#I actually have drawn FIVE pictures of this kid in action and had to delete one because she didn't like the face on one of them???

[crownedinmarigolds]

A lil grumpy with my art commissioner and just wanna vent publiclyish a smidgen. (NONE of you on here, this is the supervisor that wanted me to draw her grandkids) The finish line just keeps getting moved... I'll patch up the drawing with her notes, and then she gives MORE notes but in regards to things that should've been given to me AGES ago. She now wants me to update the coloring on the skintone of these various action shots of her grandson... I've had this colored for a month now! How frustrating!! I want to pull my hair out.

[elsewhereuniversity]

About Face

“Do you have any questions about your prescriptions today, uh…m-miss?” The pharmacist’s question is laced with assumptions about who you are. It’s not great, of course, but it’s also not worth your time to fight about today.

“No, I’m good,” your smile and voice are sugary-sweet, but your eyes are daggers as you take the bag and turn back towards the door. The heat and humidity are already staggering at 8 am and you are immediately made sticky by the brief walk to your car. As you start it up, there’s a brief chime of email-receiving from your phone, but you ignore it. Then there’s another ding, this time your lab-mate, Valerie, texting you.

Hey, u almost in?                                                                                     In like 30min. had to stop by pharmacy

K. Jill was looking for u. Also ugh that paper for tomorrow, I’m not even a  birdsong person lol

Lol get over it, I had to read one of your fancy neuro papers last time. Did jill say what she needed me for?

Whatever lol. She didn’t say.

                                                                        Ughhhhhhh

Jill, Dr. Dominguez, is your advisor, and you know you need to get her some figures and sections of your thesis soon, but these damn stats…well. There’s a reason you prefer spending your time traipsing off-trail through the wilderness over sitting in front of a computer all day. Not that this part isn’t interesting and important too, but come on.

Traffic is moving at a sluggish pace, of course, so you’re lost in contemplation and dread of the analyses you need to attempt running today, and the inevitable conversation with Dr. Dominguez that will have to happen at some point. As the traffic finally begins to move, you grit your teeth. Maybe it’s time to consider actually asking for help. I have no fucking clue how to do multivariate shit…You stare ahead as you inch forward, before a frustrating, jolting stop at a red light. Your eye is drawn to a kid crossing the road, wearing a grey hoodie. They look forlorn, for some reason you can’t entirely enumerate, and you glance back at them as the light finally turns.

The sun isn’t very high yet, so there are still some odd shadows stretching across the sidewalk, but you could’ve sworn that the kid had no face.

****

You manage to put the pharmacist and your grandma and the obviously-just-a-trick-of-the-light-I-mean-how-else-could-that-be faceless kid out of your mind for the rest of the morning and actually get some results you can work with from the analyses you’d been worried about. And when Dr. Dominguez pops into lab to talk to you, she is actually impressed at both the pace and quality of work you’ve delivered thus far. In fact, you’re feeling pretty damn good about everything, despite the earlier unpleasantness, so you decide to grab some lunch and hang out with some of the other grad students and lab techs.

Lunch-special sushi in hand, you plop yourself down at one of the rundown old tables in the work room. Valerie is there, along with Raul, one of the grad students from a micro lab down the hall, and Jackson, one of the general lab techs. Everyone says hi, but you’re only vaguely following the conversation as you dig into your spicy tuna roll. Something something TA stipends being cut. Which is such bullshit, of course, but nothing new. You’re just about to jump into the discussion when you get a Facebook notification. It’s your cousin, who tagged you in a post. You stare for a good five seconds at your phone.

Just remembering the good times with my cousin before he decided to be a transsexual.

And then a picture from when you were 14, a picture you’d thought you’d deleted from every conceivable online location. A picture that highlights pretty much every single aspect of your body that made staying in the closet completely untenable. Everything just always happens at once, huh.

“Fucking asshole,” you mutter, and are surprised to feel the hot prick of tears in your eyes.

