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twoidiotwriters1 · 3 years

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Déjà Vu (Or are we losing our minds?) XII -Modern!Shirbert

A/N: I wrote 14 parts of this thing just to write the one AU! that I wanted to make and it didn’t even take the whole chapter why do I hate myself so much -Danny

Words: 1,660

Series’ Masterlist

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Chapter Twelve: I think we've met (But I can't be sure)

Asleep or awake

I dream of you all the same.

Anne was determined to have a good time, and considering it was a day before Christmas Eve, it wasn't that hard to act excited and giddy.

Diana met her at the bar around 2 pm, neither of them were heavy drinkers, so they would be in for the afternoon of their lives.

"Okay!" Anne tapped the table excitedly. "I saw that insta story you posted yesterday. Rant to me, Diana..."

_____________________

Gilbert roughly closed his laptop and pushed it aside.

Nothing. Roy had no 'Anne' added to his contacts on any social media, no pictures with her either.

Maybe he was going crazy.

Okay, maybe loneliness was perhaps not the best companion, and with the planning for the Orchard's anniversary, it was easy to let stress take over, but at this point, Anne was so real to him he could almost remember her voice, the way her hand felt on his...

Fuck, he really was losing his mind.

Deciding to take a break from life in general, Gilbert laid back on the couch and turned on the tv, he found a shitty horror movie and approved of it almost instantly, nothing like a predictable plot to distract you from the slow decay of your mental health.

_____________________

"...And that's that," Diana retrieved her phone from Anne's hands. "You're with me?"

"Yes! Oh my god," Anne shook her head. "I usually don't speak ill about other girls, but if this asshole tries to get the credit of one of your songs again, I'll have to commit murder."

Diana laughed, she looked down at her phone and scrolled through the posts of her feed. Suddenly she came across a new one and let out a short exclamation.

"Look, Anne!" She showed her the picture. "The Orchard's having a party right after the Holidays!"

"Isn't that place like a family restaurant?"

"Yeah, but it's their anniversary, look," She pushed the phone towards her. "We should go."

"Why? Ruby's the one obsessed with a waiter..."

"Yeah, but we had fun last time we were there," Diana grinned.

Anne tilted her head, trying to remember.

"Well, the first half of the night was fun, yeah..."

"Oh, the second half was even better, and your amnesia's proof of it," Her friend laughed.

"Whatever," Anne snorted.

Diana grabbed her phone once more and quickly accessed the Orchard's profile.

"Honestly, it looks like it's going to be fun, and it's around the same time we have to go back anyway, so maybe the party could lift our spirits? Aww, look! A picture of the owners..."

She gasped so loudly Anne almost jumped out of her chair.

"What? What is it?"

"No way!" Diana smiled. "I can't believe he owns that place!"

"What are you talking about?"

"An old classmate," The girl explained brightly. "You didn't get to meet him because he moved out after his mom died, but he was a nice kid, everyone in our class liked him... I always wondered what had happened to him..."

"He owns the restaurant?" Anne raised a brow. "Nice, is he cute? Maybe if you date him we could get free meals..."

Diana laughed. "He wasn't really my type, but I wouldn't mind it if he asked me out anyway... look..."

The redhead looked down at the picture and something in her chest tightened with weird excitement. She knew that face.

"Di," She said quietly. "What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't tell you," She sipped a bit of her drink before replying. "Gilbert Blythe."

"Funny," Anne frowned. "Are you sure I've never met him?"

Diana snorted. "Well, shouldn't you know that better than me?"

"I feel like I've seen him around..."

"Maybe you saw him the night we went to his diner? He works there, after all..."

"Right," She said without much conviction. "Maybe..."

"Oh, how festive!" Diana nudged her arm, successfully distracting her. "A day before Christmas eve and this place decided it's a great idea to show Zombieland on every tv..."

Anne snorted.

"Nothing says 'Happy Christmas' better than mutilated corpses, Diana."

***

"Text me when you get home!"

"I will..."

"And think about the party, I believe we could have a great time, I bet they would all love to see Gilbert again..."

Anne smiled at her comment, she didn't know this Gilbert guy but Diana seemed to have a soft spot for him, even if she hadn't seen him since she was twelve years old. Maybe he'd be a kindred spirit of sorts.

"I'll think about it. See you!"

_____________________

Gilbert walked out of the building with nothing but a backpack and a rusty hammer. This wasn't the ideal weapon to defend yourself from zombies, but it was all he could find. He could look for better armament later, right now he had to find a safe place where to sleep.

His steps, though muffled by the dust, were pretty much the only sound he could notice, which was a good sign, but also, a bit unnerving. His shirt was sticking to his lower back thanks to the sweat, he couldn't remember the last time he'd showered, hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten...

Ahead of him, there was a sleeping dog, in his hungry state he considered killing the poor animal and eat him whole, but he thought it to be too desperate, even for someone in his position.

However, Gilbert quickly regretted his decision the second after he'd taken it. At the sound of his footsteps, the dog woke up — or well, more like simply stood up, judging by the state of his bloodshot eyes the man doubted that animal was even capable of sleeping.

The creature growled and his back arched menacingly, Gilbert stumbled back with his grip on the hammer painfully tight. The dog pounced without warning, and he fell on the concrete.

He saw him hovering above his body for a second and the next he was batted out of sight. Blood drops fell across his face and he gawked at the sensation, the woman in front of him lowered the bat and he looked up. He knew who she was even before he'd seen the red flashes around her soft features.

_____________________

Anne's eyes widened as she recognized the man at her feet.

"Gilbert Blythe."

He stared at her in shock, Anne offered her hand and he took it without hesitation, she pulled him upwards and examined his face.

"Gilbert," She repeated. "Why?"

She knew the question made no sense, but it was the only thing she could think of. Why was he here?

"Anne," He breathed, a hand reached out to hold her face and she didn't stop him. "Are you real?"

That question didn't make sense either, but neither did the whole scenario. Where the hell was she and why had she just killed a dog?

Oh god, she'd killed a dog.

Her head turned back to the animal's corpse, and to her horror, although battered and with a twisted neck, the creature was still very much alive and it was crawling towards them, its fangs at full display.

Gilbert looked down as well and his expression darkened.

"You should close your eyes."

Anne obeyed without a second thought. She heard the abrupt sound of bones cracking, and the dog's feral growls until the street was silent again. When she opened her eyes Gilbert was holding a hammer covered in blood, and the dog's face had been left unrecognizable.

_____________________

They stared at each other without knowing what to do, Gilbert looked down at his bloody hands and grimaced.

"Please, don't think I'm some kind of crazy psycho..."

"I was the first to break that dog's neck," She stated. "Why would I think that?"

He laughed shortly. "...You're Anne, aren't you?"

"Yes," She admitted. "With an E. You're Gilbert?"

The man nodded.

"Why is this happening?" He asked. "Why am I dreaming about you?"

"Wasn't this my dream?" She laughed nervously. "This is so weird, you're acting like a real person."

"I am a real person!" He exclaimed.

"Yeah, but I meant like, you're acting as if you were the real Gilbert," Anne chuckled. "Man, I have such a wild imagination..."

"Anne, this is real," He insisted. "Well, not this zombie stuff, but this... whatever this is. Every night I fall asleep and I dream about you. I thought this was all my problem but if you're aware of it as well..."

"What if this is your head messing with you?" Anne offered. "What if you're dreaming that I'm also having these weird dreams and it's all you? Because maybe I think I'm real, but perhaps that's what you want to hear so you're just making me say things—"

"You overthink a lot, don't you?" He grumbled.

"I'm just saying!" She exclaimed, lightly hitting his head with the bat. "You've said that before... I... I just can't remember when..."

Gilbert tilted his head deep in thought. "You've done that before too... although it wasn't a bat the first time..."

"What was it?"

His jaw clenched, Anne could practically see the gears in his brain working at full speed.

"I got it!" Gilbert said abruptly, eyebrows raising in realization. "It was a—"

_____________________

"...slate."

The young man groaned, lazily stretching over the couch and running a hand over his face to wake up fully.

"What... the fuck..." He mumbled hoarsely, "was that?"

_____________________

Anne bolted upright on her bed, the whole room was still dark and there was a light, cold breeze seeping through her window. She remembered every bit of her dream, and her eyes moved as if reading invisible calculations floating around her.

"It can't be," She whispered, one hand anxiously looking for her phone. "He can't... it was just a dream..."

When she finally found the device her fingers acted on their own, Anne found the diner's page and clicked on the owners' picture, staring at the youngest of the two men.

"Gilbert Blythe," She frowned. "Do I know you?"

Taglist.

@ninizkd @http-itsrebecca @fuckthisshitimoutyall @just-here-to-escape-from-reality @little-boats-on-a-lake @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual @skarlygonzalez

#twoidiots writing #DV fic #shirbert fanfic #anne with an e fanfic #Anne with an E #anne shirley x gilbert blythe #anne shirley cuthbert #Gilbert Blythe #awae

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lightsupinthenorth · 4 years

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For the prompts, 46 + 91? 🙏❤️💕

Thank you so much for sending these sweetheart <3

I hope you’ll enjoy ;)

46. Dance with me + 91. That’s in the past

If he had imagined how prom would go at the beginning of Junior year, Steve would have seen himself as Prom King, dancing with whatever beautiful girl had been elected Queen before the admirative and envious eyes of their classmates.

But Steve never imagined what Prom would be like, then, because he never thought he had to imagine it. It would just happen, and it would go swimmingly, because he was the King of Hawkins High and that was how everything went in his life, at that point.

He had not foreseen that his entire kingdom would come crumbling down as it had. Gone were the ‘friends’ that acted as subjects, gone were the invitations to every party, gone were the popularity and the privileges it had brought.

Nancy was gone, too, though it had more to do with Jonathan being a way better fit for her, and less to do with Steve’s eviction from his throne.

If anyone had predicted this to Steve the previous year, he would have laughed, not believing a word of it. And if he had believed it, because of some uncanny proof that the prediction would come true, he would have been terrified. He would have hidden it, of course, but the fear still would have been there, in his heart, making his chest tighten and his breath shorten.

Thankfully, it had come out of nowhere. If there had been signs, Steve had not noticed any of them. And he was grateful for that, for his cluelessness. Because, worrying about his fall from grace would have been worrying about nothing.

Because the fall had meant nothing, in the grand scheme of life. Sure, it had stung to see the ones he considered his friends abandoning him as soon as popularity had, changing his status from royalty to nobody. He had soon realized that he was better off without them, though. They weren’t real friends. They weren’t real, period. They only cared about appearances, and Steve strangely had no fuck to give about those anymore.

He ended up going stag to the prom, and he wasn’t even ashamed of it… of third wheeling Nancy and Jonathan, his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend. Despite the less than ideal circumstances, they turned out to be better friends to Steve than his followers ever were.

So, when he went outside after chatting for a while and drinking some punch, he didn’t do it out of humiliation or self-pity. He just left to get a break, maybe smoke a cig or two, and let Nancy and Jonathan have some time on their own. They were too nice to ask for it, but Steve knew they’d be glad to be free of him for a moment

And maybe, just maybe… a small part of Steve needed a break because he couldn’t take staring at Billy Hargrove from across the gym, which had been tackily decorated for the occasion as it was every year without fail.

Billy had come in with Tina on his arm. He had been wearing a dashing suit, complete with a bow tie and everything, but he had ditched the jacket barely ten minutes in, and the bow tie had closely followed. When Steve had last thrown a glance in his direction, Billy had been looking flushed, with his curls in disarray, his sleeves rolled up and half of the buttons of his shirt undone.

How was Steve supposed to endure such a sight? It was straight up cruel. So, he decided to go somewhere he couldn’t see Billy anymore. Somewhere he could ignore how weak he was for the other boy.

He had barely lit his second cigarette when he was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. He had chosen to go all the way around the building to be left alone and, obviously, it was a failure. But Steve had dealt with failure plenty of times before. One more time wouldn’t kill him.

The fact that the intruder was no other than Billy Hargrove might do the trick, though. Steve really was the luckiest son of a bitch out there, these days... He sighed, bracing himself for Billy’s teasing (which would undoubtedly happen any minute).

“Hey Harrington, can I bum one?” He asked, pointing at the pack of cigarettes laid on the floor, next to where Steve was sitting with his back against the brick wall and his legs bent at the knees.

“Sure, help yourself.” Steve replied, tearing his gaze away from Billy as he brought his lighter to the cigarette hanging from his mouth.

After all, Steve had been adamant about not looking at him, and he ought to stick with that. For his own well-being.

Anyway, Billy had just come here for a smoke. Now that he had what he had been looking for, he would be on his merry way.

Steve thought he had Billy figured out, but he was proved wrong a second later, when Billy sat down next to him, holding his now lit cigarette in his left hand. He was so close that Steve could feel the heat of his body against his side and smell his strong cologne. It didn’t smell the same as it usually did. Maybe Billy had another one, one he reserved for special occasions. It was a strong scent, but Steve liked it. It had character. It suited Billy.

“Why are you out there all alone, Pretty boy?”

“I just wanted some fresh air.” Steve answered lamely, trying to focus on the smoke filling his lungs and not on Billy’s overwhelming presence.

“I’m not sure smoking and fresh air are compatible, princess.”

Steve shrugged. “Let’s say I came here for the peace and quiet, then.” He said, turning briefly toward Billy to give him a pointed look.

Let him believe Steve didn’t want him there more than he’d wanted anything in a long time.

Billy just blew his smoke in Steve’s face, like the asshole he was.

“You want peace and quiet… On prom night? Where has King Steve gone?”

Steve scoffed.

“You’ve got some nerves, asking me that. As if you didn’t know.”

Billy knew better than anyone where King Steve had gone. He’d been the one who had dethroned him the second (at least that was how it had felt like) he had set foot in town. The golden boy from California. He could drink more and quicker than Steve, he was better at basketball, he had more muscles, and he had a bad boy look that Steve and his polo shirts were no rivals for. Steve had not stood a chance against him. He was fine with it, though. He was not jealous. He knew what it was like, being King, and it wasn’t as nice as everyone made it out to be.

“Do you miss it, being King?” Billy asked, stubbing out his cigarette on the concrete ground.

“That’s in the past.” Was all Steve said to summarize the train of thought he had just had.

He had not pulled on his cigarette in a while, preferring to watch it burn, the tip of it glowing brightly in the darkness.

“Mmh… I guess it is. Though I bet half the chicks in that gym would sell their mother for a dance with you, King or no King.”

“They wouldn’t need to go that far. Just asking would do.” Steve replied, choosing not to dwell on the fact that Billy was complimenting him, in a way.

“And no one did?” Billy asked.

“No…” Steve sighed, not because he was disappointed he had not been asked to dance, but because he was bracing himself for the mocking Billy would surely unleash upon him.

“Well, it’s their loss.”

Steve turned toward Billy again, surprised. Shocked, even. He wanted to try and decipher Billy’s expression, but Billy was facing forward, the sky was pitch dark, and the deem light filtering though the high windows of the gym barely changed anything.

“What about you? What are you doing here with stupid old me when you should be dancing with your stunning date?”

Steve had paid more attention to Billy than he had to Tina when they had made their entrance, but he wasn’t blind. He had noticed how gorgeous she was in her bright red gown. How could he have not, when she was the one who had won Billy’s favor.

“I just wanted to chill.”

Steve refrained from pointing out that “chilling” was very similar to “peace and quiet”, which Billy apparently found unfitting for a King.

“Besides… Tina isn’t the one I want to dance with.”

“Why did you ask her to be your date, then?”

Steve frowned.

“I didn’t, she was the one who asked me actually.” Billy supplied.

Steve rolled his eyes. Details.

“Well, why did you say yes instead of declining so you could invite who you really wanted?”

“’Cause that person wasn’t an option, pretty boy.”

Billy was now fidgeting with a button of his shirt, which threatened to come undone. He’d end up half-naked if he weren’t careful. Not that Steve would warn him about that risk. He wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Bullshit. I’m sure anyone would have said yes.”

Steve wouldn’t usually have complimented Billy so freely, afraid that it would be too telling. But Billy had said something in the same vein to him a few minutes before, so Steve deemed it acceptable.

“Mh, I’m not so sure. It’s too late, anyway.”

“No it’s not! The night is far from over, you could still ask your crush for a dance. Tina will probably be mad at you, but she’ll find a replacement, I’m sure.”

Steve didn’t know why he was encouraging Billy to go after someone that wasn’t him. Maybe he simply wanted to see Billy happy, for a change.

And yeah, maybe he had only used the word “crush” in the hope that Billy would roll his eyes and deny having a one. But it didn’t work, anyway: Billy didn’t deny anything.

Something even better happened, though. Something so amazing that Steve was barely able to register it, at first.

Instead of getting all offended for being accused of harboring something as silly as a “crush”, Billy blurted out:

“Dance with me.”

Billy’s tone suggested an invitation to fight, more than an invitation to dance, so Steve thought he had misheard. It was the only plausible explanation, right? Billy Hargrove had not just invited Steve to dance, right?

“What?” He said dumbly, eyes as wide as saucers, mouth agape.

“You heard me.”

“Uh… was that a rehearsal for when you really ask the girl you want to dance with? Because, if so, you should try going about it a little less aggressively…”

“Don’t play dumb, Steve.”

Steve was not playing, was the thing.

“If you don’t want to, just say so. You don’t need to spare my fucking feelings, or whatever.”

Billy had spit out the word “feelings” like he would have an insult, which was funny considering the actual curse he had used had sounded softer in his mouth.

“I do!”

“Right, I’ll just go back inside...” Billy managed to sound both angry and defeated.

Steve’s brain nearly short-circuited from the confusion elicited by Billy’s reaction, but then he realized how what he had said might have come across.

“I mean, I do want to dance!” He nearly yelled, holding back a retreating Billy by grabbing one of his shirt lapels.

Billy froze mid-gesture and then got back to his initial position.

“Oh.”

He didn’t say anything else, and Steve wondered if he had broken him. He certainly hoped not.

He got up and extended his hand to Billy.

“May I have this dance, Your Majesty.” Steve asked.

Billy probably didn’t need the stroke to his ego, but Steve provided it wholeheartedly, nonetheless.

Billy didn’t answer verbally, but his hand taking Steve’s offered one was answer enough.

Steve pulled him up and put his hands on Billy’s waist. Shockingly, Billy didn’t fight it, placing his arms around Steve’s neck and letting Steve lead.

The music from inside was reaching them, albeit faintly. Steve could also hear the entrance door slamming from time to time, as well as the loud voices and shrill laughter of the group of girls having a conversation on the other side of the building, but it barely registered to him.

Every ounce of his attention was on Billy and how he felt against him. He had a lot of questions to ask him, but they could wait. Soon, too soon, the song they were dancing to would end, and then prom would end too, a few hours later. After that night, they’d have all the time in the world to discuss what exactly had transpired. For now, Steve wanted to enjoy every second he got to hold Billy in his arms and be held in return.

When Steve heard the last note, he reluctantly let go of his dance partner, but Billy’s arms tightened around him, preventing him from separating their embrace.

“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to miss the prom King coronation?”

Billy would most probably win. It would surely make an impression (and not a good one), if he was nowhere to be found when his name was called and his presence required on stage.

“I don’t give a fuck, Steve. Now shut up and get back to it.”

“Fine by me.”

Steve put his hands back where they belonged and smiled, delighted that the brief moment he had tried so hard to make the best of just got extended for an undetermined amount of time.

The tempo of the following song was far too fast for slow dancing, but Steve couldn’t find it in himself to care. And, clearly, neither did Billy.

Out there in the night, they had their own rhythm, their own music, their own world.

#Harringrove #Steve Harrington #Billy Hargrove #fanfiction #prompts #asks #I didn't use the prompts in order #is that cheating? ^^#also I think I got mushy #oops?

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ravenqueensspecialboi · 4 years

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Factual Observations

@daisugaweek2020 Day 1: Strangers or and Roommates Rating: G Summary: Sugawara Koushi was, in his own words, an expert in observation when it came to the people around him. It was a source of pride for him, to take a look or two at someone and to know what their deal was. Okay, he was no Kogoro Akechi or Hercule Poirot, he wasn’t some master detective, but he could usually tell when someone was deviating from their observed norm. Did that mean that Koushi was a little nosy? Maybe. But it also meant that he could tell that his roommate, Sawamura Daichi, was definitely up to something. Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26570878

Fic under the cut!

Sugawara Koushi was, in his own words, an expert in observation when it came to the people around him. It was a source of pride for him, to take a look or two at someone and to know what their deal was. Okay, he was no Kogoro Akechi or Hercule Poirot, he wasn’t some master detective, but he could usually tell when someone was deviating from their observed norm. Did that mean that Koushi was a little nosy? Maybe. But it also meant that he could tell that his roommate, Sawamura Daichi, was definitely up to something.

Before they had moved in together, Daichi had been, more or less, a stranger to Koushi. They had met during a lecture their first year of university. Daichi had sat down next to Koushi on the first day of class with a quick greeting before he’d begun rummaging through his bag. He’d searched through his bag for about three minutes before he’d turned to Koushi with a sheepish grin. He’d introduced himself, explained that he’d forgotten a pencil and asked if he could borrow one of Koushi’s. That brief interaction had told Koushi all that he’d needed to know about Sawamura Daichi in that moment:

1. Sawamura Daichi was usually a morning person.

2. Sawamura Daichi was usually more prepared than this, but-

3. -given it was the first day of class, he was scattered enough to forget a pencil.

4. He was absolutely the kind of person to give a borrowed pencil back with new pencil lead as interest.

Koushi had nodded and given Daichi a pencil with a sly smile and a “You can hold onto that until next class.” Daichi had thanked Koushi, and true to form, had returned the pencil the very next class with a little pack of pencil lead to go with it.

They didn’t really talk much after that during that first semester, save for in class assignments and the occasional homework question text outside of class. This suited Koushi just fine, really. Daichi was nice, if a little predictable. He probably had a strict morning routine, he never set more than one alarm (the missing pencil on the first day was the result of him sleeping through his one alarm), and he definitely put his clothes away immediately after doing his laundry. Not quite Koushi’s exact opposite, but close. Daichi had become a “class only friend”, and that was okay.

Surprisingly, that had changed a few weeks before the end of the semester. A pipe had burst on the floor above Koushi’s dorm room, flooding several rooms below it including Koushi’s. While Resident Services scrambled to find temporary housing for the students, Koushi had loudly complained about it to Daichi a handful of times. After one particularly tirade, Daichi did the last thing Koushi expected him to do – he offered his room to Koushi.

“I live by myself, anyway,” Daichi had said over Koushi’s spluttered protests. “It’s not like you have a better option, right?”

Koushi had known Daichi was altruistic, but his offer was something of a surprise to Koushi. After a brief check in with Residential Services, Koushi had taken the things he’d salvaged from his flooded room and moved into Daichi’s dorm room. Surprising no one, especially not Koushi, the room had been spotless.

