#and anything past thirty is just overstaying the welcome inside your own mind. get your plans together already.

[genshingarbage]

Hi! I recently came across your tumblrs and I wanna say ty for the stories both of you make. If you’re not too busy, do you mind if you can make a scaramouche smut, female!reader teasing him unknowingly and him getting turned on only to wreck you? Thank you! And good luck with life!

Aha... ha...ha...AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You have NO IDEA what you've just unleashed from inside me- I have the most unholy obsession with this puppet. Congrats on being the first to ask for a Scaramouche one shot, and i am quite honestly more than happy to do his ask for you. Sorry if you lot hate the teasing and cliffhanger but uhm, like it's Scara so you should always expect the most extreme or unfair... - Mod Diluc

My Turn. ||One Shot||

Scaramouche x Reader

How long had it been since you'd shown up at your superiors office now? It was surely passing on for two hours, all because he'd promised you that today he'd be sure to take you out on a 'proper date'. Because even though this man was your superior, he was also, albeit something you were beginning to question now, your boyfriend. But here you were, lounging around in a chair while he remains nose buried into his scattered papers and forms adorn his desk. You didn't think the sound of a pen scribbling onto its given surface could irritate you so badly, but guess today was full of surprises eh? You'd made your discomfort to this situation very audible and visible barely thirty minutes ago now, and he'd simply just ignored you. You sighed, huffed, grunted, crossed your arms, tapped your fingers against your arm rest, but whether it was on purpose or not he merely sniffed his nose casually and remained eyes glued to the papers. What was so important on those damn papers anyway? Scaramouche was never one to be tardy when it came to his work and you knew this, but even he was pushing past his normal attitude given towards his own tasks now.

You couldn't take it anymore, whatever this was, it had officially overstayed its welcome. You were bored, you were hungry, you were annoyed something rotten with Scaramouche right now, and it didn't matter how you tried to phrase the sentence in your head- you knew the moment you voiced it out loud it was gonna come out as a jumbled and royally screwed up mess of just incoherent babbles. But either way you had to say something, anything! Because this was becoming ridiculous now, how he could keep sitting there and acting like this was all okay was beyond you now. Had he forgotten you were there at this point? It was unreal how rude he was treating you, granted he's always been a rude and harsh man, but this was just cruel now. Your mouth opened once you'd finally hyped up yourself to voice out your anger toward him, but then, it hit you... your mouth closed slowly again, a word never having once left your lips, as a very sly smirk was now adorn your features. If he's to keep you trapped here in utter boredom and sheer silence, you might as well create some fun hm?

|| 45 Minutes Later ||

This woman, was gonna be the death of him, he'd finally decided it. Here he was trying his best to finish these awfully painful result forms as fast as possible, so that he could leave this personal hell he called his office and take you somewhere nice, and you've now taken it upon yourself to tease him? In various ways might he add. Were you insane or just stupid? The Tsarista herself has demanded these forms be filled out by him personally, why? Fuck knows. But it was grating his nerves slowly that's for sure, and now you- he hitches his breath, a sharp inhale being sucked through gritted teeth. You were playing such a deadly game right now, having dared to sit on his lap, he'd immediately felt the way you tensed and froze for moment when doing so, yea, he's aware of how rock fucking hard he is down there, thanks to you bitch, and now you're fully aware that your little antics and teasing games have been affecting him oh so badly. It was bad enough when you were practically shoving a 'I'm bored' sign in front of his face, to which he gracefully ignored lest he have a fit and fry the furniture around him in an angry outburst. This was the last time he ever made a promise with you that's for fucking sure.

You were enjoying the feel of rubbing back and forth ontop of his ever growing bulge a bit too much in all honesty. Shocked in your own self's ability to rile him up so easily, but that being said, should congratulations really be in order? You're not exactly modest down there yourself right now either, you felt the damp patch form twenty minutes ago, but you being the good hard worker you are, opted to ignoring it in favour of continuing to feel your boyfriend tense and twitch under you so cutely. You didn't dare to look around however, one could only imagine the heart stopping glare he's giving you right now, if your hairs standing on your neck are anything to go by he's staring, hard. But this is his punishment, you won't allow yourself to start feeling bad now, he has work to do, okay, so do it tomorrow, or the day after, or the day even after that! If he finds it fine to make promises and not keep them; then you're going to become his own personal blue balls machine. Looking back on it now though, you never once were calling the shots here... were you?

This became painfully apparent when he made a loud click noise with his tongue, having finally reached the peak of his own limit. His hands roughly gripping your own in such a fast flash you could of sworn you saw sparks of purple electro fizzle from his fingers, that and also the numbingly intense tingle that rattled through your body and bones when his touch engulfed your own. You gasped softly from his sudden outburst and had no time to react while he forcibly guided your arms around your back, leaving you to look like nothing more than a vulnerable tied up play thing. You squirmed slightly in his vice grip, tempting the waters so to say, but the fact you only winced from the sheer tightening hold on you and your complete inability to move in the slightest indicated he was well and truly done with your little games. Shaking your head as nerves began to eat away at you like a fever burning up inside your blood, trying to now play the victim wasn't going to get you anywhere; but what other alternatives were there for someone as fucked as you right now?

"H-hey, Scaramouche, I'm sor-" was silly of you to think you'd be given permission to speak now, wasn't it? Since he merely maneuvered both your restrained wrists into one of his hands, his boney fingers hugging around them snuggly. The other hand now free wasted no time in latching onto your hair and tugging your head back hard, rough, causing you to silence your words and instead gasp out loudly. Your eyes being forced to glare up at the ceiling as your breathing kicked up in pace, the uneven rhythm becoming much more audible to you and most certainly him. He was far too enthralled in the scene playing out before him to give those damn report forms any notice right now, you'd been trying his patience since the moment you sat your ass down in his office. Giving your best effort to rile him up, well congratulations, you'd succeeded honey, more than expertly might he add, the strain in his lower garments becoming ever more increasing in discomfort. He pulled you backwards so your left with no choice but to be pressed even closer into him while your eyes remain wide eyed and glaring at the ceiling. His hand still tightly knuckled into your hair, he licks his lower lip slowly out of habit as he leans his face forward, drawing his lips now right beside your ear, which was now flushed red at the very tip.

The hot breath fanning across your ear only made your nerves reach a new high, your throat suddenly running crisp dry, swallowing down hard and slow trying to remain collected. But you knew you were divinely fucked when you heard that low chuckle emit from his lips, with a husky tone he grunted out right beside your ear; "My Turn."

Yea sorry guys, I started this one-shot like actually months ago, I have lost count now, i got distracted with personal life and stuff and when I finally wanted to get back to it I just didn't really know where to take it from this point on, so I decided to just wait till my spark flicked back but I've totally lost motivation for Scaramouche now after finding out he may just be another short anemo guy, gonna take me sometime to accept that and get over it, so I am leaving this post as a giant cliff hanger and posting it like this, better to have something than nothing right? sorry but not sorry- - Mod Diluc

[sapphiclecterarchive]

the 1:30 train - fic

Fandom: MCU Pairing: Steve/Bucky Desc.: Before We Go AU. In which Steve is a trumpet player avoiding his ex, and Bucky is stuck in Manhattan for the night. Warnings: Mention of domestic violence (no graphic descriptions, just a brief mention) Words: 11k A/N: I posted this fic on my AO3 last year, before my account was deleted for no reason. I thought all my fics were gone for good until yesterday, when I found that they’d all just been orphaned! Anyway,  I thought I’d re-edit this and post it again here. Enjoy :)

There was a man playing the trumpet in Grand Central Terminal. He had been there for a few days, filling the hours between opening and closing with music. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people had passed by him in this time; some would drop money into his open case, others would pass without acknowledgment, others would give him a smile and a “sorry, no change”. Over the course of these days, he saw engagements and break ups and first kisses, he experienced anniversaries and provided the soundtrack to reunions, and those things alone were enough to make up for those who didn’t give him the time of day.

As the station began to quieten, the regular flow of people dwindling down to late-night commuters and cleaning staff, the trumpet player reclined against the wall. His legs had started protesting against standing all day almost two hours ago. Sitting, even on the hard floor of the station, was a relief.

His phone rang, and he placed his trumpet next to him on the floor to answer it.

“Steve’s phone."

“Man, you know you don’t have to say that every time?”

Steve chuckled at his best friend, “What’s up, Sam?”

“I just wanted to know if you were coming downtown. Where are you?”

By the sounds of it, he was still downtown; Steve could hear the muffled sound of music and talking on his end. It had just passed 1:30 in the morning, so he really wasn’t surprised the party was still in full swing. It was a Tony Stark party, after all.

“I’m still at Grand Central.” Steve rolled his head back against the wall, averting the gaze of the cleaner who’d been staring at him for a while. “Is she there?”

There was silence for a few moments. “She’s here. I’m sorry, man. You should still come down, though.”

Steve sighed. “Yeah, I don’t know...”

“Okay,” Sam said, resigned. “I’ll text you the address anyway, you should come.”

Sam had just hung up when a number of things happened all at once.

A dark haired man came reeling through the station like a whirlwind, flying past Steve in his expensive shoes and catching himself on the trumpet case still lying on the floor. The money inside of it scattered across the marble, and the guy just about managed to stay on his feet as he sprinted towards one of the terminals and disappeared from view.

Steve didn’t have a chance to be angry about the case, as he quickly noticed something the guy had left behind.

A black iPhone was lying face-down on the floor a few feet away from Steve. He reached forward to pick it up and inspect it. It had shattered pretty badly, and when he pressed the power button the screen gave one, pathetic flicker of light before dying.

The guy came back around the corner a minute or so later, and Steve watched –while packing away his trumpet and pocketing the money – as he approached a worker, who looked like she was on her way home.

“Can I use this ticket for another train?” He desperately showed his ticket to her. “I missed it and I really have to get home.”

The woman shook her head. “No more trains tonight, love, anywhere. We have a cab rank outside.”

She was about ready to move on, but he stepped in her way, “I can’t get a cab, I have to get home and I don’t have enough to get a cab back to Boston. Please, my wallet –”

Before he could say anything else, and without acknowledging him further, she walked away.

He huffed, his shoe squeaking on the floor as he kicked it petulantly and turned to leave.

“Hey!” Steve yelled to catch the guy’s attention.

He didn’t look exactly happy to be talking to Steve, and probably thought he was going to ask for money. Most people assumed that, so he didn’t mind.

Steve held out the phone, “I thought you might want this back.”

The guy glanced at Steve’s face, then at the phone, and then back at his face again, as if he didn't believe that he was real, and then he took the phone and slid it into his pocket. He seemed like he wanted to smile but couldn’t bring himself to, only achieving a slight twitch of one side of his mouth.

“Thanks, I wouldn’t have got very far without that.”

Steve smiled, “Don’t worry about it.”

The guy just nodded, and then did another twitch-smile before turning and heading out of the station.

By the time he'd packed away his stuff completely, Steve felt a bit like he'd overstayed his welcome. He smiled at the worker, anyway, before leaving. It was never particularly warm in New York at this time of year, but tonight seemed especially biting, so he did up the buttons on his coat to avoid the cold.

There was an agitated sigh from his right, and Steve turned to see the dark-haired man slam his phone against the wall of the station, as if breaking it more would somehow fix it.

“Can I ask why you’re standing outside?” Steve asked, like he hadn’t heard the entire conversation with the worker.

“They closed the station.”

He gave no further explanation, so Steve continued, “You plannin’ on standing out here all night?”

The man glared at him. “My wallet was stolen. All I have is a useless thirty dollar train ticket, a broken phone, a lighter and exactly two dollars fifty in cash.” Steve frowned, and held up his hand. “Don’t. I’ll figure something out, I don’t need your pity.”

His breath was visible in the air. There was no possible way Steve could leave this guy alone in Manhattan with so little money and nowhere to sleep.

“Look,” Steve said. “I’ve got about eighty bucks. Take it, buy yourself a room somewhere for the night so that you’re not sleeping on the street.”

He held out the cash, and the guy shook his head.

“I told you, I don’t need charity.” He turned away and sighed hard. “God, I need a cigarette.”

“At least let me help you with that.” He had to do something to help this guy; he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t. He pulled a ten dollar bill out from his wallet and held it between them, “Please.”

It took a moment of staring at each other before the guy snatched the bill out of his hand.

“Fine. But this is only because I’m a filthy addict on the verge of a panic attack and not because I want your help, right?”

He was using the note to point at Steve, who couldn’t help but laugh. “Right.”

Steve decided that it was probably best if he leave him alone and just get into a cab, now. As much as he wanted to help, he didn’t want to bother him any more than he already had. “Good luck.”

The guy’s tone was sharp, “Thanks.”

Steve had just started to walk towards the cab rank when the guy called out for him.

“Changed your mind?” Steve said as the man came rushing back up to him. His hand was shoved into the pocket of his pea coat to keep it warm.

“No. I - uh - I just realised that I don’t actually know where to buy anything here.”

This guy was still firmly standing his ground. It didn’t seem like he was going to let up anytime soon, although it was progressively becoming more and more obvious how much he needed Steve’s help. Of course, he wouldn’t admit that, but Steve didn’t think he would have, if their roles were reversed.

However stubborn he was, he let Steve take him to the nearest convenience store where he could pick up a pack of Marlboro Red – and reluctantly took the extra four dollars needed, because apparently cigarettes were just that expensive in Manhattan. He did seem to relax a little after silently making his way through one. As he lit his second, he side-eyed Steve.

“Why are you still here?” he asked.

“You don’t seem to have many other options right now.”