“Becca, you alright?” Valerie asks, and you belatedly realize that everyone at the table heard you and is now staring. They think you were talking about one of them, or responding to something they said.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. Just something my cousin posted. She’s—she can be such a jerk. Don’t worry about it,” you say as you hastily wipe away the tears.

“What’d she do?” Jackson asks. Valerie glares at him so fiercely that he rolls his eyes and holds up his hands, “Just, like, if you wanna talk about it.”

You sigh. You’re not precisely going stealth, but you also don’t just talk to everyone about being trans. Have you actually come out to Jackson? Valerie knows, and Raul, but you don’t think you’ve ever directly talked to Jackson about it.

“It’s—it’s fine. Just, she posted a picture of me from before I came out, and I really hate thinking about any of it.” You speak with a bit more force than you intend.

“Why is that a big deal?” Jackson asks, taking a bite of his pasta. Valerie glares at him again and Raul just shakes his head.

“It’s just…it took me a long time to figure it out, and I don’t particularly like being reminded of that. And it’s not great for dysphoria, either.” You say this distractedly as you go to the post and untag yourself.

“That’s really rough,” Raul says, frowning.

“Sorry, what’s that word?” Jackson asks with a raised eyebrow, “I guess I just don’t get it? It’s just a kid picture of you, what’s it matter?”

And that does it. You stand abruptly, “I need to get back to the lab.” You hear Valerie and Raul berating Jackson as you walk away, but you’re just so very done. You toss the empty sushi container in the trash at the corner of the hallway, near one of the windows overlooking the main walkway through campus. And you nearly trip over your own feet as you swivel to double check something down below. A gray hoodie. A child with no face looking over their shoulder as they turn a corner.

****

You don’t mean to take the wrong street. It’s already been far too long a day between all of the inanity with your extended family and Jackson. And everything you tried to run after lunch was a bust, making you feel like Dr. Dominguez’s praise earlier was completely undeserved. Given all of that, you decided to get takeout again, even though you really should be cooking, so you’re walking to pick up your order. It is early evening, the shadows having elongated to embrace nearly everything, and while debating whether it’s even worth confronting your cousin about the jab, your feet simply take you the wrong way. You don’t even notice, until you’re standing in front of an empty park that’s three blocks over from where you should be. Or, wait.

Not empty. One lone figure, sitting quietly on one of the swings, wreathed in shadow.

You’ve been walking quite quickly, but over the course of a few steps have come almost to a stop. With a shiver, you glance around the area, but no parents or adults are in sight, and the figure looks young, even from a distance. 12, maybe? Maybe the kid lives in one of the nearby houses? Probably. Should you call someone? Who? Not the cops. They’d just as soon arrest or hurt the kid as help them. It isn’t that late, leaving the kid be is probably the most prudent course of action.

But. The kid feels…familiar. Even from a hundred meters, you can see that their shoulders are hunched, their hands are tight on the chains of the swing. The gentle creaking as those chains move with the slight shifts of the kid’s body is despondent in a way that is known to you, somehow. So, against your better judgement, you leave the sidewalk and walk across the damp grass to the edge of the playground. When you step onto the sand, the kid’s head jerks up and their shoulders tense further, raising almost to their ears. You stop walking and from the new angle a streetlight throws the kid’s grey hoodie into stark relief.

“Are-are you okay?” you have to clear your throat to get the words out and your voice sounds weak and tinny in the still, silent park.

The shoulders shrug. The kid is also wearing jean cutoffs, their scuffed sneakers unlaced.

“Do you need me to call someone?”

A sharp shake of the head, and then their hands release the chains and fall into their lap.

“Don’t need anything,” the kid’s voice is low, you can barely hear what they’re saying. Gingerly, you take the last few steps to the swing set and awkwardly settle into one of the worn rubber seats. Only after you have already done this do you think to question why you are so compelled to talk to this child who—maybe? how?—has been dogging you all day.

“I said I don’t need anything,” the kid says in an emotionless voice. Their face is still completely shadowed by their hood and shaggy hair.