It was supposed to be a temporary solution. Once Resident Services figured out how to house their displaced students, Koushi would be out of Daichi’s hair and back in a room of his own. The problem was, Koushi never left. He settled in quick and settled in hard, quickly establishing his own routine in the small space that coincided with Daichi’s in a way that wasn’t too unobtrusive. As Koushi predicted, Daichi was a creature of habit. He got up every morning at 6:30 and was out the door for his morning run by 6:45. He’d be back by 7:45 to get ready for class and was out the door by 8am. All before Koushi even had the chance to hit the snooze button on the first of six alarms. By the time Koushi was up and in his first class, Daichi had been in two of his. Daichi had volleyball practice in the afternoon and would be back by early evening to dinner with Koushi. They’d eat, then they’d go back to their room so Daichi could do homework until it was time for bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. Occasionally he’d deviate from schedule by getting lunch with Koushi, or by doing laundry instead of homework (Koushi was pleased to note that yes, Daichi did put his laundry away right when he finished with it), but for the most part, he stuck to his routine so closely that Koushi could set a watch to it.

That was, until the day Koushi realized Daichi had fallen head over heels for someone.

It wasn’t an instantaneous recognition, something Koushi would kick himself for later. In fact, if it hadn’t been for their proximity, Koushi might have missed it entirely. It began with small things, about 3 months into them living together, about 8 months into their friendship. Koushi would catch Daichi staring off into the middle distance as he tapped his pencil against his work, clearly in the middle of a daydream. Any time Koushi would snap him out of it, Daichi would blush and go back to his work, keen to pretend like Koushi hadn’t caught him like that. Then it escalated. Daichi started coming back late from volleyball practice and was always vague about who he had been with. He became secretive about his texting habits, something that wouldn’t have bothered Koushi if it weren’t for the everything else about Daichi’s behavior. Soon, it became undeniable to Koushi:

1. Daichi was smitten with someone.

1a. It was just a crush.

1b. It was a relationship, but that wasn’t that important because-

2. -he didn’t want Koushi to know about it.

That was the part that stung the most. Daichi having a crush on someone Koushi could handle, even if it meant that he had to pack his own feelings away in a tight, little box, wrap it in chains and throw it into the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean. But what he couldn’t handle was Daichi shutting him out like that. They’d been friends for months now, but to Koushi it felt longer. For Daichi to suddenly stop confiding in him like this, it left a sting in Koushi’s heart that lit a fire under his ass. He’d find out who Daichi was seeing—and potentially smooching—if it was the last thing he did.

Thus began Operation: Stalk Daichi Until I Meet His Partner.

It lasted for all of a week.

With the exceptions Koushi had previously noted, Daichi’s routine was basically the same. He still got up early in the morning to run, he still went to volleyball practice after class. The most Koushi learned was that Daichi had taken to getting lunch with his teammates, Kuroo Tetsurou and Bokuto Koutarou. Koushi briefly assumed that Daichi was dating one of them but given the fact that Kuroo and Bokuto were all over each other and not Daichi, Daichi was the third wheel in that situation rather than a third arm of that polycule. That didn’t rule out the possibility that Daichi was seeing someone. Given the differences in their majors, it was possible that Daichi was dating a classmate, or that he chose to meet with whoever it was early in the morning. Koushi couldn’t imagine the type of person who would go on early morning running dates, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Still, despite a week of stalking, Koushi didn’t have any concrete proof of Daichi having a secret significant other. So that meant it was time to move onto Plan B – Operation: Actually Talking to Daichi Like an Adult with Healthy Communication Skills.

It took another week for Koushi to actually follow through on this particular plan. Not because he was scared of the truth or anything. No, he wasn’t avoiding the issue at all. He just couldn’t find the right time for it, that’s all.

But find the right time he did. That Friday, Daichi and Koushi had opted to bring takeout back to their room. They ate in relatively comfortable silence until finally, Koushi set his chopsticks down and gave Daichi a meaningful look. Daichi had returned the look with a confused one of his own but had also set his chopsticks down without comment.

“So, who’s the lucky person?” Koushi asked without preamble.

It was a good thing Daichi had set his chopsticks down, because he began to splutter. “What?” he asked.

“You know, your significant other?”

Daichi blinked once, twice. Koushi did the same.

“The one you’ve been seeing recently?”

“I… don’t have a significant other?” Daichi replied slowly, as if he were piecing together a particularly difficult word puzzle.

“Come on, Daichi, it’s okay if you do,” Koushi pressed, not believing the other man. “You can tell me.”

Daichi shook his head, “Suga, I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, but I don’t have a significant other.”

“So, it’s just a crush then?”

Daichi stilled at the question. Koushi mentally high fived himself.

“Again, it’s fine if you do. I just wish you’d told me,” Koushi said, picking up his chopsticks and returning to his food. “You’ve been acting off for weeks now, it’s super obvious that you’re into someone. So, is it someone I know?”

“Suga….”

“Come on, Sawamura. Play along. Do I know them?”

Daichi stared at Koushi, his face noticeably pink. He nodded once.

“See, now we’re getting somewhere! Is it someone from class?”

“A class, yes, but not from this semester,” Daichi said, returning to his own food.

Koushi blinked. He hadn’t expected it to be someone from last semester. Maybe Daichi had met someone in another one of his classes that he’d stayed connected with after the semester had ended. He took a bite of his food and chewed thoughtfully, thinking of the next logical progression.

“I guess that also rules out anyone on the volleyball team,” he mused.

Daichi let out a snort of disbelief and Koushi grinned. Definitely not someone from the volleyball team then.

“Okay, are they from the class I was in?” Koushi asked.

Daichi drummed his fingers against his leg, then nodded.

“Is it the girl from the front row? The one with the pinkish hair?”

“She’s got a boyfriend, he’s Kuroo’s arch-nemesis,” Daichi said.

“The blonde girl with the side ponytail?”

“Her girlfriend’s on the women’s volleyball team.”

“The boy with the ruffled black hair. The one with the glasses.”

“He’s pretty but no.”

“What about the one with the tongue piercing?”

Daichi made a face at that one. Koushi didn’t need verbal confirmation to know he was way off base on that one.

“Okay, but what about-”

“Koushi, are you going to ask me about everyone you remember from that class?” Daichi asked.

Koushi paused at the use of his given name. He liked the way it sounded in Daichi’s mouth. More than he probably should given the situation. He’d add that to the box to be thrown into the ocean once he’d figured out the name of Daichi’s crush.

“Just until I get it right,” Koushi replied, fighting to keep the blush off his face.

Daichi set his takeout down again and got to his feet. He crossed to Koushi’s bed and stood in front of the other man for a minute. He had a look on his face that made beating back the blush near impossible. He swallowed thickly as Daichi reached down and grabbed his chin, tilting it up. Suddenly Daichi was too close and realization dawned on Koushi like the first light of day.

“It’d be easier if you just let me demonstrate,” Daichi said before pressing his lips to Koushi’s.

Koushi’s mind blanked for a second, but he quickly recovered. He shoved his takeout to the side and grabbed Daichi’s shirt, dragging the other man down on top of him. Koushi fell backwards and Daichi caught himself on his elbows, his arms bracketing Koushi’s head as Koushi propped himself up to continue the kiss.

Eventually, they needed air and broke apart. They stared at each other, their breaths coming in short gasps as they looked at each other with fresh perspectives. They were silent for a moment, and then Koushi cleared his throat.

“So, what about the guy with the manbun?”

Daichi blinked in confusion. His brain caught up with him a second later and he rolled his eyes with an exasperated grin. He pressed another kiss to the side of Koushi’s mouth and rolled to the side. Koushi immediately curled up against him. Daichi’s arm wrapped around him as he rested his head on Daichi’s chest. It felt like coming home.

“Serious question time,” Koushi said. “How long?”

“I thought you were super observant,” Daichi teased.

Koushi resisted the urge to smack Daichi in the stomach. Instead, he headbutted Daichi’s chest and said, “Humor me.”

“A few months,” Daichi said.

“Is that why you asked me to move in with you?”

“No,” Daichi admitted. “That came after.”

“What changed?”

“I got to know you better,” Daichi said. “It was as simple as that.”

“When were you going to tell me?”

Daichi tilted his head to give Koushi a sheepish grin, “Honestly, I was expecting you to notice way before this. Also, I was expecting you to make the first move.”

Koushi blinked, then slapped a hand against his forehead. “For as observational as I can be, I really am dense when it comes to things concerning me.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Daichi teased.

Koushi did smack Daichi on the stomach that time, but there was no real power behind it. Daichi oof-ed out of good humor, and the two fell silent, basking in the warm pleasantness of a budding relationship.

After a few minutes, Koushi broke the silence again, “Well, there’s a benefit to us being roommates.”

“There is?” Daichi asked.

“Yeah,” Koushi said with a sly grin, looking up. “We don’t have to walk across campus if we want to make out.”

Daichi rolled his eyes again and pulled Koushi up for another kiss. Koushi hummed against Daichi’s lips. He was right where he wanted to be.

#daisugaweek2020 #daisuga #college au #haikyuu fanfiction #hq fanfic

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wordydelights · 4 years

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hannibal lecter and clarice starling fanfic

The air smelled of freshly brewed, dark roasted coffee and crisp, steamy flesh sizzling on the stovetop. Clarice’s eyes slightly fluttered open as she breathed in the nostalgic aromas, it brought her back to childhood memories of waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs. It was a good scent, it meant her father had the day off and got to spend it with her. Her little feet would jump out of her comfortable bed and dart into the kitchen to find her dad, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a skillet in the other. “Morning' sweetie,” he’d say with a smile. She woke up out of her daze suddenly, her eyes opening in sync with the beat of her heart.

She glanced around, the edges of her vision blurred by morning weariness. She rubbed her eyes. As she gained awareness, her mind began to wake up with the rest of her body. She then quickly realized this time was distinctly different from her memories. 1) She was located far away from home in a four star hotel located on the east side of northern Lithuania. 2) The smell was most definitely not coming from bacon, she could recognize the signature scent of burnt skin in the middle of a barbecue, after having the misfortune of inhaling its nauseating aroma in the past. She remembered reading about it in a forensics textbook. Burning muscle tissue creates a smell similar to beef in a frying pan and the fat smells like fatty pork on the grill. You never quite get the scent of death out of your nostrils entirely, no matter how much time has passed.

She heard a creak coming from the kitchen floorboards and jolted awake now certainly knowing she was no longer alone. Attempting to not make a single sound, she reached for her pistol lying on the wooden bedside dresser to her right. Beside it she snatched a small hunting knife, she carried for good luck and slid it in her left sock. She took a step out of the bed, the floorboards groaned slightly and she quickly changed her footing, attempting to feel out the hollow areas that lay underneath to avoid making any noise. She found her fluffy bunny slippers tucked away beneath the metal bed frame and slid her toes into its cushioned soles, muffling the pattering of her steps. Clicking the gun’s safety off slowly, she crept through the doorway keeping her body close to the wall as she peered over into the kitchen. She brought her extended arms close to her chest, the pistol now few inches away from her chin, pointed at the ceiling. She couldn’t hear anything over the sound of her breathing and the occasional pops of oil from the frying pan on the stove.

“Good Morning Clarice,” an all too familiar voice rang within her ears, breaking the unsettling silence. “You can come out now.”

Clarice Starling emerged from the bedroom, her gun pointed directly in line with the back of Dr. Lecter. He was sitting in a chair at the mahogany dining table, his back to Clarice, he faced the opened doors to the balcony outside, his legs were crossed nonchalantly as he read the black and white newspaper in his hands. Clarice didn’t hesitate and pulled the trigger. Click. Click. Click.

“Tsk Tsk. Naughty girl,” Dr. Lecter teased without looking back. “Why don’t you have a seat? Don’t want your breakfast getting cold.”

She rushed to his seat, swinging the unloaded pistol at his skull. Lecter grasped her wrist tightly with his right and only hand, the pistol about an inch from smashing into his head. His eyes remained glued to the newspapers contents even as he snapped her clenched fist open and flung the gun onto the table. “You’re very predictable Starling. Do you intend on making this more difficult than it needs to be?”

Slowly she made her way to the empty seat across from him. A plate consisting of two sausages, an egg and buttered toast laid in front of her. Clarice kept her unwavering gaze steady with Lecter’s. “What do I owe the delight of your presence, Doctor Lecter? I haven’t heard from you since our previous encounter. No calls or even a letter, unusual for you.” “Writing was a luxury I unfortunately had to leave behind with my dominant hand. The right gets the job done, but the penmanship will never quite equate to the elegance before. I was sure you of all people wouldn’t need to be reminded of such details,” Lecter smiled as he lifted the black leather glove over his prosthetic to expose it’s plastic skin. Clarice remained silent, her eyes in a deadlock with his.

“I also couldn’t bear to give you the satisfaction of answering any questions I’m sure have been floating about in that charming head of yours. It wouldn’t do any justice to a more intimate confrontation. I was originally planning on leaving your mind to be in constant torment and wonder just for my personal pleasure, but when I overheard that you came all this way to pay me a visit I simply couldn’t resist your cries for my attention,” He paused, glancing down at the plate in front of her. “Please do eat, I assure you it is up to your standards.”

“Oh really?” Clarice started, gesturing over at the oven. “Then how do you explain that?”

“I cannot make the same promise regarding my meal,” Lecter eerily grinned.

Starling took a bite of her eggs, the yolk ran like spilled blood throughout her plate leaving a dark yellow pool around the crisp toast. Lecter watched her throat move up and back into place as she swallowed. He leaned back satisfied. “Remind you of the way daddy made them?” he chirped.

“They’re lacking on the pepper and he never used rosemary.”

“My mistake.” He rose from the chair and attended to the sizzling flesh on the frying pan.

Clarice scanned the room looking for any objects that could be used as a weapon, despite the other half of her brain telling her it’s useless and he’ll simply see it coming. For the meantime she deemed it to be best to go along with his game. “Why are you here Doctor?”

“I could ask you the same Clarice.”

“Doing my job, hunting you down,” she shot back, her eyes flared like hot charcoal on a grill.

“I’m flattered, but spare the theatrics because we both know this hardly has anything to do with work,” he flipped the long chunks of fat to their opposing side with a spatula.

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because you are here. Because you are not a part of the Lithuanian law enforcement. Because the bureau would never send their agents overseas to investigate a criminal who's been off the radar for over three years without concrete proof of my whereabouts, which I know for a fact that I have not provided.”

“People you have had personal connections to throughout your childhood, in your hometown suddenly show up murdered, matching your profile exactly, I would say that’s a dead give away Doctor.”

“You’ve been doing your research I see.”

“Of course, how else would I have found you?”

“Tell me Clarice, are you here for business or pleasure?” His tongue flicked against the backs of his teeth.

“For justice.” “Who sent you? And do not insult my intelligence with anything shroud of the truth because I will know.” Using the metal spatula he set the meat down on his plate next to his two poached eggs. He impaled the fattiest piece with his fork, bringing it to his nose, inhaled then took a slight nibble and savored the flavor in his tongue.

Starling took a heavy breath, her eyes dropped from his gaze. “No one sent me,” she half-muttered. “Stop me if I’m wrong Clarice but I have a feeling I haven’t left your mind since the night of our last dinner together. I know your biggest question may be; why? Why would a monster such as myself sacrifice a part of my body for you? That question ate at you inside, festering like an aged wound and grew until it consumed you, you told yourself you needed to put an end to my antics for good, and knowing just how personal it had become you made it your mission to hunt me down and lock me back in a cage. But we both know the truth don’t we? No it was never about justice...it was about not being able to deal with your reciprocated emotions. It was creating an excuse to see me once again.” Clarice kept her head facing the ground, her face was stone and expressionless, but Hannibal did not stop. Leaving the kitchen’s marble island he began to approach Starling slowly.

“You knew I would never come back, that I would leave you alone for the remainder of your life.” He was looming over her now, his shadow darkening her features. “You knew that if we were ever to have another encounter that you would have to seek me out this time.” In that moment Clairce felt a true sense of inferiority, a feeling she was not accustomed to. His body was inches from hers, her head at level with his upper waist. She breathed in his presence, it was a pure, primal masculine aroma. He digressed and sat down at the table, his demeanor changing from sensually intimidating and virile to a common mortal in a split second.

“Maybe you never realized these feelings until you truly began your research into my past. When you learned I suffered the same pain you felt at a young age. I assume you discovered the details regarding the death of my family?” “Yes. They were killed in a bombing.”

“Yes, everyone died except my sister Mischa and myself. We were held captive in a lodge by Nazi forces when a group of Lithuanian Hilfwillige stormed and looted the lodge. They searched the premises for food but found nothing.” He took a sip from his cup of coffee and moved his gaze to the balcony looking off into the dark clouded skies and continued.

“The blistering chill of winter combined with an empty stomach, it does something to men, brings out the savage within. Mischa and I became the menu options. I put up a fight, but Mischa...she was weak, starving herself, ill from the cold, she was an easy kill. They sodomized her corpse first before slicing her body in bite sized portions and roasting it above a fire pit.”

Clarice watched his eyes as he recalled the events. She could almost swear she saw the reflection of his memory playing like a film in the glare of his pupils. Despite no tears being shed, she felt the immacable amount of pain in the slight trembles of his voice.

At a loss for words to speak, “I’m sorry,” was all she could let out.

“You see Clarice, monsters like myself are not born into this world with faulty wiring, we are made through suffering.” He turned back towards her, circling the metal spoon inside the coffee cup, hitting it’s ceramic edges with every rotation.

“Is that how you justify your actions Dr. Lecter?”

“I admit there are some sins I have committed I cannot truly justify; however, most of the unspeakable acts I commit I can assure you are in fact poetic justice at it’s finest.”

Clarice dropped her eyes to her socks, where the pocket knife rubbed against her perspire, she considered her course of action, but only for a second, until she was interrupted by the rattle of the wooden chair she was sitting in. Dr. Lecter gripped the chair’s arms like he expected it to run from his grasp, and leaned close to Starling’s ear.

“Tell me, do I excite you Clarice? Do you find me in your dreams late in the evening? I imagine I used to appear as a grotesque monster but now perhaps a lover? And when you wake up do you find yourself horrified with yourself for these thoughts you simply cannot control?” She could feel the slight prickle of his facial air as his lips grazed against her earlobe.

“I never believed you to be a monster Doctor,” she softly spoke.

“Is that all you have to refute?” She lifted her head and let herself drift for a moment in his pale blue eyes.“I used to wonder if you were capable of love. That night, when you spared me from pain, I found out you were. But may I ask, why me? Was it just because I was one of the first women you had spoken to in years? Because I shared some personal information no one else would dare give to you?” She positioned her left hand further to the edge of her seat and brought her corresponding foot closer in reach. “Is that really what you think of me? So desperate for the touch of a woman I fall for the first to give me any attention in years? I see goodness in you Starling. When I look at you I see the same glimmer of loss within your eyes that I see in mine. You are an unfaltering flame, always burning with a righteous desire. Your character never fails to intrigue me, the way your mind ticks, your witty remarks, your composure in the face of death. No I��ve never quite found one like you.” His thumb fell from the top of her cheekbones to the very underlying rosy purse of her bottom lip. Her breathing was fluttered, rapidly picking up in pace with every passing second, for a second she felt as though she may lose consciousness altogether.

Overcome with emotion, she pulled out the blade from her sock and held it against his throat, knocking the chair down with the commotion.

“Do it. I won’t stop you.”

“You have to understand how crazy this is. I can’t give up my life for one of FBI’s most wanted. I’d be throwing away everything I worked so hard to achieve. This needs to end. There is nothing between us.” “Then this should make things much easier for you. Don’t hesitate Clarice.”

“I don’t want to kill you.” “I won’t be put behind bars again, you either kill me now or I disappear from the world for good.”

Clarice let a tear roll down her cheek, pushing Hannibal against the wall behind them. The cold steel pressed Lecter’s adams apple higher up into his esophagus. He never dropped his gaze with her even as tiny beads of blood began to break through the barriers of his skin’s surface.

She stared into his eyes, his pupils seeming to pulsate as they stared back into her.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“And why is that?”

“The same reason you can’t kill me.”

“And what may that reason be Clarice?” “Don’t make me say it.”

He put his hands on her shoulders, feeling the dips of her collar bones and the rhythmic thumping of her heart. He slowly moved his caress up to her neck and locked his hands around her throat.

“I want you to tell me Clarice. I want to hear the words come out of your mouth.”

She remained silent, nervous trembles running through her body.

He began to squeeze. “Say it,” he hissed.

She gagged for air while shaking her head no.

“Say it!” his scream echoed throughout the floor of the hotel.

With a rasped voice and tears streaming down her cheeks she whimpered, “I love you.”

With his hands still firmly gripped around her neck, he whipped her around. The walls rattled as her back slammed against them. In a midst of desire he aggressively pressed his lips against hers, his hands still squeezing tightly as she returned his embrace. The warmth of his breath was hot like smoke. He released his grasp as she began to gasp for oxygen. Black fuzziness clouded her vision as she slid down the wall to the floor.

In that moment it all clicked in her head. A fleeting memory pushed through the adrenaline coursing through her veins and in an instant the dots regarding Lecter were somehow aligned.

“What was your mother like?” she managed to make out in between heavy breaths.

Puzzled by the randomness of her inquiry, Lecter responded hesitantly with a curious smile, “I feel as though she truly loved her children but was simply a very emotionally detached person.”

Clarice’s eyes narrowed, “Did she nurse you as a child Dr. Lecter?”

“Yes.”

Clarice lowered the thin straps of her black satin nighty, her clavicle further exposed, glistening with faint beads of sweat. She took a breath in through her nose and exhaled slowly.

“Did you ever compete with Mischa for the breast?”

“I don’t remember Clarice…,” Lecter began not quite sure where she was going with the question. “If there was a competition I would’ve given it up willingly.” He found the enigma of her quivering lip excessively compelling.

She raised herself to his eye level, her glare burning like firey embers, she leaned her back against the floral wallpaper, “You will not have to compete for mine.”

Her nighty swiftly slid off her shoulders and fell to her ankles as if she manifested it to reality. Lecter’s eyes moved up and down her curves absorbing the image into the most precious capsules of his mind. Pulling him close to her chest, he bent down, inhaling the warmth resonating off her skin, his hands caressing the small of her back while his tongue followed the thin trail of swelter to her breast.

#fanfic #short story #silence of the lambs

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tearsofthemis · 4 years

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Tears of Themis : Chapter 1 “Social Snobbery” Part 9

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▌ Location- QingPing Restaurant, Second Floor

(XinRan finished taking Fang Yuan’s blood pressure, and then removed the cuff from his arm and packed it away.)

Fang Yuan: “XinRan, don’t worry about me. The truth was and is, that the restaurant sanitation was poor, and the customers suffered from it. Just because you hired detectives doesn’t mean that they’ll be able to turn the case around. Why don’t you tell grandpa about your studies, when do your classes start?” (XinRan stopped fumbling with the blood pressure records and turned to look at Fang Yuan. Her eyes were red with unshed tears.)

XinRan: “Grandpa Fang, you… you’re hiding something, aren’t you?” Fang Yuan: “Hiding something? XinRan, grandpa’s not following what you mean.” XinRan: “I just took your blood pressure, and the numbers are better than they were two days ago. When you said you were feeling ill downstairs, were you faking it? You didn’t want to answer the detective’s questions, right…” Fang Yuan: “XinRan, I…” XinRan: “What are you covering for? If this case goes sour, the restaurant will be forced to shut down!” (Fang Yuan paused and sighed.)

