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stcrklcver · 1 year

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Disaster

Summary: Marc's mental health takes a turn for the worse when you give him some news. After chasing him to Chicago, you, Steven, and Jake are left to pick up the pieces.

Pairing: Steven Grant x f!Reader, Marc Spector x f!Reader, Jake Lockley x f!Reader

Word Count: ~5.9k

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort with a happy ending, mental health issues, excessive drinking, tense encounter with police, insensitivity (insensitive language) towards mental illness, pregnancy, mentions of past child abuse and trauma, mentions of abortion. If there's anything else please let me know!

A/N: Please read the warnings! Let me know what you think! Happy holidays!

Marc Spector is a disaster.

He’s a walking red flag.

His mind is fucked up, and he’s never known how to deal with it.

There are triggers and tripwires inside him that even he can’t guess at, that he doesn’t want to look at.

His knuckles are bleeding, the palms of his hands scraped raw, and he can’t say whether he was in a fight or if he fell.

Did he stumble and fall?

Why is no one ever there to help him up again?

Something swirls inside him, a voice telling him to stop, but he won’t listen to those voices tonight. He won’t be the guy shouting on a street corner to a person no one else can see, to people no one else can see.

There are, some part of him knows, people to help him up again.

He’s just left them behind, shut them out.

“You’ve gotta go buddy.” The voice is American and gruff. It confuses him because he’s not sure how he got to the States. He glances up and around, vision blurred and doubled and tripled but he manages to make out the logo of the Cubs on the far wall of the bar.

The rough voice is still speaking to him when a hard hand grips his upper arm. He’s dragged upright but he doesn’t remember falling to the floor. There’s a bottle of something in his hand, amber liquid turning around the inside of the glass that feels like shards of a broken mirror in his brain.

Look, look, look, the mirror says. Look what you said you’d never become again.

He jerks away from the hand on his shoulder, memory like draggers, like the shape of a mother’s love and broken promises, twisting deep inside him.

The bottle clatters to the floor. It doesn’t burst, the glass is too thick for that, but the sound of it makes him frantic, reminds him of slamming doors and mistakes long past.

Someone is crying, someone is shouting, someone is hitting him -

No.

His own hands.

A whine lodges in his throat, his face smarts. He manages to still his hands.

The hands on his shoulders are shoving him now. “Get this fucking guy out of here. He’s fucking crazy. Something’s wrong with him-,”

He lands on the street in a heap, and it's cold.

It’s winter and it’s cold and there are Christmas decorations on this street. Winter decorations, the city of Chicago would probably say. White lights that twinkle overhead when he lands in the gutter, that spin and smash into each other before separating and diving away.

His hands are still smarting and the hard press of iced over snow and slush only makes it worse.

“Hey,” there’s a voice, feminine and kind, “What’s your name? Are you okay?” He can’t focus on the face that swims in front of him.

“Marc,” he manages.

He wants to go home. He wants to go home, he wants this person to call-

“Get away from him, lady! He’s fucking crazy. Someone call the cops, he’s gonna freeze out here-,”

“Marc,” he manages to meet her eyes. She’s older, eyes familiar.

“It’s gonna be okay, Marc," she says.

Marc doesn’t move, but he nods.

He blinks and blinks and blinks, until his eyes stay closed and the woman is tugged away. “Let them handle it. Cops’ll be here soon enough-,”

“Cops are going to-,”

The voices fade away, he stops listening.

His shirt is wet, his jeans too, and he doesn’t have a coat anymore.

He thinks about his mother and how he doesn’t want to be like her but it seems like it's inevitable that he will be. He thinks about how he’s shoved Jake and Steven so far away he hasn’t heard their voices in days.

Last, he thinks about you. About the tears slipping down your cheeks when he left, about the way his throat had been scraped raw with the blunt nails of his voice. The things he’d said to you, the fear in the pit of his belly, that poisoned seed long ago planted that spread blackened vines over his body.

Blue and red lights flash, and he finally hears one of his alters. Steven, panicked and worried, and Marc, what have you done now-

He’s answering, the voice in his throat choked, like there’s something wrapped around his lungs and heart. “Fuck off, Steven!” His voice explodes out of him, and the guy from the bar that dumped him on the ground jumps. “I didn’t do anything! I did what I had to-,”

He’d left you, he’d said horrible things to you, when you said-

Marc, I’m pregnant.

It should have been okay.

That should have been okay.

He should have been okay, should have been able to talk it out and over with you.

But it wasn’t, he isn’t.

Another bender.

He thought he was past this. He hasn’t done this in…eighteen months? Longer? Since he decided to be better for you. Since he decided he couldn’t keep doing that to you - disappearing and getting fucked up and not calling and coming home to you crying.

How many days has he been gone? Are you okay? What if something happened to you while he was out here fucking wallowing and screaming inside his own mind -

There’s nothing about you that he understands. He’s never understood how you could bear it. How could you bear it? When he does this, when you have to pick up the pieces, when Steven has to clean them up and Jake has to smooth things over with you?

But it's been more than a year, of reconciling his identity, of learning to live with Steven and Jake and not shove them down, of getting help and letting you help support him.

And now, this.

Pregnant.

One word had undone months of work.

For no reason.

He wants to go home to you, apologize, work it out with you.

But he’s drunk and he can’t move.

The blue and red lights flash behind his eyelids, rough hands again grip his shoulders, sick rolling up from his gut at the feeling of hands against his skin. Hard hands, rough hands.

Marc doesn’t want to be touched.

“Stop-,”

“He’s drunk.”

“Don’t touch me-,”

“Hasn’t been violent yet but he’s talking to himself. Something’s fuckin’ wrong with him but we didn’t want him to freeze to death. Some lady said his name is Marc.”

“Stop, stop-,”

“Okay. We’ll throw him in the drunk tank, let him dry out.”

“Stop touching me,” he manages not to slur, to speak clearly.

Still-

“What was that, pal?”

It’s too much.

Marc throws the hands off, stumbles away from the touch that burns like coal. He doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want to be touched, he doesn’t want-

He’s knocked into the snow, handcuffs cold around his wrists, so cold they’re hot. He’s trapped and something is burning him and -

“-fucking kidding me?” Your voice is incensed. It comes to him warbled, like he’s hearing it through a tunnel. “His skin is raw. He’s fucking bleeding. He’s bruised.”

“It was for his own protection. He assaulted an officer and tried to hurt himself.” The voice that responds is feminine and surprisingly calm. “We didn’t have anywhere to put him besides the drunk tank. Couldn’t have him causing problems.”

Marc shifts, pushing himself upright. His hands are still behind his back, cuffs digging into his skin. His cheek hurts from being squished against the metal bench he’d been slumped on.

There’s a long silence before you take a breath and sigh. “Okay.”

A buzzer sounds and then a door slams. “You’re lucky,” another voice says, much harsher than the first. “If that lawyer hadn’t called he’d be facing charges right now. He should be facing charges right now.”

You let out a humorless laugh as Marc stands, shuffling past the other drunks, most of them sleeping, to the door of the holding cell. He tries to peer down the hall, tries to catch a glimpse of you.

“Right. Lucky he’s bleeding and bruised and near hypothermic because of the negligence of this department.”

“You’re lucky he’s not dead in a fucking gutter,” the harsh voice says, male and aggressive. It raises Marc’s hackles, because no one should be speaking to you like that. Not his brave girl, standing up for him in a police department like that wasn’t completely fucking dangerous. “Word of advice, sweetheart? Drop him. He’s not worth it. Guy doesn’t even know his own fucking name. He’s batshit crazy. He should be institutionalized.”

A door bangs shut again, the receptionist’s voice returns now, much gentler, “He needs help, honey. Serious help.”

“He’s not-,” you sound broken and raw. “He’s not crazy. We don’t use that word. He’s fine, usually. There was just - something happened that triggered him.”

“He talks to himself,” the receptionist says, not unkindly. Marc leans into the bars of the holding cell, the metal cold under his skin, against his cheek. There’s a heavy pause, the sound of a tissue being pulled out of a box. “My son was diagnosed with schizophrenia and-,”

You blow your nose and Marc misses the rest of the sentence. “He’s not schizophrenic,” you say. “Thank you, though.” Paper being folded, shoved into the interior pocket of a coat. “Can I take him home now?”

Hesitation. “Are you sure you don’t want to call someone else? To help you at least? He was fairly agitated earlier.”

The meaning of her words are clear, and shame wells deep inside him, threatening to swallow him whole.

“He would never hurt me,” you reply immediately and vehemently. “He knows me. He would never.”

“If you’re sure-,”

“I am,” you answer without hesitation. “Can you - Do you know who asked you to call me? If it wasn’t Marc-,”

Marc closes his eyes, presses his face harder into the metal, eyes clenched shut. “He - uh - introduced himself as Steven. Sounded British, I guess.” A pause, and then, “Multiple personalities then, not schizophrenic. How many personalities does he have? Are you sure none of them are dangerous?”

Your voice is tightly controlled, a nugget of familiar embarrassment digging into his gut. “Sorry, I’m - I’m not comfortable talking about that. I would just say - just in case you ever deal with someone else like Marc - they’re alters, not personalities. That’s important. It’s called Dissociative Identity Disorder.” Your correction is gentle and Marc isn’t sure why he feels like crying. “And no. None of them are violent. It’s a terrible stereotype.”

The receptionist doesn’t respond, but he imagines her nodding. “Of course,” she says eventually. “And the others know you too?”

“Yes,” you sniffle. “They work together really well, usually.”

“Of course,” the receptionist says, clearly placating now, clearly beginning to believe you were delusional about the truth of your situation.

“Okay. Let me see him now,” you say, voice thick. Marc knows you hear it too, the sympathy and empathy that was rapidly drying up.

And a moment later you’re moving down the hall. You’re there and meeting his eyes, and the look in them is flush with relief. “Marc,” you say, his name safe in your mouth.

