enough of romantic entanglements to last her at least two human lifetimes.

“How are you feeling?”

Elena sighed as he sat on the bed next to her, folding his hands in his lap. She itched to lock her fingers up with his. She ignored the little voice in her head that told her to embrace this, whatever this was.

“Better.” And she knew that he knew that wasn’t quite true, but he didn’t call her out on it and she was grateful for it. “I’m… glad I remember,” she said, risking a glance up at him to find his eyes hardening at the mention of what exactly it was that she was remembering. “Even if it’s painful, I’m glad to know the truth. About him, I mean.”

There was a definite tick in his jaw and she had the errant thought that she had just condemned Damon to death last night.

Maybe she should have thought about that, because as obtuse as Caroline liked to call her when it came to romance, she really should have known that Elijah would make Damon wish he had never been born the moment the Original found out exactly what the younger vampire had done to her.

But then again, she hadn’t remembered, had she? And whatever it had been that she was expecting to remember, it certainly had not been that.

“Thank you, Elijah. For helping me, I mean. I don’t think I said that last night,” she said softly, letting her hand rest on top of his.

“You were a little preoccupied,” he smiled, but there was no real warmth behind it. “I certainly am glad to have helped you, Elena, even if, for your sake, I wish things were different.”

So did she, but hindsight was only a wonderful thing because one could only ever see it coming after they had been dealt a crappy hand, when the obvious solution was already far out of their grasp.

“Still, thank you.”

Elijah tipped his head towards her, looking down at their joined hands. He made no move to disengage himself from her and neither did she.

Until, that is, a loud crash was heard from the foyer and Elena repressed a giggle with great difficulty at the long suffering look he addressed to the ceiling.

“I’d better go and see what kind of mischief my siblings have managed to land themselves into this time.”

“I guess if you want New Orleans to remain standing, you probably should, yeah.”

⭐︎☾⭐︎

To say that Rebekah was annoyed was an understatement. She wasn’t just annoyed, she was irritated. One could almost say pissed off. And the reason for that entirely too early bout of irritation was trying very hard to disappear behind her elder brother, and failing miserably.

“Not that I didn’t appreciate our little road trip,” Rebekah said, crossing her legs over the arm of the sofa she had nearly thrown into Nik’s face when he had refused to stop gloating about his accomplishments as the Great Hybrid King of New Orleans, “but what exactly are you doing here, Elena?”

She had thought leaving Mystic Falls behind would be easier than this, but it seemed the irritating little town was entirely true to form to its inhabitants: a perpetual thorn in her side. Judging by the adoring and frankly disgusting look Elijah was casting sideways, he at least was probably overjoyed at this new turn of events.

Every time she was forced to watch the two of them interact, Rebekah pondered the merits of exiling herself to another continent. At least until they got their act together, which could take anywhere between one week and one century. She repressed a sigh with great difficulty.

“I needed help with the sire bond, and Elijah helped.”

Her brother at least had the grace to look away—and was that a blush she saw?—before her disbelieving stare.

“I… see.”

She fervently wished that she did not, in fact, see.

“It’s not what you’re thinking, Rebekah.”

Klaus looked caught between wanting to murder someone and absolutely gleeful at the blush—because it was a blush—he could see fast developing on his brother’s cheeks.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Elijah blush but the sight was worth it. Until his mind caught on to what his little sister was insinuating and he suddenly wished he was the one lying daggered somewhere just so his brain did not have to conjure up the ghastly image of Elena and his brother engaging in that particular act.

“Oh?”

“Elena needed help remembering a few… details of her time under the sire bond, and I merely agreed to help her.”

Or, more likely, he had seen an opportunity to play knight in shining armour to the woman he was hopelessly in love with and took it.

Rebekah would give him points for effort. She was just happy she could trash the image of her brother letting Elena drink his blood to rid herself of a sire bond into the proverbial bin. She wasn’t sure her breakfast could have remained where it was if not.

“And those details were…” Klaus trailed off, fixing himself a drink with the look of a man who both desperately needed it and was enjoying the scene playing out in front of him immensely.

“Private,” Elena shot back, nonplussed.

If Rebekah wasn’t so set on retaining at least some her initial dislike for the newest Petrova (on principle, if nothing else), she might actually admire her for the way the baby vampire handled Klaus. She clearly had either lost her mind, her sense of self preservation, or simply could not care less.

Impressive.

Klaus looked like he was about to retort something unforgivably rude, but Elijah, as always, shut him up before the idiot got himself thrown into next week through the nearest wall and all the way into the Mississippi.

“As I said, Niklaus, Elena is here as my guest and will remain so for however long she wishes.” He levelled a long look at Rebekah, who narrowed her eyes in return. “And the both of you will leave her alone until such a time she decides she wants your company, is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

But just because she simply could not resist the idea of tweaking her brother’s nose a little, Rebekah crossed her fingers behind her back.

⭐︎☾⭐︎

Elena had been expecting a call, but not so soon. Still, she really should have known better.

She’d been perfectly content on taking Elijah up on his open-ended invitation to stay, and after escaping Klaus’ laser-focused eyes and Rebekah’s disturbingly blue ones, she had settled back into his room, a book in hand. She had figured nobody would try to disturb her here, but she hadn’t counted on the kind of electronic disturbance that could transcend state borders.

“Hi Care, how’s Mystic Falls?”

“You know, you could have dropped me a text to say, oh, I don’t know: “hey Caroline, guess what, I’m not dead!” but guess not.”

“I’m sorry,” and she was, “but it’s been… difficult.”

Elena could almost heard her friend’s eyebrows drawing together by the slow exhale she let out on the other end.

“Difficult how? What happened?”

She toyed with the edges of the book before remembering that this was, in fact, a priceless first edition, and closed it sharply. She knew Caroline heard it by the equally sharp inhale she heard.

“I… I don’t know if I want to talk about it, Care—at least, not right now. Not like this,” she rushed to add the moment she heard the breath that would no doubt precede a torrent of protests. Something in her voice must have stopped Caroline though, because there was a suspiciously long silence at the other end of the line.

“Okay, ‘Lena, just… Just be safe, okay? I know you want to trust Elijah, and if he helped you, I’m game, but please remember you basically walked into Supernatural Central as the twice dead, twice revived Doppelgänger, yes?”

Elena had to laugh as the entirely too accurate picture. “Don’t worry, Care. Elijah pretty much threatened both Klaus and Rebekah into submission over my continued well-being.”

Silence, and then… “Ew, you’re even starting to talk like him.”