Fang Yuan: “I… there is no other way. This… is a long story.”

~~~

▌ Location- QingPing Restaurant, First Floor

(After Xia Yan’s analysis, the pesticide powder and fingerprints opened up new questions. Like Xia Yan and Zuo Ran predicted, this case may not be just a simple case of accidental food poisoning.)

Xia Yan: “Analyzing individual clues by themselves won’t get us any further. We have to cross examine them and connect the dots if we want to provide concrete evidence for the case.”

MC: “You have a point. For instance, the pesticide found in the spring water could very likely be different from the one that Fang Yuan purchased. Bugger-Off isn’t harmful to humans. In that case, the pesticide we found crystallized on the water pump should be Insect Repellent 330.” Xia Yan: “Right, the yellow compound found on the pump is clearly dangerous to humans. I looked it up, and the composition is a match for Insect Repellent 330. I took apart the water pump and found a high concentration of pesticide residue inside the core. This explains why we found residue on the spout; the spring water is saturated with the stuff.” MC: “Then, as long as the water was retrieved using the pump, the water would be contaminated! There’s absolutely no mistake now that this was intentional!”

Xia Yan: “Does that explain why customers experienced food poisoning symptoms? Is it because they ingested food made with the contaminated water?” MC: “Let me think… we already have the story and evidence. We should be able to find more concrete proof that supports this theory.”

~~~Start analysis!~~~

AI (Instructions): “By now, we have collected tons of evidence. All that’s missing is to piece it together and form a theory. The problem we must answer is denoted here. Please select two clues that can provide an explanation.”

▌ [Select: Contaminated spring water, Customer’s medical examination info]

MC: “I can confirm this: the medical examination describes that the patients experienced stomachaches and diarrhea. These are both reactions that can occur when Insect Repellent 330 is ingested.” Xia Yan: “We can say for certain that this case is not an ordinary accidental food poisoning caused by malpractice.”

MC: “Right, Insect Repellent 330 is an industrial pesticide. To find traces of it in a restaurant supports the fact that this was intentional and in no way caused by poor management! The culprit operated under the intent of causing bodily harm. This is a crime! So if Mr. Fang’s runner didn’t buy the industrial pesticide, then who did? There must be more evidence that the culprit has visited the restaurant. Perhaps they left prints, or other marks?”

▌ [Select: Fingerprints on water pump, Fingerprint ID registered in door lock]

Xia Yan: “There were prints on both the inside and outside of the water pump, of which, four sets of prints obtained correspond to the ID records from the lock. The earliest ID record was from ten years ago and was probably registered when the lock was first installed. This set should undoubtedly belong to Fang Yuan. There were two more IDs registered three years ago, and one year ago, respectively. Based on the workers that Xue XinRan identified earlier, those sets would belong to the restaurant’s employees. The fourth set was registered six years ago. At the moment, I can’t think of who this person may be.” MC: “An ex-employee, perhaps?”

