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h3rmitsunited-art · 3 years

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The Inconvenience Store

By chopwood (that’s me!)

Read On Ao3

Todd works the night shift at his boring job at the KwikMart. During the night shift, he can expect to see the regulars, drunks, half-drunks, cold homeless people, and truckers, but tonight, he runs into a different crowd; a strange injured man claiming that he’s “not psychic” and the group of intimidating military men that are on the hunt for him. Todd gives him some help and conversation.

Trigger warning for mentions of blood/injury/needles.

"...and 2.35 is your change," Todd said as he placed the wrinkled bills and coins in the hand of the tired looking man at the counter. The man nodded and grumbled some sort of acknowledgement before snatching his plastic bag from Todd’s hand and walking out the door.

Todd sighed and glanced up at the clock for the hundredth time in the past hour. Despite feeling like it’d been a long time since the last time he looked at the clock, it had only been two minutes. He had a theory that time just moved slower in this store, that it was on one of those like ghost lines or built on top of some alien testing facility because his shifts always seemed to last an eternity. He'd finished cleaning and restocking an hour ago, and there were still four hours to go, so he did as he usually did, and grabbed his notebook from under the counter and continued drafting up random song ideas and doodling on the pages. He sat quietly on his stool behind the register working in his notebook for awhile when there was a sudden thud at the door. Todd flinched and looked up to see a wild-eyed man standing in the store, looking back toward the parking lot nervously.

"Uh-" Todd started. It was definitely not the strangest person he'd seen working the night shift, not even close to the strangest. This area tended to get a lot of weirdos, but he knew from experience that it was the panicked ones that caused the most problems, and this guy seemed like he was going to cause some problems. He rushed past the register, mumbling nervously and looking frantically around the store. Todd made a mental note of his appearance as he walked past, a habit that he’d formed due to the number of police reports he’s had to make on other people that come into the store causing issues. The man’s face was a splotchy dirty mess and his hair stuck out wildly in matted clumps. Todd could see red stains on his hands as he walked past... and he desperately hoped this guy wasn't some murderer here for a slushee after killing a bunch of people. He seemed to suddenly realize Todd's presence behind the counter, and his eyes lit up, darting between the dark parking lot and Todd. He quickly rounded the corner, and before Todd could react, he ducked around the back of the stool and curled up by Todd's feet. Todd jumped up in surprise and confusion.

"No. No, no, no. You gotta get out of here, man. You can't be behind the counter!" Todd groaned internally. He was really hoping for a quiet night to just work on some songs, and not have to deal with some insane dude trying to… well, do something… didn’t seem like he was trying to rob him, but… this definitely wasn’t the typical KwikMart customer behavior. The man made no efforts to follow Todd’s instructions, and just shook his head, eyes wide, and brought his finger to his lips.

"I'm not here. Please. I just... Don't tell them I'm here." Todd immediately noticed the British accent, just as much out of place in the area as his strange appearance, as well as the unmasked terror in the man’s eyes. Todd was distracted from the man by blinding headlights that pulled up in the parking lot. A loud engine shut off outside and Todd could sort of make out the shape of a large black van that had parked outside. He looked back down at the man, who was staring up at him, desperate and pleading, shaking his head, and pressing himself in closer to the counter like he was trying to disappear.

“I’m not getting involved, dude. Come on, you really need to go.”

"Please,” the man said, his eyes shining with tears of desperation. “Please, you don't have to get involved. Just don’t tell them I’m here. I promise. Nothing more than that. Just... you know, let me hide back here... oh! Better yet, do you have like a back room or something, or like a large box, or maybe a trap door that leads to some hidden cellar?" He started picking at the edges of the tiles on the floor like he was expecting the floor to pop up. Todd rolled his eyes and turned back to the black van outside. No one had gotten out yet, but he could see the shadows of movement through the windshield. He glanced at the silent alarm under the counter, reaching out towards it.