The guy chuckled, smoke rolling from his mouth as he did so, “You’re right. I don’t know anyone here, and I don’t have a cell phone or an ID or a wallet or a credit card anymore. I’m gonna need a little more than company, no offence.”

He cringed almost immediately after saying that. “I’m sorry, I just really don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Wanna go find your wallet?” The guy raised an eyebrow. “Hey, you never know how these guys work. Sometimes they take the cash and dump the bag, push comes to shove you can live off mints for a few days.”

The man didn’t laugh at his joke, but did reluctantly say; “I don’t have much else going for me. It’s worth a shot.”

“That’s the spirit,” Steve said, as the guy crushed his cigarette out on the wall behind him. “I’m Steve, by the way.”

The guy froze for a second, as if he’d forgotten his own name.

“Buchanan.”

The air around them felt less tense as they walked down the street, towards where Buchanan – as Steve now knew him – remembered last seeing his wallet.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Buchanan said.

Steve mirrored his tone, “You don’t need to keep rejecting my help."

They’d stopped outside the bar, now, and the cold was beginning to creep back to Steve’s skin. He just really hoped that it wouldn’t get cold enough that he’d have to get his inhaler out, because as much as he didn’t think his asthma was anything to be ashamed of, it would definitely just give Buchanan more reason to decline his help.

“Look,” Buchanan sighed. “I’m sure my husband would really appreciate you helping me, but I can look after myself. Being disabled doesn’t mean I can’t handle this on my own.”

Steve stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what?”

“The husband thing,” Steve replied. “I’m not trying to get you in my bed or anything. I’m not like that.”

“Not gay?” Buchanan snapped.

“Not an asshole,” Steve corrected, softer.

Buchanan sighed deeply and ran his hand over his face, “I’m sorry, I’m a dick. You just – you’re just being so nice to me! Why can’t you just try to fuck me so that I can have a reason to hate you?”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Steve said, slightly humoured. “I just don’t want you lost in Manhattan. Not because you’ve got one hand, or whatever; Manhattan’s confusing even if you know the place, so getting lost isn’t great for a first trip. Now, do you want to find your wallet or not?”

The bar was sort of the opposite of what Steve was expecting. It was dimly lit and sold craft beer. Considering how he looked, Steve hadn’t expected Buchanan to be a hipster.

The bartender was a fairly tall guy, with a thick ginger beard and round glasses that perfectly reflected the general vibe of the bar.

“Is there anything distinctive about the wallet?” he asked once Buchanan had told him what they were looking for.

Buchanan did an absolutely horrendous job at describing the wallet. Steve, however, could only fixate on the fact that he’d said it was authentic Louis Vuitton, and he started to wonder exactly how much money had been inside it. If he owned a Louis Vuitton wallet, he’d probably be worried about it, too.

The bartender’s expression didn’t change, “I’m gonna need more than that. Was there any ID in the wallet? A driver’s license or credit card?”

“My driver’s license was in there!” Buchanan suddenly exclaimed.

The bartender seemed happy with that, “Name?”

Buchanan glanced at Steve, and then sighed before looking back at the bartender, “James Barnes.”

Steve probably should have expected that.

The bartender wandered off into the back room, and Steve leaned his forearm on the bar, “Nice to meet you, James.”

James sighed, “You can’t blame me. I’m in the middle of Manhattan; it’s late; you’re a stranger. I panicked, okay?”

“Right,” Steve chuckled to himself.

Buchanan, fucking hell.

“Besides, it wasn’t really a lie. Buchanan’s my middle name.”

Steve found this whole situation highly amusing, “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really!” he said. “James Buchanan Barnes. Most people call me Bucky; ‘s less formal.”

“James Buchanan,” Steve repeated. “Like, President James Buchanan? 15th president of the United States, James Buchanan?”

Bucky shot him a cold look, and Steve held up his hands, “Hey, don’t worry, my birthday’s the fourth of July.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

The bartender chose that moment to come out of the back room. He told them that he hadn’t had any luck, although he didn’t seem too apologetic about it. Steve thanked him anyway before they headed back out of the bar. Bucky seemed vaguely grumpy about the whole situation. He tried to be nice about it, anyway, because he figured he’d been enough of a dick to Steve so far.

“Thanks for this, seriously, and sorry about the name thing,” he said as they stopped just outside the door.

“It’s fine; I can’t think of anything better I could be doing,” Steve replied.

They were walking again, but neither of them really had any idea where they were going. Or, at least, Bucky didn’t think either of them knew. For all he knew, Steve could be preparing to murder him and dump his body in a back alley somewhere, and at the moment he was going willingly.

He really needed to stop being so negative.

He studied Steve for a moment. “Are you... sure? I mean, anything would be better than walking aimlessly around Manhattan with a broke, one-armed guy who has to borrow your money to buy cigarettes.”

Steve shrugged. “I dunno. I was in town with my friend Sam for a thing which I didn’t go to, then I fly back to DC tomorrow. I was gonna go back to Brooklyn for a few days, but I didn’t think there was much to see.”

“You’re from Brooklyn, too?”

Bucky didn’t seem to know how to continue that string of the conversation when Steve nodded, so it died.

Steve managed to pick it back up by asking, “What about you? There must be something better you could be doing.”

There was a moment of pensive silence where Bucky seemed to think hard about that, and eventually he settled on an answer.

“Not really. I’m an art critic, I was just here to buy a piece.”

“Oh?” Steve said, interest piqued. Art was one thing he could talk about. “What was it?”

Bucky brushed him off. “You wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me, I went to the California Institute.”

Bucky stared at him blankly, and Steve nearly rolled his eyes. More lies, wow.

“You have no idea what that is, do you?”

After a few more seconds of indignant staring, Bucky groaned, “Fine, so I’m not an art critic. But I’m not lying about the husband thing; I have a husband.”

“Right,” Steve looked very pointedly at Bucky’s bare hand. He was definitely missing something vital which signified marriage, but Steve decided not to bring it up. “So, what are you? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“A dancer.” That did surprise Steve a little. “Hey, don’t look so surprised. I was a principal performer at the American Ballet before...” He didn’t finish that thought. “I run my own classes back in Boston, now, for kids and teenagers, y’know. Occasionally do shows if someone asks, but I’m past my prime.”

Steve shouldn’t have been so quick to judge; the thought of Bucky teaching kids how to dance was pretty sweet.

“So, if you’re not buying art, what brought you to Manhattan?”

That apparently triggered something in Bucky that made him freeze where he stood. It took Steve a few seconds to realise, so he had to walk back a few steps so that they were beside each other again.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Not gonna steal it from me, are you?” Steve teased, but he was already reaching into his back pocket.

He handed the phone over, already unlocked, and Bucky wasted no time in dialling a number and turning away from Steve. For the sake of being polite, Steve took a few steps back so that he was a little more out of earshot. He couldn’t help but overhear, though, the street was so quiet it would be impossible for him not to hear what Bucky was saying.

“Hey, baby,” is what Bucky opened the conversation with.

Steve immediately guessed he was talking to his husband. And if he wasn’t, well, that was a situation Steve didn’t think he was qualified to address. He couldn’t hear the person on the other end of the call, but Bucky’s side of the conversation was pretty interesting.

“No, no, everything’s fine. I just wanted to tell you that I love you, ‘s all.”

There was some more talking from the other end that Steve couldn’t hear, and Bucky suddenly stiffened.

“What?” he all but choked. “You – you’re... No, that’s great, I’m happy! But, don’t you want to rest before you come home? I’m sure you’ve been working hard...”

More talking, and Bucky sighed deeply.

“Brock, don’t... Nothing’s going on, I just... Okay, of course. I’ll see you in the morning. Love you, too.”

He hung up, then, and handed the phone promptly back to Steve.

“Everything okay?”

“It’s over.” Bucky’s voice cracked on the last word. “It’s fucking over.”

Before Steve could say anything else, Bucky had started to cry. He’d pinched the bridge of his nose and his face was all screwed up, so it was difficult to see, but he was definitely crying.

Steve tried to make his voice as soft as possible, but he really had no idea what to do with a crying person, “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Come on.”

He led them to a step which was low down and less than comfortable, but it allowed Bucky a moment to sit down and collect himself. Steve just sat beside him, at a loss.

Once Bucky had calmed down a bit, Steve deemed it safe to continue, “What’s over?”

“My marriage.” Bucky said. “I had to be home before him.”

It didn’t exactly take Steve an age to fit the pieces together. Bucky was in Manhattan late at night; he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring; he had to be home before his husband... it finally made sense.

He must have made some sort of noise of revelation, because Bucky was looking at him with a confused stare. His eyelashes were still wet and clumped together, which softened the look a little.

“What was that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I just... it makes sense now.”

Bucky’s stare and voice hardened, “Are you accusing me of having an affair?”

Steve probably should have denied that.

“I’m just calling it like I see it,” was what he decided to say instead. Because he was a big, stupid idiot.

“Asshole.”

Bucky pushed himself up from the step and started to walk away.

Steve didn’t really know what he was doing when he followed him, “Wait, Bucky, that’s not what I meant.”

Bucky turned sharply on his heel, “What did you mean, then?”

Steve couldn’t come up with a good answer to that. So, Bucky just shook his head and turned to carry on walking.

“Bucky!” Steve called after him.

He tried to follow him, but Bucky walked fast as hell and Steve was lumbered with a heavy trumpet case.

“Thanks for your help, but it’s over. Just go back to whatever you were doing before I ruined your night!” Bucky called over his shoulder.

He moved his hand to flip the middle finger at Steve, but as he raised it, Steve grabbed his wrist. It wasn’t a hard grip, and Bucky definitely could have shaken him off. But he didn’t. He just whipped around fast as anything and stared down at his wrist, and then up at Steve’s face.

“You didn’t ruin my night, okay? I was having a shitty night, and I was hiding out in Grand Central to avoid...” Steve stopped there, collected himself for a moment, and then said, “You didn’t ruin my night.”

Once Bucky didn’t look so much like he was going to run away, Steve let go of his wrist. Bucky left his hand there, elevated as if Steve was still holding it, for a moment before he dropped it back to his side.

“If it means anything, you didn’t ruin mine, either,” Bucky said. “But I’d like to be back in Boston before the sun comes up.”

“I think I can help you with that. I have a friend who might be able to help.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, “Are you fucking serious?”

His tone made Steve a little wary, one hand came up in front of him despite himself. “Are you gonna hit me?”

Bucky scoffed, “Of course I’m not gonna fucking hit you, Steve. This is awesome. Who’s your friend?”

“He’s at that thing I’m avoiding,” Steve said, and Bucky made a little hissing sound. “Yeah, I know. But, anything to be the hero of this story.”

“You’re a dick,” Bucky said, but it was somewhat fond.

They ended up on a bus to the other side of Manhattan, which Steve paid for with more of his eighty busking dollars that he was sure would be spent by the end of the night. He also called Sam, asked him to ask Tony for four-hundred and sixty dollars (because apparently that’s how much a cab to Boston would be, holy shit) and to text him where the party was.

Bucky wasted no time in getting comfortable – he took off his jacket and balled it up behind his head so that he could lean against the window, facing Steve with one knee pulled up to his chest, foot planted firmly on the seat and slightly tucked underneath Steve’s right thigh, the other on the ground.

“How long have you been playing trumpet for?” Bucky asked.

That was an odd question, but since they were getting to know each other...

“My whole life,” Steve replied. “It was harder when I was a kid, I was a scrawny little thing and deathly asthmatic, so for a couple years I just couldn’t get the breathing right, and my ma kept trying to convince me to give it up because I was having an attack every other day, but I wouldn’t because I was a stubborn little shit.”

Bucky laughed at that and he felt a little accomplished.

He continued, “My lungs got stronger as I grew up, and although I wasn’t gonna be playing Major League baseball anytime soon, I could get through a song without having to take a break. It’s always felt like the only thing I could do well. I couldn’t play football, but being head of the band suited me just fine.”

Bucky was staring at him, looking a little in awe, “Wow, Stevie. And to think I took you for a quarterback type.”

He couldn’t tell if Bucky was sincere or not, but it seemed like he was. Steve didn’t know how he felt about the nickname.

“Your turn,” Steve said. “I’m sure your story is far more interesting than mine.”

“My turn,” Bucky mouthed, and then thought for a moment before speaking. “I’m not that interesting. ‘m a normal kid from Brooklyn, with a twin sister and a husband who’s the head of security for an important politician.”

“That’s a pretty interesting job,” Steve said, and Bucky shrugged it off. “How’d you two meet?”

Bucky smiled slightly, “It was about six years ago, a year or so after my accident. I was feeling pretty lost, y’know, I was twenty-two and I finally had everything I dreamed of. My whole life had been devoted to dance, I felt like everything I ever did was leading up to that moment. And then, the second I get my dream and become a principal dancer, it’s over in the blink of an eye.”

He swallowed and looked down at his lap for a second, picking at the knee of his jeans until it didn’t feel like he was going to cry anymore. Crying in front of a stranger once was bad enough, but twice in one night? Fuck, Barnes, pull yourself together.

“Anyway, I was feeling lost and I didn’t want to be in America anymore because I felt like everything here was attached to bad memories, so I up and moved to London."

“Big step,” Steve said.

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah. Like I said, bad memories. Anyway, so I’m in London and I really hadn’t planned up to that point. I had an apartment and enough money off the back of ballet to live off of for a year, but I didn’t know where anything was, what to do with myself, how to make friends. Then, I met Brock and everything just... I dunno, clicked into place.” He looked up at Steve, “Is that cheesy?”

“A little,” Steve admitted.