Xia Yan: “That possibility can be eliminated, I think. The history of all registered IDs can be viewed, and any ex-employee records were cleaned. I found a match for the fourth set of prints on another clue, wanna guess which one it is?”

~~~Analysis ends!~~~

MC: “I-it’s the prints from the Insect Repellent 330 receipt!”

Xia Yan: “Bingo. The same set of prints were also found on the inside of the water pump’s core.” MC: “So we know for certain that someone who doesn’t work at the restaurant has appeared recently. This should be our culprit! To add, since they have access to the restaurant, they must be close to Mr. Fang. In regards to who that person may be… we may need to interview Mr. Fang in order to get their name.

Xia Yan: “Even if we were to present Mr. Fang with what we’ve gathered thus far, I don’t think we have a reliable line of questioning built just yet.” MC: “You’re thinking... that Mr. Fang would protect the culprit?” Xia Yan: “That’s right.” MC: “If you’ve already anticipated his reaction, does this mean you have more proof to fall back on?” Xia Yan: “With your typical water delivery service, they will collect used containers and process them off site. However, the empty container is still at the restaurant, and the production date is the same as the day of the incident. It was also scrubbed clean. No prints, no leftover spring water, nada. To add, the harmless insecticide found leftover underneath the wine rack was swept away.” MC: “Bugger-Off is what the restaurant has always used for pest control. What if one of the employees swept it away?”

Xia Yan: “In a restaurant that’s already dealing with a food safety case, the employees wouldn’t dare to do something that would further jeopardize the restaurant’s merit without the owner’s consent. I’m guessing this is an attempt to tamper with the evidence. After Mr. Fang found out about the culprit’s actions, he must have tried to cover up their tracks.”

MC: “If it’s like that, then Mr. Fang and the culprit must have a deep relationship.”

(Why would Fang Yuan go to such lengths to protect someone that’s trying to sabotage his restaurant? Xia Yan and I were at a loss. Just then, Xue XinRan rushed down the stairs. The corners of her eyes were red - she must have been crying. When our eyes met, she stopped in her tracks. She opened her mouth, and then closed it, as if she wanted to tell us something.)

(Before she could, however, Fang Yuan called her back upstairs.)

Fang Yuan: “XinRan, where did you put my medication…”

Xue XinRan: “I’ll grab it for you, Grandpa Fang. Don’t you dare get up.”

(XinRan hesitated, then turned to head upstairs again.)

MC: “Mr. Fang… what is he hiding?”

Xia Yan: “He may be unwilling to tell us the full story, but he hasn’t explicitly forbidden us from looking into it further. All we can do for now is to try and get to the bottom of this.”

MC: “In regards to the culprit’s identity… six years ago, they gained access to the restaurant and can come and go as they please. I wonder if this place brings back bad memories for them.” Xia Yan: “That’s true. The culprit must have had a bad run-in while the restaurant was operational. We should be able to find supporting leads, for example, a financial record of some sort. Let’s do another sweep of the first floor. If we come up empty-handed, then we’ll have no choice but to directly question Mr. Fang.” MC: “Ah, speaking of bad run-ins, I suddenly recall…”

(Perhaps we really were connected. Xia Yan and I exchanged only a brief glance, but he was able to infer what I was implying.)

Xia Yan: “Could you be referring to… MeiWeiKa!”

-------

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《CREDIT》 Translator: @humi-and-co Editor: @hallowsivy 《未定事件簿》Tears of Themis is a 2020 Chinese otome game by 米哈游Mihoyo. All original credits go to 米哈游Mihoyo.

《 VOICE ACTORS 》 Xia Yan | Jin Xian: https://weibo.com/riceranger Zuo Ran | Zhao Lu: https://weibo.com/mzhaolu Xue XinRan | V17-Su Wan: https://weibo.com/u/2925530143 Fang Yuan | Zhao Yang

#tears of themis #tears of themis translations #otome #未定事件簿 #tears of themis xia yan #tears of themis zuo ran #xia yan #zuo ran #夏彦 #左然 #tears of themis trans

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kendrixtermina · 5 years

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An Alternate Take on The Prologue

It seems to have been almost universally accepted that the events in the prologue were an assassination attempt meant to remove Dimitri and Claude so that the war would go smoother later on. I’d like to present an alternative possibility.

I have no solid 100% certain proof I’m not even going to pretend that this is anything other than my own interpretation that’s no more valid than the other one. It’s just a possibility.

Thus it is ultimately an opinion that I wouldn’t base further conclusions on. We don’t know for a fact that her goal wasn’t, in fact, assassination.

Still I think because there’s quite a lot of interesting stuff going on in that scene that ppl seem to miss, that I want to dissect here regardless of wether you agree with my thesis or not

Significant Clues:

The Actual Motive

I’m not sure if it was Seteth or a random Monk, but I think more than one character goes on about how the Church’s reputation that they worked for so many years would have been tarnished if anything happened to the heirs. Especially when you consider there aren’t that many Blaiddyds left and even less Riegans and that both are expected to solve/end the dire chaos in their respective factions.

Now who would benefit from making the Church look bad? Someone who plans to declare war on them maybe?

They wouldn’t put that sort of dialogue there if we weren’t supposed to conclude something from it.

This might be less obvious if you haven’t played her route (though even then, you still get her speech in all of them don’t you?) but her declaration of war was strictly against the Church and their allies. She hands out papers everywhere, exposing the Church’s wrongdoings and asking all the rulers to choose sides. Petra mentions getting one such letter.

She knew full well that most of the Kingdom and Alliance would side with the Church (and keep fighting even after Rhea’s taken out) and that there would probably be calvacades of collateral damage, after all the Church indoctrinates the ruling elites at the Academy and thanks to the phony “crests are divine gifts” story the nobles depend on the Church for legitimacy as rulers - but every lord who doesn’t support the Church is one whose army she doesn’t have to fight.

When she declares war, she wants as many people as possible to either stand down or join her. Painting the church as incompetent (or, in her mind, “highlighting” their incompetence) to safeguard the precious heirs might have increased that number, if Byleth’s heroic intervention and subsequent appointment as a professor hadn’t overshadowed the whole thing.

Also note that for this to cause a scandal, Dimitri and Claude don’t need to be dead.

Essentially ordering a hit on herself is certainly in line with Edelgard’s other... as Claude put it, “gutsy moves” (Such as not evacuating Enbarr in GD knowing full well that Claude was not going to tear through the civilians, effectively restricting his movements) but looking at literally any other action she’s ever taken, she always goes out of her way to give people the option to surrender., consistently, all the time, all throughout her route (and even many of her engage quotes in the other routes - She offers to let Claude and Byleth go at Gronder, for example)

She even gets this whole rant before you go to fight Claude about how she wishes people would just stand down peacefully instead of starting fights they can’t win. (which is perhaps why she tells Byleth to just go ahead and finish her once she realizes that she’s beaten in the other routes)

She’ll mow you down if you oppose her alright but first she’ll make sure that both you (and her allies all of whom get the chance to opt out) are all there because you want to be/ are actually choosing to oppose her. It’s not like her to just kill people without giving them an explanation or a choice.

But smears and coverups? That’s another matter. There’s her whole secret identity/secret faustian Bargain thing, that time only Hubert, Byleth and Lysithea knew which fortress they’d be attacking, and how she pinned the Javelins of light on the church. That’s totally something she’d do, (which might’ve backfired on the credibility of her pamphlets; PR and negotiation are simply not her greatest strengths)

Which makes her less truthful than, say, Dimitri (I think the only time he ever remotely lied to an ally was to hide his investigations of Arundel from Dedue), but overall still not as deceptive as Claude or the Church , since these are all “tactical” lies for concrete short-term goals, nothing relating to their goals.

Everyone on Edelgard’s side knows that she wants to abolish hereditary rule and create an equal society, even if that means making enemies; Claude tells no one what he’s planning until the very end even though the knights might not follow him if he’d told them that he means to diminish the Church’s influence on society, kinda hoping that everyone will come around on their own - He does this even with Byleth to an extent.

(Though when it comes to the Church we must really differentiate between the Chuch as a whole established by Rhea and Seteth individually, who I’d rate as significantly more truthful than Edelgard since he only lies out of very justified self-protection and loyalty to Rhea (who is his sister, and about whose wrongdoings he only knows the tip of the iceberg), and even urges her to come clean in the end.)

Ferdinand finds it strange that they just so ran into a bunch of mercenaries and wonders if one of the house leaders knew that there were mercenaries.

As before, that Dialogue is there for a reason. One of them probably did know.

So who is it? Probably not Dimitri he can’t pokerface worth a damn.

That leaves Edelgard or Claude.

Edelgard might’ve know that there were mercenaries nearby and expected them to intervene if things went south. Or it could be Claude, and that’s why he ran off.

We know that he’s got great survival instincts, grew up in a warrior culture of sorts, and makes a habit of carefully observing his surroundings. Perhaps he just spotted a large amount of hoofprints or beaten muddy footpaths, and deduced that there might be help to be had in that direction.

For now I’ll say that Claude is the most likely option.

I mean it’s really like him to be a spanner in the works before he even known anything is up - also, he’s the one who ran. It’s because of HIM that the trio went that direction, not because of anything Edelgard did.

Leave it to Claude to look like he’s bailing when he’s actually looking for help. (but also taking a bit of a risk since he didn’t know for certain that he would find help). Also he says something like “Ain’t it great the gods of fortune sent us your way?” which is something Claude would only say ironically.

Kostas didn’t know there would be knights

As far as he knew he was just supposed to “kill some noble pipsqueaks”

But actually, our trio wasn’t supposed to be alone - it was an exercise with Alois and bunch of knights, the elite knights of Seiros, mind you, who are renowed throughout the land. (as Edelgard herself tells you after the fight)

Meaning that Edelgard probably didn’t expect them to be beaten by a bunch of bandits.

Of course beating Claude and Dimitri themselves on their own might be another matter, at least if they’re outnumbered. Still, she must’ve known that Dimitri had seen actual war before and was aware of Claude’s suspicious arrival.

Since she was with them one could think that she maybe lured them away from the group... except that the situation ultimately depended on at least two unpredictable factors:

- The guy who was supposed to get Byleth’s job bolted. He was supposed to be with the trio and presumably semi-competent.

I’m surprised that he didn’t show up as an antagonist afterwards or something. We never find out anything about this guy or why he ran though it coulve been simple cowardice.

Well, unless he too was a plant who meant to run off so Jeritza (who definitely was an imperial plant) could take his job - Didn’t someone say something about expecting Jeritza to get the job Byleth got? I think it was Felix.

- Claude ran for it, and Dimitri chased after him

Now that’s something that Edelgard really couldn’t have predicted. It’s just Claude being Claude, and Dimitri being Dimitri and hence, heroically charging after him to help him out.

If Claude hadn’t run off, the trio would have stayed with the knights who could presumably handle a bunch of bandits. If Dimitri hadn’t charged after him to save him, Claude’s plan would have worked without a hitch and he would have returned with allies - he was just one person, he’s the fastest/stealthiest and the least valuable target so he might’ve escaped by himself.

But Dimitri and Claude running off? Let alone all three? That’s all the most valuable targets on a platter so the thieves went after them. Dimitri, bless his heart, of course thought that Claude was acting as a decoy and counting on himto come after him. (consider how he eventually really DOES expect Dimitri to bail him out at the end of Dimitri’s route)

I’d like to stress that Dimitri’s genuine, unpremeditated and unplanned action with no ulterior motive besides helping out proved to be as much of a spanner here as Claude’s clever foresight and chaotic action, and that neither of the other two had been expecting it.

Dimitri and Claude explicitly tell us that the other two got separated from the group because they chased after Claude. (Again, if she just wanted to kill them, why not just stick with the knights and let them run to their deaths? She’d get a bonus alibi. Indeed she might’ve gone after them because she hadn’t meant for this to end lethally - though it’s fully possible that she just followed without thinking and didn’t intend to get separated)

Something to appreciate here is that while Edelgard is competent and had been planning this for a while, she’s still relatively young and inexperienced and she can only defy or constrain TWSITD so much until she gets the throne.

She has clearly been amassing allies of her own (she marches in with a bunch of relatively young, handpicked generals such as Randolph, Jeritza and Ladislava, and cuts a deal with some from the old regime such as Caspar’s and Linhardt’s dads... though how he goes out in the Church and Alliance routes suggests that Caspar’s dad had some redeeming qualities) , but even with all this and some tentative assent from Arundel and co. she still needed to make an unnanounced surprise visit to actually get her hands on the crown.

She’s not exactly in over her head, but she’s attempting to control a very volatile situation while essentially making a deal with a loose-canon devil she can just barely keep in check.

A microcosm of what’s to come

The central tragedy of the game is that though the faction leaders were ultimately good people who had the same enemies, they wind up fighting each other before they get at the real bad guys because they’re all acting on information that other other’s don’t have and hence don’t know the other’s situation.

In a way the introduction scene is kinda like a miniature version of that.

Each of their individual plans/decisions might have worked, but not all three at once.

If you think about it the way they would’ve died without Byleth’s intervention foreshadows each of their “bad” endings - Edelgard finds herself surrounded and outnumbered after he plans backfire and goes down fighting as no one else has a clue what she’s really doing, Dimitri rushes head-first into an unwinnable fight because he puts honor before reason, misjudged someone’s intentions and doesn’t consider his own role, and Claude would’ve either bailed, or gotten himself killed when one of his plans didn’t quite turn out like he wanted.

Too bad you can only pick one :(

The other two stay that way.

#fire emblem: three houses #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #edelgard von hresvelg #Claude von Riegan #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd

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atypicalbipolar · 4 years

Text

Closets upon Closets upon Closets

I can’t remember exactly when I “came out.” Was it in high school when I told my mom I had a crush on my best friend? I never acted on the crush because I was afraid to risk the friendship. My mom must have filed away that I liked girls because when I came out to her for what I thought was the first time, it turned out she already thought I was bi. It was the most boring and anticlimactic conversation. But I was so lucky it went well.

If only coming out with a mental illness could be as easy as when I told my mom I am queer.

No 11 year old wants to describe what Crohn’s is. Poop is gross. Looking back, it felt so much harder 20 years ago. I didn’t fully understand how the autoimmune part worked but knew very well how the inflammation worked. Crohn’s was a bathroom disease. I learned quickly what my food triggers were and kept quiet unless I absolutely had to explain. I was in remission so my Crohn’s was invisible thankfully. Still in order to get unrestricted bathroom access I needed to give the nurse’s office a doctors note. Every September I would give copies to each of my teachers, briefly explaining my access needs. But it wasn’t always full proof. I still remember a teacher giving me a hard time in September because I always seemed to need a pass during her class. Her reaction was one of the reasons why I dreaded telling people about my Crohn’s. Misunderstanding could easily lead to stigma and distancing. I couldn’t risk it.

Six years of Crohn’s didn’t prepare me for getting diagnosed with Depression. It felt like the rug had been pulled out from me for the second time, only now it was much worse. Why did I struggle with the idea of taking these antidepressants even after 6 years of taking asacol mercaptopurine daily for my Crohn’s? I still remember when I was 11 how much I cried and struggled to get a pill that was larger than children’s tylenol down my throat. I still remember how bad the flagyl tasted. At least this time the pills were more manageable capsules.

I was told by my psychiatrist more than once to view these new meds as if they were for high blood pressure or if I were diabetic. But the fact that I already had a chronic condition didn’t allow me to see this new depression as just another condition. I let the stigma get to me and would much rather tell a complete stranger I had Crohn’s instead of Depression. Even if it was a bathroom disease.

It didn’t matter that by senior year of high school I was well on my way to remission. All the time in therapy, the hard work I put into my recovery was paying off. I was able to go to an out of state college as long as I saw someone at the counseling center. But I packed my stigma along with my laptop and new sheets. I was silent when I met new friends on campus, once again keeping a part of myself invisible. My roommates never questioned the 7 day pill organizer that I kept by the mini fridge.

So if you’re invisible and don’t need any accommodations then why bother speaking up? When the work you put into your recovery is so internal why do people even need to know? It’s so easy to let your stigma shroud you, to use it as a shield and pretend that nothing is wrong.

But at work we occasionally ordered food for a department lunch. My coworkers knew that if they wanted sweetgreeen, a build your own salad place downtown, then I would need to order from somewhere else. Sweetgreeen is full of food triggers for me. I wasn’t going to waste work’s money on a bowl full of mini daggers so I did need to speak up. Plus I wasn’t the only one with food triggers or dietary needs.

But my mental illness — my bipolar is more nebulous than being able to point to corn or seeds and predict the intense pain that would follow a few hours after eating them. There’s a strategy to only come out in the workplace when you can point to concrete accommodations you need in order to do your job. Otherwise, no matter how well you know your boss, you run the risk of your illness or disability being viewed as a weakness or even a liability. After my very first job out of college turned remote and I had a new boss, I still remember her asking why I kept starting Thursday mornings late. I blurted out that I was going to therapy and that I had depression. I was bringing my laptop so I could start as soon as my appointment ended. Thankfully there wasn’t any fallout, but I could have handled it a lot better and simply said I had appointments in an effort to protect my privacy. Since then I’ve always been advised by my therapist to just not come out for fear of the stigma and potential repercussions.

For now I’m in a grey area with one foot out of the closet but not fully there. Instead I talk vaguely about what’s going on unless I fully trust the person. Online where I use my real name it’s more difficult. At times it makes me feel like I’m in a cage of my own making. But at least I see a glimmer of hope. In the 14 years I have lived with a mental illness, I felt the acceptance for Depression and Anxiety increase and I found it was easier to talk about my mental illness. But it’s not universal, I still think there is a lot of stigma for other mental health diagnoses, including Bipolar. So until I see a need to ask for a concrete accommodation at work, I’ll have to keep my cards close to my chest, always mindful of where I am in the closet.

#stigma #mental health #bipolar #mental illness

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tacitcantos · 5 years

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After the cinematic atrocities that have been the new Star Wars movies it’s no surprise that The Mandalorian has been hailed as the first successful new Star Wars property in the Disney era. And it’s not hard to see why: its production values are stellar, its story simple but archetypal, and it fully embraces the grunge of the original trilogy. And while it is without a doubt better than the new movies… that doesn’t make it good.

A lot of you are no doubt going to disagree with me. And that’s understandable, because The Mandalorian isn’t bad exactly. It’s more that it’s not good, or as good as it could or should be. It’s a plodding and unimaginative series that meanders around flashing fanservice at the audience because it knows most of the audience will be pleased by any invocation of Star Wars iconography no matter how lacking in substance, a passable pastiche of Star Wars and various westerns, but not a particularly smart or good example of the genre, with little depth under the surface.

And it is a pastiche of westerns. From the twang of its music to the barren landscapes that fill it, The Mandalorian is firmly entrenched in the traditions and tropes of the western. Like all westerns its stakes are personal and its character iconic, lone gunslingers and dusty outlaws and unscrupulous criminals, and the plots of its various episodes vary from reminiscent to outright copying: the relationship between Mando and the young bounty hunter in episode 5 is extremely reminiscent of the one in Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven, and episode 4 is a beat for beat remake of the Magnificent Seven.

It’s in comparison to the westerns it so clearly wants to ape that the problems with The Mandalorian become most visible. It draws on the atmosphere and tropes of the genre, but isn’t willing to put in the effort to make either successful on anything but the most superficial level.

The western and its tropes are relatively rigid because it’s been so extensively and exhaustively explored that to be successful any modern day western like The Mandalorian either needs to nail its beats and themes, deconstruct it, or bring something new to the conversation. And The Mandalorian does none of those things.

All the places The Mandalorian has problems or is unsuccessful are due to not not understanding its genre and its genre conventions. There’s four core, interconnected ones that permeate The Mandalorian:

The series has no clear thematic message. It’s not really trying to say anything; not about the warrior culture of the Mandalorians, not about bounty hunting, and not about the postwar status of the Star Wars galaxy. Worse, it has nothing to say about the themes of the western, the genre it’s firmly entrenched in.

Mando is a shallow and static character. There aren’t any real layers or complexities to explore. What you see on the surface is very much what you get, with no hidden depths or surprises. Static characters can be a powerful tool in the right hands: Clint Eastwood’s laconic gunslinger in A Fistful of Dollars and The Good The Bad and The Ugly is proof of that, but Mando is too jokey and fallible to have the gravitas of that kind of silent killer.

Its plot is impersonal and predictable. The plot of most of the episodes are a series of events with little to no character growth or thematic exploration. They’re simple and tend towards sloppiness, with predictable turns and twists which makes watching them cognitively unengaging.

There’s a far more interesting story to be told in this time period that The Mandalorian almost completely ignores. Post Imperial fall but before New Republic ascendancy is a setting that’s perfectly in keeping with the western and could lead to all kinds of interesting story possibilities. Story possibilities that The Mandalorian completely ignores, and ones that makes its own absence of message and character all the more glaring and conspicuous.

As I said before, each of these problems are sort of circular and feed into and make the others worse, but let’s try and tackle them one at a time anyway. Starting with...

1. The Series Has No Clear Thematic Message

Theme and message are key to any successful story. They’re the soul of a work, the underlying pattern that gives the events of a story meaning. A work needs a viewpoint, needs an idea it finds interesting to explore through its characters and plot, or the work has no deeper resonance and feels shallow and forgettable.

For example, Unforgiven is a movie with such a pointed message and theme that it single handedly revolutionized the entire western genre. It’s a movie that wants to show the difference in the appeal of bounty hunting vs the ugly reality, to deconstruct the glamour and tropes of the western, and how killing takes a toll on those that do it. It was such a thorough and brutal deconstruction of the genre that everyone western or neo western after Unforgiven is in conversation with it whether it wants to be or not.

The Mandalorian… it’s not that it needed to deconstruct the western genre in the way Unforgiven did exactly, but it did need to have something to say, some theme or viewpoint to express. And it really doesn’t.

Take Mando’s dislike of droids for example, and his perfunctory arc to overcome that dislike. What’s the narrative purpose? Obviously it’s initially meant to show that he was traumatized as a child by the death of his parents, but what does it say thematically? What does his learning to trust the IG droid say? If, for example, the show had an anti-warrior culture viewpoint, it could use the concept of a droid having choice instead of just doing what it’s programed to make Mando question his own Mandalorian training: did he truly have another option after his parents’ death? Was he indoctrinated? Taken advantage of? I’m not saying that the show specifically needed to have a pro or anti-warrior culture viewpoint, but it did need to have a viewpoint on something.

Not only because not having a message makes the show forgettable, but also because it has serious negative ramifications on the plot and pacing. It’s why The Mandalorian feels so listless much of the time. Because it has nowhere to go, it doesn’t care about getting there fast. There’s no burning message that the show’s creators want to impart to the audience, no topic it’s fascinated by, and so it tends to meander around pointlessly, its plots and characters empty vessels. None of them can mean anything, because The Mandalorian has no meaning. It’s just kind of… there, transposing fanservice for depth.

2. Mando is a Shallow Character

The problems with Mando as a character start in the first episode. The first episode of a series should introduce the main character, give the audience an idea of who he is and what he wants. A first episode doesn’t need to completely expose all of a main character’s layers, but it does need to define him clearly and make him a character the audience can identify with. Who is Mando? What does he want? To collect bounties, obviously, but why? Is it a drive for justice? Does he take pleasure in the hunt? Does it disgust him to have to deal with criminals?

The first episode of The Mandalorian completely punts on answering any of those basic questions. It’s 45 minutes long, but somehow doesn’t tell us anything about Mando besides the immediately obvious premise that he’s a bounty hunter and a Mandalorian.

A better structure would’ve, just as an example, followed Mando through a whole hunt. Maybe when he tries to leave the original planet with the blueface alien his ship is blown up or they’re stopped by a crime syndicate who wants the blueface alien for their own reason, and the rest of the episode is him trying to get off the planet with his bounty. You could punch up the character of blueface alien, start a dialogue between him and Mando that actually gives us an insight into his character. Maybe he lets the blueface alien go at the end because of the bond they’ve formed, maybe despite the bond he still hands him in because at his core he’s a bounty hunter through and through. Either option tells us something about him.

The only real emotional layer the episode reveals about Mando is in a scene where he visits his Mandalorian clan and it’s shown though flashback that his family was murdered when he was a child, and we can infer that he was taken in by the Mandalorians afterward, but again, we get no indication of how he feels about it.

What’s strange is that there’s a more interesting version of this scene in episode 3, where it’s revealed that only one Mandalorian can go above ground at a time. This is a potentially interesting idea: why was Mando chosen instead of the other Mandalorians? Does he feel a burden to represent his people? Is this his driving motivation? Does he feel like he’s not equal to the task? But there’s no followup to this scene to give us a hint to what Mando is thinking about it wasting a perfectly good opportunity to ground him as a character with a concrete motivation.

This whole scene could actually have created a potentially interesting conflict for Mando where he’s torn between saving baby Yoda from the imperials and not tarnishing Mandalorian reputation by betraying a client. Sadly absolutely nothing is done with this idea, as the rest of the Mandalorians seem entirely happy to cover for him when he tries to escape with baby Yoda.

And choosing to save baby Yoda is pretty much the last character growth Mando goes through for the season, besides some perfunctory getting over his dislike of droids in the finale. He’s a largely static character, unchanging and flat. As the series goes on he’s fleshed out a little, but only a little: who he is as a person is still shockingly vague and vacuous by the end of the season.

It’s one of the reasons the series a whole is really emotionally flat, without any ups or downs, triumphs or failures, joy or despair. For example, in the last episode when Mando sees the piled armor of the dead Mandalorians, did anyone feel that as a punch to the gut? Of course not, because we don’t really know who Mando is, don’t have any way into his head, don’t identify with him in the way that we do with the best fictional characters.

Static Characters and How to Write Them

Part of the reason Mando is a shallow character is because he’s a static character that doesn’t undergo any real change. Now, static characters aren’t inherently shallow ones: there are countless examples of iconic static characters in fiction, and especially westerns, but the rules for making a static main character effective are different than those for dynamic ones, and is in many ways harder: not changing or growing through the story can make them feel stale and lifeless, and makes for a passive and unengaging viewing experience on the part of the audience.

There are a few ways to make a static character compelling, but all require careful deployment of the character in coordination with the rest of the story. Here are a few, but notice how none of them really apply well to The Mandalorian:

One approach is to reveal different layers to the character throughout the story. Instead of changing they remain the same, but our understanding of them changes. This doesn’t really work with Mando though, because as we talked about, he’s not a complicated or complex character. What you see is very much what you get and there are no hidden layers beneath the surface one.

Another approach is to have the character growth heavy lifting taken on by another main character. It’s why the lone badass archetype is almost always accompanied by a more relatable secondary character. It’s an approach that’s effective because it lets the badass keep his mystique, while also letting the story reap the narrative benefits of having a character grow. The Mandalorian actually kind of does this by giving Mando baby Yoda at the end of the first episode, but the problem is that baby Yoda is just as static a character as Mando, even if he’s a much cuter one.