"Don’t,” the man said, seeming to realize his intentions, a warning tone to his voice. “The police can't help. I know how that sounds, but they'll just make it worse. Please." The man laid a hand on Todd's pant leg, tugging it slightly. Todd rolled his eyes and sighed. He turned around. He'd left a large empty cardboard box on the counter behind him, from when he'd finished restocking the chips, intending to take it out to the dumpster later. He, as casually and nonchalantly as he could, picked it up and laid it over the man, hopefully covering him from anyone who walked past or looked over the counter. He heard a muffled thank you from under the box and he started to make a show of cleaning the counter off. Just totally normal, not suspicious, night shift clerk activities. The sound of the van door slamming shut made his heart jump, and he struggled to keep his hands from shaking as he wiped the cardboard dust off the back counter. The front door creaked as it opened and the bell jingled.

Just breathe, Todd.

He turned to see three men file in one after the other, clad in black body armor, all with very stiff postures. They didn't acknowledge Todd as they walked in. The man in the front cocked his head to the right, and the man behind him started down the aisles, and then he cocked it to the left, and the third man walked quickly towards the refrigerators and aisles behind where the register counter was. Todd could hear him open one of the refrigerators, and he glanced back to see him taking out some water bottles. Todd watched them cautiously, trying to keep his heart under control. The first man arrived at the counter, finally seeming to register that a human person was standing behind the counter. Todd shifted nervously under his intense stare.

"Had any... strange customers tonight,"-he looked down at Todd's nametag and then back up at his face- "Todd?" Todd glanced around at the other man still circling the aisles in front of him. He looked back to the one at the counter and furrowed his brows, making a show of thinking intently, and then shrugged.

"Can you be more specific? Most of the people that come here at night, I’d say are all somewhat strange... Drunks, druggies, prostitutes, homeless people…etcetera etcetera…” Todd felt like he was talking way too fast... or too slow... or too much. He felt the strange man's presence, through the thin barrier of the cardboard box next to his leg, weighing heavily on his entire body, like it was emitting some sort of heightened gravity field. The man in black, leaning over the counter, didn't seem to like his answer. He glared at Todd, clenching his jaw, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a folded paper. He unfolded it, smoothing it out on the counter and pushed it towards Todd. It was a bit grainy and blurred, looking a bit like one of those pictures the paparazzi would take of celebrities in their backyards using those huge zoom lenses, but Todd could tell it was supposed to be the man he had hiding under the box next to him. He looked just as scared in the picture, a little bit cleaner and more put together, wearing the same bright yellow jacket and standing in some doorway.

"We’re looking for this guy. You seen anyone like him come around here?" Todd leaned in closer to the picture, squinting at it slightly. His mind was racing, thoughts just telling him, don’t get involved. Just tell them. It’s not your problem. Just say it. He’s under the box. Take him. You don’t need to deal with this shit. Todd clenched his jaw and slowly shook his head.

"I don’t think so. Doesn’t really seem familiar. Why? Is he dangerous or something?" Idiot. What the hell are you thinking? Why didn’t you just tell them? Why are you lying to these guys? Todd swallowed thickly, glancing down at the holster on the man in front of him, and then back up, hoping the man didn’t notice.

"Extremely. If you see him, don't engage, don't talk to him. Just call us immediately." The man folded the picture and shoved it back into his pocket just as one of the other men joined behind him. He sat a bunch of water bottles on the counter, which Todd nervously started to ring up. Todd heard footsteps next to him as the third man walked past the open end of the counter. Todd could see him eyeing the cardboard box, and felt his entire body clenching. He forced himself to focus on the water bottles, hoping he wasn’t being extremely obvious with how nervous he was.

“That’s $15.67 for the waters,” Todd said, tightly.

The man pulled a wallet out of his pocket, revealing a military ID, and grabbed a twenty and a business card out of it and handed them both to Todd. The business card was blank apart from a phone number.

“Keep the change and call us if you think of anything.” Todd nodded, finished up the transaction and bagging the water bottles.

The third man finally came around the counter, shaking his head at the other two. Todd felt his muscles relax just slightly. The one that brought up the water bottles grabbed the bag without looking at Todd.

"Have a nice night." The three men didn't respond. They turned, walking back out to their van, the doors slamming shut loud enough that it made Todd jump slightly. He heard the cardboard start to shuffle on the floor, and Todd tapped it with his foot, and brought and hand up to his mouth pretending to cough. "They're still out there."