The cell is unlocked by an officer, a different one to the aggressive, angry one. The cuffs are taken off his wrists only slightly roughly, and then your arms are coiled around him, squeezing tightly.

“You’re so cold,” you’re saying in his ear, a ringing in his ears that makes it hard to hear you. “Honey, you’re so cold. C’mon. Let’s go home.”

He follows you down the hall, through the buzz of a door and into the lobby.

Home.

Home, where?

“Merry Christmas,” the receptionist calls after you. “Hope everything works out.”

“Thanks,” you say, hand around Marc’s, even though neither of you celebrate Christmas and he isn’t sure there’s anything to work out between you anymore.

The car is a rental.

It smells new and the seats are still warm.

You reach into the backseat and hand him a coat.

He pulls it on, lets you fuss over his bruised wrists, the scrapes and cuts and blood that coats his skin.

You’re pissed, but he can’t tell at who or what.

“Marc,” you murmur and tug his hands to the air vents. Your voice is sweet, like a balm to him. His hands are cold, like icicles, and he hadn’t even realized. “Keep your hands here ‘til they’re warm,” you say before releasing his fingers and reaching to shift the car into drive.

Chicago is grim in the daylight, gray and flat, a winter that will last too long. Snowmelt drips from overhead, and the streets are all black slush.

He’s still not sure when, or how, he got to Chicago.

His hands start to feel warm again and so he sits back in his seat, not saying anything, not for a long time, not until you pull the car into the hotel’s parking garage and you’re opening the door.

“They’re right, y’know.”

You settle back in the driver’s seat, one foot on the ground, one leg in the icy cold. “What? Who?”

“I need serious help. You’re better off without me.”

You just stare at him, one tear trailing down your cheek that you flick away with an irritated hand. “C’mon,” you prod. “Let’s go.” You get out of the car, you shut the door and wait.

But you don’t deny it. You don’t say it's not true.

Marc watches you for a moment, fists shaking in his lap. “Marc,” Jake says, his eyes watching him in the rearview mirror, the first time he’s heard his voice in days. “Let go, hermano. You can rest now.”

He shakes his head, closes his eyes, tries to shove Jake down.

But he’s there, he’s not going anywhere.

“Don’t be so fuckin’ hardheaded, Marc. You need to rest. We need to take care of the body. You’re going to upset -,”

“I won’t,” he snarls, catching the way you jump at the outburst, even through glass and metal you hear him. He’s exhausted, close to burn out, already in the middle of a never ending melt down. He won’t upset you again. He won’t. “I won’t upset her. I will not,” he enunciates and shoves the door open.

You hold out a hand to him and Marc takes it, letting you guide him through the hotel lobby to the bank of elevators. He knows as soon as he steps inside that he’s made a mistake. The elevator is mirrored and when he meets his reflection’s gaze-

“Querida,” Jake says, tucking you into his side, nose against your temple. He inhales the icy scent of your skin. You smell like cold, like Marc’s soap. “I’m sorry. We tried to get him to go home. We tried to call you but Marc-,”

“Where is Marc?” Your eyes are wide and wet and Jake feels something inside him sink. “Why did he leave?”

Jake doesn’t know what to say - he only remembers bits and pieces of the last few days, he remembers almost nothing of the conversation that had sent Marc into a self-destructive spiral. Jake settles for what he knows to be the truth, “He needs to rest. He’s exhausted. I need to take care of the body.”

You nod and the elevator stops.

He follows you to the room you’d checked into. It’s small but nice. Clean. The bathroom has a bathtub. A big one with claw feet, the way you said you’d always like to have in a house someday.

“Can I help?”

Jake turns, finds you in the doorway to the bathroom. “I want to help you clean up. I missed you.”

Jake nods.

He feels sick, hungover and groggy. He feels dirty. He looks dirty and tired when he meets his eyes in the mirror over the sink. There are circles beneath his eyes and his cheeks look hollowed out, like someone has dug a spoon into the meat of him.

“Yeah, if you want,” he concedes.

Jake doesn’t want you to see them like this but you already have and so he might as well accept your kindness, your warm touch. He doesn’t know what Marc’s done, and so it might be the last time.

You run a bath, you settle Jake in the water, you sit on the edge of the tub and wash his hair. The scratch of your hands against his scalp is nice, soothing. The smell of the shampoo bothers him a little but not enough to say anything. You dig your hands into his hair, into the muscle at the base of his neck until he relaxes into your touch.

When he’s clean and you’re cupping his chin, running a razor over his jaw and cheek, you ask, “Do you remember what happened?”

“No. Wasn’t aware until we were here and it felt like Marc’s heart was going to-,”

Jake had come to in the cemetery at the foot of Randall’s grave. Wendy would be to his left, but Jake didn’t dare look that way.

“No. No, I don’t remember, hermosa.”

You nod and touch his cheek. “Can I tell you? Is Steven listening?”

Jake nods, touches your hand. “It’s just us. Me and you.”

“Jake,” you say. “I told Marc that I’m pregnant.” You swallow and continue before he can answer you. An odd feeling lodges in his chest, hot with something unknowable. “I should have told him in a different way but-,”

Jake remembers now, flashes of Marc’s despair, the worry gnawing at his gut. The panic and the memories and the fear. It was too sudden, too much-

You.

Pregnant.

With his child.

Marc hadn’t known how to handle it, his mother’s face swimming before his eyes. All the damage he’d be able to wreck on a tiny little life.

We aren’t ready.

I know, that’s why we’re talking about it.

So, what, you want to get rid of it?

I didn’t say that. I just wanted you to know so we could-

It’s okay. I know I’d be a terrible fucking parent. Just get rid of it. I don’t know why you even told me.

You’d shrunk away from Marc at that. Marc, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I’m trying to say.

He’d scoffed, hadn’t looked at you. You think I’d be parent of the year or something?

No, I’m-

So you don’t want it.

No! Marc, stop putting words in my mouth!

Things had only escalated from there, egging you on until you’d burst, poking at you, demanding you say something hurtful, to push him away before he could damage you further. You or the -

“Pregnant?” Jake asks, interrupting you and his racing thoughts, thinking that this is the kind of thing that Grant is much more skilled at handling.

“Right,” you say, relaxing a little. And he supposes his reaction hasn’t been to antagonize you or run away and so it’s an improved one. “I just…needed to tell him. I needed to tell one of you. I felt so alone and-”

Jake takes your hand, his skin wet against yours. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“‘Course you aren’t,” he soothes. “‘Course not. How am I lookin’?” He swipes a hand over his face, and you nod to indicate you’re done shaving him. “Lemme get us dressed. Marc wasn’t eating. We can go for pizza.”

Your face crumples and you nod, standing and shifting away from him. Something like grief flashes over your face but he can’t decipher why. “Okay,” you rasp, trying to clear your voice but it just cracks more. “Okay.”

“Hey,” he tugs you back by your hand. “Te amo. Siento lo que pasó.”

You nod again, but don’t comment, tugging yourself gently away.

Steven glances up from a red and white checkered tablecloth. There’s a half eaten deep dish pizza on the table. The plate directly in front of him is streaked with red sauce and his belly is full.

He’s alone at the table and there’s classic rock playing over the radio and when he looks out the window it’s snowing.

He’s confused. The last he remembers are police and pain and -

“Steven?” You’re suddenly there, sounding relieved, your voice like a spear of light into the darkness of his world.

“Love,” he meets your eyes as you sit down across from him. “What happened?”

“Jake…is he alright? I was only in the bathroom for a minute.”

Steven nods and takes your hand across the table. “He’s fine.” Steven looks you over, the tautness in your features, the sallow tinge of your skin. Marc’s put you through hell the last few days and he feels irritation spike inside him.

How could Marc do this to you? Again?

They - Marc hasn’t done this in ages.

“I already told Jake,” you say quickly. “What set Marc off. I’m guessing you don’t know either. He - I told him I’m pregnant and he didn’t take it well. I shouldn’t have sprung it on him-,”

“Pregnant?” Steven asks, suddenly realizing why Jake had walked out of the body so abruptly. You’ve just come back from the loo, and it’s clear you were just sick. It’s morning sickness and Jake doesn’t know how to handle that. But - “Pregnant? With - with ours?” When you nod, an unexpected elation curls up his spine. Pregnant. With their, with his, baby. “Oh, dear, that’s -,”

No wonder Marc had a bit of a breakdown then.

He stands, rips the napkin that’s tucked into the collar of his shirt out and sweeps Jake’s flat cap off his head, before he rounds the table to you. He tugs you into a hug when he sits next to you, curling his arms around you.

The breath you take is shaky against his chest, a hiccup in your voice. “Oh, Steven,” you whisper, hands curling into his shirt, one of Jake’s button-ups. You must have brought some clothes for all of them, had the presence of mind to remember Jake’s stupid cap he can’t live without. “I missed you,” your voice is numb and raw and filled with longing. “I love you so fucking much. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he chirps. “Very much. I’m sorry Marc-,”

Steven stops.

He’s sorry Marc - what? Ran off, relapsed into old coping mechanisms, worried you, left you utterly alone? All of the above?

“I’m just sorry,” he murmurs into the corner of your jaw. “So sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby,” you say, fingers digging into his hair, the palm of your hand cupping the back of his neck. “Nothing.”

He pulls back, tugs your hand into his, the warmth of it comforting. “Were you sick? Just then?” He asks, just to confirm. You nod. “Pregnant. Really?”

“You’re taking it better than Marc or Jake.”

“Was Jake-,”

“He was putting on a brave face. But I think it thoroughly freaked him out.” You nuzzle his hand when he cups your jaw, tilts your head back so he can see your face. You don’t meet his eyes, gaze downcast.

Steven nods and releases your chin, let’s you curl into him. “Right. I think they just need a bit of time.”

“Not sure that’s the case. Marc literally ran to another country to get away from me,” you say miserably. “Jake doesn’t know what to do or say. I think he just wants it to go away. And the really terrible thing is, that was what I wanted to talk to each of you about. What we’d do. I don’t know what to do or how to feel.”