Yet another approach is to use the static character as a focal point for other more dynamic characters. They can become a mirror and contrast for those secondary characters and their growth. This requires a deep bench of characters though, and the only really recurring characters of note in The Mandalorian are ex rebel dropshock lady and discount Lando, neither of whose actor can portray anything resembling a human being, and both characters who are even shallower than Mando.

A final approach is for the static character to simply have overwhelming charisma or gravitas. Clint Eastwood’s unnamed gunslinger in the Dollars Trilogy is a perfect example of this kind of character; a figure of dread, more force of nature than person. Mando fails at that though, because he’s far too fallible and his badassness swings wildly from one episode to the other: sometimes he’s able to wipe the floor with dozens of battle droids, and other times he meets an ignoble defeat at the hands of Jawa’s, after which he throws a flamethrower temper tantrum at them.

Helmet Woes

Part of the shallowness and lack of gravitas of Mando’s character stems from the decision for him to never take his helmet off. Facial expressions are an undeniably massive part of human interaction and communication, and the primary way that most actors express their characters thoughts and emotions, which in turn is key to getting viewers to identify with and care about that character.

There are ways to make a faceless character work, but it requires skill on both the writing and acting side, skill The Mandalorian clearly doesn’t have. The dialogue often feels try hard, as though the writers feel the need to bludgeon the viewer to make up for Mando’s lack of facial expression, and often veers wildly from sullen to uncomfortably jokey and pedestrian.

There are a fair few movies and tv shows that have been able to make a faceless character work. V For Vendetta, for example, used strategic head tilting and theatrical body language to characterize V. An even more effective example is Boardwalk Empire’s Richard Harrow, who’s actor is able to use the half mask of the character’s face as a tool to make him by turns compelling, sympathetic, and chilling.

Both cases though require an actor who understands how to communicate solely through voice and physicality. And as likable and talented as he is, Pedro Pascal, who plays Mando, is not that actor. His vocal inflection is limited, his body language nearly nonexistent, and you can always tell he’s not entirely comfortable in the armor, that it’s not the second skin it really should be for a Mandalorian.

Just look at Mando’s default stance. Because of the bulkiness of the armors gauntlets, Pedro Pascal often walks or stands with his forearms rotated outward, giving him a strangely ballerina esque stance not at all evocative of a hardened and ruthless bounty hunter.

Even with an actor better suited to the physicality of the role though, the idea of a faceless main character will always be fundamentally mismatched in tone with the show as a whole. Face is personhood, and a faceless character should be an enigma: a lone bounty hunter who’s story is told through action and not words. The movies The Mandalorian should be emulating are of the kind Clint Eastwood’s Dollar trilogy exemplifies: archetypal stories imparted through visuals and largely bereft of dialogue.

You can see a more modern example of this approach to storytelling in 2015’s Fury Road which has minimal dialogue for the first third but still manages to tell its story effectively and compellingly. Or for an even more extreme example of this laconic approach, see Genndy Tartakovsky’s excellent series Primal, whose tale of a man and his dinosaur has no dialogue whatsoever.

But The Mandalorian isn’t willing to commit to that mode of storytelling. And that’s depressingly predictable: it’s a Disney property after all, and that means it needs to appeal to a broad audience, that it’s a cog in the endless intellectual property money machine. In that machine that kind of audience narrowing approach isn’t something they’re interested in.

So instead The Mandalorian as a whole tends to be pedestrian and safe, a show the whole family can watch together. Which would be fine, but that show is fundamentally at odds with the faceless main character The Mandalorian insists on. It’s another example of the show wanting to invoke the atmosphere of the western without willing to put in the effort to make it work.

3. Its Plot is Impersonal and Predictable.

Another place the show isn’t willing to put in the effort, or maybe simply isn’t talented enough to, is with its plot: both in the broader arc of the season and each episode. Just as with Mando’s shallowness as a character, right from its first episode the problems with the plot of The Mandalorian are glaring. The structure of the episode is innately flawed, disconnected and episodic without a clear through line.

An action sequence unrelated to the main plot at the beginning of a story to prove the main character is a badass is a perfectly serviceable trope, but The Mandolorian burns through ten of its 36 minutes on a hunt that has nothing to do with the main plot of the episode and the only information it imparts to us about Mando as a character is that he's a bounty hunter and a badass. The episode needed to be leaner, bereft of anything that didn’t move the plot forward or give us a reason to care about Mando.

The series is full of little slips and missed opportunities like that. The structure of the last two episodes, where Mando gathers a team to face the forces he’s been running from all season is far more boring than it needed to be. For a show about criminals and low-lifes and bounty hunters in the best tradition of the western, having Mando’s allies be completely trustworthy is a real lost opportunity.

A better structure would’ve had each member of the team have differing motivations and goals so that there’s an underlying tension to the episode. Will Cara go rogue at the chance to take out a high level former Imperial officer? How well reprogrammed is the IG droid? How trustworthy is Discount Lando? These are questions that are hinted at, but the show never makes credible enough to create any real tension. Cara doesn’t care about the Imperial aspect of the forces pretty much at all. And any hint the IG droid is even mildly untrustworthy is defanged by the montage that makes it clear he’s now his own person. Discount Lando decides not to double cross them as soon as it’s revealed he was going to, pricking any tension from that balloon before it has a chance to be inflated.

The episode that’s most illustrative of how weak the plots in The Mandalorian are though is episode 5, in which to pay for repairs to his ship Mando teams up with a younger bounty hunter to go after a high profile criminal.

This is a promising start. Pairing the older and more experience Mando with a cocky young gunslinger is a great way of exploring Mando’s character through contrast, since after all he must have once been something like the younger bounty hunter. How has he grown? How has bounty hunting changed him? How does bounty hunting change everyone who does it? What does it take to be a bounty hunter?

Your guess is as good as mine, because the episode goes on to explore exactly none of those questions. Mando and kid capture the bounty, the kid double crosses Mando, Mando kills him, and then him and baby Yoda jet off to the next planet. That may sound like an overly glib description of the plot, but that’s all there actually is in the episode. The plot of the episode is entirely impersonal. Things happen, but it means nothing from a character or thematic perspective.

Narrative Economy

Every beat in a story shouldn’t just push the plot forward, but also build character and theme. While not westerns, some of the best examples to illustrate this concept come from James Cameron’s early filmography before it started to become self indulgent and… blue. Aliens and Terminator 2 are both masterpieces of sparse and effective storytelling.

Take the yellow power loader from Aliens. Not only does it serve the plot purpose of allowing Rippley to battle the xenomorph queen at the end of the movie, but earlier in the movie it also serves as a character beat:

“I feel like kind of a fifth wheel around here, is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t know. Is there anything you can do?”

“Well I can drive that loader.”

This beat tells us something about Rippley; she doesn’t like feeling useless, and it’s also the first step in her arc of proving herself to the marines.

The Mandalorian is nowhere near as tight in its storytelling or plotting. The incident with the sand people halfway through episode 5 is bizarrely representative of so much about The Mandalorian.

This incident serves no plot purpose, the sand people don’t ever come back, and it tells us nothing about Mando. It’s a pointless aside that’s only there to provide fan service.

A better version of episode 5 would’ve seen some kind of bond be formed between Mando and the kid so that the kid’s betrayal and Mando having to kill him would’ve had some weight and meant something. Considering how extensively and blatantly the show cribs from westerns it’s bizarre they didn’t go this direction. The pairing of the old veteran gunslinger and the young brash one is a really common one in the genre, and best exemplified by the previously mentioned relationship in Unforgiven.

As we talked about, in Unforgiven the pairing of Clint Eastwood’s retired gunslinger and a fresh young bounty hunter is used to show the difference in the appeal of bounty hunting vs the ugly reality.

And the movie weaves that theme through its plot. For example, when Clint Eastwood and the young bounty hunter eventually catch up to the criminals they’re hunting the ensuing gunfight is anything but heroic. Morgan Freeman’s character shoots one of their targets through the gut, and both sides are left listening to him call out and beg for water as he slowly dies.

The experience so perturbs Morgan Freeman’s character that he abandons the chase. The shoot out thus both moves the plot forward, and reinforces its theme that killing is hard and unglamorous and takes a toll on those that do it.

4. The Post War Story the Mandalorian Could’ve Told

What’s frustrating about The Mandalorian is that there’s a far more interesting story to be told than the one we got onscreen, a way to recontextualize Star Wars iconography in a way that’s visceral and immediate and thought provoking and more in common with the westerns it wants to evoke. Werner Herzog’s speech in episode 7 really makes it clear what a missed opportunity the series is as a whole, and hints at what could’ve been:

“The empire improves every system it touches judged by any metric. Safety, prosperity, trade opportunity, peace. Compare imperial rule to what is happening now. Look outside. Is the world more peaceful since the revolution? I see nothing but death and chaos.”

Placing The Mandalorian in the post Return of the Jedi timeline opens a lot of fascinating story possibilities and perfectly sets the stage for it’s western setting of a lawless frontier where there’s no strong central authority. While the fall of the empire in Return of the Jedi is without a doubt a good thing for the universe on the whole, all revolutions are messy and any time a regime falls, good or bad, it creates a power vacuum.

A power vacuum that should be filled with crime syndicates armed with abandoned imperial equipment, planetary governments who are newly independent now they’re out from under imperial yoke and are looking to flex their muscle against their neighbors, new republic expeditionary forces looking to woo those same planetary governments into the new republic itself, and most importantly Imperial remnants. It’s simply a universal truth that large groups of heavily armed soldiers don’t simply pack up their things and go home when they’re newly disenfranchised.

And not just one Imperial remnant or two, but dozens, each with their own motivations. Much in the same way real world terrorists and revolutionary groups often hate each other as much as their designated enemy, all these imperial splinter groups should be infighting and scrabbling amongst themselves for resources and power.

Imagine how much story juice there is to be squeezed in exploring those splinter groups: one could’ve been led by a petty warlord who’s little more than a heavily armed bully interested in money and power, another a strict believer in the Imperial doctrine of stability before human rights and actively fighting against the New Republic, another still a decent person who now out from the militaristic drive of the empire is just trying to keep the planets under their protection safe from crime syndicates and upheaval.

And a bounty hunter is the perfect character to explore this story. With crime syndicates at such a high tide there’s plenty of bounty hunting to be had, and a fledgling new republic would no doubt be putting out hundreds of bounties on imperial war criminals and fleeing high level officers. And a Mandalorian specifically works perfectly: someone who’s largely impartial and uninterested in the greater politics of the galaxy, of the struggle between New Republic and Imperial remnants.

There Except Not

The Mandalorian vaguely gestures at some of these ideas, but it’s always in an undercooked way: the messiness of revolution exists only within a single line from Cara about leaving the New Republic and in Werner Herzog’s speech in episode 7. The concept of newly empowered crime syndicates is sort of there in episode 4 with the raiders preying on the local village with an AT-ST. But the raiders are a tiny outfit that apparently messes with a single isolated village and there’s no indication that the galaxy or even this part of space is suffering from them as a whole (or even that they’re a consequence of the post war status quo. For all we know it’s always been like this).

Infighting between Imperial splinter groups exists for all of the thirty seconds it takes Werner Herzog to die at the end of episode 7 so that the series can get a new big bad. It’s never explained and exits as swiftly as it’s introduced.

And all of this, all of the above, all the missed opportunity in The Mandalorian, hurt its story as a whole. Even just the concept of different Imperial splinter groups with differing motives could’ve been fodder for an episode or two of Mando using his cunning to pit them against each or double cross both, perfect for plot twists and reversals. Or for another example, take Cara’s reason for leaving the New Republic:

“And then when the imps were gone the politics started. We were peacekeepers. Protecting delegates, suppressing riots. Not what I signed up for.”

“How’d you end up here?”

“Let’s just call it an early retirement.”

This is a really interesting idea: the conflict and challenge in transitioning from fighting a pure evil like the empire to the much harder and less straightforward job of governance is a great arc Cara’s character could’ve explored and grown through throughout the series. But this snippet of dialogue is all there is of it in The Mandalorian, and she has essentially no other character growth or development.

There’s a really fascinating post war story to be told in The Mandalorian, in the power vacuum in an empire’s fall and the complexity of transitioning from rebellion to governance, a story that fit it’s western atmosphere and ambitions so much better than what’s there right now: but the show is completely uninterested in telling any of it.

Weaving those elements into its plot and characters and messages would have helped fill some of the emptiness at the core of the show. And that’s really one of the best ways to describe The Mandalorian. Yes, it’s pedestrian and badly paced, but more than anything it’s empty, a space western without anything to say.

#the mandalorian #star wars #mando #disney cannot star wars to save it's life

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cami-chats · 5 years

Text

My Blood Red Heart

Written for @marvelpolyshipbingo

Rating: Teen

Warnings/Triggers: Winter Soldier/Red Room mentions

Pairings: Tony Stark/Bucky Barnes/Natasha Romanoff

Summary: Bucky recognizes his forgotten soulmate while in the middle of a fight. Natasha saves him, they save the day, and Tony invites them back to the Tower. Falling for her was easy, so why not fall for him too?

Square Filled: B2-Murder Strut

Read on AO3 or below

The Soldier watched her run away, but there was no satisfaction in it, not when she was severely outgunned and still had the time to toss that fucking smirk over her shoulder as she went. She was the bigger threat. The target had gone down. He'd get back up, the Soldier knew that, but she could actually stop them if she wanted. She'd tricked him, and the only thing that had saved him was luck. She'd hit the glasses instead of an inch higher; that wasn't because of anything he'd done.

His eyes followed her. She was taking a fairly straight path which would've been a mistake if she wasn't so obviously trying to prevent civilian casualties. "I have her," he said. If they went after her, they wouldn't even make it a full minute. "Find him." He vaulted over the concrete wall and landed on top of a car with a crash that made his legs ache for a moment.

She ducked between two cars before he could raise his gun, and there were more cars on the other side of an overturned bus-- a miniature maze where the prize was pulling the trigger first. He strode to the other side of the road with sure steps, then slowed, glancing back and forth and listening for the smallest sound. She was too good to have loud steps, but he should be able to- he came to a stop. She was talking quietly, but it was enough. Calling for reinforcements wouldn't be enough to save her, but it could save the two men she'd been in the car with if the team accompanying him felt particularly useless today.

He reached to his back with his left hand, fingers catching on a small bomb. He lowered himself and rolled it towards her, then straightened and raised his gun again; there was no way the bomb alone would kill her as she'd see it and dodge, but that would leave him with an opportunity. There was something familiar about her, more familiar than that shield the target had used on the bridge. His handler would mention it during the debrief, most likely, so he didn't need to think about it. The explosive went off and he tightened the gun to his shoulder, only to be thrown off balance when something hit the side of him and knocked the gun out of his hands.

He didn't have the chance to get his feet under him before he heard the quick whir of a garrote wire, and he shoved his hand up near his neck. It just barely caught the wire in time, grinding against the metal of his hand, and as he tried to find his center again, the familiarity struck him again, more distinct than before. He stumbled backward and she hit a car with a grunt, but her grip didn't loosen. For a moment he tried to get the wire completely away, but the angle was bad and she had too much leverage where she was hanging off his shoulders. With his free hand, he reached up and gripped with the intent of throwing her over his shoulder. He started to, and then he froze, memories hitting him straight in the stomach like a brick.

She fell barely a foot away from his aborted move.

"Natasha," he gasped, and she stopped, half a second from throwing something at him. His eyes were wide, and he didn't know- what the hell was going on? He stumbled back half a step, bumping into the car again, and this time he didn't move.

She got to her feet, still holding that small disc in her hands. Her expression was hopeful but her body language was wary, angled so that she could throw it at him and make a run for it if she needed. Smart, but she'd always been smart. "Yasha," she returned evenly.

"What the hell is going on?" he asked, and he didn't even care how desperate it came out.

She glanced over his shoulder nervously, then back at him. "Not now, we need to leave."

He didn't know how to think about where he was or how he'd gotten to this specific point in time, but he could get them out. Leaving was easy. They started to run, moving together like no time had passed since they'd been on the same side. No words were necessary; when Natasha moved one way, he knew it meant they were about to take a hard left, and they moved in tandem. The deafening sound of a mini gun spitting bullets started, but it wasn't at them. She glanced towards the noise, slowly an almost unnoticeable amount.

He grabbed her arm and made her keep pace, gruffly saying, "They'll be fine." The target was up, and without him the others didn't stand a chance. If they took too long, there would be news sites coming to film, and they wouldn't be able to kill him; they would definitely take too long, the idiots.

They made it far enough away, he took off the mask, and she lifted a hoodie for him. In DC, there wasn't really such a thing as 'out of the way'. Where there wasn't video surveillance, there were guards, and most of the time there were both. So when they stopped to try and formulate a plan, it wasn't because they were completely hidden, it was because they were as out of the way as they could be. There weren't any safe houses that would actually be safe. Fury was dead-- god, Bucky had killed him, he hadn't thought about it at the time, but that had been the last major defense against Hydra and he'd shot that chance without a though-- Hill was in the wind likely dead, and Rogers and Wilson were the ones in need of rescue.

Natasha let out a frustrated breath. "We need backup." But there wasn't any.

"What about Stark?"

Natasha looked at him sharply. "We aren't dragging him into this mess."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, staring at her flatly. "Right. Hydra taking over won't effect him at all." He knew it had been a damn long time since he'd known her, but since when did she care about people this way? Stark could more than take care of himself-- the multiple failed assassination attempts by Hydra were proof enough about that-- and if he could take care of himself, there was no reason for her to be worried. No reason that Bucky could think of right now, at least.

"We aren't in New York."

"He has a flying suit," Bucky said drily.

"We have no way of contacting him," she tried.

Bucky held up a phone he'd swiped from someone's bag-- they'd survive, they had another one for some reason. Hoodie pockets were great. He also had a couple snacks in there, but they were for after Natasha made the phone call that would save their asses. He cared about whatever was holding her back, but not more than he cared about their lives.

With a regretful sigh, she snatched the phone from his hand and dialed, the number clearly memorized to perfection even though she couldn't have had much cause to use it.

It was several, long rings before Tony answered, a confused, "Hello?"

"It's Natasha." There was a shy, hesitant quality to her voice, and Bucky wondered when he'd stop being surprised by things now that he was... himself again.

A pause, then, in a tone too casual to be genuine, Tony said, "You know, there was some footage of that epic battle you just got into. I know some drivers can be dumb, but I think you took it a little too hard this time. You gotta learn to take deep breaths and let it go. Maybe we should pencil you in for some meditation time with Bruce. So Steve and that other guy-- you know, the handsome one in the green shirt, he looks kinda familiar, maybe he should drop by when all is said and done-- got taken in by some people in SHIELD uniforms, and you vanished. I'd be offended you didn't call me in to join the party, but I'm guessing that's what this is. Unless you wanted to RSVP for the New Years party. Six months early is a bit much, but you spy types are always on top of things."

Natasha smiled, but her tone was clear of it when she responded. "Not sure about New Years yet, but we could use some support down here."

"Already in the suit. Where are you?"

"What, you can't trace the call?"

"Not while I'm tracking the transport that has Stevie-boy in it. Am I grabbing him or you first?"

"Him. Yasha and I can survive a little longer without you."

"Who the hell is Yasha?"

Natasha's eyes flickered to Bucky. "Long story."

"Okay," Tony said, drawing out the second syllable to show how much he didn't like that brushoff. "This number good to reach you at?"

"We'll hold on to it until we hear from you." Normally she would ditch it right away, but there was no point when they had no other way to contact him.

"I'd tell you when to expect a call except I'm breaking my own safety protocols right now, so maybe I'll die in a fiery twist of metal like my nanny always predicted. Stay safe," he said, then hung up.

"You're close," Bucky noted.

"Not really," she said, but she had to know that he could tell when she was lying. It was probably a soulmate thing that he always knew when she was telling the truth and when she wasn’t, because she'd always been able to fool handlers.

Bucky didn't say anything to that, just pulled a cap from his hoodie pocket and offered it to her.

She put it on and looped her hair through the hole in the back. "I did a profile on him right after Iron Man. We talk, but he doesn't trust me."

"Anyone other than me trust you?" he asked, arm around her shoulders as they started walking again.

"A few people." The one that recruited her to SHIELD. Fury, before he had died, maybe Hill as well. Steve might. He'd seen something about the Avengers before, but they seemed more like individuals with a common goal than a team. The fact that Natasha hadn't automatically called them was proof enough that they weren't a team.

By the time the dust settled, it was obvious that Hydra had counted on Iron Man being out of the way. Bucky could recall some of Hydra talking about the Mandarin and the aftermath keeping Stark busy, but he didn't think that was important to share. Iron Man was there, a hell of a lot more firepower and brainpower than they'd planned for. Fury was alive and Hill was with him, which explained where they'd been at the start of this mess. Well, Fury was barely alive. He'd kind of been shot to hell, and Bucky made eye contact with him exactly once to make sure he wasn't taking it personally. Maybe Fury trusted Natasha, but Bucky was part of the much larger group of 'everyone else' aka 'people he didn't trust'.

It was ridiculously impressive how much everyone trusted Natasha actually. She might think she was untrustworthy, but everyone in the room believed in her. Proof? They'd all given Bucky suspicious looks and Stark had outright asked why they were trusting the guy that had been attacking them a couple hours ago, and all Natasha had to say was, "He's on our side," to shut them up.

"Anyone need a place to stay?" Tony asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "Of course you do. You-" he pointed at Fury and Hill "-lost your fancy carriers and compromised your entire organization. And you three-" Steve, Natasha, and Sam, but not Bucky since he'd basically been a Hydra attack dog "-lost your homes when they fucked up. C'mon, the tower's great. Pepper won't even be able to get mad at me for inviting all of you back."

"Why would Pepper be mad at you?" Steve asked.

"She doesn't like half of you. Natasha's her buddy, but she doesn't know Sam or Bucky. You SHIELD higher ups though, you're on thin ice. Something about paperwork and an inefficient organization, I don't really know."

As they'd been doing all day, they just listened to Tony and followed after him. It was easy to do that when Tony was constantly proving to make the right decisions. Besides, who else were they going to listen to? Fury? He was the only other one with ideas, but right now he was bedridden, so his usual intimidation tactics didn't work. Plus he had a hell of a lot of work to do to rebuild SHIELD, and none of them needed to be there for that.

Tony decided that instead of flying out to the Tower and grabbing the quinjet to get all of them, they were just going to drive. Bucky wasn't allowed, Sam refused, and Steve was banned from ever driving when Tony was around. Natasha could have, but Tony offered then went off to find a rental. Which meant that none of them got to complain when he showed up in a minivan with a gleeful smile. Of course, that did mean that no one sat in the front seat next to him since Sam and Steve had paired off and Natasha wasn't letting Bucky out of arm's reach.

"This is fun," Tony said. "It's like I'm the mom-friend of the group. Wait until Rhodey hears about this, he'll mock you all silly, normally I'm the one that has to deal with that. And since none of you are in the passenger seat and get to complain, you have to deal with my music." He turned on something with lots of drums and screeching guitars, but after the first song he switched it to only be sounding in the front.

The rest of them were silent for most of the drive. Steve was trying to process the fact that Bucky was alive but was nothing like how he'd used to be. They wouldn't be able to talk about it with everyone here, and that was if they talked about it at all. Bucky was closed off, silent and brooding. Natasha had mentioned the phrase 'tall dark and handsome' before, and he was pretty sure that was the category Bucky fell into now, as opposed to well groomed and a gentleman like he'd been before.

Sam... well Bucky didn't know Sam all that well, but he was probably thinking about how weird it was that one day he'd been having breakfast and the next he was in a minivan with half the Avengers plus a newly retired Hydra assassin. That had to mess with anyone. As for Bucky and Natasha, well, they were used to not talking.

"Sorry I ripped the steering wheel out," Bucky said to Sam.

Sam grunted. He probably wanted an apology for trying to kill him, but Bucky would spend the rest of his life saying that to people if he started now so he didn't care very much.

"He's grumpy because he hasn't had something to eat all day," Natasha said.

"That sounds like an excuse to go to McDonald's," Tony called from the front, opting to yell over the music rather than turn it down. But he did turn it down when he got to the drive thru window because he was a nice guy. And because he was an even nicer guy, he got burgers for everyone, not just himself and Sam. But he was the only one that got a milkshake. Not that Bucky or Natasha minded, but he hadn't even offered. It was the principle of the matter.

"Do they know about you?" Bucky asked her in a low tone. Steve, with his enhanced hearing, would've been able to make out the words if he spoke Russian.

"No."

"You going to tell them?"

"It hasn't come up."

Bucky snorted. Just because no one had directly asked her if she was enhanced didn't mean the topic hadn't come up. She was on a team with other enhanced people, they had definitely talked about it before.

Natasha wrote down a quick summary instead of a full report. "SHIELD has bigger problems than the specifics of how they fell," was her excuse, and Bucky couldn't agree more. Steve, on the other hand, wrote down every little detail. He didn't send it anywhere, so it was likely a way for him to work through what had happened. Not that Bucky was around by the time he finished. Tony went to the kitchen then his workshop, and Sam stuck close to Steve's side. Whether that was because he was nervous or some other-- maybe soulmate related-- reason, he wasn't sure.

Natasha either had a regular room she crashed in, or she just knew which rooms were available for use, because she dragged Bucky off to one of them without checking with Stark. She locked the door as soon as they were both inside, then pointed at a door off to the side. "If you want to get cleaned up."

Bucky didn't, really. He didn't want to do much of anything because that meant dealing with everything he couldn't remember and what he'd missed. But he'd always been able to listen to her, and right now was no exception. He walked towards the bathroom and started stripping off his tac vest. All the knives and guns lined up on a side table by the bed-- less than he should've had, he was running low after the fight-- before he went all the way into the bathroom.

Memories were like sand-- you thought it was all gone until you shifted and found some more. It wasn't much, just the feeling whenever he untied his boots and pulled off his pants; it had been a while since he'd been able to do this in private. After the Red Room, he'd been kept on a damn short leash. Hydra didn't know what to do with him after that. Going on ice had hurt and made it worse for their long term plans for him. Wiping him hurt, but it did help them out temporarily. He'd been a weapon. Not an assassin, not the Fist of Hydra like Pierce had taken to calling him. A weapon, meticulously cleaned and maintained. Slight chinks were overlooked because he had still been the best weapon they had, even dealing with the issues that consistently and continuously cropped up.

The shoes had blood and dirt, and everything had been drenched in water at one point. Air drying was bullshit and made him feel crusty. He didn't really know how good laundry machines were, but the black of his pants covered any bloodstains that were there so it might not matter in the end.