 “I just—look, kid, I think I’ve been where you are, and—”

The kid cuts across you, “I tried to tell them today. But I…couldn’t, I didn’t know how to, so I just ended up saying I like girly shoes and wanted some or whatever.”

Oh. So you were right. You know exactly what’s going on. In fact, you’re pretty sure you had that precise conversation, once.

“That’s tough,” you acknowledge, slowly pushing back in the swing, which creaks beneath you, “It took me a long time too.”

There’s silence. Then:

“That’s what I was worried about.”

You start and quickly glance over at the kid, who has finally turned to face you.

She doesn’t have a face, which, you suppose, really shouldn’t be a surprise. You weren’t seeing things, earlier. There’s just a smooth expanse of dark olive skin. The featureless head tilts to one side and she speaks again.

“I thought you might recognize me.” The voice is plaintive. With every word, you feel a sense of vertigo, like there is a mouth, somewhere, that is making those sounds, that it’s right in front of you, but you cannot perceive it.

You are breathing very rapidly, “I thought—how do you know me? What’s, I mean—”

“This?” the kid gestures at her face, “I don’t know, I can see but I can’t see myself, I dunno what’s going on. All I know is I was walking to the park and then I was here, or I mean, on the road this morning and saw you and I followed you and I just want to go home or just sleep or just melt away but I can’t, okay? There’s just nothing.”

Without noticing, you have sprung to your feet and are backing away from the faceless girl, the faceless girl who can’t tell her parents who she is. Who you are.

“I didn’t want to think about it,” you whisper. Why are you even responding to this? This is a hallucination, or a dream. You’re just reacting to the whole bullshit situation with your cousin and Jackson and that fucking pharmacy tech. Did you fall asleep back in the lab, is that it? You pinch yourself, but no luck, “I came out and that was what I needed. Okay? Why dwell on, on, on all of that shi—stuff that happened before?”

The girl is still sitting placidly in the swing, though her hands are once again clenched around the chains.

“I knew you were me, I guess. So I followed. I don’t think anyone else notices me either, not that that’s anything new,” The note of bitterness in her voice cuts you to the bone, “I thought maybe you—me, future me, whatever—would be able to…fix me? But nothing’s changed, has it?”

You’re backed up to the slide now, “Why are you doing this? What even are you?”

You slump against the side of slide, your knees suddenly weak, “This cannot—this is bullshit, I don’t know how you’re doing this, but—”

The faceless girl is in front of you now, hands jammed into the front pocket of her hoodie. She stands there, contemplating her future self, “I just want to understand,”

The kid, proto-Becca, or whatever or whoever she is, sure sounds like a kid desperately trying to make sense of something, and not some ghoulish nightmare creature.

“Just stop,” you say in a hoarse voice, “I just don’t want to think about it, I shouldn’t have to think about it, I just want to move forward.”

“Yeah,” proto-Becca abruptly falls to her knees, and draws them up to her chest. It takes a few seconds for you to understand the sounds that the kid is making are sobs.

You hug your own knees and contemplate getting up and running away and just forgetting about all of it: this faceless phantom of your childhood self, your relatives’ inability to accept your reality, the absurd, useless, pointless stats and analyses. You’re crying too, desperately trying to refocus on the here and now, instead of being drawn down into the rabbit hole of loneliness and regret and fear that always consumes you when you think too hard about those years in which it felt like your whole body was turning against you and you couldn’t find any satisfactory explanations for what you were feeling.

But the sounds of proto-Becca, of proto-you, sobbing into her knobbly knees bring you back to the present. Ironic, that. No matter what else, however she got here, whatever happened to her face, she’s a kid. She’s a kid. She’s. A. Kid. You were a kid.

You furiously wipe your eyes and nose and sit up, scooting a bit closer to proto-Becca.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” you say in as steady a voice as you can manage, “I was scared, and, and, and I lashed out. It’s not your fault, kid.”