“You mean-,” Steven snaps his mouth shut. The last thing you needed was him dumping his own feelings onto yours, especially after Marc and Jake have made you feel unwanted and weird respectively. “Never mind that. I’m bloody thrilled. And if - if you don’t want to have a baby, then I’m here for you. I’m here for you no matter what.”

You pull back and meet his eyes, brows pulling together as you search his gaze.

For a moment, he thinks he’s made a terrible miscalculation as your lip wobbles dangerously but then your arms are circling his neck and you’re breathing out hard. “You’re amazing. Have I ever said before? You’re amazing.”

“If anyone is, it's you, love,” he says, holding you close, feeling the beat of your heart against his. “Chasing Marc halfway across the world. I-I’m really not sure what we’ve done to deserve that.”

You pull back and stare at him, your gaze guarded. “‘Course I came. You told the police to call me. I’d already figured out he was in Chicago when they called. I was on a layover in New York. But I had no idea where to go once I got here. The police were so fucking horrible. They-,” you stop and clutch him harder, like you mean to shield him from whatever happened. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter what they were saying. Marc is lucky Murdock likes Jake so much and that he had another lawyer friend in Chicago he could call.”

“You knew exactly what to do. We’re so lucky to have you.” He hesitates. “I’m sorry Marc left you like that. I’m sorry he gave you such a fright.”

You shift, so your head is against his shoulder, and for the first time you relax a little. “No. It’s, I can’t help but feel like it’s my fault. He’s been doing so well for so long, and I just said it. I know how he is about -,” you force yourself to stop talking again. “Really, it was unfair of me. And then he had to hear the horrible things the police said, after everything he’d already been through.”

“You defended us though, yeah? It’s alright.” Steven wasn’t there, but the moments come in glimpses, Marc’s shame and embarrassment, the way you’d spoken up for them, corrected the receptionist, done everything to help them.

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s not okay, what happened.” You shake your head, vehement in your disgust. “They shouldn’t treat people like that. I know things could have been much worse but it doesn’t make it okay.”

“‘Course not. One problem at a time though, love. Nothing came of it. Okay?”

It takes you a moment to respond, but eventually you nod back, swallowing hard. “Okay. Okay, Steven. Are you hungry? Jake said Marc wasn’t-wasn’t eating.” Your voice warbles. “Wasn’t eating, just drinking himself sick.”

“No, I feel alright now. Maybe a bit hungover but fine. Just tired, really.”

You nod and pull away, yanking your bag into your lap and searching for some money to leave on the table. “Do I make him that afraid?” You whisper, not looking up. “Have I misread everything so badly? That he’d hurt himself like that?”

Steven shakes his head, “Not everything is about you, love. He wasn’t trying to hurt you, or himself, really.”

You nod, but you don’t look like you believe him.

“He’s going to leave me, and take you and Jake with him.”

“No,” Steven says, picking up Jake’s cap to stuff in his pocket as you both stand. “Never,” he cups your face between his palms. “We’ll never let that happen, dear heart. We can’t be kept away from you.”

It’s dark outside when Marc wakes, wrapped in the sheets of an unfamiliar bed.

He feels better.

Clean and fed and rested, at least a little.

He’s only wearing a pair of briefs, the comforter a heavy weight on his chest.

You’re sitting up next to him in bed, your eyes glassy where they’re glued to the flickering TV.

He says your name and you look at him, immediately sliding down next to him, fingers digging into his shoulder as you bury your nose in his neck.

“Marc, I’m so sorry-,”

He’s shaking his head but he can’t get the words out. Not your fault, not your fault, not your fault.

It’s him. It’s always him.

It was bad already, but the police station only made it worse, reminding you surely of why he’s not good for you, why you deserve better.

“Don’t,” he says, voice harsher than he intends it to be. You go quiet, lips pressed together in a tight line. “It’s not your fault. It’s me. It’s always fucking me.”

You stroke his cheek. “You’re wrong, you know.”

He huffs out a laugh, cycling through everything he’s ever been wrong about. “Yeah.”

“Marc,” you tilt his face into yours, so close that the air he breathes is your breath. You smell like his soap, like minty toothpaste. He inhales, holds the breath of you inside, sure this is the moment you tell him to fuck off. “You’re wrong about being bad for me. I’m not better off without you, that’s exactly why I followed you here. The shit they said -,”

He dares to tuck you closer.

His head is clear now, and he can feel Jake and Steven close at hand, watching and waiting, making sure he doesn’t fuck this up again.

But the body has slept and his belly is full and he’s not drunk or hungover or standing at the foot of his little brother’s grave.

He’s okay. He’s good.

“This isn’t about that.”

“Like hell it’s not.” Your voice is gentle. “You believe that shit.”

“No,” he sits up and pulls away from you, paces the length of the hotel room even though he’s freezing. “No.”

But it didn’t make it any better. Reminds him of what his kid would go through with him as a father.

Unstable. Crazy. Whatever you want to call it.

“Marc,” you say his name again.

Safe. He’s safe with you, always. Even when you disagreed, even when you were mad at each other. “Honey, look at me.”

He does.

You look vulnerable, swathed in the comforting mountain of sheets that aren’t yours. “Let me say what I need to.” You wait for him to nod before you continue. “I should have approached you about it in a different way. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry you ended up in that police station because of it.” He opens his mouth but you give him a look that dries the words on his tongue. “I’m pregnant. We did that together. We make the decision about what comes next together. All of us.”

He gives a short nod, panic welling in him again at the thought.

Everything about it, about having a kid and being a father, reminds him of the sharp smell of booze, the clack of belt loops, the fear of death, rising tidewaters.

But you’d be there.

You’d never be that kind of mother, that kind of partner.

“Even if I don’t - even if I’m not her,” he finds himself saying, the words unbidden and sagging with grief. “You’re right. The police station has everything to do with it. Even if I’m not her, I’m still this. I’m still what she made me. I’m still what people think of me.”

Shame, he hates to admit that he still feels it, even with you. Sometimes he hates that you know, that he has to be reminded you know what happened to him, that you know Jake and Steven and might like them better than him.

You hold a hand out to him, and Marc steps readily towards you. You pull him under the blankets, fingers digging into his skin, fussing and fidgeting with the necklace looped around his throat. “Marc,” you whisper, hands curling into his hair.

He loves the way you say his name, how often you say it.

But his skin prickles with unease. “No kid needs to deal with all my shit. I’m never gonna be good for them, because of what happened to me.”

You fold him close to you, cocoon him in your scent and the shape of your arms. “Or,” you nudge your nose against his. “You’ll be good because of it. I’m not afraid of you being a parent. I’m afraid of losing you.”

Marc scoffs, “You don’t have a single fucking concern-,”

“None. Not one. But we’re - we don’t have enough space. And I don’t know how a kid will fit into our life and our plans. We wanted to travel. I’m getting a promotion soon.” You touch his cheek. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If it’s the right time.”

Normal concerns, he realizes. Totally banal concerns, that is what has been plaguing you.

“You get so afraid that you aren’t enough, that someone is going to leave you behind, that you self-destruct before anyone has the chance to explain what’s going on.” You lean your forehead into his. “You ran before I could explain.”

“You’re mad.”

“Yes,” you agree. It’s straightforward, it’s easy to understand and digest. “I’m mad. But not forever. And I’m not going anywhere.” You lace your fingers with his, kiss the backs of his knuckles. “You’ve gotten and are getting help. You try to be better every single day. We, me and you and Jake and Steven, we have a system that works for all of us. We have a way of making things work. Shit happens. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s just something that happened.”

It’s hard to internalize, hard to reconcile. He’s broken and he hears the words that echo through years. It’s all your fault.

“It’s always me-,”

“No. It’s not. And either way, we’re here to help. Don’t shut us out.”

He swallows, can’t think about himself anymore, or his mother, or his past, or the police station. You though, he can always think about you.

A memory swirls up, staring at a picture Steven had taken of you at the park last spring. Back when benders were so common for Marc, but you were determined to see him to the end of the tunnel, the light at the end. He’d been drunk already, eyes wet, when the old lady next to him on the plane leaned over and said, “Beautiful.”

Nothing more. Only that.

“Pregnant. You’re pregnant,” he lets his voice lilt into a question.

“Yes. I’m not sure how, we’re so good about condoms and birth control.”

“Shit happens though, right?” He echos your words. “It’s just something that happened. We’ll deal.”

“Together?” You venture.

He nods, firm now. You believe in him, whether he’s crazy or not, fucked up or not, worthy or not, you believe in him. “Together.”

Marc pauses, curls his arm around your shoulders. “And I’m sorry. Even if you don’t want me to be. I’m sorry about the last few days. I think - I can’t help but think about her. I don’t wanna be like her.”

“Marc,” your voice is firm. “You won’t be. But if you can’t trust yourself, trust me. I would not let what happened to you, happen to my baby.”

And that -

Shocks Marc.

He shouldn't have had to rely on his own mind to create protectors.

He should have already been protected. His father, his father should never have let it happen.

Marc looks at you, the fierce look in your eyes. No, you’d never let that happen. You’d never become his father.

And somewhere inside him, he knows he’ll never be his mother. Not with Steven and Jake and you to guide him home. “Nothing is wrong with you,” you reiterate. “Nothing. This isn’t a question of whether you’d be a good parent, if you’d fuck up. This is about us, and what we need. All the rest will come as it may.”

Your hands are on his again, gentle over the bruises and cuts he doesn't remember getting.

"Okay."

Between the four of you, things would be okay.

"I'm not going anywhere, either," he says. "Not again. You won't lose me."

You shoulders drop, relief pours over him. .

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stcrklcver · 1 year

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You are an anonymous professional assassin with a perfect reputation. You lead an ordinary life outside of your work. You’ve just been hired to kill yourself.

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stcrklcver · 1 year

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stcrklcver · 1 year

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Bex's Masterlist!