Elena had no time to let the middle-school insult she had ready-made fly because the next second, Caroline ended the call. She couldn’t shake the suspicion that she would be hearing from her friend very soon.

⭐︎☾⭐︎

Elijah had not counted on being given an outlet on which to work out some of the simmering rage roiling beneath his skin and was therefore entirely unsurprised to find that the nearest piece of furniture suffered the fate he wished to inflict upon the eldest Salvatore instead.

A few hours later, confronted with the mess he had made of the study, he resolved to put it to rights before either of his siblings managed to corner him.

He really should have known better.

“Dare I ask?” His brother held up the vintage print normally hanging above the mantel piece, no doubt foraged from somewhere underneath the previously pristine coffee table, which was now missing three out of its four legs.

Elijah threw him a dark look. He had not worked out all of his rage yet and if Niklaus decided that now was the appropriate time to test him, he would be more than happy to oblige him, for once.

“Better not, eh?”

Klaus hung up the print back where it belonged, fiddling with it with the intensity only an artist could manage, before turning back to his older brother, analysing him.

If Elijah had any inkling that he was watching him, he gave none, instead focusing on rummaging through the pile of papers on the desk.

For someone as neat as his brother was, Klaus was forever astounded at the fact that Elijah’s desk could most often best be described as a minefield: papers, letters, business cards and other deal-making paraphernalia littering the surface of the desk. And yet, somehow, Elijah always managed to find what he was looking for. The rest of the study, in its normal state, was usually a perfect reflection of his brother’s intensely restrained personality, a masterwork of control.

He would know, he had snooped around enough.

But the desk… now, the desk gave away more than Elijah might like to admit. For example, while the surface was always nearly chaotic, there was order within the chaos, a perfect capsule of his brother’s personality.

Right about now, there was no order to be found, which meant that Elijah was troubled. And, judging by the scowl on his face, save for when a certain Petrova was in the room, vengeful.

“What did Elena tell you last night that managed to rile you up so much, brother?”

For once, there was not one ounce of mockery in his tone. Perhaps that was why his brother actually listened to him and looked up, glaring daggers that Klaus understood were not truly directed at him.

“It seems I was remiss in thinking her safe in Mystic Falls,” Elijah said, voice tight and just shy of low enough to be considered a growl. “Damon Salvatore, in particular, has proven most… untrustworthy.”

There was so much venom infused in the name that Klaus immediately knew that whatever the petulant little man had done paled in comparison to anything either Salvatore brothers had tried to pull off before the sacrifice. And since there were very few things on this earth that could infuriate his brother as much as a good daggering, Klaus could admit to feeling somewhat… perturbed.

Particularly because he knew that the only reason Elijah had left Mystic Falls behind was that he had thought Elena safe with her friends and family. Apparently, something had happened that had made him not only reconsider, but reconsider it strongly enough to destroy half of the study in the process.

“And let me guess, you’d like nothing more than to rip Damon’s head from his shoulders?”

Elijah smiled darkly, the sort of smile Klaus hadn’t seen in a long time—except for the odd occasion where it was directed at him.

“That would be letting him off far too easy, brother.” Elijah rearranged some papers on the desk, piling them up neatly. “Once I’m through with him, there might not be enough left for a proper beheading.”

to be continued....

⭐︎☾⭐︎

#surpriseelejahmonth #fic recs #if you love Elejah like I do check this out #chefs kiss all around

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 month ago

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he’s me

#me too Steve me too

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 month ago

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Like Phantoms, Forever

Written for @surpriseelejahmonth in answer to this prompt, requested by @anphibole (hi, friend!): Elijah gets his suited ass back to Mystic Falls when he hears of Elena's transformation, see how that changes canon

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: violence, language, grief, mentions of death and abuse (both direct and implied). Please read at your own discretion

“I’m sorry, Elijah.”

Lilting, soft. It shatters the sitting room’s stillness with the force of a hammer. He casts his gaze over sunlight walls. A ticking grandfather clock in the corner. Shelves burdened with books and potted plants. Framed photos dotting walls and empty surfaces, all of a woman and the same smiling girl.

“Grams left me a lot to work with, but nothing on how to counter hexed objects.”

He’d known it was a long shot when he’d boarded the flight to Virginia, left New Orleans to fade into specks of shadow below. Still, the disappointment smarts.

This would be the moment when his brother would dive across the table, wrap his hands around her throat and threaten until she agreed to try again. Elijah simply retracts his palms from the table and settles them in his lap.

“There is no need for apologies, Miss Bennett,” he replies. “I appreciate your help regardless of the outcome.

Seated across from him with her slender fingers wrapped around her teacup, Bonnie Bennett looks spread thin. There’s a slight slump to her shoulders, like a weight slowing pressing down on her petite frame. Shadows punctuate the space beneath her dark eyes. Eyes that watch him with something far too old, far too knowing for her nineteen years.

It looks too much like grief. Like overexertion. Absently, he wonders if she’s sleeping, or if she’s still being used as a pawn in the Salvatore’s perpetual tug of war over Elena Gilbert.

He tries not to wince at the name. The last time he’d seen her, with red in her hair and a flush to her cheeks, her heart had still been pounding from their kiss. He’s determined not to seek her out now, to let her figure out her fledgling vampirism without him there to further complicate her life.

“So...a hybrid baby, huh?” Bonnie asks, dragging him back into the present.

He hums. “So it would seem.”

A part of him regrets telling her. It’d been a necessary concession when he’d enlisted her help, but he feels a protective flare all the same.

But Bonnie Bennett is a clever girl, something tells him she’ll keep what she’s learned to herself. For self-preservation, if nothing else. He doubts very much that she would risk bringing Niklaus’ ire down upon herself or her friends.

“I take it you’ll be leaving again soon?” It’s not a question, really. Delivered with the subtlety of a cudgel, her mouth a tight, bloodless line. It leaves no doubt what she’d prefer.

Elijah thinks of Sheila Bennett, brilliant and formidable, and can’t blame her. The interference of vampires has done little to improve Bonnie’s life.

“Tomorrow morning,” he confirms and watches her body sing with relief.

He makes his excuses, pushes to his feet, and feels her eyes on his back as she follows him to the door.

It’s ajar. He’s already halfway onto the porch when she stops him.

“Elijah,” she asks, tentatively. He looks behind him, where she stands at the foot of the stairs. “You know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, but…” she rubs at her arm, finding his eyes through her lashes, “Could you check on her, before you go?”

He freezes, turning back toward her. There’s something swirling beneath the words, something that makes him uneasy as he searches her eyes and comes up empty.