She doesn’t lift her head, but the sobs are quieter.

“I mean, kid, no offense, but you don’t have a face. And somehow you’re me, right?” Okay, that came out meaner than you meant it to, “The truth is that I’ve done my best to forget pretty much everything that happened back when I was…you, I guess. But I can’t.”

She sniffles, “I’m trying to tell them, I am. But the boys at school, every time I try to talk to Mom or Dad I see those boys laughing and yelling and coming at me and I can’t, I don’t—know how I ended up here, or what to do about this or anything. I just want things to be normal.”

And, finally, you get it. Not why she’s here, or how, or what any of this means, but, at least, what to do. You’ve tried to help kids who were like you before. You’d never have told them that they needed to keep their feelings concealed, that they needed to not do anything so as to avoid reminding you of your own past. So why, then, are you doing it to yourself?

“Is it okay if I come sit next to you, maybe give you a hug?” you ask, as gently as you can.

You get a glimpse of the faceless face from behind the curtain of hair, “I—I think so?”

You get to your feet, a task far more laborious than you feel it should be, and cross to her. When you plop down by her side, she twitches, but it’s toward you. Slowly and carefully, you wrap an arm around her narrow shoulders, and hold her close. She’s still crying, and the hood has slipped from her dark curls.

“It’s okay that it’s taking time,” you say, “It’s really, really hard. I meant that. There’s…nothing out there. No one to explain to you, to, uh, us, what these feelings mean, really. I remember. I remember how much it feels like you’re just stuck in the same looped computer program. Endlessly completing the same actions with no idea why, only feeling like something isn’t right. And so scared of what happens if you do anything that breaks that loop.”

“That’s pretty much it,” she says with a note of wait, that wasn’t completely in my head???, “I don’t see how I can explain to anyone, especially Mom and Dad.”

“I think all you can do is be honest. There are some resources out there, although maybe they aren’t published yet,” you glance sideways at her, “But if you just…elucidate those feelings you’ve been sitting on, it at least opens the door to them comprehending.”

“I guess so,” she sighs, and then giggles, “But also, like, no offense, that was, like, a really freakin’ pretentious way to say that.”

You snort and ruffle her hair, “Whatever. Something for you to look forward to, then.”

She’s quiet for a bit and then, quick like a bird, she wraps her arms around you too, “So I’m gonna tell them, then?”

You shrug, “When you’re ready. Whenever that is. And I promise, you are no lesser if it takes a while. Okay?”

“But you’re still going to hate thinking about me, right? I mean, about how long it took me, you, to finally do it?” her head tilts.

You sigh, “I don’t know. It’s hard, I won’t pretend it isn’t. But I think I can at least say that it’s okay. That it’s not my, or your, fault.”

When you look up, her face appears. Smile first. Broad and full of braces, her quick and nervous brown eyes darting to your face and then back to her knees.

“You’ll be fine,” you say, giving her one last squeeze, “I’m the living proof, right?”

Her laugh lingers in the air as she fades away.

x

[karls-writing-space]

『 Backstory 』

➵ Any TWs? :

➵ Subtle Mentions of Transphobia.

➵ Beau Romano - his deadname being Bianca - was born a year after his older sister, Faye. He lived with his semi-wealthy parents, Camilia and Dylan Romano in Manitoba.

When he was in second grade, Beau began to have a big sprout of creativity. He had drawn pictures of people and anthropomorphic animals, and create small little tales about these people/animals he has drawn. He Drew more and more of these as time slowly passed, and he enjoyed telling stories about these drawings. This had grown into a hobby, and something he enjoyed thoroughly.

His older sister came out when she was nine that she felt like a girl and that she was attracted to girls. Now, their parents are very accepting people and proceeded to assist and support Faye - who was formerly known as Lovino - get what she needed to transition.

Beau happily cheered on his big sister on, supporting her and showering her with love. He celebrated her transitions and her relationships happily, happy that he had such a prideful older sister.