“It wasn’t even him,” Bucky said, and he seemed sad. Not like he was going to cry again, but a different kind of sad. Worse, somehow. “It felt like we were in the same boat, y’know? Both of us were Americans in London who really didn’t know what we were doing, and it just felt right. I came back to America a couple months after he did. We found a place in Boston, because I wanted to be close to my ma but I didn’t want to be in Brooklyn, and, well, the rest is history.”

He was picking at the knee of his jeans again.

“Does it not feel right anymore?” Steve asked, probably prying too much.

Bucky’s expression closed, and then he furrowed his eyebrows and then sighed, “I don’t really know what right is. I don’t think I ever have. I just... you know when you meet someone, and you know they’re gonna play a major part in your life? You don’t even know if it’s good or bad, you just know they’re gonna be there?”

A number of people flashed through Steve’s mind and he really tried not to tack Bucky’s face onto the end of that list. He couldn’t help it, though, this coincidental meeting was something right out of a movie. It was too perfect to not mean something, right?

“But, it doesn’t matter anyway. We’re running out of time. If this thing with your friend doesn’t work out, I’m fucked,” Bucky sighed, leaning his head back against the window in a way that couldn’t have been at all comfortable.

Steve wasn’t going to let him give up that easily, “I’m sure there’s still something we can do.”

“We’ve done everything we can, Stevie.” There was that nickname again. “Apart from build a fucking time machine.”

That gave Steve an idea. “Well, maybe we can.”

Bucky looked at him like he was insane, because it definitely sounded it.

“Now would be a really good time to tell me if you’re delusional,” he said warily.

“Shut up.” Steve reached into his back pocket for his phone, and pretended to dial a number, then held it out to Bucky. “It’s you, from the past.”

The dark-haired man didn’t look impressed, but he went with it anyway. He grabbed the phone and, a little dubious, held it to his ear.

“Bucky? It’s you, from the future...” he said, slightly uncertain, and then looked up at Steve. “He doesn’t believe me.”

Steve raised his eyebrows as if it was oh-so-obvious. “Of course he doesn’t. You’ve gotta tell him something secret, something only you would know.”

Bucky met his eyes for a moment, wondering if Steve was serious about this stupid game, and then brought the phone back to his ear.

“Remember when dad was in the hospital? And you and Becca decided it would be really funny if you took off your shoes and slid over the polished floor of the ward,” he paused as if someone was answering. “Right, yeah. And you miscalculated how fast you were going, and ended up slamming into a trolley of medical equipment and had to get five stitches in your knee? See, I know that scar isn’t from rock climbing like you told everyone it was.”

Steve was laughing hard at that, and Bucky smiled, mouthing, “He believes me now.”

“Of course he does,” Steve mouthed back.

“Okay, listen to me now,” Bucky said into the phone. “Tomorrow, you’re gonna go to Manhattan. Whatever you do, don’t talk to any strangers in Grand Central.”

“Ouch,” Steve whispered.

Bucky shushed him. “In fact, skip New York altogether. Think about it first, decide against it, stay home, rent Mean Girls – because you are definitely that gay, even if you pretend not to be – get some takeout from that Thai place Brock doesn't like, and go to bed. Just relax, because everything will be fine in the morning.”

Steve didn’t know if Bucky thought that them meeting was a good thing or a bad thing, but he didn’t want to ask.

“Feel better?”

Bucky exhaled softly and handed the phone back, “Not really. I mean, I’m still fucked.”

“It may sound crazy,” Steve said, and Bucky made a face. “But why don’t you just call your husband and tell him you’re in Manhattan?”

Bucky scoffed, “Yeah, right. I hope you like domestic battery.”

That struck a chord in Steve that he hadn’t even known was there. “He hits you?”

Bucky was suddenly much more alert, having realised what he’d said.

“No! it’s not like that, that’s not why I...” he huffed. “He gets angry sometimes but that’s it, he’d never...” he pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Fucking hell, Steve. It was just a joke, okay? Drop it. God.”

“Consider it dropped,” Steve knew it would still play on his mind. “Why do you have to beat him home, though? I don’t get it.”

“There’s something I’ve gotta do,” Bucky said.

“Right, okay…” Steve said, just so that he could have an extra moment to think. “Well, can somebody else do it?”

Bucky straightened up at that, and his sudden springing to life made Steve smile a little. “Stevie, you’re a genius. Give me your phone.”

Steve handed it back over without question. Bucky dialled in a number and spent a few moments tapping his foot and anxiously waiting for the line to be picked up.

Once it rang through, Bucky was talking almost immediately, “Nat? It’s Bucky.”

Despite being considerably closer this time, Steve still couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end of the line. Bucky seemed to relax upon hearing the voice of whoever it was, though, so Steve was content to only hear one side.

“I need a huge favour, like, a ‘you’re definitely going to hate me afterwards because I woke you up at 2AM’ kind of favour.”

There was some talking from the other person, and then Bucky spoke again.

“Right, so I want you to go to the apartment and climb up the fire escape. Y’know the one I climbed out... yeah.”

Steve really didn’t want to think about what kind of situation meant that Bucky had to climb out of a fire escape, so he tried not to.

“Alright, there’s a key taped underneath the right windowsill. I need you to grab it and go in through the back door, on the bed there’s a letter addressed to Brock and I need you to take it and save it for when I get back. And, look, I know you’re a nosey bitch but promise me you won’t read it?”

Steve could vaguely make out laughing on the other end, and then Bucky relaxed again.

“You’re the best, Nat. I love you.”

‘Nat’ said something in response, and handed the phone back. Steve didn’t ask, but the relieved look on Bucky’s face did wonders at lightening the mood.

They found the building Sam had sent him the address for without much strife, which was quite surprising considering their track record. Steve couldn’t help the anxiety welling up in his chest when he pressed the button for the elevator and watched the numbers slowly decline.

“Is it really that bad?” Bucky asked.

That knocked Steve out of his trance.

“What?”

Bucky glanced at the elevator, “Whatever’s waiting for you up there. Is it that bad?”

“It’s nothing,” Steve said, flippantly, turning back to the elevator and watching as the numbers crawled down. “It’s an ex...” he eventually admitted. “...Ex-something.”

“Does this ex-something have a name?”

God, this was the slowest elevator Steve had ever seen.                           

“Peggy,” Steve said. “I... uh... it’s been a while, since I saw her.”

Bucky nodded, he seemed to understand, but was still staring at Steve inquisitively, “Was it a bad breakup?”

“I’m not sure there’s another kind.”

The elevator finally opened then, and it took about as long going up as it had coming down, and when they finally stepped out onto the floor, Steve felt his heart drop to his feet. There were maybe ten or fifteen people there, and all of them were far too old to be at the party that Steve had been told was happening.  

“This isn’t the right place,” Steve groaned, patting Bucky’s shoulder to direct him back to the elevator.

So, there they were, back to walking the streets of Manhattan with nowhere to go and nothing to do and no money to do anything with.

“Your friend wasn’t there,” Bucky said.

Steve laughed humorlessly, “No. Sam gave me the wrong address, but it’s not his fault; his dyslexia is really bad when he’s been drinking.”

“Right,” Bucky said. “Well, are you gonna call him, get the right address?”

Steve kicked at a can on the sidewalk, “I don’t think it matters, I’m not gonna bother. Y’know, I hear Central Park’s really safe this time of night.”

Bucky stopped in his tracks, and Steve was a little scared he was going to start crying again. He didn’t, though, he just stared at Steve with a slightly shocked expression.

"Christ, it really is bad."

Steve fought the urge to roll his eyes, because he was sure if he did it again they’d roll right out of his head and down the street. “Maybe it is, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not going.”

He turned defiantly and started walking again.

“I think you should,” Bucky called.

“And why is that?” Steve asked, turning around. “What’s in it for me? Well, other than facing my ex and her new, much smarter, more talented and attractive, boyfriend."

“Well, I’d be on your arm, wouldn’t I?” Bucky said. “You might not swing that way, Stevie, but you can’t deny that I’m excellent arm-candy.”

As if to prove his point, he slid his arm through the crook in Steve’s elbow. He snuggled up into Steve’s side, and Steve would be lying if he said the warmth wasn’t comforting. “You helped me, let me help you.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Fine, I’ll be your fake boyfriend.”

Bucky made a point of melodramatically celebrating that, making Steve laugh.

“And, for the record,” he said. “I swing both ways. So, this isn’t that unexpected.”

Bucky stared at him with an unreadable expression for a moment, and then said, “Damn, I wanted to be the guy who turned you gay. Now, that would have been an excellent story.”

“I preferred moping Bucky,” Steve said, and Bucky bumped their hips together.

The place the party was actually in was much nicer than the hotel Steve had been sent to. It was a small bar with warm lighting, which was full of chatter and laughter when they opened the door. To Steve, it felt like entering a lion’s den, but it was a little easier with Bucky a warm, comforting, solid presence on his arm.

“Is this the right place?” Bucky said, as the door swung shut behind them.

Steve surveyed the party for anyone he recognised. He actually didn’t know that many people who were going to be there. Besides his childhood friends from Brooklyn, most of his friends were back in DC, not New York.

“Steve!” came a loud, drawn-out yell from somebody, which got closer and closer as his friend approached. He wrapped Steve in a bone-crushing hug, and Steve politely pushed him off.

“This is Sam?” Bucky eyed the guy up and down.

The man was pretty short, and the glaze over his eyes showed just how drunk he was.

“No, this is Tony. Tony, this is Bucky.” Steve lowered his voice a little to talk to Bucky. “It’s actually Tony’s engagement they’re celebrating tonight.”

Bucky made a quiet, “Oh,” sound, and Tony held out his hand for Bucky to shake. When Bucky just blinked at it, Tony realised he was holding out the wrong hand, laughed, dropped it and didn’t try again. He spoke to Steve, instead.

“I tried to get you the whole four hundred and sixty, but I only had two hundred on me and Sam had one and I wasn’t gonna go to an ATM, so we got, like, fifty dollars from Quill but that was all we could get because apparently I don’t have enough rich friends. So, you’ve got... what, three hundred and fifty?”

Bucky interjected, “It’s alright, we sorted it out. I don’t need the money anymore.”

Tony looked genuinely crestfallen for a moment, “But... I sold a kidney to get this.”

He was so sincere that there was a split second when Bucky was actually worried that this guy had sold a kidney. Steve just stared, unimpressed, at Tony, because he knew where this was going.

“I mean, it wasn’t my kidney. But what am I gonna tell the hooker when she wakes up?”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Tony clapped Bucky on the shoulder, “Don’t look so scared, Buckaroo, I’m joking. She’s not gonna wake up!”

Thankfully, Sam stepped into the conversation at that exact moment, so Bucky didn’t have to reply to him. Sam was tall, dark and extremely attractive. Before he got married, Sam would have been the exact type of guy Bucky would go for.

“Steve, man, I’m so glad you could make it!” he pulled Steve into a hug that was definitely more comfortable than Tony’s had been.

“Hey, man,” Steve said, just as Tony noticed somebody else and wandered off to talk to them.

Sam clapped him on the shoulder, “Were you at Grand Central all day? I haven’t seen you since this morning.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. Bucky cleared his throat from beside him, catching the attention of both men, and Steve realised what he wanted when he looked at him, “Oh, yeah. Sam, this is Bucky. Buck, this is Sam.”

The nickname slipped out without Steve thinking about it, and Bucky stared at him for an extra second but didn’t say anything, instead he shook Sam’s hand and they slipped into an easy dialogue. Steve, zoning out on the conversation, caught sight of someone over Sam’s shoulder.

It was as if everything slowed to a halt when he saw Peggy, and the familiar curl of dark hair and the curve of her jaw made his heart seize. She turned and caught his eye. He quickly looked away back to Sam and Bucky, who were now talking about Sam’s VA work back in DC. Bucky seemed genuinely interested by it, which was a first for people listening to Sam’s work stories.

Steve didn’t even notice Peggy was coming over until he was all-encompassed by her smell and a light hand was on his elbow.

“Steve?”

He turned like he hadn’t noticed her yet, “Peggy!”

She pulled him into a hug, and Sam shared a look with Bucky before disappearing back into the crowd of people.

They stepped back from each other, and Steve remembered who was stood beside him. He gestured between Bucky and the woman, “Peggy Carter, James Barnes.”

“Steve, come on.” Bucky admonished gently, the back of his hand softly brushing Steve’s chest. Peggy followed the movement with careful eyes. “Call me Bucky, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet you, too, James,” Peggy said. She appeared to almost forget that Bucky was there after that, speaking to Steve again. “Sam told me that your flight got in late, I’ve been meaning to catch you all week so that we could chat, but I just keep missing you.”

Steve couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone, “Yeah, you do.”

It seemed like Peggy didn’t really know how to respond to that. She rolled her red-painted lips for a moment, tucked her hair behind her ear, shuffled her feet, until she decided that speaking to Bucky was probably the easiest route.

“So, do you know Pepper and Tony? I know they’ve been taking people on for the internship programme...” she asked.

Bucky laughed politely. He was charming as hell, no doubt about it. Even Peggy seemed impressed. “No, no, I wish I was young enough to still be an intern. I’m just here with Stevie tonight.”

The nickname warmed Steve’s chest a little, and Bucky slipped his hand around the crook of Steve’s elbow again, leaning in a bit. It was almost admirable how good he was at this.

“Oh,” Peggy looked between them. Steve could practically see her brain fitting the pieces together. “Right, so, you’re from DC?”

“No, Brooklyn. Me and Stevie met when we were kids, we ran into each other again when I was in DC for work, reconnected...”

He seemed a little lost, so Steve finished for him, “And the rest is history.”

There was a small smile on Peggy’s face, now. Steve felt bad. He felt really, really bad.