He stepped in the tub and turned on the water. Did he know how to work it? No, but it's not like hot water from a shower faucet could burn him. When the water first came on, it was freezing, but it turned warm quickly. Perks of using a rich fella's shower. He saw Natasha come in, and she closed the bathroom door. Her clothes really were ruined. She hadn't had her suit, so she was in the same clothes that she'd had on the interstate. Civilian clothes couldn't take a pounding for shit. The mud probably wouldn't come out, and the blood definitely wouldn't; as she undressed, she tossed the clothes directly into the trashcan.

There was dirt crusted into her hair. She probably wasn't happy about that, said it reminded her of wading through a sewer-- Bucky never had asked why she knew how that felt when she'd been in the Red Room since she was eight. She joined him in the shower, sliding the distorted glass door across so they were closed off. She leaned her forehead against his back, neither of them moving.

"Do we have any clothes?"

"There are extras in the closet."

She hadn't checked since they entered, so she must have known that from past experience. Bucky sighed, grabbing the soap and rubbing it quickly across his chest and under his arms. It smelled pretty and floral, and it felt far too expensive. In the past fifty years, he'd had the type of soap that his healing factor had to work on. Effective in cleaning, but it stung like hell.

Natasha helpfully moved her head from where she'd been leaning against him, but otherwise she did nothing, enjoying the steam and the company.

A minute later, Bucky tried to move out of the way for her, but she stopped him with a hand on his waist and a raised eyebrow. "You're not getting out with your hair like that."

Like what? His hair was fine.

Natasha rolled her eyes like she'd been able to hear that and grabbed a blue bottle from the shelf. She squirted some of the shampoo-- also floral, dear lord, Bucky was going to smell like a fucking bouquet when he got out-- into her hand and started lathering it into Bucky's hair. He closed his eyes, ostensibly to make sure none of it got in, and leaned into her hands. She spent more time massaging his scalp than was strictly necessary, but he wasn't going to complain and she wasn't going to mention it either.

"Rinse," she said, so Bucky tilted his head back and started to work on getting all the suds out.

And after that, it was only fair to do her hair for her too. They stayed in there for a long time, but the water didn't turn cold-- perks of staying with someone rich. It was a good thing that they had nowhere to go, because now he didn't have to ask Natasha if they could stay; they had to.

Bucky dried off then collapsed on the bed without bothering to look for those clothes Natasha had mentioned. Chances were they wouldn't fit anyways. Natasha got under the covers next to him. Then she sighed. "I left the light on."

Bucky got up before she could do more than start to move, and he turned the light off before going back to bed. The mattress was like a goddamn marshmallow, the sheets a higher thread count than anything he'd touched before, and the blanket was already warming him up. It would be wonderful if it wasn't so different that it threw him off kilter. He didn't bother staying there for long before he got down and laid on the floor.

"Mm Yasha, what're you doing?"

"Sleeping," he grumbled.

She pushed herself up and scooted more towards his side of the bed, peering over the side at him. Enhanced eyesight was a perk of the serums they'd both been given. She couldn't make out his expression or exactly where his nose was, but she could see him. He was on his side, looking just as at ease as he'd ever been. Natasha liked the fluffy bed. What she would like even more, was to be next to Yasha while she slept; she always slept better when she wasn't by herself. So even though she'd been looking forward to an overly comfortable bed after months on SHIELD standard bedding, she got to her feet, pulling the blanket with her.

Bucky lifted his head when he saw her moving, and he snorted when she laid down next to him. She was even nice enough to share the blanket with him. She wrapped an arm around his waist after she got all her hair out of the way. "Get some sleep."

Tony felt like pounding his head against the wall. So he did. He was an absolute, complete, total idiot for falling in love with Natasha. The only interest she'd ever shown in him was when she'd been undercover, and she hadn't trusted him for the longest time after that. He tried so hard to let her know that she could ask him for anything, and he didn't even care that it came off as desperate because he was and she certainly knew that.

The long lost Bucky Barnes and assassin for Hydra was her boyfriend. That was not as big a surprise as the guy being alive in the first place, and he cared more about the first part than the second because he'd already known that he didn't stand a chance with her.

Thankfully, everyone had come back to the Tower with him, so he didn't have to do anything pesky like stalk them to ask what he wanted to know. He was going to make breakfast as a peace offering (and also bring Barnes clothes because he definitely did not have a bag with him, and no way in hell was he going to be able to fit in what Nat had).

The only problem with this plan was that it was nighttime. Tony sighed and headed to the workshop. "J, set an alarm for six thirty tomorrow morning, I need to remember to order breakfast."

"Of course, sir."

"Thanks buddy." Tony walked through the doors, and DUM-E activated from his charging station, wheeling out with a questioning beep. "Don't worry, kiddo, daddy's going to get some work done. Back to sleep with you."

DUM-E, of course, didn't listen, and instead went to finish arranging the spare parts Tony had around for the cars. Since he wasn't going to be in the way doing that, Tony let him have his fun and opened up a few internet windows. Time to get to work on that mess Hydra had made.

The time flew by when JARVIS gave him the set alarm, and even though Tony wasn't anywhere near done, he figured a break to recharge couldn't hurt, especially when the dealings with humans were more time sensitive.

They woke up when someone knocked on the door. Natasha groaned, then yelled, "What!" in the direction of the door.

"It's Tony! I was hoping for a little breakfast, maybe some juice, maybe the explanation about how you know Cap's old buddy!" A pause. "Or how he's alive, that would be good too!"

Natasha groaned, then yelled back, "We'll meet you in the kitchen!" She planted her face against Bucky's chest for a moment, then pushed herself up. "Do you have answers for him?"

"You know as much as I do," Bucky mumbled, rubbing at his face.

"Great," she said, stretching. There were clothes around here somewhere, she just needed to find them and hope they were big enough for Bucky to fit into. If not, well, he'd dealt with far worse than walking around in tight pants. As it turned out, there were only clothes fit to Natasha's size, and he wouldn't be able to squeeze into any of that. "I'll go ask Steve for some extras," she said, opening the door, only to pause. Right outside was a stack of jeans and a t-shirt. "Nevermind." She picked them up and turned back around, kicking the door shut. She tossed them at Bucky and he caught them, then slid them on.

"I don't really remember Steve," he said, zipping up the pants. "I don't remember what I was doing on the bridge."

"What do you remember?"

"The Red Room. Some of our missions afterwards. I... remember they-" he stopped. They'd found out about him and Natasha, and they'd sent him away because both of them were too valuable-- too well trained-- to kill. After that, just shadows of what he'd done. It was like trying to remember the details of a book he'd read years ago. He remembered a chair with jolts of electricity, he remembered the new order of Hydra and how they'd tried to convince him he was one of them, and he remembered ice. Flashes that didn't make sense. He didn't really remember Steve. More like a memory of a story he'd heard once. That wasn't what Steve would want to hear, he knew that much. "I don't remember anything important," he ended up saying.

She looked at him for a minute; she knew he was holding something back, but she didn't press him about it. And that, right there, was why they got along so well. He didn't want to talk about it, and she knew that if she waited long enough, he'd bring it up again. Not that he wanted to admit that he'd bring it up again, but, well, they both knew better. "We might as well go to breakfast before Tony thinks we abandoned him." She opened the door and Bucky followed her automatically.

Tony was munching on toast when they came in, and he pushed the massive jug of orange juice towards them. "I always thought one vintage super soldier was enough for a group, but I guess I'll have to reconsider."

Bucky shrugged as he picked up the jug. Natasha put a glass between him and the orange juice, so he redirected and poured some in the glass. "Hydra experiments," he said nonchalantly. He drained the glass, then refilled it. "Fucks with your mind sometimes." And that's all he was going to say about it.

Tony must have picked that up, because he accepted it. "Yeah, fuck Hydra, I think that's something we can all agree on. Not that I really care," he lied, "but how do you and Natasha know each other? She never worked for Hydra."

"A lot of organizations help Hydra without working for them," Natasha said, and that was all she planned on saying too.

"Do all spies have trouble answering questions like normal people, or is it just the two of you?"

"When was the last time Clint answered a question straight that wasn't about food?" Nat countered.

"You've got a point, but it doesn't match my annoyance with you so I'm going to pretend it's not true."

Bucky snorted. No one bothered to tell him the really good things. Natasha was here, and obviously that was nice, but couldn't she have mentioned that Tony was funny? He'd kinda thought coming here would only lead to avoiding Steve, not actually enjoying anything else.

Tony had ordered in, so he uncovered one of the breakfast platters and took a little for himself, then pushed the rest towards Nat. Then he opened a completely full one for Bucky. He haphazardly tossed forks into the containers, but it didn't look like he'd be surprised if they shoved their faces straight in. Whatever, he was starting with bacon anyways, he didn't need a fork for that.

"Steve's not an easy person to keep out," Tony continued between new bites and half chewed food. "You don't have to talk to him today, and not about anything important, but when he starts cracking heads in, mine will be the first to go. You may not care about that, but I don't have a healing factor so I'd like to avoid all this possible damage."

"He wouldn't hurt you," Natasha said, rolling her eyes.

"That's what you think; he likes you."

"He likes you too."

"Not as much. I think it's the hair, he prefers long and luxurious over well sculpted beards. I think it's a bullshit forties thing."

"It's not," Bucky said. He didn't have any evidence for that, but he was pretty sure Steve had been unable to grow a beard for a while. After the serum that was probably fixed, but he wasn't over it. Or at least, that was his leading theory. Personally, Bucky had always liked a little facial hair.

"Oh yeah? You like the beard?" Tony asked with a wink.

"What's not to like?" he responded, and maybe it was a little too easy for him to say that. Natasha was too good to stare at him straight out for it, but he could tell that it perked her interest.

"You like him," she said as soon as they were alone, back in the relative privacy of their room.

"You love him."

They stared at each other.

"I have a crush," he said softly. "He's handsome and doesn't look at me like he expects something."

More silence. This should be the part where she admitted why she loved him. Bucky had never been the jealous sort, if only because that wasn't the sort of relationship they'd had. It had been intense and all consuming, but when she was working missions there wasn't room for that shit.

"I don't care." It doesn't matter if she loved someone other than him, they were still together. Another bedmate, another partner... they still had each other at the end of the day, and that was the only part he cared about. "You love him," he said again, more gentle than before. Gentle was never something he'd been good at, but it felt like what the situation needed so he tried.

Natasha swallowed. "Love is for children." And she'd never thought she had enough innocence to make it work. She didn't seem to realize that there was more to it than that. Oh when dealing with other people, she knew, but when it came to herself, it's like she forgot all the facts, all the statistics, all the reasons people behaved the way they did-- why she behaved the way she did. He understood it all too well, but that didn't mean he knew how to help.

"Is that what we had?" he mused. "Love?" Like jealousy, they hadn't worked in terms of 'love', but that was a different time for them. Already, he was settling into old patterns. He didn't quite remember why or what those patterns were, but he could feel himself sinking into them.

"Had?"

Bucky shrugged. "Have. You can't tell me you know what we're doing."

"We're... existing."

"Then why would I have a problem with you 'existing' with Tony too?"

"You're not jealous," she snorted.

That didn't even require a response; of course he wasn't. "That's my point."

She looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head.

He didn't bring it up again. Not later that night, not the next day, not the next week, and not at any point in the next month when they stayed at the Tower without really meaning to. It's just that leaving would mean having to figure out what-- if anything-- they wanted to do other than clean up after Shield. Staying meant Natasha could go about her life almost as if nothing had changed, and Bucky was able to catch up with Steve and work out the stupid amount of energy he had; staying on ice and being half starved meant he was never restless, but Tony kept insisting that he eat until he was full and this was the result-- fuck Tony.

So when Bucky finally got an official answer from Natasha, it was over a month after he asked. Bucky was sharpening knives in the living room, all of them spread out on the carpet next to him on the ground. She sat on the couch behind him and said, "You're right."

Of course, he had no fucking idea what that meant, because they hadn't been talking about anything this could apply to today. "About?"

"Tony."

Unfortunately, that didn't clear it up for him. He said a lot about Tony, and he already knew he was right about all of it.

They sat in silence for a minute before she elaborated. "How I feel about him."

"Yeah." A month wasn't that long for an admission. Tony might disagree if they ever got around to telling him, but he was what, forty? Natasha was twice that, and Bucky was maybe older, depending on how you calculated it.

"You like him too."

"Course I do, I already told you that."

"You said it was a crush," she said, and the implication hung heavy in the air. It had only been a crush when he said it, because he was Tony fucking Stark, and he was Iron Man, and he was gorgeous, and he'd seen shit but still grinned every day like it didn't matter. Tony made everything easy but let you pretend it wasn't, and Bucky fell for him in the same way. Cause honestly, who the hell saw the Winter Soldier and decided they could force him to go to a carnival just to hold all the prizes they won? Tony, that's fucking who. Not that Bucky had gone alone, he'd dragged Natasha along, ostensibly so he wasn't suffering by himself but she'd definitely known better and Tony probably had too.

The slight tightness in his chest was completely irrational; Natasha already knew what it had become, and she was just as okay with it as Bucky was with her own feelings. It was a conditioned response to admitting anything he cared about though, so he swallowed past it and said, "Was."

"Are we telling him?"

The knife made a clear sound against the stone as he slid it along the edge. "Why bother?"

"He... might be interested."

Bucky hummed noncommittally. It's not that he thought she was wrong, but he didn't think it would go anywhere good. Tony was... different. He wasn't like them. He was a hero, they were ex-Soviet assassins that did good things mostly by accident-- well, he did, Natasha actually tried. And if he was interested and they did end up with it going towards a future together, Tony was still going to end up dead long before both of them. That wasn't something he wanted to get caught up in. It just... wouldn't be worth it. Tony was worth a whole goddamn lot, but Bucky didn't want to invite that kinda heartbreak.

Sometimes it felt like Natasha could read his mind, because she leaned forward, hair swishing against his ear and pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "You-" another kiss, this time to his cheek "-are so-" a kiss to his jaw "-stupid."

"Thanks?"

"If you don't have a good reason, we're telling him."

"And if I say it makes me uncomfortable?"

She kissed his cheek again before leaning back to her former position. "I would say you're lying and that means I don't have to listen to you. So don't try that."

"Could I say anything to stop this?"

Natasha curled a hand up his next to tangle her fingers in his hair. She scratched lightly at his scalp, and he stopped trying to sharpen his knives to enjoy it. "I'm not trying to force you into this. But I thought it was something we both wanted. I've seen the way you look at him, and there's no reason he wouldn't fit between us."

"Don't say it like that or he'll think you mean sex."

"Is that a yes?"

"You know it is."

Natasha hummed. "I suppose we'll have to plan how to ask him."

He picked his hands back up and went back to work. "You're overthinking it. We ask him to dinner as a date, and that's our answer."

"Tony, would you like to go to Geraldi's tonight?" Natasha asked. Tony was hunched over the shop's table working, Bucky was working on one of his cars, and Natasha was stacking the items in the fridge until Bucky wanted help.

"Sure."

"As a date?"

Tony's head popped up, frowning. He looked at her, then Bucky, then back to her. "Uh. Did I miss something?"

"Not as far as I know," Bucky said from where he was putting a muffler together.

"Okay," Tony said slowly.

"Great! We'll leave here at seven."

Tony opened his mouth to say that that's not what he'd meant, but he closed it a moment later, frowning. "Seven, got it." He'd figure out what was going on later. For now, he was going to finish what he was doing. As for later, he was going to enjoy dinner when it happened because he fucking loved Geraldi's, and he wasn't going to let the impossibility of it being a date ruin the food.

Bucky said something, but it was in Russian, and all Tony knew in Russian was 'more vodka' and 'take me home'; it hadn't really been a problem until now. "That wasn't very clear."

"It was clear enough."

Bucky snorted, and Tony looked over in worry. "Not you, doll. Tricking him into saying yes does not count."

Natasha scowled at him. "I'll make it clear over dinner."

"I thought we didn't want him to misunderstand. He'll think that's sex."

Her scowl deepened.

"Is something wrong?" Tony asked, concerned.

"No," they said together.

That did not make him feel better. He sighed and went back to what he was doing. It wasn't exactly soothing, but it was something to do other than worrying about whatever the hell they were talking about.

Tony drifted off to sleep, and Natasha looked over to see Bucky glaring at her.

"What?" she hissed.

"You said he wouldn't misunderstand," Bucky accused. Quietly, of course, because he didn't want to wake Tony up.

"And he didn't!"

"You're not supposed to have sex on the first date, even I know that."

"Don't be so judgmental, lots of people do that. And we've known him for a while, so it's hardly a first meeting. We went on a date and then we came home and had sex, that's a perfectly reasonable first date when we've been friends for so long!"

Bucky's glare deepened. "Wait and see, tomorrow he'll wake up and try to sneak off."

"No he won't."

"He will. He thinks it was a one night affair, you don't stick around after those."

"We're in his bed!"

"And that won't stop him!"

They stopped having a whispered argument over his body as they switched to just glaring at each other over his body. If he woke up right now, he would get quite the view.

"Go to sleep, Yasha."

"We fucked this up," Bucky grumbled.

"If he tries to leave, lay on top of him."

"What? Why can't you do it?"

"You way a hundred pounds more. Don't be a baby," she said, then laid down so Bucky couldn't argue with her further.

"Hmph." He laid down, curling into Tony's warmth. It was easier to do with Natasha since she knew he wanted that and could accommodate it, but after curving in as much as he could without achieving his goal, he hoped Tony wouldn't mind if Bucky rearranged him a little. Pick up an arm, slide under it, wiggle a leg between his, and Bucky finally felt situated enough to relax.

Unsurprisingly, he was right, and he gave a pointed look to Natasha-- that she rolled her eyes at-- before dragging Tony back down onto the bed. "Where ya goin'," he mumbled.

"Uh," Tony blanked at first, clearly not having expected to be caught, "the 'shop? I've got a couple projects I need to work on-"

"Liar," Natasha muttered. Her voice was low, but still loud enough that Tony could definitely hear. "You were running away for no reason."

"Oh there's a reason, and I think it's pretty obvious what that is. So if you'll just," Tony trailed off, trying unsuccessfully to dislodge Bucky's arm around his waist.

"As the one that got us into this mess Natasha, you have t' fix it." Plus he was tired and words were hard to form. He could totally kill someone right now, but have a heart to heart? That was beyond what he could do this close to waking up.

"If 'fix it' is code for kill me, you really really don't Natasha. We're friends, aren't we? You wouldn't kill one of your friends." Tony's voice was half joking half panicked.

"What the idiot means is that last night was a date. As a precursor to other dates until you're comfortable with letting us call you our partner."

Tony blinked. "What."

"Like dating one person, only instead of one person, there's two of us."

Bucky snorted. "Eloquent."

"If you're not going to do better, shut it."

"Three person relationship instead of two?" he offered, then yawned.

"This isn't a joke, right?" Tony asked. "Cause if it is, it's mean and you should confess right now before I get it into my head that this is actually happening."

"It's happenin' now will you go back to sleep?" Bucky grumbled. He only wanted one more hour, that wasn't so much to ask in his opinion.

"What Bucky means is that no, it's not a joke. It's a serious offer, and you can think about it for as long as you want. If that includes some time alone right now, you can take it. If not, then pull the covers back up because it's getting cold."

Tony did nothing for a long moment, then pulled the blanket up. "You are two very confusing people." Another pause. "I feel like I'm going to regret this, but not as much as you fuckers will."

Natasha smothered her laugh, then spread her hand over Tony's chest. "Noted."

"You can't make me regret anything more than I already do," Bucky claimed, yawning again.

"I was making a joke, and you just break my heart," Tony said.

"I'll try not to."

#marvel #fanfic #winterironwidow #tony stark #bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #my writing

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imaginethathaikyuu · 5 years

Note

Gwaaaaaa!!! When I think it will end more emotional conflict appears! Hello! Can I have the next part for the Oikawa and s/o fight scenario?? I am really cheering for Iwa-chan after that part three! Thanks in advance!

here it is, the final part to this iwa-chan “vs” oikawa saga… got any predictions for the end? of course, make sure to read:part 1part 2part 3if you haven’t yet!fem pronouns

Iwaizumi stood there, in the hallway, alone.

He tried to think of other times he had felt this way.

This feeling was rare.

When he was a kid, he wrecked his bike. He remembered feeling something like this while waiting for his broken wrist’s x-ray results to come back. The same dreadful feeling sat in the bottom of his stomach. But it wasn’t quite like this. He wasn’t so alone back then.

What about when a serve doesn’t make it over the net? That’s more embarrassing than it is painful, but it’s just as lonesome.

He felt nauseous.

But he was being overdramatic. He knew that. That’s why he was trying to think of what he was supposed to do to make this feeling go away.

He was so used to being around others - helping his friends, being supportive, offering advice, that he rarely felt so lonely. But when he did, it hit hard.

He wanted to scream. He needed to get this feeling out somehow.

The sound of a locker door closing brought him back down to reality - he was in the hallway, leaning against the wall.

He hadn’t even turned the corner yet.

Had his mind really convinced him that he was all alone without even having any proof?

Just walk around and see. Maybe Y/N is there waiting for you.

So he did.

And you were.

You were leaning against your locker. Waiting. He’s sure you could hear his sigh of relief even though you were feet apart.

You turned your head, he avoided eye contact.

“Where have you been? I’e been waiting for you, you know.”

Iwaizumi nodded.

“It’s Monday, so what do you want to do with your free day?”

He shrugged. Were you even going to tell him? Why were you acting like everything was normal?

Right - because he was the one with these feelings. Not you.

“You okay?”

The DVD he held suddenly felt heavier - he’d just remembered that he actually had a plan for today before it was all thrown out the window.

He held it up to you without a word.

“Oh, cool! This is the one you were talking about on the phone yesterday, right?” He nodded. “This is awesome, Hajime, we’ll have to get snacks before watching it, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You plucked the DVD from his hands and led the way outside, all while analyzing the front and back cover of the movie’s case. You made a few remarks about it, but he wasn’t quite listening.

He hadn’t even realized you had made it to the convenience store until you stopped walking and turned to him.

“You want anything?” Iwaizumi shook his head. With nothing but a raised brow, you handed him the DVD. “I’ll be out in a second, then, if you don’t want to come with.”

He was grateful you said that, because he didn’t. He’d rather stand outside with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company.

Usually, if he was in a bad mood, you could fix it. And you were rarely the cause of his bad mood. But he hated it - he wanted to happily hang out with you again, he wanted to feel like you wanted to hang out with him, too - but every time he closed his eyes he saw you with Oikawa; the pictures he’s seen, the hickeys on your neck, your lips kissed red.

And he couldn’t handle it.

What the hell did you two talk about?

He had to ask somebody - and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask you. So he pulled out his phone, and called Oikawa.

“Hello, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa’s high pitched voice said. He answered on the first ring. He spoke as if he was expecting this.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Um, nothing -”

“Are you with Y/N?”

God, what a sneaky little prick - how did he know?

“Yeah, but -”

“Say hi for me, would you?”

No.

His voice took on a deeper tone, “and that I’m excited to see her again.”

Oikawa was evil. Iwaizumi was convinced.

He didn’t even have a chance to ask what he was mean to before Oikawa spoke again. “Well, I’ve got to go, Iwa-chan, but you be good, alright? Take care of Y/N for me, you little rascal.”

What?

And then, he heard the dial tone. And after that, he heard your voice.

“You ready?”

Asking Oikawa was a bust. And there was no way he’d be able to sit through that shitty movie while feeling like this. So either he asked you now, or he ran away.

And god damn, he wanted to do the latter. He’d regret it later on.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

“Are you getting back together with him?”

For the first time that day, he made eye contact with you.

And you wished he hadn’t. You weren’t expecting him to ask that question, mainly because he had no reason to, as far as you knew. The look in his eyes showed you how defeated he was. Something about Iwaizumi wasn’t okay, but you couldn’t figure out what.

“Um… what?”

You were caught off guard - what were you supposed to say?

He looked for the answer to his question in your eyes, but he couldn’t find it.

“Please, stop doing this.”

Was he really doing this?

“Just tell me you’re with him again so I can go home.”

Outside of a convenience store, that’s where he chose to have his breakdown?

��Please, just stop fucking with my heart.”

Pathetic.

“I know you didn’t ask for it, but you’ve got it, alright? You own my entire fucking heart and - and I hoped you would take better care of it.”

It was your turn to avoid eye contact now. Iwaizumi noticed. You didn’t want to answer. He noticed that, too.

He was going to walk away, but his feet were stuck there, glued onto the concrete underneath him. Something in him told him to stay. Every late night prayer he had whispered to himself about finally getting a chance with you told him not to go. So he didn’t.

“No, Hajime.”

“What?”

“Me and Oikawa aren’t getting back together.”

“Oh.”

Isn’t this when the lump in his throat is supposed to go away? Shouldn’t he be able to move his feet now? Isn’t that supposed to be good news?

It was good news. But something in your tone kept him feeling the same as he had been.

“I just want to watch this movie with you, Hajime. But you don’t have to keep hanging out with me if you don’t want to.”

“I do.”

He watched you nod, he heard you sigh. And he felt just a little bit lighter.

“I’ll take better care of your heart from now on.”

He nodded, though he wasn’t sure what that meant - it made his heart skip a beat nonetheless. You looked up at him for a second and gave him the smallest smile before walking ahead of him. He followed you.

The walk to your house was quieter than the walk to the store. You didn’t have anything to say, and Iwaizumi was afraid he’d barf up his lunch if he opened his mouth. But when two got to your house, he stopped walking.

You looked at him and he knew you were worried he was going to leave. But he wasn’t.

“I’ll be inside in a minute. I need to call someone.”

You nodded and went ahead inside. Iwaizumi pulled out his phone and dialed the most recent number he’d called.

“Hello?”

Deep breath.

“I love her.”

A beat of silence.

“I know.”

Another beat. Iwaizumi opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted.

“I know it’s not my place to tell you, but you should know. And she isn’t going to tell you herself. But she loves you too. Don’t fuck it up, okay?”

“Okay.”

He wasn’t sure what to do with the information Oikawa just told him, so he did nothing. He hung up the phone, he walked into your house, and he decided that nothing was wrong. He felt okay again. He could breathe. And he’d watch that movie, or any movie, with you - he wouldn’t make a move or spout his love for you.

But both of you knew that now, things felt different. Only slightly, but it was there. In the way that he’d tap your foot with his own, it was there. As well as when he’d glance over at you only to find you looking at him, or how you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder.

He let himself drape an arm over your shoulders and fall asleep with you. Because it was different now, and somehow, he was allowed to do this. And he knew that eventually - soon, even - he’d be allowed to do so much more.

And he was okay with waiting for it.

got a request? send it in. i’ll write it.

#iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu one shot #fluff #scenario

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gumnut-logic · 5 years

Text

V. T. Green (Part 4)

Title: V. T. Green

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four

Author: Gumnut

5 - 21 Sep 2019

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: “Did you discover this, Brains?” He frowned. There was something familiar about this. Maybe they had discussed it recently.

“Oh, no, this is V. T. Green. The man is brilliant.”

Word count: 2916

Spoilers & warnings: None.

Timeline: Standalone

Author’s note: Apologies for the delay on this. I had some major writing mojo interruptions in the last month due to illness. But the brain is working okay at the moment and I wrote a good chunk of this today. So much for a four parter, possibly a six parter now ::headdesk:: I knew I shouldn’t have estimated it.

This is one that I have been meaning to write for some time. I hope you enjoy it :D Many thanks to both @scribbles97 and @vegetacide for all their wonderful help with this.

Thank you for all your wonderful support with this. I hope you enjoy this bit. There is more to come. ::hugs you all::

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

“It’s you.” Gordon was staring at him.

“Who?” Shit.

“V. T. Green. Oh god, it is so obvious. Virgil Tracy and his Green Machine.” Gordon let out drawn out laugh. “Hoo, this is a good one.”

“Gordon!” What the hell had happened?