By the time Beau was ten, he had begun to experiment with his sexuality by feeling some weird way towards a guy in music class. He talked with this guy more and more, and these feelings continued to grow.

After a couple of weeks, he felt the same way towards a girl in music class too. The feeling for the boy stayed, but now he had feelings for a boy and a girl.

One day, while walking to school with his mom, he heard two girls behind him talking about the people they liked. One of the girls had said that she was Bisexual, to which little Beau tugged on his mother's sleeve and asked what "Bisexual" meant. The woman explained that it was when someone liked two or more genders.

Beau put that into thought, and not even a minute later, he exclaimed "I'm Bisexual!"

His mom smiles and ruffled her son's - then daughter's - head. While Beau was still a kid, and she thought that Beau didn't know what he was talking about, the boy knew exactly what he was talking about.

Those feelings of the boy and girl faded over time. When Beau was twelve, he had fallen for another person. There had been this really cute girl in class who enjoyed drawing, and boy, what a talented artist she is.

Slowly, but surely, Beau began to fall in love with this girl, and spent time with her. Months went by, and the two had fallen in love.

The girl had confessed to Beau, which he accepted.

These two were a great, healthy Lesbian couple at the time. They were both very happy and loving. Beau had welcomed his girlfriend into the family, to which they welcomed with open arms.

The relationship lasted for two years until they fell out of love. The spark was gone. Their breakup wasn't nasty - they awkwardly stated that they lost that romantic spark on both sides. Beau had turned thirteen at the time. Beau and his ex-lover are on good terms to this day.

Once puberty hit, Beau looked at the body he had at the moment. He didn't quite fit with how it was. It made him feel like he didn't fit in a girl's body. He wanted to cut off his developing melons. So, he decided to talk to Faye later that evening, whom had fully transitioned. She was a beautiful woman. As he talked to her about what had been up, Faye stated that Beau could be Transgender, and even gave him a few articles on Gender Dysphoria.

Weeks of looking into gender identities later, Beau took the label "Trans Male" and used it to describe himself. With encouragement from Faye, he came out to his parents, who accepted him. He didn't want to transition as quickly as Faye, and wanted to take it slow. Testosterone and binding first.

As he grew older, Beau got bullied for being a Transgender Bisexual man. He was experiencing Transphobia from a few of his fellow peers. He knew that not everyone would accept him for being who he was, but this hurt quite a bit. Being bullied for this wasn't fair - he had every right to express himself! - but nooo, people were idiots.

His love for writing had grown more and more over the years. He began to write little stories that he presented in school and posted online. People loved his little stories. Whether they were fanfiction or characters and universes he had created in his head, they received a lot of positive feedback. Sure, there were haters, bullies, trolls, and rude people in general, but Beau didn't pay attention to them too much.

Beau had gotten top surgery when he was fifteen. He had been on testosterone for a year, and he had been binding for that time being. He loved his new, flat chest. Sure, he would have a scar on his chest from the surgery, but it didn't really bother him. He was happy that his tibbies were deleted. Now he could feel like a guy somewhat.

During the time passed from fourteen and fifteen years old, Beau had been watching a show known as "Total Drama" with Faye. The show was appealing to the young teen. The risky challenges were entertaining, most of the cast was likable, and it was really entertaining for the young boy. He'd talk about joining the show every now and then and would think about what his label or cliche would be on the show.

Timeskip to now, Beau and Faye are sixteen and seventeen respectively. After watching an ad to audition for the next season of Total Drama, Faye looked over at her little brother.

"Hey... You should audition to be on there!"

Beau, liking the idea, auditioned for the show. Once his audition was seen, Beau was invited to be on a season of Total Drama.

『 Voice Claim 』

『 Miscellaneous Facts』

➵ Theme Song

➵ Quotes

"O-Oh, hello...!"

"I'm Beau. It's nice to meet you!"

"It's too people-y in there. I-I'd like to stay right here."

"He's... Kinda pretty."

"Are you lonely? I could hang out with you if you'd like."