“And the rest is history,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Could I get you both a drink?”

Bucky looked like he was going to agree, but Steve interrupted before he could, “No. Thanks. We – uh – we actually have a thing... Bucky wanted to meet the gang, so that’s why we stopped by...”

“Have you been telling people about me, Rogers?” Peggy laughed.

“Always,” Steve said. "Well, we have to go. I'll see you around?"

“Bye, Steve,” she said, just as they left.

They found a bench to sit on a block away. Steve had seemed determined to carry on and get as far away as possible, but Bucky practically forced him to sit down. He stayed stood up, though, looking down at Steve and the self-pity that was coming off him in waves.

“Why did we have to run out of there?” Bucky asked.

Steve was bent almost completely forward, elbows resting on his knees and head in his hands so that Bucky couldn’t see his face. His voice was muffled. “I’m not running.”

“Really? Because, what you did back there definitely looked like running,” Bucky said. “Take it from me; I’m practically the poster boy for running from my problems.”

Steve didn’t reply, so Bucky kicked the toe of his shoe. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to make Steve look at him. There was some silent confrontation between them that Bucky didn’t think either of them understood, and then Steve shook his head and chuckled breathily.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. You’d think after not seeing her for six years, rehearsing that moment in my head, I’d have had something more interesting to say,” Steve buried his face in his hands again.

“Hey,” Bucky said, softly, just as Steve had done earlier. He sat on Steve’s left side so that he could place his hand on Steve’s knee comfortingly. “I’m sure she felt the same.”

Steve murmured something that vaguely sounded like “I don’t think so,” and Bucky sighed, his breath visible in the cold air. He dropped his hand from Steve’s knee and ran his tongue over his dry bottom lip.

“Six years... How’d you meet?” he asked.

“The army, if you’d believe it.” Steve said, and Bucky whistled. “Yeah. I... uh, I enlisted a couple months after my mom died. She would never have approved me enlisting but, well, it was always just me and her, so when she died I didn’t have anything. Before me, she was an army nurse, and my dad died in Libya a couple months before I was born. A part of me always wanted to be like them, no matter how much my mom insisted that she would never let me enlist. I guess it was uh... a way to honour her, or something. Feel close to her and my dad when they were both gone,” he swallowed thickly and hoped Bucky didn’t notice.

Bucky had been listening intently, “I’m so sorry.”

Steve huffed out a breath, “Don’t be. That’s not the point, um... So, we were sent to the camp after our training, and I remember being all lined up in a row for briefing by Peggy – who was this officer, or agent or something. She was far more successful than any of us would ever be and she was only, what, twenty-two?”

“That’s amazing,” Bucky said, just so Steve knew he was still listening.

“She is,” Steve agreed. He cleared his throat, “I think a lot of the guys felt quite intimidated by her... So, we’re all lined up and one of the guys starts acting up. He’s, y’know, trying to flirt with her and grab at her and she’s not having it. Instead of calling over a superior officer like she should have done, she asks him to step forward – deadpan as anything – and punches him right in the face. Sends him to the ground, too. None of us tried to mess with her after that.”

Bucky laughed, “Oh, my god. That’s incredible.”

Steve had a fond, reminiscent smile on his face, “I know. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I think that was the moment I fell in love with her.”

He seemed to have perked up a little, telling that story, but Bucky was a little bit confused.

“I have one question...” he said. Steve glanced at him expectantly, “How did you get into the army if you have asthma?”

Steve chuckled like he’d been expecting that question, “Another reason I joined the army after my mom died is because nobody would be able to prove that I lied on the enlistment form.”

“You lied...” Bucky said, in disbelief. “I can’t believe you. Is that why you don’t serve anymore?”

Steve shook his head, “No, uh, I was discharged two years in after an evac mission went wrong. I... well, I was abducted and tortured and then sent home.”

He said it so casually, like it was every day you got kidnapped and tortured, and Bucky couldn’t help his eyebrows raising in shock. “Fuck...”

“It was fine, though. I met Sam at one of his VA meetings, he pushed me to pursue art, go to college – I’d spent the years after high school looking after my mom, so I’d never had the chance – and I started playing the trumpet again. It helped... uh... with the tremors.”

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking very minutely, and Bucky felt extremely ignorant, because all this time he’d thought that was because of the cold. The view he’d had of Steve had completely changed, now, he hadn’t thought this guy had that much to him. But there was so much lying under the surface that Bucky was happy he’d heard. He wanted to hear more but wasn’t sure if Steve wanted to tell him.

“So, what happened with Peggy?” he eventually asked.

“She stayed on for two years after I was discharged,” Steve said. “We stayed together, video called a lot, and one day she tells me that she’s got big news that she wants to tell me when she gets home – she tried to come home as much as she could, a day or two here and there. For months, I’d been planning on proposing to her on her next visit.”

“Oh, no...” Bucky couldn’t help from saying.

Steve looked like he wanted to laugh but didn’t, “So I wait for her at the airport, and I’d been thinking about doing it there, but I knew she hated attention like that. So, I brought her home, where I’d set up the apartment all romantic. She walked in, saw the rose petals, I got down on one knee, and she told me that she’d been offered a position at MI6, and was moving back to London.”

“Steve...” Bucky exhaled.

Closing his eyes, Steve nodded once, “She wanted me to go with her, but I’d spent the last two years building a life for myself in DC, and I couldn’t let that go. She didn’t want a long-distance relationship again, which I understood, so we broke it off. The last time I saw her she was packing up her stuff and moving out. Until tonight.”

There was something in Steve’s expression that Bucky knew too well, from first-hand experience. He put his arm around Steve and pulled him close just so that he didn’t have to see it anymore, but the guy was far too broad for Bucky to hold properly, so he just buried his own face into the crook of Steve’s neck and hoped it was comforting.

“I’m sorry...” he said into Steve’s jacket.

“About what?” Steve asked, and Bucky felt the rumble of his voice.

“For letting you sit here and talk about it and not making you go back.”

Steve jumped back at that, immediately standing up and breaking their embrace.

“No,” Steve said. “That’s not happening.”

Bucky groaned inwardly, “Steve, you didn’t come all the way to New York to do nothing.”

“I didn’t come all the way to New York to get my ass kicked, either,” Steve said, because yeah, he was sure if he tried anything with Peggy she’d kick his ass. That would definitely happen. He could see it.

Bucky pushed himself up from the bench, “I’m not letting you leave without trying. I swear.”

“I hate you,” Steve said, but there was no heat behind his words, which Bucky took as a good thing.

He held out his hand toward Steve, “Come on.”

Steve couldn’t quite believe he was doing this, as he took Bucky’s hand and let himself be led back towards the bar. He saw Peggy the moment they walked in, and nearly turned around and walked back out. Bucky pushed back against him though, forcing him inside.

“I can’t do this,” Steve said, through gritted teeth.

“Yes, you can,” Bucky insisted. “Go.”

Letting Steve’s hand go felt a lot like watching a child take their first steps. Steve was unsure as he stepped into the crowd, but once he was a few feet away from Peggy, who was facing the bar, he took a deep breath, set his shoulders and strode confidently towards her. Watching him talk easily to her, Bucky felt full of pride, and a little bit of something he didn’t quite want to address.

He stepped outside so that he didn’t have to, and leaned up against the wall of the bar. He blindly flicked open the cigarette box where it was at the bottom of the deep pocket in his coat, placed one in his mouth and tried to light it.

It was really just his luck that his lighter chose that moment to not work. No matter how many times he tried, it would only give him a pathetic little spark and nothing more. He groaned, dropping his head back against the wall.

“Need a light?” someone asked.

Bucky opened his eyes to see Steve’s friend from earlier. Not the short one with the hooker, but the handsome one... Sam.

He took the cigarette out of his mouth so that he could answer, “Could I?”

Sam held out his lighter, and Bucky placed the cigarette back in his mouth to light it. The relief that hit him the moment he took the first drag was just what he’d needed. He handed the lighter back, and Sam lit his own cigarette.

“Your boy’s in there,” Sam said, nodding to the bar.

“I know,” Bucky replied, smoke coming out of his nose as he did so.

“You not worried he’s gonna talk to his ex?” Sam asked.

“I told him to,” Bucky said, flicking off the ash and putting it back in his mouth.

Sam looked confused but didn’t pry. “Steve hasn’t mentioned you before.”

Bucky glanced at his feet, “We didn’t want to rush into anything. We, uh, we haven’t been together that long. Since I live in New York, it's, uh, difficult.”

“Right,” Sam said, and Bucky was slightly worried that he didn’t believe him.

Then again, it didn’t really matter if Sam believed him or not. It wasn’t him Steve wanted to make jealous.

“He really cares about you,” Sam said, after a moment.

Bucky glanced at him, humored, “He tell you that?”

He wondered if Steve had put Sam up to this so that Bucky wouldn’t be alone. If he’d actually convinced his best friend like that, this lie really had gone too far.

Sam shook his head, “I can tell. Steve’s been my best friend for the best part of ten years. When you’re close to someone like that, you just know. It’s in the eyes.”

He made a weird gesture around his eyes, and Bucky laughed.

“Sure it is,” he took another drag.

“Hey!” Sam pointed at Bucky with his cigarette. “Don’t try and be smart. I know Steve, alright? The guy doesn’t have a poker face. Also, nobody calls him Stevie and gets away with it.”

Bucky really didn’t know how to process this information. A couple of hours wasn’t enough for Steve to actually start caring about him so much that even his best friend could tell, right? Besides, he was still hung up on Peggy. He was just good at keeping up the act.

There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though, because before they could talk any more the door slammed open – so hard Bucky was surprised the glass didn’t shatter – and Steve was storming past them. Bucky shared an apologetic look with Sam, stubbed out his cigarette and chased Steve around the corner.

“Steve? How did it go?”

He had a pretty good idea of how it went. Like Sam said, Steve didn’t exactly have a poker face.

“She’s happy I came back, we’re going to lunch tomorrow,” Steve said.

It was Bucky’s turn to race to keep up. Steve was walking seriously fast. Surely lunch was a good thing, though?

“I told you!”

“The three of us,” Steve said.

“She invited me?” Bucky asked.

He wasn’t surprised but did feel a little bad, since he wasn’t going to be here tomorrow. He didn’t want to fuck this up for Steve.

Steve shook his head, “No.”

“Another guy?”

Steve had crossed his arms, now, “Nope.”

Who else could she have possibly invited that Steve could feel so mad about?

“Steve, who the hell did she -?”

Steve suddenly stopped, almost making Bucky run right into the back of him, and turned around.

“She’s pregnant,” he said.

Bucky’s face fell, “Steve... I’m...”

“If you’re gonna say you’re sorry, save it,” Steve said. “I’m fine, probably the most fine I’ve been in six years. Because at least I finally know something. I finally know it’s over. So, I guess I should thank you for that.”

There was nothing Bucky could do but wait for the other shoe to drop, because surely that wasn’t all Steve had to say. If he was Steve right now, he’d probably have punched Bucky and yelled in his face and gotten angry at him for ruining his life. At least, that’s what Bucky had wanted to do to himself a few hours ago. He guessed Steve would feel somewhat the same. He kind of hoped he did, because then at least he had a chance at understanding.

“She said she’s never been so happy,” Steve said, voice breaking, and he turned and ran a hand over his face to stop himself from crying. He wouldn’t cry, he wouldn’t. “I guess I’ve gotta be okay with not being okay. Grow up a bit. So... thanks for that, too.”

Bucky was at a loss. Steve had all but accused him of ruining his life, but somehow, he was still being chivalrous about it.

“What do you want to do now?” was all Bucky could think to ask.

“Walk,” Steve said. “Think.”

Bucky nodded silently, and he felt helpless as walked by Steve’s side, unsure whether they should talk about it or not. He didn’t know whether to touch Steve, put his arm around him and hug him or bump their shoulders together to remind him he was there, or if he should just leave him alone.

He did an excellent job at leaving him alone until they reached the riverside, where the silence had become too stifling and Bucky couldn’t handle it anymore.

“I understand, y’know,” he said.

Steve looked at him for the first time in almost half an hour, and Bucky didn’t know where he was going with this.

“What it feels like when they love somebody else. I get it.” Bucky continued.

Steve scoffed, “Sure you do, Buck. You, with your marriage and your rich husband and your ballet. I’m sure you understand exactly how I feel.”

“I never said he was rich,” Bucky said, because apparently he couldn’t help but jump on the defensive rather than try to diffuse the situation. Good job, Barnes.

“You didn’t need to,” Steve said, and he was so fucking angry, and Bucky wished he wasn’t, but he really understood. He would be too. “You’ve run off to Manhattan in a peacoat and red bottom shoes and a Louis Vuitton wallet, and I’m pretty sure kids’ ballet coaching doesn’t pay that much. You don’t get it, Buck, you never will.”

“But I do!” Bucky hated how pathetic he sounded. “I fucking get it, Steve, okay? Other people have problems too. If you got off your fucking high horse for once you might actually realise that.”

The sudden anger from Bucky seemed to knock Steve down a peg. He chewed on his bottom lip, and then dropped down onto a bench. Bucky sat beside him.

“My anniversary with Brock is July 20th,” he said.

Steve cocked his head a little to the side, seeming confused why Bucky was bringing this up, so he took it as his cue to continue.

“He spends a lot of time in DC, because of his work. This year, he was gonna be there on our anniversary, so I wanted to surprise him. I went into his emails and, as I was looking for his schedule, a notification popped up. The subject was just ‘the 20th’. I thought maybe he’d planned something romantic for us, for our anniversary. I hate surprises, though, so I had to look. It was definitely a date. But not for us. It was at some fancy hotel in DC, signed off with ‘S.’.”