She misinterprets his silence as irritation and adds rapid-fire, “I know she’s been a real dick since she turned off her humanity, but she’s not answering her phone and I can’t get within fifty feet of the boarding house without either Stefan or Damon giving me the run around and—fuck–I’m just really worried about her—”

An unshed tear dangles from her lashes, her breathing uneven. The air crackles with magic, drummed up in her anxiety. Elijah stops her before she can work herself into a frenzy, even as a pit forms in his gut.

“I’ll see what I can do, Miss Bennett.”

She doesn’t offer up any more information, doesn’t thank him. Just watches him descend the steps into the midday sun.

His hands curl and uncurl at his sides, doubt warring with instinct. He tells himself he’ll take the evening to think it through, to decide whether his interference is warranted. But a more honest part of him–deeper down–knows it was never a question.

The front door closes behind him and Elijah turns the corner and down the strip of asphalt that leads to the Salvatore Boarding House.

——

Sun beats down on the dirt road, makes the manicured lawn shine an almost fluorescent green and the inhabitants of the flower bed droop beneath the onslaught. Gravel shifts beneath his feet as he ascends the winding walkway that leads to the front door. Wind trails behind him, ruffling his hair and softening the heat’s full bite.

The boarding house is just as he remembers it. Gabled pitches and Tudor style framework that gives the whole place an out of time feel. A perfect mirror for its immortal inhabitants.

He deftly avoids a crack, the only blemish in the tidy cobbles, and tries to not think of the summer he spent in the basement with a dagger in chest. Because if he lingers on it too long, remembers the mess he’d woken to, he’s not sure he’ll be able to muster the level head this impromptu check-in deserve

It’s only as he steps onto the edge of the porch that he realizes something’s wrong. There’s no Damon to chase him off with gnashing teeth, no Stefan to politely demand an explanation. Only a silence that suggests that no one is home. Or if there are, they haven’t heard him.

He stops short at the door. Deliberates and then raises his hand to knock. It seems preposterously polite, after all that’s passed between his family and theirs. But he also doubts an Original barging into their living room would go over well.

The decision is made for him when he hears the scream. An agonized howl, a feral noise that slips under the massive oak door and coils around his heart like a vice. Because he knows that voice.

Suddenly, he’s surging forward with new urgency. By some miracle the door is unlocked, but he would have torn it from the hinges, ripped it to splinters if he had to. Because it’s Elena and she’s in pain. And that–that is something he won't allow.

“Looking for this?” Damon’s voice echoes from the other room. “You know the rules; bad girls don’t get nice jewelry.”

Silent as a shadow–a predator stalking an unknown quarry–he glides past the banister, through the round archway that leads through the living room. He weaves round torn furniture, the fluttering pages of books wrenched from their shelves, follows the trail of carnage into the study and stops dead–

The study is dark, curtains pulled tight. The green-glass shade of a table lamp spills fragments of light. They catch on the polish of the desk, the fire extinguisher placed conspicuously in the middle.

Stefan presses white-knuckled palms across the surface, pitching his weight against it. Jaw set and eyes flinty, he looks like a detective in a crime drama. The bad cop to his good, Damon stands on the other side, towering over a high-backed arm chair.

Leather lashed round with ropes, Elijah smells the vervain before he enters. He checks at the doorway, watching just as the heavy damask curtains part and a dazzling flood of light pours out onto the floor.

It unfolds in the millisecond before he can react.

Elena shrieks and thrashes, legging flailing out, trying to push herself back into the shadow.

Stefan stands just beyond its reach, toying with something on the desk. Jaw hardset, eyes darting from the curtains to his brother in agitation.

And Damon–Damon’s hands are wound around the tasseled cord, peering down with unmistakable satisfaction as she twists and thrashes and spits venom like a viper in a trap. Her hair hangs in tangles around her face–shiny with sweat, or maybe tears–teeth barred in a grimace.

She bucks, throws her head back as the chair squeals back an inch. And that’s when Elijah sees it. The sizzling red burns seared across on her cheek, the mirror to a dozen more already half-healed on her arms and neck.

In flash, Elijah’s at the window. Arm pressed to Damon’s throat, pinning him to the bookshelf. A leather bound volume slams to the ground like punctuation. He rips the cord away with his freehand, the curtains snap shut. His eye snap from Stefan’s stunned face, Elena panting and exhausted, and then finally settles on the little silver ring on the desk. A slow, dreadful understanding begins to dawn.

“Would anyone like to tell me,” he says, level and dangerous, “what precisely is going on here?”

“Elijah,” Damon chokes around his forearm, “long time no see.”

He presses harder, tries not to enjoy the way the younger vampire gasps in pain.

“Try again,” he replies, looking straight at Stefan.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

Damon wheezes, fingers scrabbling uselessly at Elijah’s sleeve. His face is blossoming an impressive shade of red, the veins in his neck bulge as he tries to speak, but Elijah doesn’t give an inch.

“Let him go,” Stefan barks, stepping forward.

“I assure you I will,” he says, “once someone answers my question.”

Stefan’s jaw twitches. His gaze darts to Elena, who’s gone frighteningly still in the chair, chest rising and falls in short shallow bursts. Her head lolls the the side, hair veiling her burned skin, blistered from the sun.

“You know she turned it off,” Stefan starts, resigned and imploring. Like he’s trying to justify it to more than just Elijah. “After Jeremy, the house—she turned it all off.”

Elijah doesn’t move. His expression doesn’t change. He presses harder, listens to Damon gurgle like a floundering fish.

“And you decided the answer was to try her down and torture her?” he asks flatly.

Stefan winces.

“It wasn’t like that. We tried talking, reasoning wither. Nothing worked. She was dangerous, Elijah. Feeding on innocents, threatening—“

“She’s a new vampire,” Elijah cuts in, a flash of anger seeding through his voice. “It’s your responsibility to teach her, not break her into obedience.”

“Why not,” Damon rasps, still clawing at him. “Isn’t that what you do to your family—“

His grip shifts. Displaced air cracks as he slams him sideways into the bookshelf. Volumes crash to the floor in a chorus of protest.

“I see,” he murmurs, still water and broken glass. “So pain is the preferred method now. Psychological warfare. Sunlight and starvation.”

Stefan inches closer, desperate now. “We didn’t have a choice—she nearly killed her best friend. We’re just trying to bring her back.”

When he takes a step too close, Elijah moves. It’s an easy thing to tear off Damon’s ring. Easier still to crack the curtain and drag him bodily into the light.