"I-It's not a diary! It's just a journal that I put my writing and ideas in."

"Sorry, I'd rather be by myself. I-It's nothing personal -- I j-just don't like large groups of people."

"Sorry... I'm rambling again, aren't I? Sorry about that..."

"He's a... He's a man. And I'm just a boy."

"Ciao, bello..!" (Hello, handsome..!)

"Aren't you guys a little too old for a bedtime story?"

"Fine, fine. Once upon a time, there were a few guys on an island who needed to go the fuck to sleep. G'night, guys."

"What do you mean that 'isn't a good bedtime story? I think it's a brilliant story."

"Fine... There was once this God named Fóllame de lado-"

"Hey - do you wanna fuck around with the others?"

"H-Hey! I apologize for interrupting what you were doing, but... I'd like to confess something if that's o-okay? Look, I'll cut to the chase. I... love you, dude. And not in some bromance way. Like... I have romantic feelings for you. I love you so much I could scream it to the world..! I hope you f-feel the same way. And if you don't? That's p-perfectly fine."

"Good morning, mio amore."

"Sorry, but could you like, shut up for five seconds? Thanks..."

➵ Ship Names (OC X Crush or OC X OC)

Duncan x Beau = BeauDun/ BeauCan

DJ x Beau = BJ / BeauJ

Alejandro x Beau = AleBeau

Mike x Beau = Meau/Bike

Lightning x Beau = Blightning/BeauLight

Topher x Beau = Beaupher / Beaupher

Shawn x Beau = Sheau / Bawn

➵ Random Facts

• If they're comfortable, Beau calls his male friends "Bello" (Handsome), and his female friends "Bella" (Beautiful).

For Nonbinary folk, it depends on what they prefer.

•Beau has learned how to play the ukelele from Faye.

•He would actually like to go windsurfing sometime!

• Speaking of his sister, she's a well-known acrobat/performer for her age. He admires her for being so talented in such a thing..

• His sister is an extrovert, and more outgoing than Beau. The two are opposites,,but yknow, opposites attract!

•Beau prefers to write stories that are/include horror, action, and supernatural/fantasy. He can write romantic stories, but he doesn't prefer writing things like that.

•He has written some shitty fanfictions when he was younger. He will share them among his friends and laugh at what he wrote.

•The languages he speaks are:

• English

•Italian

• (Some) Spanish. [Italian and Spanish are similar language-wise in a few ways. That, and Beau just wanted to learn Spanish.]

• Respectful boi when it comes to Pronouns, Names, People's likes and dislikes, etc.

•Beau has some family members that live in Italy. He has gone to Italy to visit them numerous times.

• Beau doesn't believe in soulmates. He thinks that it's just some fairytale thing that people believe in. He wants to love someone on his own accord - not someone who the universe was like "Oh, let's put these people together.".

♫♪.ılılıll|̲̅̅●̲̅̅|̲̅̅=̲̅̅|̲̅̅●̲̅̅|llılılı.♫♪

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

[tisfan]

Ooohh holiday prompts! Either 'invitation' or 'parade' for Winteriron please!

“Hey,is this Bucky Barnes, from Bucky’sBroken-heart Blog?” the voice onthe phone was chipper, excited, and spoke as if the guy had drunk entirely toomany venti frappes in a row.

Bucky held his cell phone away fromhis ear for a moment to glare at the screen. What the hell? Okay, so his phonenumber technically was listed in the bio section of his blog, but who the fuckever looked at that, and for that matter, why the hell was someone calling himabout his blog? Most people who bothered to call him were bill collectors andhis mom.

“Yes?” Bucky said.

“You sound uncertain,” the mansaid. “You answer ‘how to get over your ex’ letters on the internet?”

“Yes,” Bucky said, again. That muchwas true, he did do that. It had started as a joke, really, him screaming intothe void about his journey to get over Alexander Pierce, and then later makingdark humor jokes about his ex, and then later, answering self-help sort ofquestions from other people with similar problems.