“He was...” Steve muttered.

Bucky nodded as if he couldn’t stand to hear Steve say it, “Yeah... He has the same password for everything, always has, so I signed into his email on my phone and put on alerts for that address. Over the next couple of months they emailed back and forth, he would call her Susan and she would sign back ‘Suzie’.”

He took a deep breath.

“I was so fucking angry. I couldn’t stop thinking about every time he’d pushed me around, taken out his anger on me, told me I wasn’t good enough, and...” He cleared his throat because fuck was somebody choking him right now? “I wondered why she was getting the best side of him, and I wasn’t.”

Steve seemed to be processing what Bucky was telling him, “What’d you do?”

“Nothing.” Bucky’s mouth was dry. “Until yesterday. He was going back to DC, and I saw the email where he told her that he was gonna be back in town and I wanted to fucking rip out his eyes. So, when he left, I wrote him a letter. I told him everything I knew and everything I wanted to say. And then, I took my ring and I put it in the envelope, put it on the bed where I knew he’d see it, and left.”

“Why Manhattan?” Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged, “I thought about going to Nat and Clint’s but I knew that would be the first place he’d check, so I was gonna go back to Brooklyn and stay with my ma, but I chickened out when I reached Grand Central. So, I got off the train, found a bar and spent a couple of hours feeling sorry for myself because I thought my marriage was over...”

“But now he’s coming home instead of seeing her,” Steve guessed. His eyes hadn’t moved from Bucky the entire story.

Tears stinging his eyes, all Bucky could do was nod.

“Sat in that bar, I realised all the moments that we shared and would share and everything that’s ever happened between us and I realised that I’d thrown away my one chance at happiness,” Bucky said, voice threatening to break.

Steve seemed sure of himself, his voice was soft, and his hand was grazing Bucky’s shoulder blade, “I don’t think you’ve thrown anything away. I think you deserve something much better than someone who is gonna cheat and lie and break your heart.”

Bucky smiled through his tears, which he hadn’t even realised had happened, “That’s nice, Stevie, but Brock is all I have.”

“Look at me, Buck,” Steve said, shifting slightly so that he was facing Bucky directly, “That’s him talking. He’s convinced you that you have no other option, that he is the only person who is ever gonna love you but it’s not true, okay? You have so many more people than that. Don’t let him trap you.”

Now Bucky really was crying. An ugly, painful sobbing sound that he couldn’t stop coming from the back of his throat, and he covered his face with his hand to try and calm himself down. He didn’t want Steve to see him cry, not again, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. Steve inched forward so that he could wrap his arms around Bucky and hold him close to his chest.

“I have a hotel room,” Steve said against Bucky’s hair, because he really didn’t know what else to suggest. “I’m sharing with Sam but I’m about eighty percent sure he’s gonna go home with Maria, so it should be free.”

Bucky laughed, and the movement was nice against Steve’s chest.

“I’m not trying anything, we just need somewhere warm.”

Bucky leaned back a little, hand lingering on Steve’s chest. “I know.”

Steve could have sworn, for a moment, Bucky’s eyes flicked to his lips. He didn’t mention it, though, and instead stood up and offered his arm.

The hotel wasn’t exactly the Ritz, and Steve was sure it was much shabbier than what Bucky was used to. He didn’t seem to mind, though, and Sam wasn’t there when they got there.

“Room service?” Steve asked, as Bucky took off his coat and scarf.

“I’m starving,” Bucky replied.

Steve nodded towards the bathroom, “You go first.”

Bucky thanked him quietly and disappeared into the bathroom. Steve waited until he could hear the shower running to order the food – the cheapest thing on the menu, because he only had about twenty dollars left.

Steve was stood in the middle of the room when Bucky came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a white hotel towel, wrapped around his waist. Steve couldn’t help it when his eyes were immediately drawn to Bucky’s left side.

Bucky’s arm stopped just below the shoulder, and there was puckered skin and scar tissue most of the way across his chest and partly up his neck. Steve wasn’t disgusted by it, or anything, because it wasn’t disgusting, but all he could think about was how much that must have hurt, and how it must have happened.

“Like what you see?” Bucky grinned, and he had stepped forward so that he was in Steve’s personal space.

“Could use a little work,” Steve teased.

Bucky made an offended scoffing sound and smacked Steve on the arm, “Asshole!”

His hand stayed on Steve’s arm, and fuck, okay, now he was definitely staring at Steve’s lips. He wasn’t doing anything about it, either, wasn’t moving away. If anything, he was moving closer. It could have just been Steve’s mind playing tricks on him, but Bucky’s face was getting closer and closer to his.

Before he knew it, Bucky’s mouth was pressed softly against his, and his hand had moved from Steve’s arm to the nape of his neck to hold him there. It took Steve’s body a moment to catch up with his mind, but when it did, his hands immediately moved to frame Bucky’s face.

They kissed like that, softly and close-mouthed, until Steve moved his hands again and pushed Bucky softly backwards.

“Buck,” he said gently, Bucky still looked like he wanted to pounce on Steve, so he made sure to hold him back a little. “Not that I don’t want this, but you need to be sure.”

Bucky’s mouth was slightly open, and his gaze flicked from Steve’s eyes to his lips to just past his shoulder. Then, he pushed Steve away and stepped backwards until he was sat on the bed.

“I’m not sure.” He looked like he’d just been slapped.

Steve tried to be reassuring, “That’s okay.” He sat down beside him. “It’s okay if you don’t know. You’re confused and upset, and I understand.”

Bucky ran his hand through his hair, “Why are you so nice, Steve? You’re just... like, absolutely fucking perfect, but you’re so perfect that it makes you an asshole because you don’t know when to stop being nice.”

“I think you’re just not used to being treated right,” Steve replied.

Bucky called him an asshole again, but it wasn’t biting.

“Do you think we met for a reason, Stevie?” he asked after a beat of silence.

“I think we were meant to find each other,” Steve replied truthfully. “I think you were meant to miss that train, that your phone was meant to be broken and I think that we both have things we’ve been putting off for way too long. I think we’ve both realised that it’s time to stop running, and we were meant to meet so that we could learn that.”

Bucky’s eyebrows drew together for a moment, and he nodded once. He slipped his hand down Steve’s arm to until their palms were pressed flat together, and then laced their fingers.

“We can run later,” Bucky said, eventually. “For now, let’s just enjoy this.”

A few hours later, they were in a cab on their way back to Grand Central. They were both exhausted, their meeting – only five and a half hours before – felt like days ago. The cab ride was painfully quiet, with Bucky spending a large part of it anxiously picking at the knee of his jeans and repeatedly checking that he had his ticket.

Eventually, Steve placed his hand over Bucky’s to stop the fidgeting. Bucky stared at their hands, and then twisted his wrist so that he could link their fingers together again, much like he had the previous night. He smiled up at Steve, and Steve just smiled back.

Bucky didn’t let go of his hand as they got out of the cab, and as they walked into the station. He only let go when they reached a payphone which Steve insisted on picking up. Bucky couldn’t help but smile when he realised what Steve was doing.

“Steve? Hey, buddy, it’s you from the future.”

He covered the receiver with his hand and stage-whispered, “He bought it, sucker.” to Bucky, who laughed – a little teary, and then he put the phone back to his ear.

“I just wanted to give you a piece of advice. You’re gonna be playing one night, in Grand Central Terminal in Manhattan, thinking of every reason in the world to not go see the girl who broke your heart. Then, you’re gonna meet somebody. At first, he’s gonna seem cold, and you’ll know right away that he’s trouble. He’s gonna take all your money, lie to you, keep you awake and walking around Manhattan all night, you might even get punched, but... stick with him; you’re gonna end up needing him a lot more than he needs you.”

He locked eyes with Bucky as he spoke, and his voice wobbled a little bit, but he tried to control it as much as he could. They both had cried far too much over the past few hours. Bucky didn’t seem to have even noticed that a tear had slipped down his cheek.

“At the end of the night, when you’re seeing him off at Grand Central, you’re gonna wanna say some things. But, don’t. It’s nothing he doesn’t already know.”

Bucky wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand and Steve carried on talking.

“Just give him a kiss, wish him good luck, and say thank you. Because he taught you something you would never have been able to teach yourself.”

As soon as he said that, Bucky surged forward, grabbed the lapel of Steve’s coat and kissed him. Steve dropped the phone in shock. The kiss was wet from tears, and Steve couldn’t tell if they were his or Bucky’s. Both of them, he thought, when Bucky moved back again. They kept their foreheads pressed together for a few more moments.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, quietly.

Then, he stepped back and walked away.

Steve was frozen in place. All he could do was watch Bucky as he walked down onto the platform. And, if Bucky glanced back at Steve a few times, nobody had to know.

There was a man playing the trumpet in Grand Central Terminal. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people passed by him while he played. Some would drop money into his open case, others would pass without acknowledgment, another would enter and leave his life in the same night.

The night would be insignificant in the grander scheme of things, and, in the time after, he would meet so many more people. They would laugh and cry and have weekly poker nights, and he wouldn’t think about Peggy no matter how much it hurt. He would go on trips to Las Vegas and California and he’d go back to Brooklyn, visit his mom’s grave and spend hours talking to her as if she could hear. His hands would still shake, but he would spend hours mapping out long, dark hair and a sharply curved jaw in his sketchbook.

He would be back at Grand Central Terminal before he’d even realised that he’d left, and he would be knocked off his feet by a man in a hurry.

The man would turn around to help him up, and he’d look up into grey eyes flashing with recognition, and the man would exhale, “Steve.” and Steve would chuckle out a “Buck.”, and it was as if they had never left at all.

[thesarcasticramen]

Down Came the Rain (and Washed the Black Cat Out)

Sequel to Rain Rain Go Away (Come Again Another Day)

“What’s wrong my little sunshine?” his mother asked as Adrien padded towards her chair in the Master’s bedroom where she sat. With tears falling and lips quivering, he climbed unto her lap.

A flash of lightning and the rolling of thunder jolted the four-year old and he snuggled closer to Emilie. “I’m scared,” he wept.

His mother fixed the blanket and wrapped it around them both as she hushed him. She rocked him back and forth and hummed a melody that she would sing whenever he was in distress.

Soon, Adrien was being lulled by the calming heartbeat of his mother. There was a kiss on his forehead that engulfed him in so much warmth and content. “It’s alright to be afraid, young one. I will always be here.” And he believed her.

—

There was a storm inside of Chat Noir raging more than the one he was caught in. Running a hand through his sodden hair, he closed his eyes and gripped the railing in disdain. Chat Noir knew he had a flair for theatrics and from a different point of view, he probably looked like an angsty hero in a noir (pun, unintended) film under the gloomy weather. Most of the time, he would scramble to escape but now, he was filled with so much emotion he couldn’t bring himself to care. He stayed hunched over the terrace for what seemed to be hours until he realized that the water stopped trickling down on him.

“You’re gonna get sick if you don’t stop trying to imitate those emo protagonists in films you know,” somebody stated. Chat Noir was dumbstruck to find out that he unconsciously relocated himself down the streets next to a lamppost. What he was more surprised to see was Marinette standing next to his crouched form, her umbrella pinched at the crook of her neck to prevent it from dropping as she held out a long green cargo jacket—no doubt, it was hers judging by her thin layer of clothes—above his head.

“Princess, what—” He didn’t get the chance to finish that thought when she unceremoniously dropped the coat on him, concealing his face with the hood. When he managed to poke his head out of the article of clothing, he saw how she clutched her umbrella properly and held the paper bags in her other hand. She ruffled his hair with a smile. “See you around chaton.”

Then she walked away and disappeared into the rain.

—

The pitter-patter of the rain against the roof was what roused him. The smell of bread, soup, and Marinette’s detergent invaded his nostrils and he stirred on a toasty bed. Gone was the rain dripping onto his face and the hardness of the concrete his sore limbs were lying on earlier. Something cold was pressed against his burning forehead and he was being bundled under the covers tighter. His hearing was the last to come to him. The person speaking sounded as if she was out of the water while he was deep under it.

“…idiot. Coming all the way here when he’s in the worst shape. I am so gonna kill him when he wakes up,” the angelic voice murmured, obviously distraught.

Blinking the fuzzy sight away, he was greeted by an agitated Marinette fussing over him at the edge of the bed. She was still in her pajamas and was pressing the cloth she had placed over his forehead. She stopped when their eyes met. His heart automatically hammered and he was filled with jubilance. Her shoulders slumped in relief before her eyes glazed over with annoyance. “Marine—”

“Not a word you darn cat,” she sharply ordered, glaring at him intensely.

Chat Noir zipped his lips up and sniffled. He forgot how scary Marinette can actually be. He watched her sigh and massage her temple as if to prevent herself from yelling at him.

“You are gonna be the death of me.”

Guiltily, Chat dragged his eyes downward. He knew what he did was irrational and impulsive. He should’ve listened to Plagg and stayed home. His kwami will most definitely strangle him the moment he detransforms. But he knew he couldn’t stand to be detained in that house a second longer.

“I’m sorry princess,” Chat rasped and broke into a fit of coughs.

“Yeah? Well you should be," an all-too familiar voice piped up. Chat Noir choked and stared at his kwami floating above Marinette’s shoulder mirroring the same expression of the girl next to him in horror. He looked down on his clothes and saw that he was in the same black jacket he wore before he transformed meaning he wasn’t Chat Noir right now but Adrien Agreste. Holy sh— That’s it. He was doomed. He was absolutely utterly screwed. Ladybug is gonna annihilate him but Marinette will probably do it first.