Hi, I’m Bexie! A masterlist was highly requested so here it is! I will add more along as we go! Hope you enjoy and remember, Feedback is appreciated on my works <3

Updated: july 27, 2021

NOTE: All my stories will have a black reader! Some of my smuts are not for the faint of heart so beware!! and please DO NOT REPOST MY WORK

Angst (A) Smut (S) Fluff (F) Trigger Warning (TW) Author’s Fav (AF)

Keep reading

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stcrklcver · 1 year

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almost believing

summary: You and Bucky aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment. That doesn't mean you're getting out of having to pretend to be married for a mission.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 5.4k

warnings: miscommunication dialled up to eleven bc it's me; friends to lovers with lots of seething in between; set around christmas, but not a christmas fic; slight spoiler warning for wakanda forever just to be safe

prompt: fake dating, baby 😌 title and initial inspiration for this fic were taken from "so close" from enchanted. yes. that scene.

a/n: this was written for my wonderful tiff's sweet as sugar writing challenge!! @traitorjoelite i'm so proud of you and i hope you enjoy this fic. i really thought this one would be short i swear. big shoutout and thank you to @sweetascanbee for listening to me rant about this for weeks, i appreciate you so much!!

masterlist | read on ao3

Here’s the thing: It’s supposed to be a simple mission. Just gathering intel at the hotel for one single night, the two of you pretending that everything is fine for a couple of hours more.

After all, it’s Bucky’s last mission with you before his reassignment goes through.

Well, it’s not like it’s going to make a difference to how much you’re seeing him, to be honest.

You’re not sure when he started making himself rare or why, but once you noticed it, it was impossible not to.

"Sorry, I’m heading out," when you ask him to grab lunch together seems inconspicuous enough, as does, "Ah, I’m already supposed to meet Sam," when you try asking him about that trip to IKEA you’d been talking about for ages.

But it doesn’t stop there. One excuse follows the next, and suddenly there’s always something more important than the two of you hanging out.

Of course, you try to rationalize it at first. Swallow down your hurt feelings, because Bucky is your friend, and sometimes people just need space. You’re fine. The two of you are fine.

Once he starts scheduling dates for Friday night, though—which has always been movie night, always, every week since you met him—you know that something’s wrong.

"Is he angry with me?" you keep asking Steve, who looks very uncomfortable and definitely knows what's going on.

"Just give him a little space," he suggests timidly. So you do. You let the whole thing go.

For like a week.

"I just don’t know what I did," you tell Sam over drinks, your head held in your hands.

"Nope," he answers, downing his dregs. "I’m not doing this. Nuh-uh."

"You know, too?" you cry, accusingly pointing at him.

"I don’t know anything," Sam deadpans. And then he puts his scarf on and leaves.

"Maybe try talking to Bucky about it?" Natasha suggests, either incapable of hiding her amused smile or unwilling to try.

"I would if I ever saw him for longer than a 'hi, how are you' at the gym," you mumble. Fact is, you’re getting pissed about him giving you the silent treatment without even knowing what you did wrong.

Because before this, whatever this is, things were fine. Great, even. Free afternoons were spent on each other’s couches, introducing him to your favorite tv shows and letting him teach you that stupid card game he loves so damn much. You’d even been starting to imagine that there might be something …

Clearly, you were wrong.

Now, you can’t even look at him without your throat closing up. It’s like you woke up a few weeks ago and he’s become an entirely different person around you, much more like he was at the beginning of your friendship, distant and cold.

He didn’t even tell you that he’d signed up for a transfer.

The mission call feels like your last chance.

A whole evening of teamwork and espionage, of him basically having no other choice than talking to you and finally telling you why the fuck he would get himself reassigned without even telling you beforehand. You could’ve hugged Fury for the opportunity.

That is, until you’re handed the file containing your fake identities for the op a few hours before you’re supposed to leave.

"You’re joking," you say as soon as you open the door.

"Great, you’re here as well," Steve says dryly. "Again, a) you both gotta learn how to knock, b) the whole thing wasn’t my idea or my decision, but I also think it’s the best directive for what you’re trying to do, and c) no, there’s no one else available for the mission. Anything I missed?"

Bucky deliberately doesn’t meet your eye, his arms still crossed as he stares Steve down with a look you can’t decipher. He doesn’t even acknowledge you standing in the door, but his foot is doing the tapping thing again.

You purse your lips and join the staring.

Steve sighs, rubbing his temples with the palms of his hands. "Listen, you two work well together and I know these past few weeks have been … strained"—you almost laugh at that—"but it’s just one night."

"We need to pretend we’re married," you say. "How’re we going to pull that off if he can’t stand being in the same room as me?"

"I trust that there won’t be any issues." Steve raises an eyebrow at Bucky as he says that, but of course he doesn’t get a reply. That would necessitate talking in your presence.

"One night," Bucky repeats through gritted teeth.

Not for the first time, there seems to be some sort of silent conversation between the two of them that you’re not privy to. You roll your eyes.

"I’ll see you later."

You leave with your back straight and without a glance over your shoulder, the door slamming shut behind you.

For a moment, you’re tempted to barge into Natasha’s office next, but you have a feeling like she’d just give you another one of her looks again, which really won’t better your mood. So instead, you slam another door and flop onto your bed, blankly staring at the ceiling for a while.

Surely, there’s some twisted sort of irony in this whole situation, but you’re not laughing.

Usually, before a mission, you’d get bagels together from the bakery around the corner. You haven’t done that in a while, but you’re still quietly begging your phone to show a new unread message when you look at the time however long later.

Instead, there’s just your lockscreen picture of Bucky’s grinning face that you can’t bear to get rid off, no matter how many times it stings you. It’s almost a year old, now, back when you’d taken him to go do your holiday shopping with you, insisting that "no one’s gonna recognize you, look at that great cap you’re wearing".

It’d started snowing halfway through the afternoon, and he’d kept reaching for your hand in order not to lose you in the crowd. You both gave up halfway through your list and just went to get coffee instead, strolling through Central Park and talking about nothing and everything.

That’s when you’d realized you'd been falling in love with him, laughing and fingers freezing around your paper cup, a strange new warmth spreading throughout your body.

You need to change your lockscreen.

***

Half an hour before pick-up, you leave your room with a duffle bag slung over your shoulder and almost run into Bucky. He’s leaning against the opposite wall like he’s been waiting for you, and it stings because that’s what he always used to do, back when you were still talking. When you could still pretend that maybe, just maybe, your feelings weren’t quite so hopeless.

Now, though, his easy smile is missing. Instead, an ever-present frown is furrowing his brows again, his mouth opened just a little, but nothing comes out.

"Look, I don’t want to do this any more than you do," you sigh. "But it’s a two-person job."

He nods, his tongue poking his cheek. "I know."

"Do you think you’re gonna be alright with us pretending we’re madly in love for a whole evening?"

Bucky’s jaw tightens. "I’ll be fine."

Of course he’s going to be fine.

You grab the strap of your bag more tightly. "I wish you would just tell me what I did."

"You didn’t do anything." If he’s telling the truth, though, why does he look so numb?

For a moment, you want to shout at him, cry, beg, make him tell you when and how this went wrong, but you don’t. You just stare at him in silence, hoping he’ll get it anyway, and he refuses to notice it.

"So," Bucky finally says. "You ready to get hitched?"

There’s the ghost of a grin in his eyes, and even though it’s not enough to mask the uncomfortable tilt of his shoulders, you sigh. At least he’s trying, you suppose.

"Let’s just get fake-married so we can fake-divorce and go our separate ways," you say, walking past him.

"I’ve got something for you."

You turn around again, raising your eyebrows as he holds up a ring between the fingers of his left hand. There’s a giant stone set in its center, striking and sparkling and not subtle in the slightest. Tony really went all out for appearance’s sake. Your fingers involuntarily tighten around the strap of your bag.

Bucky drops the ring in the palm of your hand.

"Quite the present," you chuckle nervously. You don’t even want to know how much this thing costs, and you feel like they're going to chop off your head if something happens to it.

"Try it on, then."

It’s a bit too large on your finger, and it feels foreign. It’s not you at all. Then again, it’s not supposed to be you.

Before you can say anything, though, Bucky shakes his head. "What?" you say with a roll of your eyes.

"That couldn’t look more fake if you tried. Wait a sec."

He turns his back towards you and rummages through his bag for a while, his jaw still set as he holds out his hand once more. With a sigh, you pull the ring off again and return it, but before you can pull your hand back, he catches it in his own.

This one slides onto your finger perfectly, and your eyes widen at the sight of it. It’s a lot subtler, with only a small emerald for decoration, but it’s so delicate and beautiful it takes your breath away.

Bucky’s mouth opens and closes, but he swallows whatever came to his mind. "That’s better," he says instead, and his voice sounds oddly rough.

"They gave you a backup?" you say, angling your hand this way and that to see how the gem catches the light.

"Mhm."

Something is off about this whole situation, but then you feel like you don’t really know Bucky anymore. Not like you used to, anyway. It used to be so easy to get a read on him.

You stand there in silence for a moment, and it’s only then that both of you realize he’s still holding your hand. He drops it immediately, and you pretend it doesn’t sting.

"How come you don’t get a ring?" you ask.

"Says who?" Bucky says, clearing his throat and activating the camouflage sleeve Tony had installed for his arm. Sure enough, there’s a ring on his hand as well.

You grab his hand curiously. When you touch it, there’s no difference between his fingers and the pseudo-platinum band, all of it just cool vibranium in disguise.

"It’s fake," you say. "It’s not the same."

"No," he agrees and pulls his hand away. "Looks real enough, though."

You notice the red splotches on his neck and wonder what it is that you’ve said this time, but it’s pointless anyway. He’s not going to tell you even if you asked.

Maybe you should be used to him icing you out by now, but it still hurts.

***

"Yes, Steve, I know," you sigh. "We’re just gathering intel, nothing else."

"I just wanted to have you say it again so we’re all clear. You both love taking risks when it’s not necessary."

"Alright, punk, we got it," Bucky says, tugging at his tie again.