He’d ended up being able tomonetize bitching about Alex in a public forum, and somehow, that had ended upbeing the best revenge ever.

“This is Tony Stark, DJ with WBAC,the Wayback FM, 98.3 on your dial for your smiles,” the man said, “and I’d loveto have you come in for an interview on our morning show, for the localcommute… we’d compensate you for your time, of course.”

Bucky held the phone out again,stared blankly. “Did I get an invitation to do a radio show? Is that what thisis?” Did people even listen to the radio anymore? Bucky was a Pandorasubscriber, and his friend Steve was constantly arguing that Spotify was betterif you liked Indie bands. (Bucky didn’t, really. He liked music that he wasfamiliar with, so he could just tune it into the background and sing, insteadof having to look up lyrics online – and while he was thinking about it, hefelt bad for people who used to listen to the radio before the internet, andmaybe he should be jotting these things down, because music was a big thing inboth relationships and post-relationships, and there were certain songs he’dlistened to after Alex proved himself to be a cheating bastard of a boyfriend…and maybe he should pay attention, because the guy on the phone was asking ifthe call had been dropped.)

“Sorry,” Bucky said. He wasn’t,really. Who the hell talked on the phone these days, either? “I got lost in myown thoughts.”

“Oh, well, that happens to the bestof us. Anyway, come on down to the studio – is Wednesday two weeks fromtomorrow too early –” pause “–great, we’ll do that, Wednesday at 6am, andwe’ll work you in. Compensation, I said that, right? Write you a check and feedyou donuts. Great! See you then!”

Bucky sighed. Apparently he wasdoing a radio interview. At least he probably didn’t have to dress up.

Turned out that Tony Stark, themorning DJ, was actually pretty funny, even if Bucky resented the fuck out ofhaving to get up early in the morning to listen to the show. (What the fuckeven was morning? He was a blogger for fuck’s sake. He didn’t do mornings!)He and his co-host, Pepper Potts, did a rapid patter that was entertaining andslick. And, a point in the station’s favor; they didn’t do the typicaldumb-guy, smart-girl routine. In the days that Bucky managed to wake up enoughto listen to the show, Pepper definitely came across as the sane host, and Tonywas the crazy guy who was up for anything, but neither of them wascondescending to the other, even in jest.

Tony did have a group of excitablefans that called themselves the Tony Stark Defense Squad; every day that Buckylistened, at least one of them called in to the show, usually to gush about anevent Tony had attended, or how sweet, smart, and brave Tony was. There wassome history there that Bucky wasn’t getting, obviously.

And there were no punch-down jokes,which Bucky appreciated. He’d had his entire sexuality made out as a punchlinefor a lot of his life, so not hearing any cracks on women, gays, people ofcolor, etc, made him pretty happy. (Well, as happy as he could be at seven inthe damn morning. Tony better have quality donuts. And coffee.)

By the time Bucky was ready to goon the show, he had to admit, he kinda had a little bitty crush on Tony Stark.Which was entirely doomed, he knew that. Everyone had heard the phrase “a facefor radio” and Tony probably didn’t look anything like what Bucky wasimagining. And, of course, the real Tony probably wasn’t much like radio Tony,even like Bucky wasn’t entirely like his blog persona.

The one who had his life togetherand who dared to give advice as if he was qualified for it. But whenever hisreaders wrote to tell him how much just having someone that listened, andcared, about their heartbreak, helped them, he couldn’t give it up. No matterhow much of a faker he felt he was.

He arrived at the station, day ofthe interview, a little early. He wouldn’t confess under threat of torture thathe’d mapped out his route twice on google maps, and had made the drive once,just to make sure. Bucky didn’t usually… go places. He had his routine downthat included getting a local service to deliver his groceries (he bought wayless Twinkies if he didn’t walk past the display, not to mention chips andstring cheese.) and going out maybe twice a month to anyplace that wasn’tClint’s house, or Steve’s place, or sometimes he did things with Nat when shedecided he needed some sort of cultural exposure, but she always drove for that.