“What were you thinking?!” Marinette berated. “What you pulled off was dangerous! You could’ve—" she looked away then closed her eyes, crossing her arms as if to protect herself from the terrifying idea that keeps foraying into her mind. "What if I wasn’t the one who found you, huh? What if it was Hawkmoth or anybody at all who wouldn’t hesitate to let you be in harm’s way?" Marinette opened her eyes and trained them on him. Chat Noir cowered under her. "For God’s sake Chat Noir! You’re not just putting your identity and life in jeopardy but also your family’s! What has gotten into you?!”

Adrien could only bite his lower lip in remorse. Marinette was right. What he did was all the levels and degrees of stupid. He doesn’t deserve to bear the miraculous. Now Plagg will leave him to find a more worthy holder and he would lose his only chance to freedom. Now Marinette knows he was Adrien and she will never want to have any affiliation with him ever again and—Wait, she didn’t call him Adrien. She called him Chat Noir. He touched the skin around his eyes where his mask resided and found that he still wore one, not his real leather one but a homemade felt mask. His golden locks were also hidden under the hood of his jacket.

“After what you did, I didn’t have enough energy to maintain your transformation. I had no choice kid,” Plagg explained. He and Marinette shared a knowing glance as if sharing a little secret. For a moment, Adrien was afraid that Marinette finally knew who he was but it was...something else he couldn't put his finger on. For now, he was just glad that neither betrayed his trust while he was incapacitated.

“Your girlfriend here—” Marinette sputtered denials and Adrien’s face reddened. Plagg flew in circles around both teens which made Adrien even dizzier. “—was understanding enough to keep your identity under wraps so you have nothing to worry about. I told her all about what I am and how your miraculous works yada yada yada. Oh!" He stopped right in front of Adrien's face, making the boy cross-eyed as the kwami grabbed his nose with its tiny paws. "She also happened to feed me Paris’ best cheese danishes ‘cause they’re all out of cheese apparently. Boo. It’s not as good as camembert but I’ll rate it a nine out of five.”

Marinette giggled, all lividity dissipating away from her stance. “I’ll make sure to tell my papa your feedback then, he’ll be flattered. As for the cheese, we’ll be restocking soon.” Plagg flew to hover in front of her. She leaned and winked at the kwami, “I’ll pack you some danishes later before you guys leave.” Plagg gasped and turned to Adrien. “Kid, I love her already. Plagg approves.” Adrien just shrunk under the covers.

After an argument between kwami and holder that was resolved by Marinette’s bribery, Plagg relented to transform Adrien. His identity was still vulnerable to being exposed the longer he was out of the costume. Without Plagg’s remarks that eased the tension, Marinette was left to nursing a sick Chat Noir in an awkward atmosphere.

She helped him sit up with pillows supporting his back and situated a small table in front of him. Marinette reheated their dinner earlier— her mother’s wanton soup and made tea to help with his cold. Upon his insistence to be left on his own devices, Marinette made a quick trip to the bathroom downstairs to fetch some medicine for him.

Chat Noir tried to stomach the hot broth and noodles but all he wanted was to throw it all up but he was too shy, knowing that Marinette’s mother has gone through a lot of trouble to prepare the meal and Marinette made an effort to serve it to him. He was half way through the soup when he felt the bile rise to his throat and he couldn’t keep it in much longer. Good thing, as if sensing it, Marinette was already back and she took one look at him before promptly shoving a bin for him to empty the contents of his gut as she rubbed soothing circles on his back. He grimaced at the stench and situation.

He was humiliated to say the least, having her be an audience to his state and overstay his welcome but Marinette only tenderly smiled and handed him a glass of water, advising to finish the soup because he needed to eat something first before he could take his medicine. Once his bowl was devoid of the food, he popped the pills in his mouth and washed it down using the tea.

It was thirty minutes past midnight when Chat Noir was once again nestled under the enormous pile of blankets and Marinette was building herself a place to sleep on the chaise below. Chat Noir felt ashamed for occupying her bed after all she did for him but he just watched as she got ready to sleep. “Wake me up if you need anything! Good night,” she called before facing the opposite direction.

Chat Noir didn’t let his eyes stray from her immobile figure for a while. He waited for any signs of movement but there was nothing. Sighing, he focused on the skylight above him as the rain drizzled on the glass pane and his eyelids slowly drooped to a close. Maybe he should try to get some sleep.

“Adrien…your mother…she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry but your father can’t make it today, Adrien.”

“I’m in love with you!” “I’m sorry Chat Noir.”

“He’s nothing but a pathetic excuse for a superhero that mangy alley cat.”

“You’re putting her life in danger. What if Hawkmoth discovers how much you care about her? What if something happens to her because of Chat Noir?”

Chat Noir’s eyes snapped open as the nightmares plagued his mind once again. The patter of the rain was deafening. He immediately sought for comfort as his eyes darted everywhere around the room and once they landed on Marinette, he relaxed. Calm down Adrien. You're at Marinette's home. You're safe. She's safe. You're okay. Everything's fine.

“Marinette, y-you still awake?” he asked. His hopes were not met by a reply. She must be sleeping by now and he didn’t want to disturb her but he also couldn’t bottle it all up anymore. The glass was cracking and the words were pooling in his mouth. He needed an outlet, a release. “I…” he started, clutching at the blankets tighter. “I hate the rain.”

“It’s cold and wet and gray a-and…” he trembled but kept going. “…it brings back a lot of memories you know?” Fiddling his clawed fingers together, he rested the back of his head on the pillow and observed the globules of water that threatened to hit him if it weren’t for the closed window.

He swallowed the lump. “It was raining when my mom left. It was raining when Ladybug rejected me,” he wanted to say but he bit down on his tongue hard enough. He’s never been this honest to anyone before. But now, he had laid his guard down and stripped himself of whatever pride he had left. “It’s just that…everything hurts.”

The tears spill and his voice cracks into a hiccup. “I try to forget about everything. I try not to let the sadness get to me. But all of it is just too much sometimes. There are mornings when I wake up that I can’t find the strength and will to get up anymore and survive another one. I-I feel like the weight is crushing me and I can't— I can’t do anything about it. I’m just so useless and—and worthless. I'm, uhh, a disappointment, a—a failure and…I’m—" He could feel nothing, but he could also feel everything all at once. "Nothing...I'm nothing.”

He drapes his arm over his eyes and he sobs. “Sometimes, I crave for jumping off the top of the Eiffel tower without catching myself, just…" He remembered standing so close to the edge just the other day. It scared him more to realize that he's not afraid of the height or falling, but of the fact that he's not scared at all. "I know it’s wrong but there are instances when I get those terrifying thoughts and I wonder, what if? Nobody would care, right? My father definitely wouldn’t. The world would resume to rotate and revolve without me in it and I won’t have to endure another rainy day in my li—”

Chat Noir broke, finally voicing what his heart was screaming out the most. “I just want to be loved." Chat Noir was pathetic, Adrien thought. "I’m so tired of begging for it again and again, from the people who can’t give it, from my father, from Ladybug. I…” His breaths became controlled and shuddering, the melancholy crawling all over his heart and soul and wedging it in every nerve and vein he had in his body.

God, Chat Noir hated the rain.

He didn’t notice that the edge of the bed dipped and there were hands that were cradling his head. Instinctively, Chat’s arms wove around Marinette’s small and petite frame and pulling her under the covers into an embrace. Her fingers carded through his locks in a coaxing manner while she whispered reassurances in his ear and the tears continued to stream down his cheeks. Neither spoke, Chat buried his face in the crook of her neck and cried and heaved.

He clung to her like a lifeline. He was drowning and her warmth was the only oxygen he had. He needed her and she was more than willing to be there right next to him so he wouldn’t feel alone, so she could help him through this together, so she could walk through hell with him.

Marinette disentangled the knots in his hair and massaged his scalp every time he would flinch at the lightning and thunder. He didn’t know how many hours passed while they were in that position. His ear was lodged against her chest and the steady thrumming of her heart sedated him.

Not long after, Chat Noir drowsily started to blow slackening breaths and he felt sleep creeping up to him, his eyes screwing shut. There were soft lips that pecked his forehead and a gentle voice. “Then it’s time to stop begging from the wrong people. I know I’m not much but I’m not going anywhere. I love you Chat Noir, every beat of my heart belongs to you.”

Chat Noir was floored, awed at the amount of affection her words held. What good did he do to have such a sweet, selfless, and most amazing girl—Marinette to still see the best in him despite all his shortcomings and flaws, to still love him for all the good and bad things he possesses? He was struck by how much she meant to him. Her friendship, her love—her. They were all most prized and precious and he wouldn’t know what to do if he loses any of it. It hurt him to hear her think of herself as “not much” because to him, she will always be more than enough. He loved her, he loved her too much.

Chat Noir’s lips curled into a smile and for the first time in years, his heart was finally free. He whispered something unintelligible and he wasn’t sure if she heard him but she only encased him in a cocoon of her love and protection. “I love you too, princess.”

Tomorrow, they would have to deal with the repercussions of their late night, he would have to face Plagg’s vexation for making him use up all his energy to stay transformed for the rest of the night (and pestering: “What? Had fun cuddling with your girlfriend you clingy and needy kitten?” “Shut up Plagg.”), he would have to face Nathalie’s wrath when she finds his room vacant in the morning. But tonight, he would sleep as the rain carries on outside. For as long as he was sheltered in the arms of the girl he loves, he was home.

Maybe the rain isn’t so bad after all.

***

this wraps up this fanfic. hope you all enjoyed it as much as i did. i love marichat and i felt like they would have such a fun and loving best friend dynamic. the last part was kinda vague so it’s up to you whether the “i love you” bit was romantic or platonic, it can be either. i’m sorry if i was clearly projecting while i wrote adrien’s confession. whoever is experiencing sadness, may it be a simple bad day or depression, don’t be afraid to seek solace from somebody you hold dear and trustworthy and don’t hesitate to find a friend in me. thanks for reading! iloveyouall!

[thearrangment-phff]

XLIV. Gaelle

August 2017

When Isabella had said she was going Switzerland to visit her brother and sister-in-law she wasn't lying. Though she was also in Switzerland for a different purpose.  Princess Christine had explained that Isabella's eggs had been fertilized and needed to be placed back in Isabella. There were more medical terms and of course a longer explanation that Isabella didn't care for. She only saw it as all she had to do was lay on her back and get pregnant.  

The procedure, or as Gaelle thought of it as "the holy act", was done in the early morning of a Wednesday. Isabella and Adelaide had gone in together in case there were photographs of the day, Isabella, and her ladies-in-waiting would use the excuse of going to see the doctor would be because of Adelaide. Though her sister-in-law wasn’t told of why Isabella was there. 

Isabella was told that she would have another niece within the week and found irony in Isabella's was about to get pregnant and Adelaide was about to have her second daughter.

The small group of women had gone back to Christoph and Adelaide flat in Switzerland by the afternoon. Adelaide and Christoph had a home in France and a small flat in Switzerland where they spent most of their time. Both places had been used equally but the flat was a one bedroom that was bought when Adelaide and Christoph first began their marriage. It reminded Isabella of her flat just a thirty minutes' walk from her brother's place. That place had been sold just hours after her marriage.

Princess Christine, Princess Charlotte, Countess Gaelle, and Countess Olympia had been told to leave Adelaide and Christoph's home to enjoy their time in Switzerland for the time being. All had objected knowing that Isabella wouldn't be in the right state of mind since the morning. Adelaide couldn't handle Isabella if she would happen to go into a depressive state, but she also knew Isabella would rather break down in front of one person than anything else.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," replied Isabella.

"You know you can tell me anything," smiled Adelaide.

There were a couple seconds of silence that worried Adelaide. She was tempted to call Isabella's mother Marie Astrid, "Can you tell me about the first time you realized you were pregnant?" Asked Isabella.

"With Katarina or this little one?"  

"Either."

"With Katarina, I had my suspicions for days but I went to the doctor's and got a blood test done, then everything was confirmed. Christoph and I had been trying for about a year and no child had come. Before I found out that I was pregnant I was sad so I tried to convince myself that it was a good thing. That somehow Christoph and I would be good with more time of just us two," smiled Adelaide.

"I don't know what terrifies me more, being a mother and having to give birth to a child," joked Isabella.

"Giving birth is a small fraction of the fear. You never stop being scared when you have someone to care for, though not everyone is in your position. Not everyone has the eyes of the world upon them, press to hound them, and the whispers of small people that form a louder judgment."

"Sometimes I think about his mother. They killed her and I'm afraid they'll kill one of us too. I don't want my children to face what he did, it nearly destroyed him on separate occasions. He confessed to me that he fears that I'm having an affair and I swore to him I am not. He fears history repeating itself. Marriage, children, cheating, divorce, and death as if it a curse on his family," confessed Isabella.

"Isabella, he has every right to be scared. He lived through all of this and he doesn't want his children to go through the same thing. He's probably twice as scared as you are and you have to understand where he comes from. Your life and his were vastly different and I fear you can't see that."

"Of course, I understand him."

"No, you don't Isabella. You've always been an overdramatic, selfish girl and I mean that with as much love and respect I could possibly give you at this time. You can't see past your own needs because you've never had to in regards to finding a lover. There's a reason you've never had a serious relationship and it's not because you and Joachim have always had something. It's because you are a selfish woman and Joachim was willing to work with your needs. You change your mind so quickly that you never think about the consequences of the people you hurt in the process," stated Adelaide.

"I think it's time for me to leave. I fear I have overstayed my welcome and don’t want to intrude," smiled Isabella as she began to gather her things, "I'll send Olympia for my other things later on. If you will excuse me I have somewhere else to be."