You can’t even blame him for the nervous habit; you’ve been twisting your fake wedding ring around your finger for the entire drive.

This isn’t the first time the two of you had to go undercover as a couple; hell, it’s not even the first time you’ve pretended to be married. Usually, though, you could have a laugh about the whole thing together.

Now you barely know how to act around Bucky as yourself, let alone as some made up woman.

"I think we’re going to attract a lot of attention if we don’t get out soon," you say, readjusting the collar of your blouse underneath your coat.

You notice Steve staring at your hand for a moment, a frown between his brows, but his lips curve upwards a split second later. "Ready to do this?" he asks and you smile a little in confirmation.

Bucky takes another breath and then he nods curtly. "Let’s go."

The change that goes through him as soon as the two of you climb out of the car is so stark you almost turn on your heels again and beg Steve to let you off the hook, after all. His hand sneaks around your waist and pulls you closely into his side as you walk towards the hotel, all soft smiles and charm.

"Sorry for the holdup," he tells the bellman waiting next to your bags with a wink. "The missus and I just needed another minute."

You lightly slap Bucky’s chest in fake indignation. It’s quick thinking on his part, really.

When you’re checking in under your assumed names for the evening, he keeps his arm around you, and the content look stays in his eyes. A subtle glance at your surroundings tells you some of your persons of interest have already arrived early for the event tonight, looking around the sparkling lobby with the same feigned boredom.

Bucky nudges your cheek with his nose and then smiles again when you look at him. It makes your brain shut off for a moment.

When he looks at you like this, it’s so easy to forget the past couple of months and just pretend for a moment. What if there was no mission at all, and it could simply be the two of you?

But of course, that’s not possible. All of it is fake, including the way he looks at you. You know that.

So how come it doesn’t feel fake to you at all?

***

You hate this dress, you hate these people, you hate this dinner, and most of all, you hate how much you enjoy spending this much time so physically close to Bucky.

It feels so natural when he links your hand with yours, so fucking meant to be, even though he’s just putting on a show for the band of creeps you’re tasked to keep an eye on.

But damn if he’s not good at it.

It’s amazing, really, how his eyes immediately soften when you turn your head towards him, like you’re the only person in the whole room. He looks at you during this charade like you wish he’d look at you daily, even far from prying eyes around you; especially then. It makes your breath shorten, your heart pounding erratically because it thinks it’s getting everything it’s ever hoped for.

Hearts are often stupid like that.

A full night of glances and touches and the pretence of secret whispers will do all kinds of twisted things to your feelings.

There’s a lull in the conversation, and when Bucky squeezes your hand you realize he’s no longer the only one who’s looking at you.

You chuckle nervously. "I’m sorry, I got … distracted for a moment. What were you saying?"

"Ah, newlyweds," one of the investor goons laughs. He’s a particularly vile looking man whose suit is way too big on his spindly limbs.

Bucky, academy award winning actor in another lifetime, chuckles politely while the fondness in his eyes seems to increase tenfold. "We’ve been married three years, actually," he says, sticking to your official cover story.

It’d been Tony’s idea to keep your fake timeline as close to the truth as possible to avoid any slip-ups. It’s a great move on paper, really, but in reality it just adds another nail to the coffin.

Three years ago, you were on a mission in Brussels, only the second one ever where it was just the two of you. It was mostly surveillance, so one of you usually had downtime while the other kept lookout. It became customary that you’d entertain each other during those long hours, getting to know each other intimately for the first time, taking the first tentative steps towards the friendship you now share.

That mission was the groundwork of your falling in love with him in the first place.

"You seem to be doing something right if you’re both still so enamoured with each other," Spindly Arms says.

"I’m the luckiest guy in the world," Bucky responds, still looking into your eyes. "It’s hard not to do the right thing, then."

He presses a kiss to your cheek and you smile timidly. His lips linger for just a moment, and then he moves to whisper into your ear, something you’re sure looks like sweet nothings to everybody else but is actually a, "Don’t fall asleep on me."

You tilt your head, shove him teasingly as if he’d said something inappropriate, and because he’s always been quick to catch on he winks, obvious enough so that the other people that are part of this conversation can clearly see it.

It’s not long after this that you excuse yourselves, walking around the room with apparent aimlessness. Everything is sparkling with pure gold decorations and countless little twinkling lights that have been scattered around the room like millions of fireflies. You spot an actual orchestra right underneath the massive Christmas tree.

"Kind of tacky, don’t you think?" Bucky murmurs with a sideway glance at you.

"Maybe a little," you say.

The truth is, though, the room looks oversaturated and expensive and magnificent. Something straight out of a Hallmark movie, more like a movie set than a real place.

It’s the one thing that keeps this whole thing from being completely unbearable.

He must have seen the truth in your eyes, because he ducks his head and says quietly, "I’m gonna go check out the terrace."

You just nod and smile as he kisses your cheek again and then vanishes through the crowd with a few long strides. Sighing, you take another drink from the tray a waiter offers you, absent-mindedly rubbing your cheek.

"What a lovely surprise," a voice says next to you and you freeze for a moment before forcing yourself to calmly take a sip. "Miss … Winter, was it?"

"Mrs," you say with a pleasant smile. "Good evening, Director."

"Right, of course." Director de Fontaine eyes her martini warily. "I don’t suppose these olives are fresh, do you?"

Your mind is racing. If she’s here on official business, then your entire operation might be compromised.

"So," she continues, looking rather bored. "Met any interesting people yet, Mrs Winter?"

"Oh, yes," you say lightly, clinging to your role of unassuming young wife. "It’s all rather exciting."

"I’m sure. These kinds of events are all very … shiny." She looks into your eyes and there’s an almost explicit warning written in hers. "It’s surprisingly easy to get blinded."

You swallow heavily even as she smiles. "If you’ll excuse me, I think I see someone …"

You quickly walk over to the buffet table where some of the wives have formed a semi circle of gossip, trying your best to hide your sigh of relief when the director doesn’t follow you.

For a few minutes, you lose yourself in pointless gossip, until one of the women takes hold of your forearm.

"You must tell us, what’s your secret?"

"Excuse me?" you chuckle nervously.

"Your husband!" she exclaims, earning a few nods from some of the others. "He clearly adores you," she goes on. "I don’t think he’s looked away from you once since you joined us."

You steal a look around your shoulder. She’s right. Bucky’s gaze immediately locks with yours, an almost bashful grin on his lips. You caught me, his eyes seem to say, and you feel a rush of heat go through you.

He should be nominated for an Oscar with this performance.

Quickly, you turn around again to meet several expectant pairs of eyes.

"I don’t know what to tell you," you say. "He’s just … always been like this. I mean, he’s my best friend. I really don’t know what I would do without him."

There’s not a word of a lie in what you’re saying, and it elicits a round of coos and murmurs even as your heart gives a sharp pang.

"Dance with me?"

You flinch, turning to look at Bucky’s outstretched hand, at the sad, hopeful look in his eyes, and the line between reality and fiction blurs a bit more.

You take his hand, and he pulls you onto the dance floor, some cheery Christmas song ramping up to its big finale. Then, the band switches to a slower song. To you, it sounds mournful.

"That was nice," Bucky mutters into your ear. "What you said."

"I meant it, you know," you whisper, but he turns, and you don’t think he’s heard you.

Bucky places his hand on your hip and you hide a shudder. His gloved fingers wrap around yours, and then you start moving again.

You barely know the steps, but he’s a great leader, and he doesn’t say anything when you step on his toes. In fact, his gaze softens even more when he looks at you after the third time, the hand around your waist pulling you a little closer.

"How are you doing this?" you say without stopping to smile.

"Easy," Bucky says, and the way he says it almost makes you believe it’s true.

You bite your lip, trying to stop yourself from breathing him in. "I didn’t mean the dancing."

With the last note of the song, you stumble over his foot again and he snorts. "Me neither."

The melody changes and neither of you lets go. His steps are getting slower, smaller, like he’s just trying to keep both of you in motion. Your head is spinning. The twinkling lights are starting to blur into a great mass of stars in the background, like you’re at the center of a music box and everything else is just background noise.

You wrap both hands around his neck as you’re swaying, then, your foreheads only inches apart. You could stay in this moment forever, you think, as it stretches into blissful infinity. Somewhere, a clock strikes ten.

Bucky leans in a little closer and your breath hitches again.

"It’s time," he whispers, and your eyes fly open.

You’d almost forgotten about the mission.

"Val is here," you say quietly.

His expression hardens for just a second. "What?"

"She came to talk to me earlier. She knows we’re here."

"Why didn’t you say something?"

"I … There wasn’t time."

"We’re just gonna have to be quick and discrete."

You open your mouth, but then you see the distance close in again between you two, and so you just nod.

The plan is almost laughably simple, but it’s probably going to work out just as you’ve laid out beforehand. Everyone in the room has watched the two of you staring at each other for the past couple of hours, so no one bats an eye when Bucky nudges you gently and you make your way up the stairs to the fancy elevator that’s going to take you up to a bedroom.

Or, more specifically, to a bedroom that’s being used to store all kinds of evidence, but no one else needs to know that little detail.

You notice the director talking to Spindly Arms and a couple of other people, but you force your gaze not to linger on her. Instead, you grab Bucky’s hand more tightly.

He lets go of you as soon as the elevator doors close behind the two of you, dragging a hand through his hair and messing it up. There aren’t any cameras in the elevator, but you’re both pretty sure there will be on the floor you’re going. "CIA exposure, that’s exactly what we needed."

"There was nothing I could’ve done," you say, tugging your sleeves down your shoulders.

"I’m not blaming you, sweetheart," Bucky says distractedly, loosening his tie. Your heart makes a very heavy thud. "But if Walker shows up tonight as well, I’m gonna shoot first and ask questions later."

"No, you won’t," you say with a grin, mostly because you know he didn’t bring his gun because the male attendees were all frisked at the entrance.

"Maybe I’ll throw a knife. I could say it was an accident."