Damon screams. Sharp and sudden, wrapped in guttural, primal agony— the same cry torn from Elena’s throat moments ago. His skin sizzles and cracks, kicking out blindly for respite.

It feels like justice. It feels entirely not enough.

“Stop!” Stefan roars, rushing toward them.

Elijah holds firm, hand around Damon’s throat and pins him in the light just a little longer. Savoring his contorted features, the hammering of his pulse.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spies Elena and remembers why he came here. And it has little to do with vengeance.

He lets go. Damon bolts, flings himself to the opposite corner like a kicked dog licking his wounds.

In a few strides, he’s at her side, crouched at her feet. The acrid sting of vervain bites into his fingers as he grasps the ropes, but he doesn’t so much as flinch. One sharp tug and the binds break, falling in a heap to the floor. In their way, her wrists and ankles are left with raw, mottled burns.

Elijah pauses, lifting a cautious hand to brush the tangle of hair from her damp forehead. Surprised when she allows it, he ghosts his thumb over the edge of her jaw, as though a gentle touch might steady her trembling.

“Elena,” he murmurs, just for her ears. “Are you with me?”

Her lashes flutter, dark eyes glassy and unfocused. She doesn’t answer. Her breath hitches, cadence uneven, like there’s nothing in her lungs but ash. Tears carve little rivers, cascading down her cheeks. And he begins to suspect that the Salvatore’s planned worked, just not in the way the intended.

“Breathe.” He swipes away the tears. “You’re safe now.”

He rises, turning to the Salvatore brothers. The stillness in his expression is deadly, the calm sea before a tempest.

“Miss Gilbert will be leaving with me,” he says, matter-of-fact. “And if either of your values your continued existence, you’ll let us pass without incident.”

Damon, still hunched in the corner nursing his blistered skin, lets out a ragged laugh of disbelief—the kind that dies the second he sees the thunder in Elijah’s eyes. Stefan looks ready to argue, but the fight in him falters when he looks at Elena—slumped and trembling.

Elijah takes the silence as an answer. He stands slowly, reaches for Elena with open palms. An invitation extended for her to accept or decline, if she should so choose.

She hesitates, blinking up at him through wet lashes. And then she places her palm in his, hands her weight over into his keeping.

When her knees tremble, he hefts her into his arms. Secured against his chest, her head finds the crook of his neck. He feels dampness seep through his collar as he strides for the door.

“Elijah,” Stefan calls, trailing him all the way to the front door. “You don’t understand—”

A single look stops him cold—composed, unblinking, lethal.

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Salvatore,” Elijah replies, voice silk over a blade. “You brutalized a girl you were meant to protect. You tortured her under the guise of salvation. And now you want to defend it as necessity?”

He adjusts Elena in his arms, gaze never leaving Stefan’s. The storm beneath his skin coils tighter.

“I’ve spared your lives today for her sake,” he continues, quieter now, more dangerous for the restraint. “But let me make myself abundantly clear: if either of you so much as look in her direction again—if you breathe her name, or cross my path—there will be no mercy.”

Then, without another word, Elijah turns and disappears into the glittering afternoon, the door swinging shut behind him like the closing of a tomb.

—--

They sit by the river until the sun begins to dip below the treeline, watching the water as it bands in gold and bruised violent. Side by side at the banks, they content themselves to the rhythm of the current lap over worn rocks in silence. Somewhere behind them, birdsong fades. The world stills, like a held breath.

There are a hundred questions Elijah wants to asks. A thousand things he needs to say.

But he keeps them to himself. It’s not the time. Not yet.

Beside him, Elena draws her knees to her chest and hugs them close. Folded in on herself, her eyes follow the river’s path like it might lead her somewhere she can’t name. The stone in her hand turns restlessly between her fingers—smooth, flat, pale as bone. She doesn’t look at him.

She doesn’t need to.

When she speaks, it’s barely more than a break. A cracked thing, fragile and worn at the edges, rubbed raw by the tidal wave of her returned humanity.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see him,” she says. “Jeremy. Dead on the table while the house burns. I remember how fast it all went up, the way the smoke burned my lungs. I thought I’d die from it—the grief.” Her fingers tighten around the stone until her knuckles go white. “The things I’ve done since…it’s like watching someone else’s memories. Except the guilt. That feels real.”

He listens, unmoving. A patient presence at her side.

She takes another breath. Shaky, like the first crack before the dam breaks.

And then she tells him the broadest strokes. The crash over the bridge. The fire. Damon ordering her to shut it out and the sire bond--

He senses there’s more she isn’t saying. Things she may never share. Not because she’s unwilling—but because there are wounds too deep to name. And Elijah understands too well that there are hurts that defy language.

She doesn’t owe him her pain.

He doesn’t need her story—not unless she choses to offer it. Elena Gilbert has been dissected, carved away pieces of herself for too long. Torn herself open for friends, for strangers, for the damn Salvatore brothers—Elijah refuses to be another.

Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket. Fingers brush fine wool and come away with a folded envelope.

“There’s a first-class voucher with your name on it,” he says, pressing it into her hands. “Wherever you wish to go. However long you need. It will be taken care of.”

She blinks. Looks up at him for the first time, those arresting eyes of her round with emotion.

He continues quietly, “Should you wish to put Mystic Falls behind you, you wont be followed.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate. They both know who he’s speaking of.

Her brow furrows, confusion rippling across her face.

“Why?” she whispers.

He doesn’t answer right away, just watches the sunset reflected off the water. There are too many truths, and no one them would serve her right now.

Because you’re a flaring sun after a millennia of darkness.

Because I’ve done so much wrong, but this—this is something I need to be right.

Because I love you.

But when he speaks, his voice is measured. Steady.

“Because you’ve had so much taken from you, Elena. And I deeply regret my own part in your suffering. I cannot undo what’s been done. But I can offer you the one thing in my power to grant.”

He looks at her, unwavering.

“Your freedom.”

She stares at him, lips parting like she might protest, like kindness is a strange, foreign thing.

“I don’t understand,” she says, voice small.

“That’s alright,” he replies. “Someday you will.”

She looks down at the envelope, fingers ghosting the neat scrawl on the front like it’s something precious—sacred, even.

If he was a selfish man, he would ask her to come with him. To start her path to healing in the balmy brightness of the Crescent City. But instead, he only watches her with something reverent, too fragile to name.

The sun dips below the horizon. Shadows lengthens across the river, and the current carries the day away.