Her ladies-in-waiting were around the city but rather than call all of them back she only called one. She had asked Countess Gaelle to meet her at the Basilica of Our Lady of Geneva. It was the Catholic church that Isabella had gone to with her family and the main Catholic church in Geneva.

Isabella looked up stained glass windows remembering her mother tell her stories about when they were made, who made them, and what story they told. Isabella had felt someone come sit next to her but her eyes never left the glass windows.

The two women sat in silence for a couple of minutes before Isabella finally turned her head towards Gaelle, "Do you think I'm a bad person?"

"No. Of course not. Why do you ask?" Replied Gaelle.

"Do you think I would be a good mother?" Asked Isabella.

"I can't answer that, at least not truthfully. Being a mother is something you learn as the days go by and it's very hard to judge motherhood on a scale of good or bad," answered Gaelle.

"Did you ever think about being a mother? I know you chose to become a religious sister but do you ever think about it sometimes?"

"On some occasions, yes, but I chose God and to serve him. I decided my life but fate knew I would always give myself completely to him."

"I don't think I want this anymore," whispered Isabella.

"Want what Belle?"

"My marriage to Harry. We've only been married about 2 months but I'm not happy Gaelle. Sometimes I am but most of the time I feel this stabbing in my gut as if I will vomit all over the floor. There are simple moments when he looks at me and it's as if we are the only ones in the room. He's always so gentle with me, but I can't get rid of that disgusting feelings sometimes. It's magnified since those eggs were taken out of me and they're worse know that they are inside me again, knowing I may be pregnant. If I can't last these 2 months than how can I last 2 years or 2 decades? I know I agreed to this and I know I won't get a divorce because everyone won't want me to but I feel nothing but sadness," confessed Isabella in tears.

"You know I would never say be this unless it needed to be, but Belle get a divorce."

Isabella shook her head violently, "I know I can because it was my agreement but everyone would be angry. Princess Charlotte may yell at me until I'm dead, Countess Olympia may push me to marry her cousin, Princess Christine would give me a disappointed look that my mother use to give me, and you..." Isabella couldn't continue.

"And me what Belle?"

"With you, I feel as if you are God himself ready to past my judgment and send me to hell every time I look you in the eyes," whispered Isabella.

"Oh my sweet girl, you worry too much."

"You have no idea how our evenings praying means to me now."

"I know you don't believe in God, and you haven't for a while. But, if praying with me helps then I shall be at your service until you tire of me. That is what a lady-in-waiting does and that's why I was chosen to be by your side. You didn't need me in the beginning, you needed Charlotte and Christine, but now that you have sworn yourself to a man in front of the world and God himself, and you need me. I won’t disappoint you Belle."

"Well what if I disappoint you? Or everyone else?"

"You agreed to all of this, you haven't disappointed anyone. Besides, no one should tell you anything otherwise. You have sacrificed a lot, even if you don't know it, for those people."

"Those people are my family. Do you know who is doing all this? The marriages that is," asked Isabella.

"Countess Lydia Holstein til Ledreborg now, but it wasn't always her."

"Henri's mother? Please don't tell me Gabriella's marriage is like mine?" Begged Isabella.

"No, not that I know of, but your sister did have his child before they got married so they should tell you enough your sisters love for Henri," replied Countess Gaelle.

"Who was the first?"

"Your ancestor Princess Adelaide of Löwenstein-Wertheim-Rosenberg had the idea, of course, every royal two hundred years ago married into other royal families. Then your great-great-grandmother Infanta Maria Antonia of Portugal continued that with all her Bourbon-Parma children. After her Archduchess Maria Anna took over but in her death, her line died with her. So Madeleine de Bourbon-Busset took the position but it was disputed because Infanta Alicia, Duchess of Calabria was Archduchess Maria Anna's daughter and many thought she should continue to work. In the end, the position should have gone to Princess Irene of the Netherlands but she divorced the Duke of Parma before Madeleine's death," explained Gaelle.

"Prince Carlos married a commoner," interrupted Isabella.

"Yes, so they searched the family tree to go through your great-grandfather Prince Felix's line. Why Countess Lydia was chosen I have no idea considering her mother is alive and well. I don't know much beyond that Belle so I couldn't answer more questions if you had them."

"Thank you... thank you for everything," smiled Isabella.

[hybridfiction]

February 2020 Free Content: "Ear Worm" by Lena Ng

Elmer, for the sixty-third time that day, hummed that stupid song in his head out loud. “Tooda do, tooda dee, tooda doodle do,” he sang. He hummed it as he filled the coffee machine. He hummed it as he took a shower. He aggravated everyone around him on the bus and while waiting in line at the Value Mart. Damn earworm, as his mother would say, for a snippet of song stuck in a mental loop. It played over and over in his mind. In some faint way, Elmer knew how annoying he was. But he couldn’t get it out of his head.

He was humming that blasted song later that evening as he was emptying the dishwasher. In the middle of the refrain—

CRASH

Something big had banged against the house. It rattled the aluminum siding. A discharge of blue light filled his country-style kitchen. Cautiously, he peered out the kitchen window.

Squinting against the blue light, Elmer stared at the smoking hole in his yard, the grass flattened and burnt. A large rock, glowing a faint blue with a surface pocked with craters and larger than his head, indented the centre of his carefully manicured yard. A meteorite with an interesting, radiation-blue glow.

Elmer’s heart leapt with excitement. A gift from the cosmos. And it could hold aliens. Aliens! All his life he had awaited their arrival. He had the tinfoil hats (which he shaped into antennae, all the better to hear them with), the bug-eyed, big-headed plastic models, and the complete series of The X-Files on DVD, lovingly watched and re-watched as he had developed—as most fans had—a fierce crush on Dana Scully. Wouldn’t it be amazing if he—Elmer P. Elmsdale—discovered extraterrestrial life?

He threw off his apron as he raced from the house. Elmer stood at the edge of the smoking hole and stooped to examine his find. A beautiful, smoking, glowing rock. As the smoke dissipated and the glow slowly dampened, Elmer extended a hand and cautiously touched the rock. Warm, but not hot. Rough. He placed a hand on either side of the rock and loosened it from his yard. It wasn’t too heavy when he picked it up and brought it back into the house.

***š›

On the coffee table, the blue light faded away at last. “Hello?” Elmer called out to the rock. “Is there anybody in there?” He studied the rock from every angle—from eye level on the coffee table, from directly overhead, from lying on the floor. He examined it with a magnifying glass. He peered into its crevasses. He poked, with a pencil, its craters. He rocked it and tapped it and turned it over and over.

Just as Elmer was about to give up and go to bed, a trio of tiny eyes on a tiny round head burst out of the rock. It was as if someone glued a triangle of plastic eyes on the head of a blue earthworm. Elmer shrank back. The worm did as well. Elmer leaned forward. “Hi, little guy,” Elmer cooed. “Don’t be frightened.”

The worm made a trilling sound as it again poked out of the rock. “Aww,” Elmer said. “You have nothing to worry about, I come in pe—”

Emitting a small cloud, the worm shot out of the rock. Elmer felt a slimy jolt and an alarming wriggle. He clapped a hand over his ear. What the heck? Damn thing invaded his ear canal. He poked in his pinky and rooted around.

<Cut that out,> the voice inside his ear said.

Elmer and his little finger halted. He plucked his finger out of his ear. “Uhh, what’s going on?”

A small, unnerving waggle. < I’m a traveller exploring the galaxy.>

“Does it have to be in my ear?”

<It’s a fast and easy way to get around. No limbs, you see. Undetectable, too. Most people are hostile to aliens, human or otherwise. All this ‘alien abduction’ and ‘they’re stealing our jobs’ business giving us a bad rap.>

Elmer thought about what the worm said, and it seemed to make sense. “What do you want me to do?”

<Just go about your day. We can start in the morning.>

Elmer went upstairs and tried to get some sleep. In the comforts of Elmer's ear canal, the worm gave a light, trilling snore.

***

Elmer staggered into the bathroom. He turned on the shower. After running for two minutes, the glass shower doors began to steam up. Worm or no worm, Elmer couldn’t help but relax while standing under the hot water. “Tooda do, tooda dee, tooda doodle do,” he sang as he soaped away.

As Elmer dried off, his singing filled the small bathroom. As he started shaving, the worm popped its head out, assessing them both in the steamy mirror. <Why are you singing that song all the time?>

“I’ve got an earworm.”

<Another one?>

“It’s deep in my brain, and I can’t get rid of it.”

Elmer felt the alien worm pop back into his ear. It squirmed, burrowing deeper. <How did it get in there?>

Elmer’s nerves went off like a five-alarm fire. “My brain? What's it to ya?”

<Just askin’. Not like we're trying to take over Earth.>

"WHAT?"

<Haha,> the worm laughed weakly with a trio of shifty eyes.

***

Elmer spent the next day announcing his exciting discovery. He called up his parents who listened patiently. He resurrected a long-abandoned blog. He posted it on Facebook and got thirty-seven “Likes.” He called NASA and left a voicemail.

Over the next week, Elmer showed the worm the town. They went to the aquarium and ogled the octopuses. They skipped on the freshly-cut grass in the park, carefree as little girls. They munched on popcorn at the movies. They browsed for avocados at the farmer's market; they puzzled over post-modern art at the gallery; they cruised through the Science Center, where, when asked about its home planet, the worm vaguely waved to the space left of Neptune.

But, after two weeks, like the saying of fish and guests, the worm overstayed its welcome. The constant tickle of the alien grew into a deep-seated itch, a rash which seemed to extend into Elmer's brain.

After another busy day of sight-seeing, an exhausted Elmer asked, while flopping on the couch, "When are you going?" The itching was slowly driving him crazy. Maybe the worm shed a protein that sensitized him over time. He had taken to walking around with a Q-tip in his ear, disregarding his ridiculousness.

In contrast, the alien worm stretched out in its comfortably-warm, ear canal abode. <Thanks for taking me around. I really like it here. I think I'll stay.>

"In my ear?"

<Why not?>

"You can't stay there."

<Why not?>

"Because you're itchy and wiggly and you talk all the time. No offense."

<You constantly hum to yourself and you smell like salami and—I don’t even have hands—but I know you scratch yourself in terrible places. No offense.>

Elmer jammed the Q-tip around in his ear. The worm stretched, dodged, and ducked. "You get out, or I'll get you out."

The worm crawled in deeper than Elmer's Q-tip dared to follow. <Make me.>

***š›

Deep in the emergency room, surrounded by impatient, suffering patients, Elmer was causing a commotion. He was screaming, "I said, get out, get out, GET OUT!" Each “get out” was punctuated with a punch, from Elmer's own fist, to the side of Elmer's own head. The triage nurse, wearing a starched white cap and uniform, pretended to review some paperwork as she inched her hand under the desk to the panic button.

Elmer realized the rest of the patients were staring at him. He snatched the paperwork from the triage desk and shuffled to an empty seat in the crowded waiting room, digging fruitlessly with his finger into the offending ear.

A few seats over, nudging his son, an annoyed dad pointed at Elmer and said in a loud stage whisper, "And that's why you don't stick anything in your ear."

The alien worm started giggling. <Guess you didn't listen to your dad.>

"You leave my dad out of this."

<Your momma…>

"YOU LEAVE HER OUT OF THIS!” Elmer roared. More shocked stares, and Elmer muttered through the side of his mouth, “Can you keep it down? Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

<If you had some discretion, people would think you were talking on a cell phone.>

“You know about cell phones?”

<I'm a talking, travelling, interplanetary worm. We're waaaay past cell phones.>

Finally, Elmer's name was called to be assessed by the physician. A gangly, cadaverous doctor ushered him into an evaluation room with a white tiled floor and glaring fluorescent lights. After Elmer nervously settled into the examination chair, the doctor intoned, "From all the screaming and punching in the waiting room, you sound like you're having a psychotic break. How long have you been hearing voices?"

Elmer gripped the chair's padded arms like he was riding a rollercoaster at Disneyland. "I'm not crazy, just look in my effing ear!"

<Haha, earth fool. Think you can get rid of me so easily?>

"Get out of there!"

<Never!>

Humoring the bellowing, belligerent nutcase, the doctor hummed to himself as he calmly poked at Elmer's ear canal with his medical tools. His invading utensils halted. "What do we have here?" He gave an excited chuckle. "A blue-coloured parasite. Don't see one of those every day." The doctor rummaged in a drawer for a syringe of lidocaine which would kill the worm, and a stainless steel hook.

Elmer felt a shotgun blast of air as the worm burst from his ear. As though the worm had pulled a parachute's ripcord, in an eruption of tremendous growth, the alien worm transformed into a massive, three-eyed, Jabba-the-Hut-sized slugbeast. It stretched open its cavernous mouth and—

GULP

The corpse-like doctor disappeared down the alien worm's gaping black hole of a maw.

The explosion of air shot Elmer across the room. The room went black as his head bounced off a wall. He felt the cold tiles slam into his face as his cheek hit the floor.

***š›

Blink.

Blink blink.

Blink blink blink.

With the palm of his hand, Elmer smeared crusty saliva across his swollen face as he picked himself off from the floor. Surgical instruments lay scattered all around him. No one in the room but him. Elmer slowly straightened with a rusty bike-chain creak. Like the doctor said, he must've had a psychotic break. But everything was okay now. Everything was okay now. He had stopped hallucinating. No more annoying alien worm, no more massive slugbeast…

But still an itchy ear…

<Burp>

The sounds was real quiet, like a belch in church.