The conversation lasts barely a moment, but it reminds you so much of what the two of you used to be, it hurts.

You follow him stumbling out of the elevator onto the right floor with a breathless laugh. There’s no one in sight as you subtly check the room numbers before making him follow you with a coquettish smile for the security camera.

You find the right door without much trubble, pulling the keycard out of your inconvenient little handbag. "Come on now," you murmur as the lock rejects it at the first try.

Suddenly, Bucky’s hand is on your waist again, and you gasp as he spins around. The keycard drops to the floor.

He presses you against the wall, effectively trapping you in his embrace. Your hands are laid flat against his chest, his heart thundering madly underneath your fingertips. Bucky’s eyes flit around madly, like he’s trying to come up with something on the spot and, for the first time since you’ve known him, is left without ideas.

You gasp as his nose brushes against yours.

"Sorry," he whispers hoarsely. And then he kisses you.

Your body responds immediately, lighting a fire in your core as his lips press against yours, hungry, gentle, almost apologetic. You can taste the champagne on his tongue.

You arch your back against him on instinct as his hands travel down your arms, brushing your hips, your tighs, slowly parting your dress at the slit. Your eyes fly open the moment you realize what he’s doing, even though he swallows your gasp.

In one smooth motion, he pulls the I.C.E.R. out of the garter on your thigh and fires a single, silenced shot. The guy with the earpiece barely has the time to grunt before he sacks against the opposite wall, unconscious, his hand still in the pocket of his jacket.

"Fuck," you hiss, pushing Bucky away from you. He stumbles slightly, the gun loose in his fingers. His eyes are almost black as he blinks at you. "You could have told me we’re being shadowed."

Bucky’s mouth is stained from your lipstick, and the sight of that alone makes your head swim. You can still feel the ghost of his hand on your leg.

"It’d have blown our cover," he replies, infuriatingly calm. "Hate me later, our window has just narrowed by a bit."

You swallow, blinking to try and gain control over your breath again, grabbing your gun back with a short nod. "Let’s finish this, then."

***

Back at the Compound, you both give an exhausted report about the events of the night, leaving out nothing but your improvised kiss on floor fifteen.

Your lips are still tingling with it.

Finally, you and Bucky are left alone in the briefing room, and for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t just get up and leave as soon as the silence takes hold. Instead, you both sit next to each other, staring straight ahead.

"I guess we should talk," he says slowly, reluctantly, and you can’t help it.

Your defenses shoot up again.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," you say, squinting.

"Yes, you do." He’s lost the tie hours ago, but he keeps tugging at the fabric in his hands as if it could give him the words he’s looking for. "I shouldn’t have kissed you, not with … Not like that."

"Like you said, the guy would’ve blown our cover," you say, crossing your arms.

"Doesn’t make it right."

"What do you want me to say, Buck?" you say sharply. "That you should’ve talked to me before? Well, I’m kind of used to you not doing that anymore, so just forget it."

"Y/N—"

"No, really, it’s fine. Like I said, you’re leaving, anyway, so what does it matter. Didn’t tell me you were planning to do that, either. You just did it."

"You know why I’m leaving."

"No, I fucking don’t!" There are tears in your eyes now. "I have been trying really hard, Bucky, but you’ve just shut me out. I thought you needed space, which is fine, by the way, but you just—one day you decided you were done with me and that was it."

He stares at you incredulously. "You seriously don’t remember."

"Don’t remember what?!"

"That you were talking about me. To Natasha."

The memory rushes through you so violently it’s almost ridiculous you hadn’t thought about it in months.

You’d just come back from another undercover op, and you’d called her right as the door to your room had closed behind you because not for the first time, your feelings had threatened to spill over again.

"You should talk to him. Be honest."

"No, Nat, come on, I can’t—I can’t do that to him. I can’t risk … you know, he’s my best friend. And that’s all it can ever be. I don’t want to ruin what we have. I just wish he’d make it easier."

"You’re making excuses, you know. Both of you deserve a bit of happiness, don’t you think?"

"I tried," Bucky says now, barely looking at you. "I tried making it easier. But you’re so …"

"So what?" you ask hollowly, ignoring the fact that you can feel the tears starting to trickle down your cheeks now. "So pathetic? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That’s why you asked for the transfer, so you can be rid of me."

"Rid of you?" Bucky starts, but you ignore him.

"You know what, Bucky, fuck you if you think my feelings for you are so much of an inconvenience that you need to leave the state. Silly me for thinking we could be adults about this."

"You’re the one who wouldn’t just tell me."

"Well, now you know anyway and I’m sure once you’re off to Cairo or wherever the fuck they’re going to send you, you can have a big old laugh about the stupid girl who fell in love with you despite the fact that—"

"Love?"

"I mean, obviously?!"

"You … you’re in love … with me?" There’s something very soft and vulnerable in Bucky’s eyes.

"Are we talking about two different phone calls?"

"I thought you hated me."

You huff incredulously. "Why would I hate you?"

"That’s why I gave you space, I thought … but then …" He grabs your hands. "Sweetheart, I’ve been in love with you for years."

It punches the air out of your lungs. "What?"

Bucky’s eyes are devastating as he looks at you, then. "I’m so sorry, I—I got it all wrong, I was just—I thought you know and you didn’t see me like that and that’s why I …"

"You …?" you say, still not quite comprehending what’s going on.

His thumb caresses your knuckles, halting when it makes contact with the ring you’re still wearing. "I'm in love with you," he says quietly.

"I don’t understand," you whisper.

"Please tell me I didn’t fuck this up completely."

This time, you’re the one to lean in.

Where your first kiss in the hallway had been feverish, this one is soft, almost unbelievably sweet, both of you still breathless with the fact that you’re allowed to do this. Finally, it feels like all the pieces are falling into place and you’re home again.

You press closer into him and Bucky smiles against your lips, pulling you in with his hands on your hips just like he did when you were dancing earlier.

The loudspeakers overhead crackle. "Alright, kids, we’re gonna break this up until you’re back in your own quarters, I don’t want to expose FRIDAY to the creation of your sex tape."

You break up with a snort.

"Fuck you, Tony," Bucky shouts, but he’s still smiling as wide as you’ve ever seen him do.

You giggle as you nudge your nose against his, curling your fingers into his hair. "That reminds me, you know."

"Of what?"

"Quick and discrete," you mumble, repeating his words from the hotel. "Title of your sex tape."

Bucky groans and shuts you up again.

(A few years later, you get the ring back.)

happy holidays, y'all 💛 thank you for reading!! if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!!

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stcrklcver · 1 year

Text

body heat

Clint Barton x Reader

Prompt: “can we share the blanket?”

Summary: caught in the middle of a blizzard on the way back from a mission, the two of you have no choice but to cuddle up to keep warm. Or, the ‘only one bed’ trope in the backseat of an SUV.

Genre: smut/fluff

Word Count: 3,757

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stcrklcver · 2 years

Text

rose coloured glasses

pairings: marc spector x reader , steven grant x reader

desc: welcome back to the land of the living. are you ready to fight for your life?

warnings: injury, blood, angst, swearing, smoking, sex mentions, death, murder, reader is a killer, reader is a fairly bad person, absolutely heart breaking angst because i am a sadist

a/n: sigh this took so long to write sorry guys, two more parts after this then it’s done!! remember to reblog as it does far more than likes

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the breeze blew your hair slightly, but it wasn’t a cold breeze. more summery, warmer. if it was the middle of summer and a hot day, it probably would have comforted you. but it didn’t - not right now.

you were afraid, alone, in a place that seemed like it went on forever and ever without stopping to catch its breath.

“is this…?” you almost whispered, looking around.

hathor seemed to understand what you were asking anyway. “the field of reeds, yes.”

it took a breath out of you, that somehow by some miracle, you had made it to a kind of heaven. you never expected this - not one bit. you were sure you had a first class ticket, straight to hell.

“it seems that in reliving your most traumatic experiences-”

“i got over it, yeah.” you finished for her, turning back to look at her. “so is that it? am i- fuck, am i stuck here? forever?”

a beat.

“hathor?” you were fully facing her now, body parallel to hers.

“it’s risky, y/n. there’s no guarantee you’d make it.”

your head tilted. “but there’s a chance?”

“yes,” hathor breathed. “yes, i suppose. if you can make it to the gates of osiris and he choses to let you pass, then you can go back to earth. if not… if not, you’ll end up the same way as if your scales didn’t balance.”

it took you only a few moments to weigh up your options. stay here, in this beautiful place forever, or go back to your life and find your husband? or die - again - trying? you were willing to take those odds.

“take me back,” you mumbled, nodding. “take me back, please.”

just as the words had left your mouth, the world around you changed once again. it went back to the familiar purple-orange skies, laced with clouds. you never expected to be happy to see it - but you were. you were relived that maybe, just maybe, you’d make it back.

while you were standing on the wooden deck of a ship the last time you were here, this time you were surrounded in sand, your white canvas shoes bright against the golden colour.

that’s when it kicked in - your fight or flight. you had been standing in one spot for too long, fuck, were you even trying to get back to your husband? run. it was the first thing your mind told you to do - run, and run until you’re at the gates. run.

time didn’t pass. it was paralysed - hanging in the air and suffocating everyone in the room.

marc still held you, weeping into your body. steven stood completely still. what was he meant to do? he wasn’t built for this - in fact, part of him was that he was meant for the opposite - to forget that death even existed.

the silence encompassed the entire space, not even the occasional bang from a few floors up daring to enter the room.

“we-” layla was the first one to speak. “we should put her somewhere, marc, we can’t stay here.”

it seemed as though she was the only one thinking rationally, because marc shook his head vigorously, pulling you tighter into him.

marc, please. steven was thinking too. give me control, i’ll do it.

marc seemed to have been waiting for those words, and for the first time in a long time, marc was more than relived to give steven control of the body.

the weight of you was the first thing that shocked steven. he had held you before, felt your body weight on top of him more times than he could count, but this? this was different. you were completely limp, lighter, even. you had less blood inside you, steven knew that. but for a second - just a second - he would have thought your weight loss was a lack of soul. the life, gone.