Todd tried to busy himself with cleaning the counter and checking over the register, keeping the van in his peripheral. It was almost five minutes before the van finally pulled away and the sound of the roaring engine faded back to silence. Todd let out a deep shaky breath. He reached down and pulled the box off the man on the floor. The man flinched back at first before realizing it was still Todd, and then he relaxed, leaning back into counter behind him, sighing in relief. He shut his eyes and wrapped an arm around his stomach. After a moment, he opened his eyes again, leaning forward and readjusting his position, wincing slightly. He looked up at Todd, giving him a tight smile.

“Sorry about that. Thanks for not… you know…” He tugged his jacket tighter around his chest, wincing again. Todd caught a glimpse of a dark red patch on the white fabric of his shirt as he adjusted his jacket. He shifted again, and flinched, hissing in pain.

“You’re hurt," Todd said with a frown. He wasn't sure if he should care, or if this is what he should be caring about right now, as opposed to the intimidating, gun-toting, body-armor-wearing men that were searching for this reportedly extremely dangerous man… though he doesn't exactly look dangerous, and Todd knows how to clean a wound... so... he supposed the rest is a problem for later, at least once he was sure this man wasn’t going to die in the next couple minutes hiding behind his counter. At Todd’s remark, the man’s expression shifted. He looked surprised, like he'd expected to be quickly shoved out the door, and definitely not expecting the notes of concern in Todd's voice. He tried to shrug, but the movement pulled on whatever wound he was hiding and he hissed again. Todd raised an eyebrow and sighed, grabbing the first aid kit from under the counter. He shoved his stool out of the way and knelt down next to the man on the floor. He was watching him quietly, his arm covering up his stomach where Todd had seen the patch of blood.

"I’m alright. You’ve done enough, honestly. I just need to go and-" Todd held up his hand, cutting off his sentence.

"I’m just guessing by the fact you weren’t interested in getting the cops involved that you’re also not going to be making your way to the hospital after leaving here, so would you just let me see? It would be a shame if I just lied to those guys and you go and bleed out after you leave here." The man pressed his lips together, looking away from Todd.

"They weren't lying. About me." Todd frowned, shaking his head.

"Lying about what?"

"That I'm a danger. To you, to anyone. I get people killed. You shouldn't..." He sighed, resigned. "I shouldn't have come in here." He dropped his face into his hands and shook his head. "I'm sorry. Shit. I’m really sorry,” he mumbled into his hands. “You're being all nice and everything, and now you're involved, and I don't..." He couldn't see, but Todd was pretty sure by the way his breathing changed and the soft shake of his shoulder, that the man was crying. Bleeding wounds, Todd could handle, but crying... he really wasn’t equipped with the right stuff to deal with that. He rested a hand on the man’s shoulder, patting it twice.

"Um... hey. Look, it's fine. I mean, it’s not like…fine, but like, I don't know... look, it's gonna be alright, man, just, you don’t need to like… cry…” Todd looked around as though there would be something or somebody that could help him deal with whatever this situation was. He spotted the drink machines behind him, and looked back at the man who still had his head in his hands. “You want like a slushee or something?" He heard the man sniffle a little. He shook his head. Todd's legs started to cramp from the way he was squatting, so he sat down, crossing his legs. He noticed the man peek out between his fingers at the movement. "I'm Todd, by the way. You have a name?" The man looked up now, his eyes rimmed red, and dropped his hands into his lap.

"It's, uh… it’s Dirk? Dirk. My name is Dirk. Dirk Gently.” The repetition made Todd a bit more suspicious, but Dirk seemed like he was relaxing a little more, so he waved it off for now.

“Nice to meet you, Dirk.” Dirk gave him a small smile, nodding.

“Same to you, Todd.”

"Who were those guys anyways?" Todd eyed the security monitor on the register, the parking lot was still empty. The adrenaline was draining out of his muscles and he was suddenly feeling a lot more tired than he had ten minutes ago. Dirk eyed him carefully at the question.

"It's a long story." Todd shrugged and glanced around the store.