Elijah’s had a thousand years to perfect the art of waiting. And for Elena Gilbert, he’d wait a thousand more.

#elejah #surpriseelejahmonth #elijah x elena #orphan prompt

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 month ago

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the sheer amount of terrible ships in tvdu needs to be studied, as should the writers’ complete rejection of even the idea of coupling characters who would, at the very least, provide interesting and entertaining dynamics. bc why do i have to sit through 5 seasons of damon and elena having the same goddamn fight and her character regression to shoehorn his supposed redemption when we have bonnie, kai, enzo, caroline, literally any of the mikaelsons even mikael himself, right there on the shelf.

but instead of doing any fucking thing interesting they just keep pushing delena as its wheels fall off and the engine explodes and then stick stefan to caroline for a pathetic imitation of friends to lovers.

#if there are no Damon haters in the world #assume that I'm dead #frfr #elena deserved better than what we got

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 month ago

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SK Update!

I already have 11k written for chapter 32 with a few more scenes to go. So it's going to be a long one. Stay tuned for a sneak peek.

#sharpening knives fic #sk update

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 1 month ago

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SK Update!

I have one last (fairly short) scene to write for Chapter 31 and then some editing, but it's almost done!!!

I'm so excited to share this chapter with you all. It has a few of my favorite scenes in the series so far.

#sk update #sharpening knives fic

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 2 months ago

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SK Update

Writer's block is kicking my ass, but Chapter 31 is well under way. I'm hoping to have it posted by the end of the week! In the meantime, here's a little taste of what's coming:

The entire room dances on the edge of a knife. Elijah feels the tension slice deep into his bones. He scans the room with surgical precision.

The drying remnants of Marcel’s message splattered across the wall—lingering droplets carving their way down to join the bloody streaks across the floor. Shattered glass and champagne bubbles. All mixing into one damning potion—evidence of his inability to assert control.

He’s failed in the worst way. The fragile alliances, laid brick by brick through painstaking diplomacy, balances on a wire. There’s only seconds left, a rapidly closing window where he can shape what happens next.

It’s time to act. Decisive. Swift. Salvage what he can.

Except he doesn’t—can’t. His soles are rooted to stained marble floors, his every muscle locked into place. A million scenarios flash through is head, each too foggy to grasp and mold into reality.

Everything he’s fought for since he returned to the Crescent City is caught on an ebbing tide and he can’t bring himself to do a damn thing.

Because every fiber of his being is focused on Lucretia LeMarche.

Her dress is torn. Silk ruined, hem soaked wine-dark with spilled champagne or blood. Maybe alchemy of both. He traces the split side-seam, following the jagged tear up where it parts on an exposed thigh, skin littered with the blooming stigmata of a dozen tiny cuts. Up further, to her chest—heaving like there’s not enough air to satisfy her lungs; the frizzed, wild halo of her hair, pulled loose from their pins and framing a cut across her cheekbones.

But it’s her eyes that hold him rooted to the spot. Wide and glassy as they flit about the room, bright with something almost feral.

Woundingly afraid. Utterly aware of the crackling tension, of the sea of eyes tracking her every move like she’s a loaded gun.

Her eyelashes flutter against her smudged cheeks—once, twice—as if she might blink away the accusing stares, the blood on the tiles. The corpse at her feet.

Elijah watches her watch it, watches her scan Thierry’s greying body with detached confusion. Then her shoulders stiffen and he pinpoints the precise moment her bewilderment shifts to something deeper, sharper. A tremor rolls through her shoulders, wracking her frame—the first crack in her composure before the protective veil of disorientation gives.

He steps forward on instinct. Like he might use his body to shield her from the inevitable. Like it could possible be enough.

Monique Deveraux moves first and faster.

Each step is a hammer hit, echoing off the walls and splintering the silence. Elijah feels it: the shift. The electric frisson of the room waking up.

She’s no longer a girl but a dagger slicing through the crowd, crossing an invisible threshold until she’s inches shy of striking distance. Close enough to threaten, not close enough to touch.

Elijah doesn’t move. He assesses her the way one predator does another. She won’t get any closer. He won’t allow it.

#sk update

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 2 months ago

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#bucky barnes #lmaooooo

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 3 months ago

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#this is yelena belova to me

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 3 months ago

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Strays Masterlist

Bucky Barnes x Widow!OC

Summary:

Marina Craine doesn’t expect to survive the Red Room—let alone the years that come after.

She drifts. Off the grid, off the radar, off the record. And Bucky Barnes lets her, even when she shows up at his window bleeding, bruised, too tired to keep running.

He never asks her to stay. She never says she wants to.

But after everything they’ve lost—Natasha, Steve, the illusion of clean hands—it turns out survival is easier when someone leaves the light on.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of past torture and mind control, canon typical violence, language, heavy themes

Chapter 1: Probability

#bucky barnes x ofc #bucky barnes x oc #winter soldier x oc #james buchanan barnes x oc

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keepsdeathhiscourt · 3 months ago

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Strays

Bucky Barnes x Widow!OC

Summary:

Marina Craine doesn’t expect to survive the Red Room—let alone the years that come after.

She drifts. Off the grid, off the radar, off the record. And Bucky Barnes lets her, even when she shows up at his window bleeding, bruised, too tired to keep running.

He never asks her to stay. She never says she wants to.

But after everything they’ve lost—Natasha, Steve, the illusion of clean hands—it turns out survival is easier when someone leaves the light on.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of past torture and mind control, canon typical violence, language, heavy themes

Word Count: 4.3k | Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Probability

Prague, 2024

The drop happens at six o’clock sharp.

A brush of shoulders, a thumb drive changes hands, and two strangers pass each other and disappear into the bustling rush hour crowd.

She never looks back. She doesn’t need to watch her contact slip it into his coat or round the corner towards the Castle District. They’re both professionals and her part is done.

Her footfalls bounce off the cobblestone, folding into the chorus of pedestrians and tram bells. Posture straight, eyes forward. The only slip she allows herself is a tip of her neck—more micro-gesture than stretch before it’s back to business.

On to part two.

The brief had been clear cut. Succinct. Straight to the point. Blissfully free of politics and moral quagmires—the kind that seemed to haunt her missions as of late. She’s only too relieved to break the pattern. A set of files passed down through the contact of a contact. No names. No hand-wringing.

Half her fee deposited straight into her account with no snags, the rest later. She hadn’t even had to make a single reservation. The flight, the hotel, even the damn cab from the airport all taken care as soon as she’d said yes.

Impersonal. Efficient. Neat. Just how she likes it.