"How the hell are you still in my ear?" Elmer grabbed a surgical pick which looked like a thin dagger from the floor. If the alien worm was gonna eat the damn doctor, he was going to have to spear the worm himself. With the sharp pick positioned at the entrance of his ear canal, like a fencer, Elmer delicately lunged the pick to the left. Then he angled the instrument and parried to the right. All the while the worm wiggled samba. Finally, he felt the squirmy body press up against the bottom of his ear canal. He made a desperate stab and—

"AAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!"

Elmer had punctured his eardrum. The horrific pain was like—obviously—an icepick to the head. He squeezed his eyes shut as he clapped his hand over the injured ear. Seizing the advantage, the worm swiftly slipped slimily through the rupture and burrowed into Elmer's brain.

***š›

Staring directly ahead, in a zombie-like trance, Elmer monotonously murmured, "Tooda do, tooda dee, tooda doodle do," as he flashed the green laser light from the black-shingled roof of his house. The pattern of flashes, translated from alien Morse code, was an interstellar version of, "Come on in, the water is fine." Throughout the cosmos, an array of lights flashed back.

Satisfied its work was done, the alien worm gnawed further into Elmer's brain. Searching for a mate, it tunneled deeper, leaving chewed-out worm trails as it crawled high and low in dogged pursuit of the other, elusive, singing earworm.

About the author: Lena Ng is from Toronto, Ontario. She has short stories in close to three dozen publications, including Amazing Stories. Her 2020 forthcoming publications include Mother Ghost’s Grimm, Beer-Battered Shrimp, What Monsters Do for Love, Schlock Magazine, and The London Reader. Under the Autumn Moon is her short story collection. If you want to contact her or join her mailing list for story updates, please email: scarystorygirl@hotmail.com

Thank you, Lena!

[silvokrent]

Gears in Motion - 3

What better way to start off the orn?

At precisely 7:00 AM Prowl stood in front of the door to his office.

Even though his shift didn't start for another hour the tactician had long ago fallen into the habit of showing up early for his work. Today, an additional thirty minutes earlier than usual, given the mountain of datapads he knew awaited him on the other side of the door. Knowing how long it would take to go through all of the files gathered on his desk, he'd opted to forgo his morning Energon and proceed directly.

Didn’t mean he was necessarily looking forward to the prospect.

Cycling a vent of air, Prowl keyed open his door and stepped inside.

And did a double-take.

He was pretty sure that there had been at least several piles in his inbox and on his desk when he'd locked up for the night, with several more stacked on his filing cabinet.

So why, then, were half of them missing?

A prank was the first thought that occurred to him, and he had to physically bite back the desire to seethe. As if planning that game wasn't bad enough, someone had the audacity to distract him by making him hunt down his errant reports?

Snorting, Prowl strode around his desk and picked up one of the few remaining datapads―a mission statement which required a second signature―and gave it a precursory glance, worried he might find something tampered with. Instead, much to his amazement, the screen lit up directly at the bottom of the page, where Optimus Prime's elegant scrawl could be clearly seen underneath his own.

With a sudden inkling in the back of his mind, Prowl proceeded to look over the next datapad―and sure enough, this one (an inventory notice for the armories) was signed off on too. Every report that had required dual authorization from at least two officers had been given the go-ahead.

Suddenly, several hours' worth of overview and peer corrections had been done.

To top it all off they had been arranged on his desk and/or filed alphabetically by department.

For a long, bewildered moment the tactician could do little more than stare at the unexpected charity.

Again Prowl looked over Optimus' signature. The logical conclusion was that at some point in the night the CO had come in and proceeded to go over the paperwork, filling in what needed filling in, before taking the datapads specifically for his briefings back to his own office.

A bemused smile tugged at the corner of his lips, an honest, unrestrained gesture. Of course the Prime would have thought nothing of it, even with his own duties to attend to. That was just who he was.

The Second stood from his chair and exited the room, walking down several doors and poking his head inside the familiar office.

"Prime, sir?"

His leader looked up from whatever he'd been working on. He blinked in mild surprise before offering a welcoming nod. "Yes, Prowl?"

The tactician straightened. "I wished to thank you for assisting me in my work the night before, despite the inconvenience to yourself. It gives me the opportunity to see to my other duties." Had Prowl not turned to leave at that very moment, he might’ve seen the shock on the CO's face. "That is all, sir. Thank you."

Not willing to overstay his welcome, Prowl continued on his way.

"But…," Optimus said to the empty room. "But I didn't do any of that."

He got the call on the fourth orn following the Crystal City Massacre.

In direct relation to the attack work had steadily been piling up. Reports were constantly coming in as the departments sent intel back and forth, in effort to compile what little they had. All of it was underscored with increased urgency and an emphasis on fortifying outposts. There was an understandable worry over whether or not Autobot bases would be targeted next, none more vocal about it than Red Alert. Despite the numerous officer meetings that had been held since their return, they had absolutely no clue what the Decepticons were trying to achieve through Crystal City's destruction. Theories were volleyed back and forth, with a few halfhearted proposals proffered up to fill in the gaps. At the end of the orn the only thing Prowl had to show for it all was a sizable pile of datapads and a growing headache that had acutely placed itself directly behind his right optic.

He was halfway through authorizing ammunition transport to Simfur when an incoming communiqué interrupted him. Pausing mid key-stroke, the tactician calmly hailed the caller over his radio. This is Autobot Prowl.

It's Ratchet. The exhaustion in the medic's tone was nearly palpable. His voice sounded coarse and rough, like someone had taken a sandblaster to it. Requesting your presence in the medbay immediately.

The unexpected summons was enough to halt Prowl's typing. Narrowing his optics slightly, the tactician stared into his monitor. I was unaware that I was on the roster for a medical checkup. Did you schedule me for a malware upgrade?

No, although I should probably do that sooner than later. The survivor from Crystal City was just brought online. He wants to speak to you.

That was why he was being deterred from his work? A brief flicker of annoyance passed through him. Nonetheless he politely demurred, While I'm pleased to hear the good news, surely he would want to speak to Optimus? After all, the Prime heads our faction and could explain his situation better—

No. He asked specifically for you. First thing he did once he stopped panicking and was lucid again was ask to speak with the mech who saved him. According to First Aid, you were the one who found him. Given what the kid's been through I'm not about to deny him slag. Get down here now. That's an order.

With that said Ratchet cut the line.

Sighing faintly, the SIC signed off and pushed away from his desk. The trek through the base down to the medbay was an uneventful affair. Yet as he neared the CMO's domain he found himself taken by a sudden apprehension. One of the many qualities which he thoroughly lacked was adaptability, hence his overcompensated planning skills. In any given circumstance Prowl functioned best when held all the cards in his hand, had adequate time to prepare.

But this?

There had been no warnings, no heads-up. Just an order to haul aft downstairs and talk with the sole survivor of a genocide. It made him feel unsettled, even if he would never admit such a thing aloud for fear of being thought less of. He didn't know what to say. He had nothing, and had been told nothing. Couldn't Ratchet at least have had the decency to give him some kind of warning, or at least hint as to why the Neutral wanted to speak to him? A roiling churn in his tanks made the tactician feel somewhat sick with apprehension. Ruthlessly he shoved the feeling aside and slid past the crystal doors.

Medbay proper was filled with a half dozen medics scurrying about, either running back and forth with tools or tending to the few patients present. He spotted First Aid and Hoist at a glance, and caught a glimpse of Pīpō heading inside an adjoining storage closet.

A flash of red and white at the corner of his optic had him switching direction toward the ICU. Ratchet was just emerging from one of the private surgical suites when he caught sight of his commander approaching. Lips thinning, he beckoned Prowl over. "Good. You're here. He's through this door." The medic gestured to the room from which he'd emerged. "I don't think I need to tell you he's been through a lot. Just...be gentle with him. Your usual charming self should suffice."

Prowl arched a skeptical brow at that. His expression then schooled itself into its regular calm, serene air. "I will be careful, Ratchet. Nor will I do anything to deliberately upset him. You have my word."

"It's not your word I'm worried about so much as your definition of 'tact,'" snorted Ratchet. "It's not what you say, but how you say it. Keep that in mind."

"I will not overstep my boundaries," Prowl assured. "Although I must admit, I'm pleased to finally hear that you've begun practicing what you preach. Your patients must be doubly ecstatic."

A surprised chuff of laughter left the medic as he lightly flicked Prowl on the chevron. "It keeps them honest, and me sane. No one's complained about my methods yet. And Sideswipe doesn't count, so don't even go there."

Prowl refrained from returning the bout of amusement, although he did briefly incline his head. "I wouldn't have bothered. I'm of the opinion that Sideswipe benefits from your ire, even if he doesn't necessarily retain the lesson from the experience."

"Tell that to him and his slagging brother." It was there, just barely, but the growl held the faintest trace of affection. It vanished before Prowl had the chance to dwell on it, as Ratchet turned that suddenly baleful stare upon him. "Don’t start badgering the kid for information. Whatever he’s going to say, he’ll say. Got it?”

Prowl didn't directly respond, instead choosing to nod in acknowledgement before he stepped inside the ICU. Once the doors hissed shut behind him he turned to face the mech bundled on the berth.

The scorch marks he recalled from when he'd found him had obviously been sanded down. Old, damaged armor had been repaired, with only weld marks showing where gaping wounds had once been. Optics formerly dim with low energy now glowed fantastically bright. The Neutral shifted, and the motion caused his doorwings to fan out behind him.

Correction—doorwing.

Instead of two back-mounted panels there was only one. The damage had obviously been extensive enough to ruin the hinge or the entire wing itself, warranting its removal. Without the second appendage the 'bot looked off-kilter and exposed.

As soon as Prowl had entered the small mech had jerked upright, like someone had come up behind him with an electrical prod.

"Good afternoon." He watched Prowl with wide optics as he dragged a chair over and took a seat a respectable distance from the berth. "My apologies for taking so long to get here. My name is—"

"Prowl," the other mech supplied. He glanced down at the hands folded in his lap. "I remember who you are. You found me."

That caught him slightly off guard. Given how disoriented he'd been when he had discovered him, Prowl doubted how much the young survivor would have retained from the encounter.

"I know this is a superfluous question, but how are you?" There. Nice and simple. A safe place to start.

The gray Neutral looked away. "I'm not really sure how to answer that, since I don't really know what to feel."

Never mind, then.

"Is there..." Prowl cleared his intakes. "Is there something that I may do for you..." There was a question in his voice, an unspoken request for a designation.

"Bluestreak." The Neutral shyly looked his way. "My name is Bluestreak."

"Bluestreak," echoed Prowl as he committed the name to memory. "Is there anything that I may provide you with, or bring you?" With his rank at least he was afforded the luxury and the ability to offer him whatever he wanted, within reason, of course.

White optics abruptly turned back to him. "Everything I want I can't have," he rasped, and the words thundered through Prowl like the pounding of a waterfall. His friends, his coworkers, his exclusives, anyone he'd ever known was dead. That waterfall was frothing with blood.

He berated himself viciously for the thoughtlessness.

Again, white optics turned to stare at him, and for the first time the tactician saw a hollowness, in addition to the physical pain and fear. Ghosts danced behind the lenses, specters sifting in his gaze, all the haunts and horrors as much a part of him as they were the wreckage that lay hundreds of miles away. Looking for all the world like they couldn't wait to claim the last victim.

Vaguely ill, Prowl wondered how long it would take before this one died, too.

Neither spoke for a minute.

"Thank you," Bluestreak blurted out.

"For?"

"For saving me," he said simply.

"You're welcome."

Again, uncomfortable silence, with neither mech willing to look the other in the face.

"If you wish to talk...," Prowl began, clearing his intakes, "if there is anything I can do to help, I am only a comm. line away. Please do not hesitate in calling me, should you require my assistance." He sensed that there truly wasn't much more he could do, and felt a prickle of regret knowing how little he'd done. At least he could leave with the knowledge that he'd offered what he could.

The SIC made to stand from his chair.

"Wait!"

Prowl slowly sat back into the seat, facing him with hands folded in his lap. "What is it?"

Beyond the slither of fear that shone in Bluestreak's expression, there was another emotion. Prowl found that he couldn't put a name to it. "Who did this?"

There was no mistaking what he meant.

"They call themselves the Decepticons." Finally, something that the SIC could give him. Information. Closure, perhaps. "Their leader is a mech who goes by the name Megatron."

"They have red optics," murmured Bluestreak. His empty but not-quite-empty stare bore into his. "Yours are blue."

A rather obvious thing to say, but Prowl resisted the impulse to correct him. "Yes."

After lingering for a moment on some unknown decision, the Neutral lifted his hand. Gray fingertips lightly grazed the dermal metal just below Prowl's cheek, and he resisted the reflex to pull away. Something in the survivor's mind seemed to click at the contact, and his optics widened.

"You're real," he breathed out.

Lacking a proper context for the strange phrasing, Prowl couldn't find anything to say to that.

But on some instinctive level that defied words the pieces were coming together. Like a dreamer sloughing through the wisps and tendrils of dusk looking for the part that wasn't in his head, the touch was breaking through the barriers. Separating where the harsh nightmares ended and the waking world began. At last there was an anchor in the eye of the hurricane. The world that had been spinning so frighteningly fast on its axis had finally, finally, come to a stop.

Of all the things Prowl had expected, the last was seeing his reflection superimposed over a sudden rush of color in the previously white optics. The residual traces of Neutrality faded out in the spirals and glass, replaced with an intense blue.

His hand remained hanging between them.

"Can I join the Autobots?" Bluestreak begged. "Please?"

Against all damnable logic, Prowl couldn't find an explanation for reaching up and resting his hand atop the other 'bot's. "Of course."

If being an Autobot was the farthest thing from being a Decepticon, then Bluestreak gladly made that choice.