"Not like I have anything better to do…" He raised an eyebrow. Dirk smiled, but it fell off his face quickly, and he let out a heavy sigh and shook his head.

"No. I should really go. You’re already in danger just by hiding me, and knowing more would just make things worse.”

“I mean they’ll probably already assume I know something if they found out what I lied to them anyways, so I’d say it’d just give me a chance to prepare in case they do come after me, right?” Dirk frowned, but he seemed like he was considering it.

“That’s not… I mean…”

"They're government something, right? Military?" Dirk looked up at him, surprised. Todd shrugged. "I saw one of their IDs.” Dirk pressed his lips together and sighed.

"They're CIA."

"CIA? Like ‘CIA’ CIA?" Dirk raised an eyebrow as in to say, 'yes, Todd, that is what I just said, pay attention.' Todd disregarded this expression and continued his incredulous interrogation. "What does the CIA want with you? And why'd they say you're dangerous?"

"I am dangerous, and as I said before it’s a long story. And complicated. And dangerous.” Todd rolled his eyes again.

“Come on, why don’t you just let me check what’s going on with all that,” he said pointing at the blood stains, "and you can explain why you just risked my life coming in here. It's the least you can do." That seemed to break the last barrier on Dirk’s resolve and he shook his head one more time before speaking.

"Fine. But just because I’m pretty sure I have lost a fair amount of blood and I really don’t have the energy right now to argue.” Dirk’s fingers tightened around his jacket, as Todd leaned forward. Todd gave him a gentle look and Dirk let out a breath, and then slowly shifted the left half of his jacket to the side. Todd could now see the dark patch of wet blood soaked into his white button-down. The shirt clung to his skin around a long, but, hopefully, shallow scratch that ran across Dirk’s side. Dirk licked across his lips nervously.

“You’re going to need to take the jacket and the shirt off, so I can get that cleaned up enough to see what the damage is.” Dirk clenching his jaw, but nodded. He winced as he shifted to take the jacket off, and Todd leaned forward more to help him get the sleeves over his shoulders. Dirk looked surprised again at his concern, but accepted the help, and Todd sat the dirty, yellow jacket aside after a minute of maneuvering to get it off.

Dirk started to unbutton the shirt when the door jingled. They both froze, and Todd's eyes shot to the security monitor. There were still no cars in the parking lot. No sign of the black van. Todd gave Dirk a look that said ‘stay here’, and slowly stood up from the floor to immediately see a tired looking man with a scraggly beard standing in front of the chip display a few feet away. He looked over, seeming slightly confused and surprised to see Todd standing behind the counter that had been empty when he walked in, but then shook his head, and started to wander back through the aisles. Todd sighed.

"It's just some guy. It's not them," he whispered down at his feet. He could see Dirk relax in his peripheral vision. The man finished grabbing his items, shoved a crinkled five dollar bill at Todd, took his change and left. Once he was out of sight on the security monitor, Todd returned to sit by Dirk on the floor. "You okay?" Dirk nodded, but Todd could see his expression was tense, and knew he was lying. Dirk untucked his shirt from his pants and started fumbling with the buttons again.

“So, the CIA…” Todd started, trying to prompt the conversation that had gotten cut off. Dirk nodded absently, his concentration entirely taken by his fingers slipping and shaking as he struggled to unbutton his shirt. Todd sighed, leaning forward and gently batting his hands away. Dirk huffed, but allowed Todd to step in. "Dirk?"

“What?”

“You were going to tell me what the hell is going on?” Todd reminded him, as he made it halfway down Dirk’s shirt. The buttons near the bottom were smudged with dried blood. Todd could see matching stains covering Dirk's hands, and felt his stomach tighten.

“Right,” Dirk started. “The CIA…” He paused, trying to figure out where to start. “So, I’m… like… a thing. Like a special sort of like… person, sort of thing? I don't know really how to explain it, and I don’t even understand why I can do what I do, but things just sort of happen to me when they're supposed to happen, and it lets me do things that seem sort of… impossible, I guess?”

“What do you mean impossible?” Todd glanced up as he finished unbuttoning Dirk’s shirt before he started working on carefully peeling the fabric from his skin and wound without hurting him too much.