“come on,” layla put a hand on his shoulder. “there’s a nicer place than this.”

standing up, steven shifted you in his arms so he could carry you bridal-style. he was covered in your blood, from his hands all the way to his shoes. god, what he would do to go back in time and swap places with you. what he would do to stop marc’s anger, because the last thing he ever felt towards you was rage. pure, utter, disgusting rage. steven hated it.

every single bit of it.

layla led the way, down the hall and back down the stairs. she knew harrow wouldn’t be there. why would he? half way through his speech she had worked out what he was trying to do - pin everyone against y/n and then let them find her body. make them feel guilt, sadness, anger - then they would be easier to get rid of.

all the rage she felt for you had now transferred to harrow. she was ready to kill him - truly. layla would let marc and steven mourn you, while she would avenge you.

the room she led steven to was a room that looked totally out of place in a pyramid - it was covered in flowers. before steven could even ask, she explained;

“no, these haven’t been here forever. the ground underneath here’s fertile, so flowers bloom. and because there’s a water source, the survive.”

steven nodded, looking around. almost every kind and colour of flower was present, from red roses to baby’s breath. there was a puddle of water - well, bigger than a puddle. not quite a pond, though.

it’s like this place was made for you, he thought.

“i’ll, um,” layla cleared her throat. “i’ll leave you.”

he whispered a thank you, but he wasn’t sure any words even came out. he wasn’t sure he could form any words right now.

“fuck,” you mumbled, the various weeds in the sand almost tripping you up.

the gates were in sight now - only a hundred or so meters away. you hoped to any god that someone - anyone - would give you some sympathy and let you pass.

as you moved towards the gates, the ground seemed to solidify, turning to a stone-like pavement under your feet the closer you got.

giant was the first word that came to your mind. huge, giant, looming gates. they looked smaller from further away, and as you stood almost underneath them, they must have been at least two hundred feet tall.

you came face to face with a set of doors as tall as your house, bright white light seeping from the bottom. not really knowing what to do, you brought a hand up to knock the door.

“y/n l/n.” a voice boomed before you managed to knock.

the volume made you flinch backwards, but the voice itself wasn’t particularly alarming - it sounded familiar, friendly almost.

“you weren’t due here for a long time yet,” it spoke as you looked for a source. “but i suppose no one really is. enter, y/n.”

white light engulfed you as the doors swung open, too bright for you to be able to see what you were walking into. blinking as you walked through, your eyes slowly adjusted to the light.

it was just that - light. a completely white room, so white that it was like colour never existed. you thought of that one scene from harry potter - something like that.

“now, hathor tells me you’ve come to plead your case, correct?”

“yeah,” your voice broke. “yeah.”

“alright, let me hear it.”

still looking for a source to the voice, your eyebrows furrowed. “sorry- um, what do you want to know, exactly?”

an apologetic sigh travelled across the room. “sorry, i forget that not everyone is as well versed in these proceedings as your husband.”

the thought of steven made your heart twinge.

“i am osiris, although i’m sure you gathered that. to be allowed passage back to the mortal world, you must prove to me that you a deserving of it.”

it was then that all the hope you had drained out of you. deserving? there were seven billion people more deserving than you.

“sound good? let’s start with good deeds. what have you done?”

“i-” you paused. what had you done? “i- um…”

“come on now,” the voice encouraged. “there’s got to be something. charity donations, saved lives?”

everything seemed to crumble around you. there really wasn’t anything. you’d spent your entire life as a bad person - fucking teachers, stealing, killing people. maybe what you really deserved was to be dragged back into the sand and stay there forever.

a tear fell, and you were quick to catch it.

“alright, i get it, tough question. what about you as a person?”

this was only getting harder - you as a person? should you tell him about all the times you’ve lied, every argument, every human being you’ve killed? it wouldn’t do you any good to lie right now, surely?

“please, i-” you couldn’t stop the lump in your throat. “this is pointless, i- please.”

a beat.

“why do you think this is pointless?”

you shook your head, not really knowing if someone was watching or not. “i amen’t… i’m not a great person, alright? it would be easier for both of us if you’d just let me-”

“but are you loved?”

the question took you by surprise. you paused, eyebrows furrowing. “what?”

“is there people who love you? would mourn you? would feel that by you being gone, their lives are worse?”

the first person you thought of was marc. then steven, and layla, your friends, coworkers- the lady across the street who’s cat you always fed while she was gone. they would mourn you.

“now,” osiris spoke. “now we might be getting somewhere. would someone mourn you, y/n?”

“i think so,” you nodded. “a few people.”

“a few people is better than none. would someone’s life be worst without you?”

it took everything in you to not laugh. you had always been the one to ruin lives, after all. “i mean, probably.”

“good. now let me ask you again, what good deeds have you done?”

you took a breath. “well, when i was younger, i used to babysit, um, before i got kicked out. and when i got kicked out i- like, i gave all my stuff to charity. i know it’s not a lot, but i think that’s good.”

osiris hummed. “alright. what about caring for someone, you ever do that?”

“yeah,” the thought brought a smile to your face. “my husband gets in fights a lot.”

“oh, yes,” he laughed. “thanks to one of our own, no doubt.”

“that old bird, yeah,” you mumbled, making him chuckle. “he always comes home bloody and bruised, so i was normally left to patch him up.”

“would he mourn you?”

something stung in your heart. you didn’t have to guess or use maybes this time. “yes.”

“then you might not be a lost cause after all - but, i have to say, y/n, overall it is not looking good for you.”

you had been expecting that. “how so?”

“well, you’ve killed over a hundred people. that’s - that’s a new record for someone your age. you’ve ruined lives, including your husbands. i mean, i don’t have to tell you what you did, but… y/n, why? why would you do that?”

“it’s… fuck, i feel awful for it,” you choked out. “it’s such a stupid reason.”

“but a reason nonetheless?”

sighing, you nodded. “bushman - raoul - he hated having to share the money with marc. he thought that marc was this total dick, who was never nice or considerate - a completely and utter cunt, really. at the time, i was dating anton, you’ll know all about that i’m sure.

“anton was the one who employed bushman, and marc. he wanted some relic from a temple, or something like that, and marc and raoul were the best on the scene - apart from me. it’s so fucking stupid, but…

“when i met bushman in that bar, anton and i were fighting. we always fought - all the time. he used to buy me shit and leave the price tag on to make me love him again, but this argument… this one was different, i mean.. he brought up my family, you know?

“so i was mad. seeing fucking red. so when i went to that bar, i saw the perfect opportunity to fuck things up for anton. get one of his crew to kill the other one? that would be a massive blow - i mean, he’d probably never see what he was aiming to get anyway, because bushman would have to go on the run. you don’t kill your partner, not in the mercenary world, anyway.

“and that’s what i did. i told bushman to kill marc, to just leave with the money. fuck - it was so stupid. it didn’t even fix anything, either. as soon as anton found out he went fucking mental. like, off the rails. screaming and yelling and punching walls. we broke up that night.

“and it wasn’t him who broke up with me, by the way. i was willing to apologise, but then he hit me. so it was game over.”

you took another breath. why did this still feel so raw? like it didn’t happen a decade ago?

“go on,” osiris prompted.

“that’s it. that’s why i did it. to get back at my boyfriend, who i ended up breaking up with a week later anyway. and look what it did, huh? fucked up everyones life.”

a moment of silence passed, you couldn’t quite tell if it was good silence or not.

“y/n,” osiris finally spoke. “all the memories you had to go through, i saw them as well. there’s things in there that you can’t explain. not just getting back at boyfriends - y/n, you’ve killed people. for the sake of killing people.”

you swallowed. had you really expected your shitty explanation to be enough? not really. you were what he made you out to be. a monster. the ruiner of lives, someone who only left death and sadness in her wake.

“i understand,” your voice was hoarse and gravelly, scratching its way up your throat. “please- please, just let me see him once more.”

“i’m afraid i can only show you what he’s doing at this moment, and he won’t be able to hear you, or see you. hathor can accompany you, and i will be watching.”

nodding, you watched the room around you shift and change, until you were standing in a completely different environment.

hathor was beside you once again, standing a few steps away. she looked almost disappointed, hurt that you hadn’t plead your case as well as you could have.

the room was completely out of place for where you assumed you were. the space was completely covered in greenery, flowers blooming from almost every corner and crack in the ground. there was a small well of water on the opposite side of the room, barely visible through the yellowed, dim lighting.

whatever this room was, it was beautiful.

footsteps broke your trance, your head snapping to the doorway.

it was layla who entered first, face blotchy and mascara slightly smudged under her eyes - with just that sight, you knew exactly what you were about to see.

steven stepped into the room, you in his arms. but you didn’t look at your body, only him. the way his hair was messy and tousled, his big brown eyes bloodshot and puffy, even his posture was different. shoulders slightly more slouched than normal, no longer a skip in his step.

it broke your heart.

the two came deeper into the room, steven pausing almost in the direct centre, never taking his eyes off of your body.

“i’ll, um,” layla cleared her throat. “i’ll leave you.”

if you hadn’t been listening carefully, you wouldn’t have heard steven’s almost nonexistent ‘thank you’, and for a moment you thought your mind was playing tricks on you. even his voice was different.

layla was also the first to leave, eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before she turned and walked out of the room. you noticed her jaw clench on her way out, eyes filling with a familiar fire.

time stopped. steven stood, completely unmoving, for at least a minute. after what felt like a million years, he fell to his knees.

you rushed over to him, forgetting for a moment that he didn’t even know you were there.

steven moved your body, so you were laying flat on the grass-and-flower-covered floor, a small amount of your blood still spilling out and onto the daisies below you.

it once again hit steven that he was not made for this. he could not process any of this - never mind come up with the words to say, to say goodbye. for the second time that day, he welcomed the switch.

you felt the room around you change, the air turning thicker and stuffier. it meant only one thing to you - marc.