All she had to do was get on the plane, settle into the window set, and pop in her headphones.

Marina Craine boarded the plane to Czech Republic at 10:15am and Ingrid Solomon emerged a few hours later.

A nervous woman that fiddled with the beads on her rosary and chattered to the exhausted business man on the train about her nephew’s baptism. Devout. Unassuming. Soft around the edges. Every thing that Marina was not.

She knew her cover inside and out. Plucked it up from a pile of well developed masks and once it was on, never let it slip once. She couldn’t afford to. She lived and died by the masks.

She makes good time, spilling into the Old Town Square in a flood of tourists and still has five minutes to spare.

The sun glares its dead throes overhead, winds its weak fingers between the twin spires of Our Lady Before Týn and the sturdy brick façade of the Old Town Hall. Hand shielding her eyes, crosses the square slowly, mimicking a sightseers casual admiration.

She posts up in the shadow the astronomical clock and listens to the massive second hand wile down the moments until her target shows his face. Her hands are chilled as she smooths her peacoat, letting the wool act as a protective barrier between her and the stone bench.

The gift maps unfurls with a rustle. It’s glossy pages catch the light. She straightens it over her lap and pretends to read. Every so often, her eyes flick up to scan the bustling square.

At 6:15 sharp, she finds what she’s looking for.

Mid forties. Built like a bison. Levan Bolkvadze steps out into the open. He fiddles with the end of a charcoal scarf—cashmere, designer, ridiculously expensive. It frames his face, draws attention to a weak jaw and a weaker backbone. Beneath his salt and pepper mustache, his lips are a bloodless line. And every couple of seconds, his eyes dart from side to side.

Marina neatly folds the map and stashes it away. She rises with a stretch and follows, unhurried. She keeps the pace steady, slow enough to avoid unwanted attention, quick enough to keep tabs on him.

His long black duster is beaten to shit with tattered ends that flutter behind him like a homing beacon. Skirting the plaza, she’s close enough to see his jaw tick, to catch the glint of unease in his icy green eyes when they snap over his shoulder—just once. Then he takes a sharp left.

She turns right. Down a narrow side street. She’d done her research. The connected networks of alleys that twist around the Old Town like spiderwebs now seared into memory. Her breaths are measured, footsteps light, but picks up speed just a little.

A shimmy past the service door to a butcher shop, a tight corner, and she’s spit out at the mouth of a quiet alley.

Now she’s back to waiting. She adjusts her scarf, blows an errant strand of hair out her face. By the time Bolkvadze rounds there corner, she’s statue still, arms crossed expectantly.

He jumps when he sees her and she can’t help the thrill of satisfaction that rolls down her spine.

There’s already sweat beading at his brow and his shoulders fold in, like he’s trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible.

She shouldn’t be surprised. Lev’s always been a fucking coward.

“Dobrý večer, Levan.”

He swallows hard. She sees the dark patch of hair under his Adam’s apple he missed shaving. Then her eyes snap up to his face. He mops at his forehead with the back of hand.

Gold catches the light, a half dozen rings banded around thick fingers. She tastes bile in the back of her throat. It reminds her too much of Dreykov. Gaudy, gauche, reeking of fragile masculinity.

He speaks and the illusion shatters. Because Dreykov would never scurry from her like a sewer rat and his voice would never waver. Not with one of his Widows.

“Hello Marina,” he greets smoothly. His lips curl into something too tight to pass for a smile, a forced ease to his shoulders that only comes naturally to those particularly adept at worming their way out of tight spots. “Are you enjoying Prague?”

Marina arches a brow, peers down her nose at him even though he’s half a head taller.

“Cut the bullshit, Lev. You know why I’m here.”

He shrugs. “A misunderstanding, Marinka. You know how these things go—bad intel, shitty signals. Occupational hazards.”

She slides the gun from her holster, feels its cool, solid weight in her grip. She doesn’t raise it yet, just lets it rest at her side—like an inevitability.

“Is that so?” she asks lightly, like they’re discussing the weather. She flicks off the safety. “Because that’s not how it felt when you grabbed the asset and left me high and dry in the middle of a fire fight.”

Her voice echoes, bouncing off the brick until it fades away and leaves them in loaded silence. In a single beat, she watches every muscle in his bulky frame coil.

She’s not surprised when he bolts. She knew he’d do something like this. Still, he plows past her and sprints for the other end of the alley.

The impact makes her grunt, sends her staggering sideways, and then she’s moving. He’s faster than he looks, but not as fast as Marina. She gains ground, vaults a dumpster, and then she’s back in front of him. A string of Russian flies from his lips, too fast for her to follow.

She raises the gun. The hammer clicks.

Bolkvadze goes statue still, except for his eyes. Those flit from the dumpster, to the mouth of the alley, to Marina’s face, searching for an out.

She won’t give him one. Not this time. He isn’t going to weasel his way out this like he’d done when she’d caught up to him in Zagreb and again in Bratislava. He’s finished.

It takes two steps to get close enough to see his shoulders tremble, one from the press the barrel to his chest right below his stupid scarf.

She corrals him back. He stumbles over his feet, gasps when his back hits the wall. His fans over her face in way that feels raw, intimate. Death always is.

She can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, eclipsed by dilated pupils. No more charm, no more explanations, just fear.

“Please Marina,” he whispers, fierce and desperate. “We’ve worked together for how long now? Let me know and I’ll disappear. New name, no trail. He never has to know—“

He raises his hands in supplication, rings catching the light. And fuck—she wants to believe him. But the tick in his jaw gives him away. Another fucking liar. One more thing he has in common with Dreykov.

“You know I can’t do that.” Something creeps into her tone, something that almost sounds like regret. But that can’t be right, because she wont be sorry to see Levan Bolkvadze bleed out on the cobbles. Not when it’s his instead of hers. “I’ll make it quick. For old time’s sake.”

Something shifts behind his eyes, acceptance mingling with primal fear. Marina takes a deep breath and plants her feet. She shifts the gun a fraction to the left, right above his heart. It’ll be over in seconds. Her finger wraps around the trigger, starts to squeeze and—

“This why you’re too bust to keep in touch?”

The voice cuts through cold like a knife. Boots grind on gravel. A shadow stretches along the wall beside her own—broad and familiar.

For a moment, Marina stands there. The gun is still pressed to Levan’s chest, but she’s rooted to the spot, unable to bring herself to turn around.

“Catch you at a bad time?” His voice is low, teasing, a shade shy of snide.