“Yes, my genius bro? Ooh, when do I get this self-healing polymer upgrade to Four? Sounds totally cool.”

“I don’t even know if it works yet.”

And Gordon was staring at him again with a small triumphant smile on his face. “Genius bro.”

“Shut up.” But it was half-hearted and Virgil found himself half-smiling.

There was silence a moment, Gordon turning his attention back to Two. Virgil fiddled with his sling.

“Why haven’t you told anyone?”

“Didn’t know what to say.”

“But this is major, Virg. Brains is ecstatic about this guy, well, about you. When he finds out V. T. Green has been under his nose all this time...” Gordon frowned at him. “What is it?”

Virgil shrugged.

His brother’s frown deepened. “What is it, bro?”

He didn’t answer, looking away.

But then...he straightened his shoulders. Voice quiet. “You’re right. It is obvious.”

A pause as his brother processed that. “Aww, shit, Virg.”

“Thunderbird Two, Thunderbird One is on site. You need to get here fast, Virgil. We will need to deploy nanocrete as soon as you get here. The wall is not going to hold.”

“FAB, Thunderbird One.”

And they were on approach, all conversation was killed off as business came to the fore. Gordon landed Two beside the dam in the same spot Virgil parked her last time.

The scans at this proximity only screamed louder that the dam was on the verge of collapse. “Gordon, I want you and Alan to reinforce the structure here, here and here.” He pointed at a hologram of the dam. “Use a crosshatch deployment. These are the weakest points. Once they are secured, we will need a structural pattern from here to here to here. That will secure the wall until the water can be released slowly.”

“FAB, Virg.”

Virgil eyed him before reaching out his good arm and squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “Thanks, Gordon.”

The aquanaut smiled just a little, but the expression in his eyes told Virgil that their conversation wasn’t finished.

Virgil rose Two up on her struts and let his brothers out in the helipods, watching them for just a moment as they flew down and began pumping nanocrete onto the face of the dam. The wall would be secured, but if what he thought was the cause, the dam was doomed long term.

The question was why?

Pushing himself awkwardly out of his seat, he grabbed his molecular analyser and a portable scanner. “John, can you send the structural readouts to my HUD?” He fumbled with his helmet. This was a darn sight easier with two hands.

Muttered profanity and he secured it and turned to the hatch. Perhaps now he would get some answers.

-o-o-o-

Scott held back the urge to swear. The dam supervisor was an excitable man who just would not shut up.

“Sir, we will have the wall secured shortly.”

“Are you sure? You’re not using that stuff you used last time, are you? You are the reason we are in this predicament in the first place.”

“I assure you, sir, we know what we are doing.”

The first responder had ignored several accusations like this already. TB2 appeared on the horizon, moments later lowering to an efficient landing. The man kept babbling.

“I spoke to your engineer last time and he said exactly the same thing. Look what happened.”

“Sir-“

The two helipods launched from Two’s module and immediately the man upped his anger. “What?! You’re using more of that crap?!” The man, dragging his assistant, ran to the edge of the dam wall, staring down as Gordon and Alan started spraying nanocrete on the concrete face. Behind him, he heard Two’s hatch lower.

Finally. Virgil could slam this guy down with facts.

His injured brother had his helmet on and an armful of equipment. Ignoring the supervisor, Scott strode over to give him a hand. “Warning, Virg, excitable, blaming and annoying.”

His brother eyed him. “FAB.”

“You! You’re the one responsible for this travesty.” A blink as the man eyed Virgil’s sling. “What the hell happened to you?”

Virgil ignored the question. “Mr Windemere, the nanocrete cannot be responsible for this incident. It is just not possible.”

“Prove it! You refused to give us the composition. It is a substance unknown to science outside of your little business. How can I trust you?”

Scott flared at that. The nerve!

“We are wasting time. I need to ascertain the cause of the wall’s pending collapse. Please excuse me.” Virgil stepped around the supervisor and headed towards the walkway across the dam. Windemere hurried to follow, his assistant on his tail.

“What the hell are you doing? That is for authorised personnel only.”

Scott stepped in front of him, cutting him off from Virgil. “Mr Windemere, we will find the cause. Please let us work.”

“No!” The man puffed up his chest, but he was still too many inches shorter than Scott to have any impact.

Out the corner of his eye, Virgil was working his way along the span of the dam, scanner in hand. Over the edge and down below, the pods’ pumps threw liquid nanocrete at the wall in a reassuring rumbling percussion.

“Scott!”

Windemere was glaring at him. “Please excuse me.” He turned and strode towards his brother.

Predictably the supervisor followed.

Scott sighed to himself.

“I need to rappel down the face of the dam.”

Scott blinked. “Are you kidding me?”

“Scott-“

“Forget it. Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. You cannot do it one armed.”

“Scott...” His brother grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the supervisor. Barely a whisper. “I’m ninety-five percent sure this is sabotage. The dam is suffering from concrete cancer, a condition that takes longer to develop than this dam has existed. But I need proof. I need to scan the seal we made last time.”

“Can’t the pods do it?”

“No, the pods need to secure the structure otherwise this valley is going to be full of concrete and dam water in a very short time. It is literally crumbling under our feet.” Brown eyes fixed on him. “I need to examine it myself. This isn’t something you can do.”

Scott stared at him. This is why he didn’t want his injured brother on a mission. Because the man could not resist ‘helping’. “No. We will do it later.”

“There is no later, Scott! By this time tomorrow, this dam will all most certainly be rubble no matter how we try to reinforce it. I need to examine it now! We need the proof.”

He didn’t like it at all. If his lips thinned any further, he would probably lose one due to lack of circulation. “You are not rappelling down there.” He held up a hand as his brother opened his mouth. “I will secure you in a harness and lower you myself. Below Thunderbird One.” His brother glared at him. “That is the only way this is happening, Virgil, and I’m not happy about it in the slightest so take what I’m giving you or forget it altogether.”

Brown glared at him, but his brother subsided. Virgil was so two faced about injury. If any of his brothers, including Scott himself, had tried this, he would have shut them down faster than they could open their mouth. But Virgil? No, that was different. There was going to be a long hard talk after this.

Scott turned towards his ‘bird only to have Windemere jump into his face again. “What are you doing now?”

For the love of-

“What we have to do, Mr Windemere. Please excuse us.”

“No, I won’t let you sabotage this dam any further! You caused this. I know it!”

Scott turned on the man ever so slowly, intentionally emphasising his power and capability. Windemere cowered just a little, but attempted to straighten his spine regardless.

“Mr Windemere, this dam is endangering the lives of all the people in the town below. International Rescue will secure the structure to give those people the chance to escape and to give the water as much time as possible to drain away before this wall collapses.”

“Collapses?! What do you mean, collapses?”

Virgil took a step forward. “The reinforcing within the dam wall has corroded and, in the process, expanded, microfracturing the concrete throughout the structure. This dam is failing, Mr Windemere. What you are standing on right now will be at the bottom of the valley by tomorrow. Our priority is to release the water in as a controlled manner as possible and secure the safety of people downstream.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Scott stared at the man. Virgil eyed the administrator for one moment before turning away, his shoulder nudging Scott into movement. “I need your assistance, Commander.”

Right. “Mr Windemere, or you...” Scott indicated the man being dragged around by the windbag. “That water needs to be released as fast and as safely as possible. We could do it, trust me, we could.” It wouldn’t take John long to hack the dam’s systems or Scott to follow up on his threat. “But as per International Rescue protocol, you are required to take our recommendations in an emergency. I can get the GDF out here, in fact, I will have to anyway, so if you would like to save what little career you have left, I’d start draining that dam now.”

The assistant paled and took several steps back. Windemere pursed his lips and glared like his head was about to explode, but he turned away and stalked off.

Scott glared at his back. “Thunderbird Five, monitor output of the dam. I need to know if the water is being released fast and safely.”

“FAB.” John’s response was sharp enough that Scott wouldn’t be surprised if his brother or Eos were already in the dam controls.

Virgil was stalking towards Thunderbird One, shucking off his sling in the process.

For god’s sake. Scott strode after him. “What the hell, Virgil? Put that back on.”

“If you think I’m hanging off your ‘bird with one arm immobilised, you’re dreaming.”

For the love of...just give me strength. Scott drew in a breath and forced the words he wanted to shout at his brother back down his throat. “You injure yourself further, I’m setting Grandma on you. Home cooking and all.”

That hit home and Virgil shot an angry glare in his direction.

-o-o-o-

Virgil tolerated his hovering brother because he had to. It was understandable. He had to admit that if their positions were reversed, Virgil’s hair would be going grey and there would be words.

So many words.

But it had to be done. Virgil had the knowledge and the equipment and they had to find out why this was happening. It couldn’t be the nanocrete. It wasn’t possible. But to prove that in a court of law, they would have to expose the formula to public examination. That could release the technology to who knew who.

And Virgil had some suspicions.

But still, did Scott really have to fuss that much? It wasn’t like he was Alan or Gordon, really?

His big brother secured the extra harness to Virgil’s uniform, the inbuilt harness apparently not enough for a one-armed engineer or younger brother.

“Scott, it is secure.”

“Never hurts to be extra sure, Virgil. You of all people know that.” The man kept fiddling at the connections, checking they were safe.

“We need to do this today, you know.”

That earned him a blue-eyed glare. Another tug at the harness and his brother let him go. “Hang on with the arm that does work.”

Virgil returned the glare, reluctant to admit, that yes, his injured arm was a mess of pain and, no, he did not want to move it at all. His instruments hung from his belt for one handed access, but he needed his injured arm free in case of emergency.

His brother turned towards the cockpit. “Be safe, Virgil, please.”

A frown. “I will do my best.”

His brother didn’t answer, moving to his pilot’s seat. Moments and they were airborne.

It wasn’t often Virgil flew in One and this was one of the shortest flights in history, but he couldn’t help but feel his brother’s ‘bird roar beneath his feet. She felt so different to Two, almost alien, yet so...Scott.

It was almost as if being held by One, he was being held by his brother.

He sighed and shook his head. The ache was making him maudlin.

One shot up into the air, gliding smoothly sideways over the rim of the dam.

“Hang tight, Virgil, I’m opening the hatch and will lower you down slowly.”

True to his brother’s word, the harness gently lifted Virgil from his feet as the hatch below him yawned open. Far below, Gordon and Alan darted back and forth across the dam wall. Now moving into the second phase of reinforcement and creating a spiderweb of support across the whole structure.

Scott lowered him down toward the centre of the dam, where older nanocrete shone dully in the sunlight.

He urged Scott to move him closer, lower, a little more. There. He reached out first with scanner.

The nanocrete was stable. The same it had been the last time he examined the crack. As it spanned the internal width of the wall right through to the water beyond, Virgil had no doubt it was the strongest part of the structure, totally unaffected by the cancerous concrete around it.

As to that cancerous concrete.

Scans came up worse than any of the others he had managed already.

Hell.

The nanocrete was sitting in a fragile souffle of degraded construction material. Windemere was right. This was likely at least part of the source of the issue.

But it couldn’t be the nanocrete. The substance worked on an entirely different chemical level to that of standard concrete. There was also no way it could have caused the substrate to disintegrate...

Wait.

What the hell?

His HUD flickered back to the reading and zoomed in.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

He scanned further to the left.

Another one.

To the right.

Shit.

And a number of unrepeatable words.

“What the hell is going on down there, Virgil?!”

“Some bastard has used a microlaser to inject corrosive material into the dam’s concrete.”

And there was another one. Ultrafine bore holes reaching deep into the structure. So fine that only IR technology would have been able to find them.

They were everywhere.

Initially focussed around the original repair, but as he asked Scott to move his position, he found them at equal spaces all across the dam face.

To say it was suspected sabotage was one thing. To actually find the proof...

“Virgil, if I said those words, you’d be joining Grandma with the soap in cleaning out my mouth.”

“It’s worth it.” An awkward flick of his comms. “Thunderbird Five, can you access satellite imagery and the dam’s records and find out if anyone has been out on this dam face since we repaired it? I need everything you can find. There is no doubt that this is sabotage.” Scott was drawing him back up into the belly of his ‘bird, ever so gently.

“FAB.” John’s voice was tight.

Virgil felt like kicking something.

So many lives endangered. Why?

-o-o-o-

It was a question that wasn’t answered until long after the dam had been as secured as possible. Long after Thunderbird Two airlifted the last of the downstream inhabitants out of the way of the impending deluge. After Gordon and Alan had switched from helipods to bulldozers and built in as much flow redirection into the valley as possible. After Scott used One to airlift pallet after pallet of sandbags to assist the GDF in protecting the town.

After Virgil had yelled himself hoarse and had to be dragged away by that same older brother as Windemere refused to assist.

After John hacked the system and began the water release.

After Colonel Casey stepped in and arrested the dam supervisor.

After Scott dragged Virgil back to Two and yelled at him until he sat down.

“What the hell is going on with you, Virgil?” His expression was more worried than angry. “This isn’t you.”

He was in the medbay. Scott’s preference, despite lack of any injury. Well, more than he already had. That was enough. His arm ached abominably, despite having been returned to its sling.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Scott, but this situation puts us in a difficult position.”

“How?”

“Proprietary nanocrete. Only we know the formula and the properties. Accused of crippling a dam. We have proof it was sabotage. But only proof using equally proprietary technology, which we can’t share. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. They have our asses over a barrel and one way or the other, to clear our names, we will have to divulge some of our technology. And to top it all off, the proof is crumbling as we speak. By tomorrow, there will only be our scans, using our technology, to prove that our technology isn’t to blame for this multi-million-dollar catastrophe.”

-o-o-o-

End Part Four

Part Five

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Gordon Tracy

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casnonotbcofspn · 5 years

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Why WW3 Jokes Are Terrible

So if you have been literally anywhere on the internet in the last two weeks, you’ll have been exposed to a lot of WW3 jokes. The hashtag started trrending on twitter - the point is that it’s blown up, and WW3 is the hot comedic topic of the moment.

For context, this all started after a US drone airstrike killed one of Iran’s military leaders, Qassem Soleimani. This strike was approved by Donald Trump, and many are seeing it as a declaration of war, and therefore as the start of WW3.

That’s what lead to a huge amount of WW3 jokes circulating online, and I want to outline my problems with them.

Firstly, the major themes in these jokes is the reintroduction of the draft. The draft was abolished in America in 1973 by President Nixon, who hoped to squash the anti-war movement, as he thought middle class protesters only cared about the Vietnam War because they didn’t want to be drafted or have their friends drafted (that’s not relevant, but historical context is helpful). Now, there has been rumblings about bringing back the draft for the past five years or so, but there is no actual evidence that this is going to happen.

So for the draft to come back, what would need to happen? It would need to pass through Congress, with the majority voting in favour of it. President Trump would also have to finalise the process by approving the draft.

If the draft came back, what would happen? Firrstly, would women be included in the draft? As of a recent federal court ruling, women not being in the draft would be unconstituional. However, this doesn’t mean that women would be included in the draft, because as we’ve seen the currrent administration has no problem with doing things that are unconstituional. So we know that women and men would be involved in the draft and the draft usually composess of people age 18-26. However, the system by which people are selected for military service is unkonown. Many different systems have been used in US military history.It usually starts with everyone (or all men) in the selected age range registering for the draft. What happens next is a different matter.It could involve local draft boards reviewing those registered and deciding who and wouldn’t be drafted (as it was at the start of the Vietnam War), or it could be a lottery system, where birthdays are drawn out in the same way as other lotteries, and those registered and born on those days would be drafted (as it was to the end of the Vietnam War). The draft was used during Americcan Civil War, WW1, WW2, The Korean War and The Vietnam War in America, and each time it was slightly different, so we have no idea how the draft would work if it was introduced again today.

But back to the jokes. I’m going to say this once. The Draft Is Not Funny. It’s not a quirky topic for you to make a tiktok about. It’s conscription. It’s a system that has always been biased, regularly calling POC, working class people and rural workers to serivce, and allowing the upper classes, the wealthy and those in positions of power to escape, claiming that they have bone spurs in their foot (no shade Donald). It’s not funny, and there’s no concrete proof that it’s going to be reintroduced.

Also, a slight sub genre of jokes about the draft I’ve seen are people saying they would revert back to stereotypes if the draft was reintroduced. For example, young girls saying that they would rather simply become a housewife and a mother to avoid the draft, or gay people saying that they don’t think they should get rid of the clause in the draft that says homosexuals cannot be drafted, as it would help them avoid being drafted. It is horrendous that it is considered funny in our society to accept and welcome opression rather than fight against the draft, a biased and militarisitc system. Seriously, would go rather “know your purpose” as a glorified dishwasher, baby-maker and sex toy (in reference to a popular TikTok) than fight against the draft? It makes me sad that this is how my generation has been socialised.

My second problem is the least relevant, hence why I am only going to devote a small paragraph to it. We do not know if this war with Iran (which may happen) will be WW3. WW3 may have already happened. Are any of the conflicts that have happened acorss the world since 1945 going to be considered WW3 by historians in the future? We don’t know. WW1 and WW2 are terms that were not used during those wars. They are historical terms applied after the event, so we cannot say that this is going to be WW3, when we have no idea if a) it has already happened or not, or b) how historians will view this conflict that has arisen between America and Iran. Calling it WW3 only serves to dramatise the events ocurring.

A slightly more personal topic for my third problem. I have had severe anxiety surrounding “end of the world” type situations/jokes/news reports my whole life. I am also (un dx) autistic, meaning I struggle to understand when these things which may be jokes are jokes. Instead, I assume that they are peoples actual predictions of what is going to happen. As you can imagine, going on the interent this year has caused me to have a lot of anxiety and panic. With a WW3 joke on every meme account I follow, a refference to WW3 in every YouTube video I watch and every other TikTok I watch being about the draft, the interent is currently a minefield of anxietyr. I look at the wrong thing, and boom I’m having a panic attack. Now this is only my personal experience, Think of how other people with anxiety may be feeling at this time. Think of how other people with doomsday phobias may be feeling. Think of how other autistic people may be feeling. Now these may be cute quriky jokes to you and your neurotypical friends, but for many of us, they are seriously affeecting our mental health. But of course, most of you would disregard how those who are neurodivergent or with mental illnesses feel to get your TikTok about the end of the world trending.

Please consider us, and how these “jokes” are affecting us.

Fourthly (I know, I’ve got a lot of problems with this), I’m going to be talking about the astounding levels of priveledge that western teens have to be making these jokes online. The jokes are usually made by Americans, and I know it’s happening a lot in England too (as that’s where I live), but I don’t know about other western countries. A tweet from (@shraywavy) sums it up well:

“priveledged ass americans making this all ab them/ making jokes is completely absurd, how can yall belittle this situation when multiple brown ppl are about to be killed/displaced n the entire region is ab to be completely destroyed due to continuous imperialist agression”

Americans may find this funny. Americans may find WW3 jokes hilarious. Here’s the thing - they need to examine their priveledge. They will be okay. Everyday Americans will be okay. Yes, people in the military will die. I think that is horrific, I think that anyone who is coerced by Republican propoganda into volunteering in this war that may happen is a victim, and I feel awful for anyone who loses a relative or friend in this war, if it happens. I will go on to talk about the treatment of American troops in this post. But the majority of US civilians will be fine. Your country will not be invaded, or bombed. No one will destroy your cultural landmarks. Buildings around you won’t collapse and there won’t be fighting in the streets. Those things may very well happen to Iranian people. And you’re making a joke about it? It is not funny. The spilt blood of good people, people who did nothing wrong is not a joke. How much priveledge and ignorance does it take for you to think making a joke about this situation when in reality it will not have that much of an impact on your life?

You may think I’m being overdramatic, linking memes to the deaths that may happen. But I’m not. If you make a WW3 joke. You are saying that this situation is a joke. That this situation is funny. Jokes are supposed to be funny. This situation may very well lead to death and destruction in Iran. And that’s funny to you? The majority of people making and liking WW3 jokes obviosuly do not endorse the confliict with Iran. They don’t want Iranian people to die. In fact, the whole WW3 jokes movement has an anti-war undertone. But you need to think about the implications of the media that you create and consume.

Now, there has already been some backlash against these jokes online. I’m not the first one. Many people have come back at the backlash, saying that these jokes are a coping mechanism for the genuine fears they have about a war. As a big advocate for those with anxiety (and as a person with anxiety and with a lot of weird coping mechanisms), I don’t want to bash people’s coping mechanisms. I just want to analyse them.

Firstly, what is a coping mechanism? A coping mechanism is an adaptation to environmental stress that is based on conscious or unconscious choice and that enhances control over behavior or gives psychological comfort, as defined by dictionary.com. What is the environmental stress here? The impending conflict with Iran. What is the choice you make to give yourself control or to physcologically comfort yourself? Making a joke.

Now there is evidence both for and against the idea that humour is a good coping mechanism. There are plently of articles and pieces of research on Google Scholar about black humour as a coping mechanism that I would reccomend you check out. Personally, I am of the belief that humour can be used a coping mechanism. It’s dicassosiation from the problem. The question is, what is the problem? You’re afraid of the conflict with Iran. Of what might happen. Now it is unlikely that any direct action will be taken against US domestic territories, so I don’t think fear of your everyday life being disrupted comes underneath this. *If it does, please tell me. This entire post is based on my assumptions and I want to be challenged if you feel differently to what I say.

I personally find ignoring the problem the best coping mechanism in this situation. I will still be politically active about the fact that Trump alone seems to have declared war on Iran, but I need time-out from it to cope. I want to know from the people that are using these jokes to cope specifically what they are afraid of. I turned to Instagram for this, but if you want to tell me on here then that’d be helpful (I am aware that no-one is going to read this fucking huge post but still). An instagram acccount (@sapphic.in) reposted a tweet from (@uhhhhmad) which read:

“stop saying ur making memes about war as a “coping’ method every single one of you will be fine the people of iraq and iran will continue to suffer u people have nothing to be fucking coping for”

The comments underneath the instagram retweet of this post don’t really explain what people are afraid of (this post had a series of other posts on it so not all the comments are about this particular tweet). A few people refrenced being afraid of their boyfriend or brothers etc. (basically men they know elidgble for the draft) being drafted. There are some comments which basically say “it’s a joke calm down liberal”, and if you need me to explain why “it’s just a joke” is a terrible justification for anything, tell me and I’ll explain. But back to the fear of relatives being drafted.

There is no proof that the draft is coming back. In fact, the only reaso that people are afraid of the draft coming back IS BECAUSE OF THESE JOKES. They are the primary soure of media that all of us are consuming about the situation. They mainly refrence the draft - so everyone thinks the draft is coming back. Then larger news outlets pick up on the fact thatt the draft coming back is a hot topic - not politcially but in teen-created media, so they make media about it. They make it sound as real or as serious as they want - American news outlets have no obligation to tell the truth, and they have a motivation not to (they are businesses, so if they make drastic headlines about the draft people will read them and watch them and they will get more money). So suddenly because of these jokes about the draft coming back everyone thinks that there is a eerious threat of the draft coming back so they need the jokes about the draft coming back to cope?

This leads into my final big problem, but before I go onto that, I’d like to ask anyone who has a family memeber, relative, partner, friend of a friend etc. serving in the US military in the areas where this conflict is happenning (and where this war might happen), how do these jokes make you feel? Honestly, I want to know. I have no idea if they help you to cope or if they make you more afraid, as I have no relatives in the military so I don’t know how it feels.

My final big problem is that these jokes are the primary source of media that people are consuming about this situation. Does everyone read the news etc., making sure they know the latest on what’s going on? I know I don’t. I’m not commenting on the situation though. I’m commenting on the memes, and beleive me I’ve seen A LOT of them. So we rely on the memes etc. to be our informant. That could potetntially leave us well informed, but it doesn’t. Who’s making these memes? Is it journalists, politcial correspondents, military spokespeople, anyone really who works in the military or politics or who knows what’s happening? No, it’s not. It’s teens just like you and me who have no real clue beyond the headlines and the instagram posts what is happening. We’ve created this media hysteria. What do you look at more? The memes/jokes/tiktoks or news articles about it? How the hell are we supposed to stay reasonably informed and take anti-war action when the source of information we use is people making memes because they think they’re funny who have no real idea what’s going to happen next. Not to be a conspiracy theorist, but this is really distracting us from what’s really happening. What the US gvernment is actually doing. These jokes may be anti-war but they are helping those who are pro-war immensely.

The people who do serve in this war will not be positively affected. The American government doesn’t care about the troops. The people who will lose the person in their family who provides them with income in this war will not be cared for by the US. The people who get injured in this war will be victims of the poor veterans healthcare system. The people who get PSTD from this war will be mocked and ignored. Most pro-war people like Trump couldn’t give a flying fuck about the troops and the ordinairy people they’ll affeect. So please don’t make jokes about getting drafted. People who lost people to wars aren’t laughing. People who got drafted in Vietnam or Korea aren’t laughing. Serving in the millitary can have horrific consequences. It’s not funny to make a joke about being forced into that situation.

Finally, I’d like to refrence a tweet by (@eclipsecassette). It’s about the impact that this war may have if it happens.

“this war will likely bring another wave of islamophobia and xenophobia against anyone visibly brown just like after 9/11 so we should probably worry about that more than getting drafted”

They’re right. We don’t know what this war will bring but know that it cannot bring good. It will bring more xenophobia disguised as nationalism. It will bring more violence and hate crimes. It will bring veterans left injured and in poverty. It will bring destruction to Iran. It will make our world a much worse place. That’s why I say no to war with Iran, and I say no to making a joke out of it.

However, I am just a white teenager living in Britain who’s never experienced war, never known anyone who’s experienced war. Please tell me if I’ve said anything factually incorrect or if you disagree with anything I’ve said. I want to be as well informed on this topic as I can. Also, if I used your tweet in here and you want me to take it out I will. If you’ve got to this point, thank you so much for reading this.

#world war three #ww3 #ww3jokes #anti-war #pro-peace

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doe-clotureofyellow · 5 years

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The Demonic Twin Blades; Scene 1

The Demonic Twin Blades short story

☼ Master Craftsman Langley ~In the Kingdom of Lucifenia, “Langley Smithy”~

The country had changed, and so change had also visited upon the scope of my work at the smithy.

When it came to the “Langley Smithy”, one could say that things had changed primarily in a good direction.

The settlement of the revolution certainly didn’t mean we would have peace. On the contrary, the chaos caused by the change in leadership had led to the birth of several new seeds of war.

Whether it was invasion from foreign countries, or further internal conflicts—that’s not for this mere blacksmith to know. But this prediction was something everyone could make. The fact that this smithy had been flourishing despite the fact that the war had ended was more proof of that than anything.

Frankly speaking, supplying weapons for the resistance had been an extremely dangerous gamble. If the revolution were to have failed, then it wouldn’t have been the princess beheaded in the town square, but rather the members of the resistance. Naturally, I was included among their number.