“Hey,” Bucky said to thereceptionist, a skinny kid with a large nametag that read Peter.“I’m James Barnes, I’m here for–”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Barnes, I know,I’ve been waiting for you, thank God you’re here, Mr. Stark’s been climbing thewalls, well, you know, not literallyclimbing the walls, but… let’sget you down to the white room and we’ll do some quick publicity shots whileyou’re still fresh. Mr. Stark tends to frazzle people, so just– yeah, thisway, come on…”

Peter led Bucky down the hall to aroom with a huge light-box. A woman with a comb and a makeup kit did a fewquick adjustments before Peter shooed her away with a “photoshop is a thing!”admonishment. He took a few dozen pictures, headshots, and dynamic poses andthen had Bucky jump into the air a few times to get “action” shots.

Bucky was panting for breath and alittle sweaty by the time Peter directed him to Studio Four. Of course. He wasabsolutely not at his best when he was introduced to the most beautiful manBucky had ever seen.

Why the hell was this guy a radiodisc jockey? He could have been a movie star. Perfect face, gorgeous hair,adorable little goatee. And oh, holy fuck, when he turned around to introduceBucky to the co-host, Pepper, Bucky’s gaze was drawn down to the most beautifulass in history. Like, there should be a monument to that backside.

Pepper, when she shook Bucky’shand, smiled, her eyebrows up, as if she knew exactly what Bucky was thinking.And didn’t exactly disapprove.

“Welcome to the morning show,” shesaid. “Sit down, I’ll get you a donut. Here, look over this list, Tony’s selecteda bunch of breakup songs to play around your interview, let me know if any ofthem are triggering for you, and I’ll strike it off the list. We’ll be on afive minute delay during the interview, so if there’s a question you’reuncomfortable with, or something you don’t want to talk about, just say so, andwe’ll delete that. We’re here to promote you, and entertain our listeners, notmake anyone unhappy.”

“Does everyone around here drinkhigh octane?” Bucky whined, just a little bit plaintive. There was way too muchawake and go-go-go for this early in the morning.

“Yes, yes, we do. Coffee is awonderful thing, divine invention and all that,” Tony said. He pressed a cupinto Bucky’s hand. “And here’s yours. I don’t know how you like it, but we’vegot all the fixings back here. And you’ll sit there; chocolate donut okay? Ofcourse it is, what kind of heathen doesn’t like chocolate, well, aside fromPep, but she’s every sort of heathen, so that answers that question.”

“Yeah, okay, chocolate, yeah, that’s…you’re fine, I’m–”

Tony smirked. “I know I’m fine,” hesaid, winking. “You’re not so bad yourself. Next time, warn a guy, like wow. Iwas expecting a little more basement dweller, little less underwear model.”

“Tony,” Pepper said, shoving herco-host playfully. “Do not flirt with him.”

Tony pouted, giving Pepper, andthen Bucky, an enormous set of brown bambi eyes. Bucky could absolutely havedrowned in those eyes. “Why not? He’s cute. I want one.”

“Well, you can’t have one,” Peppersaid, firmly. “He’s a guest, stop bothering him.”

“I don’t get an opinion, here?”Bucky asked. He couldn’t help grinning. It’d been a while since anyone flirtedwith him at all, much less someone as knock-out gorgeous.

“See? See, it’s fine, we’re fine,come on, interview first, flirt later. Flirt during. Something. We’ll figure itout.”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, okay. Flirtduring. That’ll be good. I’m off my game here, so by all means, let’s get meall flustered during my first official live broadcast.”

Pepper laughed. “Okay, you’ll dogreat. And I’ll just… stay out of the way.”

Tony flicked a switch in the boothand Little Mix’s Shoutout to my Excame on. “Good lead in, don’t youthink?”

“Sure,” Bucky said.

“Great. Sit down, get comfy, andwe’ll get started,” Tony said.