She didn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until she groans, half growl where it escapes her throat. Teeth clenched, she shoves Levan back with one hand—a clear warning to stay put. She keeps the gun trained on his chest and slowly turns around.

And there leaning casually against the wall with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket is James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s been a year now—over a year, but who’s counting. His hair’s shorter than she remembers, stubble dotting his jaw like he forgot to shave, but his eyes are the same. Stormy, inscrutable as she asks, “What are you doing here, Bucky?”

“Thought I’d drop in on an old friend.”

He shrugs, like he hadn’t just caught her mid-execution. And then the bastard smirks, tight and half-hearted, never reaching his eyes—the one Marina hates.

Levan Bolkvadze’s eyes flick between them in a series of rapid blinks, like he’s trying to make sense of it all. Then his brain catches up. His eyes go wide and if he wasn’t shaking before, he is now.

“Y-you—I didn’t—You called in the Winter Soldier?”

Marina grinds her teeth, rolls her eyes so hard it makes her head hurt. She jabs the gun against his ribs. “Did I say you could talk?”

His throat bobs, he stays quiet. Marina turns her attention back to the end of the alley where Bucky is still watching he like she’s a ghost.

Neither of them seem particularly keen to break the silence. Then his eyes flick to the loaded gun in her hand.

“You gonna put that down so we can talk?”

She doesn’t move right away, maintains her icy mask as time ticks by. Then her lips twitch—just barely.

“Depends,” she drawls, eying him up and down. “You got a pair of handcuffs in those skinny jeans?”

He raises his eyebrows. Then he chuckles, a low, quiet rumble in his chest.

Marina releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The gun lowers, hanging loosely at her side, still primed and loaded.

“Didn’t realize you’ve been tailing me, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t have to if you stopped covering your tracks,” he counters smoothly.

Behind her, Levan Bolkvadze, who’s been watching the exchange like a tennis match, finds his opening. A blur of fabric, an elbow to the ribs—just hard enough knock her shoulder into the wall—and he’s running. Boots skid, wood screeches on the cobbles as he hops a crate.

Using the damp wall for purchase, Marina pushes herself up. Her muscles coil. The gun lifts, tracking his pursuit. But Bolkvadze is already a fleck at the end of the street, moving like his life depends on it. And to be fair, it does.

“Fuck,” she hisses, lowering her weapon. “Fuck.”

Bucky tracks him with a low whistle.

“Looks like your target gave you the slip,” he remarks lazily, hands in his pockets.

With the object of her ire out of reach, she rounds on the next best target and levels Bucky Barnes with a scowl that would incinerate lesser men. “You’re pretty fucking smug for a man who just blew my op.”

He only shrugs, lips curled into a smug little smirk, blue eyes dancing with thinly veiled amusement. “You’ll figure it out.”

Marina glares and then steps back, holstering her gun with a sigh.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Dinner. You hungry?”

“Dinner,” she repeats flatly.

“It was long a long trip. Could really go for something not vacuum sealed.”

She folds her arms, eyes narrowed, like one of the lines in his face might give her an answer.

He must sense her trepidation. When the moment stretches on a second too long, he says, “Come on, Mari. One meal and I’m out of your hair.”

Mari doesn’t move. She should tell him no. She should leave him in the damn alley and chase down Lev while the sun is still on her side.

“Fine,” she sighs. She supposes she can figure it out later. “But I’m picking the place.”

___ Mari leads him around the corner and two blocks up. She doesn’t look once to make sure he’s following. Pace brisk and eyes fixed ahead, she hears the steady beat of his footsteps behind her. Even if she couldn’t, she’d still know he was there from the radiating force of his presence, the way the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Not nervous—not really—just…anticipatory, maybe.

With its faded brick façade and weather beaten awning, the restaurant could generously be called a hole in the wall. A cracked tile floors, a few tables with napkin dispenser centerpieces lining the peeling floral patterned walls, and a clean kitchen.

It’d been nearly three years now since she’d found the place. A lull in a mission in the city with her stomach growling, it was one of the few establishments that hadn’t boarded up its windows during the Blip.

In truth, she has no idea how the place managed to stay afloat. She’s never seen more than a handful of patrons at any given time and she strongly suspects the humble restaurant thing is a front, but the food’s decent. Any culinary deficiencies are more than made up from by the owner’s warm discretion.

If Bucky has any thoughts about their colorful destination, he keeps them to himself. He opens the door, the bell jingling softly, but he doesn’t go in. A beat passes before Mari realizes he’s holding it for her.

They slip inside, greeted by the brassy notes of palatable jazz and the proprietor’s wife. A woman with ice blue eyes and a stern mouth. She tells them in a clipped voice to sit wherever they want, she’ll be right with them.

Mari sinks into a table towards the back, the one with a clear view of the rest of the restaurant and a direct eyeline to the front door. She takes the seat on the left, lets Bucky have the one facing the door. She doesn’t want to have to watch his neck swivel every time someone walks in off the street.

She plucks up a menu. It’s laminated and sticky beneath her fingers. She doesn’t know why she bothers, she already knows what she’s going to order. Maybe it’s just to keep her hands busy, a tactile crutch to keep her focus from the man sitting across from her.

The owner’s wife comes around to take their orders. Mari asks for the usual, Bucky asks for the same.

“Sounded easy,” he explains as the woman takes the menus and leaves them alone.

Mari only hums, busy tearing her napkin into thin strips of paper. He’s watching her, she can feel the heat on his stare on her knuckles, her face. But neither seems to want to be one to breach the stalemate.

She isn’t sure how long it takes, but sometime after a stiff drink arrives, but before the food comes, Bucky folds first.

She’s idly chasing the cocktail ice with her straw when he asks, “Can I ask you something?”

The straw stops.

Her head snaps up, finds him looking at her, expression blank and uncertainty dancing behind his eyes.

“Alright,” she replies warily. “Shoot.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back in his chair, the gesture casual but she watches his grip on the table tighten a fraction.

“If I hadn’t shown up when I did, would you have done it?”

She doesn’t need clarification. She knows exactly what he’s asking.

If I hadn’t dropped in like a ghost and thrown you off your game, would you have put a bullet in that guy’s head?

She doesn’t answer right away, still trying to get a read on him. But Bucky’s a brick wall when he wants to be and eventually, she gives up.

Bringing the straw back to her lips, she shrugs. “Probably.”

The tangy-sweet liquid burns the back of her throat and the weight of his stare is burning her skin but she doesn’t look away, can’t make sense of what she’s seeing. Absently, she suspects he would make a formidable poker player.