“oh, god, baby,” he whined, bringing his hand to your hair. “my baby.”

tears stung in your eyes, and you too fell to the floor, opposite him with only your dead body separating you.

“i’m sorry, baby, ‘m sorry,” marc said, tears dripping onto your body. “this is all my fault, all my fault, i’m sorry.”

“no.” you spoke, not even caring that he couldn’t hear you. you meant it so much - so fucking much - that it’s weight would carry through to the living world. the single syllable held so much, so much pain, anger, sadness, that everyone on planet earth would hear it.

marc took a breath, hand still running through your hair. “i can’t- what am i meant to do? baby please, i can’t do this without you. i can’t, you know i can’t. neither… neither of us can.

“i’m sorry i was angry, baby, i know- i know you didn’t mean it. you didn’t know what would happen, you were so young. fucking bushman, it was his fault and only his. you didn’t pull that trigger and you never would.”

not taking your eyes off of him, you watched marc bubble out his last words to you.

“i love you so much. god, baby, i adore you. if i could, i would take all of this. every last bit. it would be me lying dead - fucking hell, it should be me lying dead. you don’t deserve this, you’re an angel.

“you’re my angel, baby. you saved me. over and over and over again, you saved me. you brought me back from the edge every fucking day and every fucking night. i wouldn’t be here without you.

“y/n, please, you can’t… i don’t know how to live without you, baby. it’s always been you. since the day we met, i have always loved you. fuck - maybe i’m the worlds worst husband at showing it, but i have loved you with every moment of my life.

“if i could take back every argument i would, i swear to god i would. i never, ever, deserved you. you should have been with someone better than me, someone who would love you properly and not treat you like shit.

“i think you knew that, though. but you fucking stayed. through it all. even when i told you about steven, you stayed. never cheated, never tried to leave. fucking hell, baby, i don’t know what i did to deserve you.” marc brought his spare hand to rub his eyes.

you didn’t even try to stop the tears coming at this point. you let them - let them fall down your face and create a little puddle, watering the flowers.

“from the day i met you, y/n, you saved me. even with all this khonshu bullshit, you… you were the only real superpower i ever had, baby.”

a hand flew to your mouth to stop the sob come out. it would have sounded more like a scream - this was torture. worse than you had ever endured in your entire life, this was the worst thing you had ever had to watch.

“i love you baby, so fucking much. i know what we said in our vows but death won’t ever change that. wherever you are, i will always love you,”

he moved your body, shifting you so that you were lying completely straight and flat, and marc took both of your hands and laid them across your stomach, your hand wearing your wedding ring on top.

marc leant down, kissing your lips one final time, holding your face as he pulled back. his tears still dropped, washing away tiny specs of blood that covered your face.

stared, not caring that a literal god was in the room (she was just as upset, for what it matters), sobbing like a child at the scene before you.

your husband pulled away, getting back onto his feet, although he seemed slightly wobbly. he looked down at your body, and for just a second - a spilt second - you swore he made eye contact with you, like he knew you were sitting there.

“forever and always, baby. i’ll be counting down the days until we meet again.”

as he walked out of the room, the scene around you once again faded to the bright-white room. you remained on the floor, chest heaving in broken sobs as hathor stood in the opposite corner.

this was it, you thought. you would never see him again, ever. forever would go by, and you would never hold your husband again. never would you kiss him, sleep next to him, feel him inside you.

you would never have children, never sit until god knows when with steven as he babbled on about something or other, never have him compliment you, never have one of steven’s cups of tea, never have to patch him up again, never-

a ringing noise invaded your ears, making you open your eyes.

was the room this colour last time? no, you would have sworn it was completely white. so why, why on earth was it getting darker?

hathor laughed from the corner, your head snapping to her.

“osiris,” she smiled. “you old softie.”

it was like waking up from a nightmare. pushing yourself up, gasping for air, covered in cold sweat.

everything hurt. aches and pains shot through your entire nervous system, sending alarm bells straight to your brain.

you blinked. and again, and again. what the fuck?

it was the same room. the same flower-covered, yellow lighting, little puddle of water, indent in the flowers from where marc had been sitting.

everything was the same.

but this time, you weren’t watching from a third person perspective. you weren’t weightless, you could feel your heart pumping - so strong you thought it might beat out of your chest.

you were alive.

how were you alive? had seeing your husband break down really had such a big effect on osiris? god, maybe he was a big softie.

this was a strange sensation. everything burned a little brighter, colours were more vibrant. where you would have heard silence before, you could now hear hundreds of sounds. you could feel your blood running through your veins, your eyes focusing and un-focusing in the light.

“holy shit,” you whispered. “fuck.”

as much as everything hurt, the pain in your head was far greater than anywhere else. you brought a hand to it, feeling a deep cut just about your right eyebrow - exactly where you were shot.

but hey, you would take a cut over a bullet any day of the week.

with the feeling that time was ticking by, you pushed yourself onto your feet, the sensation of blood rushing to the limbs almost being ticklish.

walking in the same footsteps as marc and layla had, you left the room, a trail of blood following. the hallway was dead silent, quieter than you would have expected. were people still even here? you had no idea how long had passed from when you had died.

a bang down the corridor answered your question.

feet slightly unsteady as you walked to the source of the noise, you came closer to the room, bangs getting louder with every step.

find khonshu’s ushabti.

you flinched, instantly looking for the source of the voice. it was one that you recognised, mind registering it has hathor’s voice.

“what?” you hissed.

silence. find khonshu’s ushabti? like, those little stone things steven had told you gods get put into when they misbehave? surely khonshu wasn’t sentenced to that, you thought. but then your better judgment kicked in. he was on his last chance, after all.

“alright,” you nodded, talking to thin air. “sure.”

making your way down the hall, every room was empty. there could only have been two or three rooms left, and you’d need a lot of luck to find the exact item you needed in one of them.

voices sounded from outside the hall, making you question where exactly you were. they were echoing, as if in a massive chamber. what the hell?

quickly walking to the nearest exit, you poked your head around the corner.

surely fucking not. surely.

was this… the pyramid of giza? here? it sure looked like it, judging by the huge statues of different gods and massive interior.

what an impressive place to say you died in, you thought.

you watched the people in the chamber, they seemed to be waiting for someone. you hoped it wasn’t-

harrow walked into the chamber, coming from the corridor right next to you, everyone instantly turning to look at him. for fucks sake.

it was hard to make out exactly what he was saying, but in his hand was what you recognised as an ushabti. not khonshu’s, though, right? you prayed it wasn’t, because your job would have gotten ten times harder if it was.

harrow went silent for a second, before he threw the ushabti to the ground, making you flinch slightly.

sand collected around where it had smashed, the cloud getting taller and taller by the second, becoming more dense and coloured - until a massive creature was left.

your jaw dropped. this thing - this god - was exactly how steven described ammit. the exact thing that you were trying to stop harrow getting his hands on.

“fuck,” you whispered, seeing ammit get used to being out of her stone casing.

the urgency of finding khonshu’s ushabti pressed into you, your eyes scanning for a hopeful-looking corridor. then you realised - harrow had came from the next corridor over. with an ushabti.

you almost ran into the next corridor, praying no one spotted you. this hallway instantly seemed more promising, small torches lining your way.

the corridor opened into a single room. a huge, dimly lit room, the most noticeable feature being the hundreds of shelves on the wall. bingo.

rushing to the shelves, your eyes scanned for anything that you recognised as khonshu, starting from the top row down. you were beginning to lose hope when you reached the bottom rows, but there it sat.

a perfect depiction of khonshu.

picking it up, the grainy texture was cold in your hands - but it wasn’t in your hands for long. you threw it to the ground, a similar cloud of sand gathering around the impact area.

you never understood what marc meant when he said khonshu was terrifying. how scary could a big bird be? well, you were eating your words.

a massive skeletal figure looked over you, crescent shaped staff casting a shadow on your face.

y/n spector is back among the living, then. khonshu said, his voice booming in your ears.

“yeah, looks that way, doesn’t it?”

his massive head tilted. and here i expected your husband to have the attitude.

you scoffed. why did everyone always think marc was the only tough one?

ammit has been released.

turning to look at him, you couldn’t hide your impatience. “no shit, sherlock.”

a gust of wind blew through the room, making you laugh lightly. steven was right about his temper tantrums.

we must bind her in something more powerful than an ushabti - a human. khonshu stated.

you were about to nod, but then it hit you; “we?”

khonshu paused. only an avatar can bind someone. marc is not strong alone.

it almost made you laugh. “fuck no. i’ve seen what you do to marc.”

your husband will die if you don’t.

taking a few steps away, you shook your head. “i will do anything but that.”

and khonshu was gone. to see marc and steven, presumably, but gone nonetheless. god, you couldn’t stand him.

another bang sounded, far closer to you this time. the force of it shook dust and sand from the ceiling, some of it falling onto your head.

only an avatar can do it, and marc will die if you don’t. for fucks sake, why did it have to be you? of all people to manipulate into this, why you? which god would possibly take you as an avatar?

oh. oh.

“hathor?” you whispered, only half expecting a response.

a beat.

“hathor?” it came out more urgent than last time. “please.”

it was a strange feeling, a god speaking through you. it took you by surprise, feeling your mouth move with words that were not your own; yes, y/n?

“make me your avatar.” you were begging by this point.

i can, but it’s not that simple, you know?

“please,” you hissed, falling against a nearby wall. this was a weird feeling. “you can give me the ins and outs later, just please-”

a bang, before the ceiling right in front of you crumbled, almost squashing you where you stood.

then you felt it; your entire body being overtaken, like your heat beat went backwards, a tingling in your fingertips.

as the rubble cleared, you saw the chamber in front of you. looking down at yourself, you noticed the change of clothes.

material the same reddish-colour as hathors dress covered your body, gold detailing on the sides. it was a strange material - soft but harsh, protecting your body.

“nice outfit choice,” you smiled.

thank you. something special for my new avatar.

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