But it didn’t turn out that way, and high quality of the weapons that the resistance used had resulted in my becoming known to a great many people.

One such person was the great merchant, Keel Freezis. Thanks to his considerable financial assistance, the outlet for my smithy grew, and I gained in both equipment and workers.

…Though I’ll have to pay him back for all that over some long months and years, on the whole the benefits have been fairly large.

Now, there are three other smiths outside of myself in the smithy. Two of them are new hires, but both of them had originally worked for other blacksmiths before. They were fairly skilled for their youth. Our workload going up was no reason to let the quality of our goods go down, and as long as I had the two of them I didn’t think I had much to worry about there.

The other one—Nagisa Coulomb, the lone woman in the smithy, started working here around eleven years ago. I recall my Chartette loving the yet youthful girl Nagisa like a little sister when she first arrived.

Nagisa hardly swung her hammer like the other smiths. Her strong suite was the construction of weapons that used gunpowder. To an old man like me who could only make old-fashioned swords and shields, the weapons ideas that Nagisa came up with were extremely innovative and interesting, and in practice during management of the store Nagisa’s gunpowder rifles grew more heavily prioritized as the years went by.

…Only, she’d really dropped the ball when she’d come up with the plans for the “Gunpowder-filled iron glove”. It was something that allowed one to fire a glove like a weapon, and the prototype that she’d made for it was hardly practical.

Its power as a weapon certainly wasn’t bad. But thinking on it as a defensive garment, it was too dangerous to always have on you something that could potentially explode on impact. Its kickback when fired was so intense that only brawny men could really handle it well.

At some point that prototype had disappeared from the smithy. Nagisa had probably not wanted her failure to be exposed to the public, and so disposed of it without anyone knowing.

That was little more than a guess on my part.

She was always shy, and never said much.

--Not even who was the father of the baby that was inside her growing belly.

I realized that Nagisa was pregnant right after the revolution had ended. I hadn’t heard anything about her having a boyfriend, but I didn’t really have the right to judge her for being with child. At the time I had thought that if she’d found someone to marry, then that was good enough.

But according to the gossip of the other smiths...the child’s father was a man who was just passing through. And furthermore, he was the leader of a band of mercenaries, and died during the revolution.

In the end, the only thing I could do was ask Nagisa the truth, as the person running the smithy.

As expected she didn’t tell me anything concrete, but…she did plead to me, “I will raise the child by myself once they’re born. I have no doubts about this. So please, let me work here like I have until this point.”

I couldn’t do anything so heartless as to cast Nagisa out. Without much alternative I decided to pay heed to her request, but seeing how big her stomach has gotten she’d be on her last month soon. Naturally I’d have to give her time off before and after the birthing.

What should I do after the baby is born?—I consulted my wife on it, and she delightedly volunteered to help take care of the child.

“Our fool girl is all grown up and out of the country, so it’ll be perfect.”

And then after saying so, she laughed loudly.

Yes, our daughter—Chartette—had suddenly gone in a journey after the revolution, having been seized by some notion or another.

Personally I’d like for her to come home soon and start looking for a husband...but, well, maybe it’s always been a pipe dream to think that we could keep our wild girl cooped up in this tiny smithy.

Frankly speaking, I’m not that worried. I’ve heard tale of her efforts during the revolution, and she’s with Germaine besides, so she’ll be fine.

But....it was starting to look like it’d be a while before I’d be able to see any grandkids.

--Thinking on that, perhaps the situation with Nagisa’s child was perfect for his wife after all.

“Lucifenian women are all stubborn...Don’t you think so--Leonhart?” I murmured without thinking, facing the direction where the Lion Knight’s grave was.

My job of striking metal with my hammer had grown extremely rough lately.

It would probably be time to retire soon…While I swung my arm with such thoughts in my head, one of the other smiths across from me suddenly lifted their head and said, “…Looks like we’ve got a customer, boss.”

When I turned around, I saw a young man wearing garb that wasn’t often seen around here looking around at the smithy with great interest.

“~♪”

I didn’t know why, but he was cheerfully humming a little tune.

Even stranger, he was shouldering some kind of long thin case wrapped in cloth.

Though I had been in the middle of working, perhaps my ears have been getting worse from age that I didn’t notice all until I had it pointed out to me by someone else.

…The melody of the tune he was humming was familiar.

“Who’re you?”

I didn’t say that with any intention of intimidating him, but it seems the other man took it that way. He took a step back with an apologetic expression, and began to introduce himself.

“I beg your pardon. My name…is Mikhail Asayev. My profession is—”

“You a monk?”

“—Yes, exactly. That’s quite a good guess, considering I’m not wearing my robes.”

“You were humming a hymnal. So I figured that might be the case. –This is a smithy that specializes in weapons. If you want a rosary you’ll have to find some other shop.”

“Oh no no, that’s not it—I came here with a comission regarding weapons, nothing less. I was encouraged to come here by King Marlon.”

A referral from Kyle Marlon—that must mean that he was a fairly high-ranking monk.

In that case, I couldn’t very well dismiss him.

Mikhail laid the case he was carrying onto the floor, pulled off the cloth and opened the lid.

And there inside it—were two unrefined looking swords.

“These are ritual objects long held in Holy Levianta…the ‘Twin Swords of Levianta’,” Mikhail said, his left pupil abruptly rotating around once.

“These are ritual objects? –You’re putting me on. The Levin church making swords into ritual objects?”

“These are being held not by the church, but the country of Holy Levianta itself. Monks don’t carry swords. However, though this is a religious country, military might is necessary to protect the dignity of our country and religion. Think of this as a symbol of that.”

Spinning.

Mikhail’s left eye swiveled again.

--I couldn’t help but find the movement unnaturally awkward.

It probably wasn’t the eye he was born with. It looked fake, man-made.

“…So then, what is it with these swords?”

“Right. Among these twin swords, it is said that one represents ‘Creation’, and the other ‘Ending’. They originally belonged to the Li family in the distant past when Holy Levianta was called the Magic Kingdom, but they were taken outside the country shortly before the Leviantan Catastro—Ah, you don’t seem terribly interested in this sort of history. You have a very bored look on your face.”

“…”

“Well then let’s put a stop to that for now, and move on to the main topic of conversation. My commission—is for you to completely destroy these swords.”

“…Wha!?”

I didn’t understand what he was getting at.

Expressly going to the trouble to take swords to a smithy, not to hone them or hammer them back into shape…but to destroy them?

…No, hold on.

“I understand, I know what’s going on. You’re…trying to get the crime pinned on me. You want the swords destroyed for some reason. But if you destroyed ritual artifacts you would obviously be punished for it. So to keep that from happening you’re going to use another country’s blacksmith—”

“No no, it’s nothing with that kind of conspiracy to it,” Mikhail denied my assertion, waving his hands exaggeratedly. “I’ve obtained permission from the archbishop on this.”

So saying, he showed me a sheet of parchment.

--And sure enough, the gist of what was written on there was basically, “The perpetrator who carries out the destruction of the Twin Swords of Levianta will not be charged with any crime”. As soon as I saw the archbishop’s signature and the dragon symbol next to it, I could tell…it was not a false letter.

“So then…I really don’t get why. Why on earth would the archbishop himself want the ritual artifacts passed down in his country to be destroyed—”

“Mister Langley. Do you…know of the ‘Vessels of Deadly Sin’?”

“…Only what rumor tells me. Just the legends spoken of among the other smiths here.”

--In this world there existed several weapons and tools wherein dwelled “Demons of Deadly Sin”, and no matter how skilled the craftsman, these could not be remade or destroyed.

Long before, a certain blacksmith was able to find a spoon that was one of the “Vessels of Deadly Sin”, and tried to reforge it into a fork. However, ultimately not only was he unable to carry that out, but he was possessed by the demon and driven to die in madness--that was the kind of thing they would talk about.

“You don’t mean…these twin swords are ‘Vessels of Deadly Sin’?”

“Indeed…Though perhaps it’s a bit hard to believe up front. Thanks to that, the archbishop is greatly aggrieved at the fact that he sanctified items with a demon inside as ritual artifacts.

“So then just throw them away somewhere.”

“I can’t do that. If I did, and someone else were to find them, then there’s a chance misfortune would befall this person. I’ve already made this same request to blacksmiths throughout Holy Levianta, but none of them were able to destroy it.”

Cursed swords that held a demon inside, and couldn’t be broken—

My interest as a blacksmith was overcoming my terror.

I took one of the swords in hand and knocked it against the floor at several angles to test it out.

…Contrary to expectation, the sword easily snapped after several times of this.

It snapped quite neatly.

“Hey…It’s broken off.”

“You think so? And yet…by tomorrow I guarantee it’ll be remade like it was before.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Well then, you should see it yourself with your own eyes tomorrow. …You have seven days. That’s how long I’ll be staying in this country. I’ll come back on the morning of the third day, and if I’m able to confirm that the twin swords have been destroyed—” Mikhail swiveled his left eye, and showed me a bag full of gold coins. “—One million Ev. That is what I’ll pay you as your fee.”

“…That is an extremely large amount of gold.”

“It’s to compensate just for the risk you’re undertaking. After all is said and done, these swords have a demon in them after all. …If you feel any kind of danger or feel afraid and want to quit on the commission, then take the swords to the great Levin church. That’s where I’ll be staying. –Well then.”

Without waiting for a proper reply from me, Mikhail walked out from the entrance.

…So, what should I do?

For now, I tossed the snapped sword in my hand in the case. Next I scooped up the piece of blade that had broken off and similarly put it in the case.

I closed the case and set it in a corner of the smithy.

--The following morning. When I opened the case to check, just as Mikhail told me, the sword that should have still been snapped in half had returned to how it had been before.

I had the key to the smithy on my person, and never took it off, so there wasn’t any trace that some outside person had made their way inside. It didn’t also seem to me like any of the smiths were pulling a prank on me.

I thought to myself that this was quite an interesting article. I didn’t necessarily believe the nonsense that there was really a demon inside, but regardless I could tell this was a job that wouldn’t be quite so straightforward.

I didn’t have any real obligation to take it on, but if I could get all that money just for destroying some swords, I had no reason not to.

First, I properly examined the twin swords to come up with an opinion on them.

In ancient times, the Magic Kingdom that supposedly was destroyed by a catastrophe caused by a dragon was said in legends to have had a culture that was far, far more advanced than what we had now. Whether that was true or not, when it came to these swords they didn’t seem to be made by any particularly advanced technology at all. The metal used in them had a low purity, and there was no particular detailed decorations like as would be on a treasured sword.

I decided to have the other smiths help me, and smash them into pieces using a large steel hammer. Not just the body of the blades, but also the hilts and the guard, everything. I put the items that had been reduced to rubble into the case and left it be, but of course by the next day it was completely reformed again.

This time I tried melting it with heat. Thanks to the new model of furnace we had, it was comparatively simple to reduce the twin blades to masses of iron. But…by the next day, those too had returned to their original form as swords.

As expected the other smiths were creeped out, and though they had participated intending to get a cut of the reward, they soon wanted nothing to do with the twin blades. When they did, Nagisa who had seemed indifferent of it all up to then, suggested I try exploding it with gunpowder.

I couldn’t very well do that inside the smithy, so I decided to do it at a nearby riverbank. When I blew up the twin swords buried inside gunpowder, there was a great cheer from all the spectators watching. I took the pieces of the pulverized sword back to the smithy to see what would happen…but I couldn’t hope for much.

I decided to watch over the pieces of the sword through the night, by myself. It always reformed itself in the middle of the night. So then, I figured I would see this happen with my own eyes.

--Around two in the morning, a peculiar event happened.

It seemed to me that the moonlight that was coming in through the small window in the smithy suddenly grew brighter.

Right after I realized that, the scene before my eyes suddenly grew too dazzling to see...And then I lost consciousness.

--I realized that my body was sinking into the ocean.

I felt no difficulty at all from being unable to breath, so I quickly could tell that it was a dream.

An enormous fish with rainbow scales was swimming right in front of me.

“…Cease your pointless actions.”

It was a woman’s voice.

“You cannot destroy a ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’. Even if you could—there’s no meaning in doing so.”

Was this fish the demon that dwelled in the twin swords?

When I asked her, the fish replied “Correct”, and then continued.

“You are quite lucky. I am a pacifist demon, and as such you are safe even now. If you were to have done such things on any other ‘Vessel of Deadly Sin’…You would have been cursed long before. However, I grow tired of playing around on this any further. And…none of you can protect me.”

“Protect you? Are you saying that someone is hunting you?”

“Yes. A ‘sorceress’ who is collecting ‘Vessels of Deadly Sin’—I refuse to be used by the likes of a human being. Mikhail Asayev…Right now, in this period I should be able to deceive her with an ‘Inheritor’ like him. And that girl, Nagisa or something…I could perhaps wait for her child to grow up, but—”

Sorceress—did she mean Elluka Clockworker, one of the Three Heroes?

And…what was an “Inheritor”?

“…I won’t let you put a hand on Nagisa.”

“Then return the twin blades to Mikhail immediately. I think that would be the best thing for the both of us, hahaha—"

--And there, I woke up.

It was already dawn. Instead of moonlight, sunbeams were streaming in from the window.

And…as expected, the pieces of the blades were once more twin swords.

Had that just been a dream? Or was it a vision that the demon had shown me?

Either way, it would be impossible to destroy these twin swords through regular means.

I had to think of what I would do after this point.

I could just obediently give up and return the twin swords to Mikhail. I’d lose the opportunity to make a large amount of money, but this all happened by chance anyway. I had little need to be greedy about it.

But if these blades really did have demons in them…Could I really just leave them be? They probably wouldn’t cause any trouble if they were in Mikhail’s hands, him being a monk and all…but there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t get possessed by a demon.

The other route that I could think of—I could entrust it to the sorceress Elluka Clockworker. Someone like her might know some way to seal the demon inside.

But I’d heard that Elluka had left the country after the revolution started. I had no way to learn where she was. And she was a friend of the Levin archbishop in the first place. So then, maybe he had already contacted her for help and it hadn’t gone well, or else…maybe he’d had some reason not to.

Well, that wasn’t something I ought to participate in. At any rate, the idea of entrusting the twin swords to Elluka wasn’t realistic.

There’s also—No, I can’t do that. That’d be ridiculous.

A certain being came to my mind, but I instantly dismissed it.

--Spirits.

That was another story told of in the smithy.

That there were dependents of the great earth god Held that were said to live in the Millenium Tree Forest.

And that among those various spirits, there was supposedly one that could destroy and devour anything.

But then…Even if that being exists, I’m hardly likely to find it in just two or three days.

In the end, no other good ideas came to mind after that.

directory------next>>

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badacts · 6 years

Text

aw, rats

It’s Hawkeye’s fault, really.

That’s sort of an ongoing theme in Bucky’s life these days. He has never met anyone else so incredibly and unerringly attracted to bullshit drama - even compared to Steve - and, unlike Steve, Clint never even hesitates to drag other people into his mess.

It’s probably terrible that Bucky finds that a little bit comforting. It’s hard to seem like the biggest fuck-up in the room when you’re sharing that room with Clint Barton.

“This is a fucking disaster,” Bucky mutters, mostly to himself but still distinctly loud enough for Clint to hear.

“You know, you complain a lot for someone who was a mindless killing machine for like a century,” Hawkeye replies from up ahead, because tact is apparently for other people.

“Gotta make up for the years I missed,” Bucky says, instead of fuck you fuck you fuck you. That century mellowed him. “Forgive me for not wanting to be stuck underground with you.”

“With me, in particular? Ouch. Who’s your prefered tunnel-buddy?” Clint asks. “Oh, wait, Steve. Duh.”

“Hulk,” Bucky corrects. “Instant open-air tunnel. I always thought trains should be above ground, not below it.”

Clint gives him an almost-concerned look that Bucky can only just make out. “This isn’t triggering for you, is it?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You think I’d be dumb enough to get in a subway tunnel if I was scared of trains?”

“Okay, being triggered by something isn’t necessarily the same as being scared of something, but I’m not your therapist. Also, forgive me for thinking for a second there that the dude who died falling off a train might have some unspoken issues about trains.”

“I didn’t die,” Bucky corrects, because it annoys him when people say that. He didn’t come back from the dead, he’s been around the whole goddamn time. “And you’re right, you're not my therapist, so shut the fuck up.”

“Rude,” Clint mutters, but he does fall silent. That’s unusual for him, but maybe he’s embarrassed about the train thing. “We’re not far off. Start hoping for an easy egress point.”

They’re down here because Clint pissed off Steve enough to send him - and therefore Bucky, his current field partner - to work alongside the field agents on the ground, and then pissed off the CO enough to be sent underground to cover the underside of what is a battle with a group of robots. There’s not much chance they’ll drop below street level, which would be a blessing for most people but is annoying to Bucky. He has some pent up aggression he wouldn’t mind unleashing onto a laser-wielding robot or twelve.

There’s some noise that isn’t Clint up ahead, and Bucky squints into the dark. Clint has a flashlight, the circle of light from which is bobbing back and forth across the floor and walls. Bucky’s low-light vision is pretty good - hence why he’s not carrying a flashlight himself - but all he can tell is that it’s not a robot. In his experience, they’re not that subtle.

After a moment the sound gets a little louder, and the shape of it coalesces into something recognisable.

“Ugh, rat,” Clint mutters, right as said rat skitters past him and then Bucky, within a few inches of Bucky’s boot.

The little Winter-Soldier-processing voice in his head says, Rattus norvegicus, 9 inches. The Bucky-Barnes voice says, oh fuck.

He’s not proud. He freezes solid.

Clint continues on for a few metres before realising that Bucky isn’t moving. “Barnes?”

His voice doesn’t quite cover the movements Bucky can hear, little paws on metal and concrete, getting closer. Furry little bodies and sharp teeth. That is, of course, because it’s in Bucky’s head. That doesn’t mean he can shake it.

“Bucky?” Clint asks again, this time from much closer, although not inside of arm’s reach. Smart. “You’re okay.”

Bucky half-heartedly reaches up to cover his ears, and then stops himself. There’s no point.

“Hey,” Clint says, from closer again - not so smart, yet not surprising - and then reaches out with both hands to cover Bucky’s ears himself. They’re warm, and although hands in general aren’t good at blocking out sound, they do break Bucky out of his stupor a little. “What’s your status?” His voice comes over the earpiece Bucky is wearing, the doubling a more distant muttering through flesh.

“Great,” Bucky lies like a rug. He hisses when Clint jostles him. “Not much of an alternative, Hawkeye. There’s robots.”

Clint says, “Right hand.”

Bucky raises the aforementioned hand and replaces Clint’s palm over his own ear. A moment later, there’s fingers at his belt in the pocket he keeps earplugs in. Bucky submits to Clint pulling out his earpiece and inserting the earplugs with brisk easy movements.

With them in place, he can’t hear anything besides the impression of his quick-tripping heart, the rush of air into his lungs. It’s better. Not great, but better.

Clint moves so their eyes meet in the dimness, and signs, Status? Bucky nods back.

Clint takes him at that, pointing back over his shoulder in the direction they were heading. He signs, Stay close, presumably because he’ll now hear anything coming long before Bucky does. It’s ironic, and not in a good way.

Bucky breathes in and then exhales in a rush, the noise a whitewash. Then he slips in at Clint’s back, and follows.

The embarrassment - that comes later.

They’re back on the quinjet, tired but cheerfully rowdy after an uncomplicated victory with minimal collateral damage. Well, most of them: Bucky is in his head more than usual, stuck back in that frozen moment.

He’s still - scared, sometimes. In ways that surprise him even now. He’s had enough therapy to understand that that’s normal, and that, if he was a completely catatonic wreck, he’d be entitled to that, too. Instead, he’s mostly well in the ways that matter, and he’s out here with a purpose, fear or no fear.

He gets nightmares, and he has triggers - unfamiliar male voices speaking Russian, sudden uncontrolled falling, or the texture of liquid food products - but they get him when he’s alone, or at night, or lost in crowds of strangers.

It’s different to feel that sticky fearful moment when it counts. Usually Bucky is all professionalism on the job. Except all it took was a rodent, and he cracked.

It’s not good enough. He’s not good enough, and he’s always had a sneaking suspicion that that was the case, but he didn’t expect to have it proved to him like this.

So, he’s quiet. He can feel the flickering attention of the others, on him and then off again, but he can mostly ignore it. It’s Clint’s eyes that he feels more than most, because Steve had asked them when they met at the ‘jet whether everything had gone smoothly - with only a fraction of smug satisfaction - and Clint hadn’t mentioned Bucky’s fuck-up at all, and Bucky has no idea what to do with that.

When the ‘jet touches down, Steve stands and resecures the shield on his back. “Right. Debrief in ten.” Everyone groans, though Steve is predictably unmoved. “The sooner we do it, the sooner it’s over with, people. Ten minutes.”

Most of them stop via the locker room, Bucky included. He slips off his jacket - heavy kevlar in navy, not black leather (Stark had looked taken aback and then amused at the idea of leather, and then had lectured Bucky about how wearing proper bullet-proof body armour is better than looking ‘hot’ but getting gutshot, ignoring that Bucky hadn’t chosen his old gear) - but leaves his uniform pants on with an undershirt. His weapons he stows, besides the ones he always keeps on him.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, slinging his helmet into his own locker. Bucky really should have seen this coming. “Alright?”

“Fine,” Bucky replies, only slightly through his teeth. It’s not that he wants to tell Steve, but he can’t shake the feeling that he should, except for that Clint didn’t, and he’s technically the senior agent - fuck it. “Debrief?”

“Sure,” Steve accepts easily, though Bucky knows well enough that it may or may not be an attempt at lulling him into a sense of security for when Steve asks the same question again later.

Bucky is walking through the conference room door when a hoodie-wearing Hawkeye bumps him and mutters, hurriedly, “Are you pissed at me?” under his breath.

His expression is so genuinely concerned that Bucky immediately replies, “No?” It’s true, anyway. He doesn’t know what he is, but it isn’t angry. Clint nods a little and then takes his seat between Widow and Falcon, leaning companionably into Natasha’s shoulder until she shoves him back.

The debrief itself goes smoothly - even the predictable bickering is kept to a minimum. It’s only a half-hour before they’re released. Most of the others head for the main kitchen to eat, but Bucky ducks into his rooms and showers to avoid the rush. Once he’s clean and dressed down in sweatpants, he collapses on his back on his half-made bed with the thought that he’ll nap for a half-hour. The next thing he knows, his stomach is waking him as it tries to devour itself. His phone, when he gropes for it amongst the blankets, says it’s after ten at night.

If not for his body demanding sustenance, he’d probably roll over and go back to sleep, but the need for calories outweighs his desire to stay in bed. Cursing himself for not at least getting a snack before his shower - his metabolism, like Steve’s, requires very regular calorie-dense meals - he digs out a clean shirt and makes for the kitchen.

The upside of it being late is that it’s empty - or, Bucky realises, nearly empty. Clint is sitting up on the back of the couch in the adjoining lounge, his feet on the cushions as he watches the muted television and eats out of bowl in his lap.

“You didn’t tell Steve,” Bucky says, and Clint nearly hits the roof.

“Jesus fuck!” he says, whirling around. “Christ, Barnes, make noise when you move, I’m begging you.”

“You’re wearing your aids.” Bucky checked. They’re a sleek metallic purple, easy to spot.

“I need more than them to hear you creeping around,” Clint mutters, resettling himself on the back of the couch so he’s facing Bucky, feet bumping swinging gently below him. It looks like he’s eating cereal, of all things. “What didn’t I tell Steve about?”

Bucky gives him a speaking look. Clint stares back at him blankly, brow furrowed. Bucky sighs.

“I lost it today,” he says.

“What!” Clint squawks, breathing in sharply. “When?”

“...in the tunnel?” Now Bucky is confused, too.

“Oh, that? That’s not ‘losing it’, Barnes, jeez.”

“I froze, whatever,” Bucky corrects unwillingly. “Got ‘triggered’.” That last word he says through his teeth.

Clint blinks. “Yeah? I mean, yeah, you did. For like a minute. Then you were fine. You’re fine, right?”

“Yes?” Fuck, Bucky, that’s not a question. “Yes.”

“I don’t get why you think I’d tattle on you for that.”

Because for that minute I wasn’t doing my job. Bucky is always painfully aware of the things that he does with the Avengers are things he’s been allowed to do in exchange for forgiveness. The Avengers themselves don’t think of it like that, he doesn’t think, but Bucky knows the wider world does. They’re right to, probably. The things he did, it wasn’t him in control, but he sleeps better at night knowing the things he does here edge him further out of the red, one life at a time.

He’s not going to tell Clint that. though. He shrugs, heading for the cupboard. Late-night cereal sounds kind of disgusting, but at this point it’s a choice between eating that or eating something else raw.

“It was the rat, right?” Clint asks thoughtfully, through a mouthful. Bucky twitches. “Lots of people are scared of them.”

“I’m not ‘lots of people’,” Bucky returns.

“Nah. You’re pretty brave,” Clint replies. Bucky, surprised, accidentally scrapes a spoon across his bowl with a sharp noise. “I don’t like snakes much.”

“Snakes can kill you.”

“So can rats. Wasn’t the plague still around when you were a kid?” Clint says, which is the worst attempt at an age-related joke Bucky has ever heard.

“Not quite,” Bucky replies. “We did have rats, though. Used to hear ‘em in the walls at night, some of the nastier places we lived. In the war, too - anywhere you got food or bodies, you got rats. I never liked ‘em, even when I was little, but once you’ve had one run across your face while you’re bedded down asleep in the forest, you can’t help but hate them.”

Clint’s face is squashed up in disgust. “Yuck.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. His skin is crawling just thinking about it, though it’s not really the sight of them that gets to him.

In Azzano, there’d been dozens of them down in the cells. Then Bucky had been tied to a table for days while he was experimented on, forced to listen to the scratching and scrabbling right at the edge of his hearing between ‘treatments’, waiting for the feeling of sharp little teeth getting at his exposed skin while he couldn’t do anything but let it happen -

“Still,” he says, swallowing. “Not something worth losing it over. That’s why I was surprised.”

Clint pushes himself off the couch, coming to lean on the breakfast bar across from Bucky. “The way I see it, nothing happened.”

“I,” Bucky replies. “You had to -”

“What? Watch your back?” Clint asks. “Hate to break it to you, but we’re partners. That’s kind of my job.”

“I wasn’t watching your back.”

“For like ten seconds,” Clint scoffs. “Besides, that’s teamwork. None of us are at the top of our game one hundred percent of the time. Even for us, it’s only about ninety-two, ninety-three percent. So the rest of the time, you get your teammates to help you out.”

“I need to,” Bucky starts, and then stops himself with a mouthful of cereal, despite that he’s lost his appetite.

“What, be perfect all the time? Hate to break it to you, babe, but not even you can manage that.”

Bucky coughs. “Babe?”

Clint ignores this, though the tops of his ears pink up a little. “It was nothing. Don’t even worry about it. This way, when you have to cover my ass at some point, we’ll be even. Uh, not that you owe me - you know what I mean.”

“You mean you’re not perfect?” Bucky says without thinking. Even as the words emerge from his mouth, the tone surprises him - he’s flirting.

Clint blinks, equally surprised, but Bucky won’t take it back. Fuck it, Clint called him babe, he can probably deal with a bit of flirting.

“Maybe ninety-eight percent of the time,” Clint says after a moment. “That’s why I keep you around. The other two percent.”

Bucky’s relationship with his body and the things he can do is complicated by his history, but it’s still his. He shrugs. “That’s what I’m good for.”

“That, and I trust you,” Clint continues. “So if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t.”

This time it’s Bucky who blinks, dumbstruck. “That’s…” Not what I’m worried about. Except that it is, and he just didn’t realise, and Clint has just cut straight to the heart of the matter with that weird clear-headedness he always has for everyone except himself.

“That seems like a bad idea,” Bucky says eventually.

“I don’t know,” Clint says, with an awkward little shrug of one shoulder. “It’s worked out for me one hundred percent of the time so far.”

Bucky just kind of...stares at him. Clint, whose ears are now definitely pink, doesn’t look away, though he fidgets a bit.

“Thanks,” Bucky says eventually.

“Don’t thank me,” Clint mutters immediately. “It’s the truth.”

Bucky reaches out and stops his hand where it’s restlessly stirring the leftover milk in his bowl. “I meant for in the tunnel.”

Clint looks down at Bucky’s fingers on his hand, then back to Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t move away. “You’re welcome?”

“I trust you, too,” Bucky says, and takes the smile this earns him like it’s sunshine.

#winterhawk #bucky barnes #winter soldier #clint barton #hawkeye #my fic #marvel #aw rats #musophobia #triggers #rats #well just a brief rat appearance

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