Another sip and then the words slip out before she can stop them. “Would that have bothered you?”

It isn’t meant to be glib—not really. She just wants to know how much of her he can still stomach and is too much of a damned coward to ask outright.

He shifts in his seat. There’s a soft whir from the plates in his arm as he wrests his wrists on the table.

“Probably.”

She diverts her attention to her pile of paper scraps to hide her surprise. It’s not what she’d been expecting and he’d delivered it with such practiced neutrality she’s isn’t sure what to think.

So she deflects.

“How did you find me?”

She chances a glance and catches the last vestige of a shadow cross his face. His eyes lock on hers and she’s sure he sees right through her, but he follows the direction anyway. “Called in a few favors and then pulled the threads until it brought me here.”

She watches his fingers tap the polished surface.

“That simple, huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair and snorts. “Hell no. I knew you’d make me work for it, Mar, but Christ—“

She raises the glass to her lips, hiding the rim. Like the salt crystals might shield her from the unexpected flare of emotion. She knows an understatement when she hears it and something about the idea of him doggedly looking for her makes her chest ache. She shifts in her seat, rolls her shoulders because suddenly her jacket is too tight.

Another sip rolls down her tongue. “You’re a busy man these days. Seems a like hard to believe you came all this way on a whim.”

His fingers stop. His lips twitch.

“Had some business in Munich.”

She hums and sets her glass down. It clinks lightly against the table.

“Any luck with the Flag Smashers?” she asks, like it’s a casual question and not a bomb place lightly between them.

Bucky’s eyes widen. She can’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. Because for the first time since he crashed back into her life, he’s the one on the back foot.

Just then, the food arrives. Mari thanks the server with a soft smile. Bucky waits until she’s safely out of earshot and then leans in closer.

“The case is supposed to be—how did you know?”

She picks up her fork, skewers a piece of meat on the end. “High speed chases tend to draw attention, especially where you and Sam are involved.” The food finds her mouth. She takes her time chewing, then, “Besides, you’re not the only one keeping an eye on things.”

Bucky doesn’t touch his food. His fingers drum the table again, the way he does when he’s thinking hard.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “What’s your take?”

Her fork stills. She scans him over rapidly, looking for amusement or any hint of mockery, but comes up empty. He’s only watching her in that steady way of his, all sober and serious.

She sets her fork down and rests her arms on the table. “Probably nothing you don’t already know. Some kids that got their hands on Steve’s serum, looking to make some waves.” She chews her lip, thinking. “If I had to guess, they’ll keep their heads down for awhile, find somewhere quiet to hole up until the heat dies down.”

“And if it were you—where would you go?”

“East, probably. Big enough cities to get lost in, small enough to avoid international attention. Somewhere with water access if I needed to get out fast.”

“You’re talking Baltics then.”

“That’s what I would do. But then again, I’m not a desperate twenty-something with a reformed assassin on my tail.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. His eyes cloud over and suddenly he looks a million miles away. She wonders if he’s thinking about a cocky young man with a draft letter in one hand and a ticket to the frontlines in the other. Or maybe he’s thinking about a girl, the one they whittled down until there was nothing left but a weapon.

She wonders briefly which one he mourns more. Then she decides she doesn’t want to know the answer.

The bill comes and puts a definitive ends to the conversation. The clocks starts ticking on their time left together.

When Bucky pulls out his wallet, she doesn’t argue like she used to. She lets him. Just like she lets him hold the door and lead her out into the blurry halo of streetlights. Because she knows he needs it. And she can pretend that she’s worth the effort.

Just for a few stolen moments, the kind that end far too soon. ___

She stops them on a corner a few blocks down. He slows to a stop beside her.

“It’s late. You got a door I can walk you to?” He asks like they could be two people on a night out, like he didn’t almost watch her kill a man in front of him a few hours ago.

Mari shakes her head. “This is fine. It’s a quiet part of town. I’ll make it the rest of the way.”

She can tell he wants to argue, but Bucky only nods and says softly, “Alright.”

The imaginary clock hits zero. Still, they linger. Bucky toes at the sidewalk with his boot. The gesture seems ridiculously boyish on his rugged frame.

Time stretches like taffy. Mari sees her opening, recognizes that this is the part where she slips back into the shadows and back out of his life. But she’s never been able to turn her back—not on Bucky Barnes.

And so she stays a few beats more and surprises even herself when she gently asks, “You’ll be careful out there?”

He huffs, a white cloud between them. “Always am.”

She wants to roll her eyes. It’s such a blatant lie. A sarcastic response is on the tip of her tongue—

He moves too suddenly, hand vanishing into the folds of his jacket too quick to track.

Mari’s breath hitches. Her whole body coils, goes cold.

She doesn’t mean to flinch, standing next to the one man on earth that she knows would never hurt her. Her brain knows it, but her body doesn’t. Not after too many close calls, too many barrels waved in her face. No, her reaction is pure instinct.

There’s an absence of breath across from her, an abrupt stillness that sucks the air off the street corner. Hands shaking, it takes a cycle of breaths before Mari can summon the courage to look at him.

She wishes she hadn’t.

There’s no offended scowl, no anger. Just the faint, jagged edges of hurt. She checks his eyes, trying to trace it, but it’s already gone. Now he only looks tired, the bone weary kind. Something stirs just under the surface, something…sad.

She swallows hard, looks away when she can’t take it anymore. She looks down at his hands instead and her ribs constrict. He’s holding out a small piece of paper, digits embossed in neat black typeface.

“In case you lost it,” he explains, just above a whisper.

She reaches out slowly, careful to avoid brushing his fingers when she takes it. The card vanishes into her coat pocket.

“Didn’t figure you for the business card type, Barnes.”

He chuckles. The noise is a balm to her fraying nerves. His hand rises, rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, well—my therapist suggested it. Thought it might help to have someone physical to remind me I’m state-sanctioned now.”

“Meant to tell you congrats by the way—on the pardon,” she replies with a weak smile. “I’ll make sure to give you a call next time I see you scowling on the news.”

He flashes a half smile. The look on his face says he knows she won’t call at all.

“Take care of yourself, Mar, okay?”

His hand twitches at his side, like he’s about to reach out and decides against it. It jerks in a clipped wave instead.”

“You too, Bucky.”

With one last lingering look, he turns. Makes the choice to leave first before she has to. Standing beneath the street lights, Mari watches Bucky fade into the misty night. And then just as quickly as he’d come, he’s gone again. Like he never existed in the first place.

#bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x ofc #black widow oc

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