“Maybe more… improbable, or… incredibly unlikely, or supernaturally coincidental. Not like impossible like… being able to fly or something crazy like that. I’m not like Superb-man.” Todd paused, trying to take in what Dirk was trying to say, getting caught up only on the last thing.

“Superman?”

“No, not him either,” Dirk answered, flippantly. “Anyways, the CIA, they had this division, Blackwing, that sort of collected people that had these special things like me… but not really like me exactly. Different sorts of things. They thought they could use… our things to help them with… whatever they wanted to use them for, I guess.” Dirk paused, hissing as Todd worked on peeling the fabric off the dried edges of the wound. Todd’s face scrunched up apologetically. Dirk took a breath and continued, his voice tighter. “They wanted me to figure out how to control what I could do, so they put me through all these stupid tests and experiments, but they could never get anything they tried to work, and I just couldn’t control it, no matter how much they pushed me. They kept us there, for years, locked up. I mean, it was just... awful. So, a few of the other subjects and I made an escape and I’ve been on the run ever since.”

“Control what exactly? What is the… thing? What do you do?” Todd looked up at him, moving his hands to his lap for a moment, which gave Dirk a reprieve from the pain from the peeling as he thought about his answer to Todd’s question.

“I’m a holistic detective… or at least that’s what I call it. Blackwing thought that I was psychic, which I guess to other people it might seem that way, but I’m not really… psychic. I don’t have any special powers or magic or whatever. The universe sort of just sets things up for me to end up where I’m supposed to be, to know what I need to know, to meet who I need to meet, so that I can… help people. Ever since I can remember, I’ve just gotten these… hunches. Signs and signals from the universe I never really truly understand, but nobody else knows about, and it always sort of leads me to the answer to what I’m supposed to solve.”

“That sounds like… nothing. You are just… where you’re supposed to be all the time, and you solve things? I mean you could just say that about anyone. That you're just where you're supposed to be all the time because if you weren't where you were supposed to be then you wouldn't be there, right?" Dirk huffed, slightly frustrated that Todd wasn’t just immediately understanding what he was trying to say.

“It’s not… nothing, Todd. And it’s… well it’s hard to explain. I mean when Blackwing first brought me in, it was because I was in the news in my town for finding thirty lost pets in one month. Five of them had been lost for over six years… and I hadn’t even been looking for any of them. I just… ended up coming across them where they were because of random, but not random things that happened to me. Coincidences and happenstances that seemed unconnected at first, but actually were all connected. It got me into a lot of trouble though. My mother was always so upset with me because of how much I wandered off and got into things I wasn't supposed to… which I think was part of why she let them take me.” Todd frowned, finishing getting the last of Dirk’s shirt peeled off of his skin, and helped get the shirt over Dirk’s shoulders like he had with his jacket. He sat the bloody shirt behind his back, and took a moment to glance back up at the security monitor. Still nothing in the parking lot. Dirk was quiet as he watched Todd pull some of the supplies out of the first aid kit. Todd picked out a packet of pain medication and offered it to Dirk.

“Here, these should help a little with the pain.” Dirk nodded and took the packet from him. Todd handed him a water bottle from under the counter, and thought about what Dirk had said while Dirk took the pills. “Wait, your mother… how old were you when you went into Blackwing?” Todd asked, feeling the uncomfortable tightening in his stomach again.

“Seven. I was seven when they took me in,” Dirk answered quietly.

“Shit,” Todd said, his voice hushed, shaking his head in disbelief. Dirk nodded, letting out a heavy sigh. Todd shifted closer, so that his leg pressed up against the side of Dirk’s thigh. It was tight behind the counter, and Todd realized this was probably the closest he had been to another person in a long time. He bit down the strange emotions that crept up in the wake of that thought, and forced himself to focus. Dirk had started talking again.

“- was there for eight years before I escaped. I’ve been out, all over the place, trying to make some sort of a life for myself, not really succeeding, but then six months ago, they show up, trashing the apartment I’d been staying in, and nearly grabbing me in the process. I managed to get far enough away that they hadn’t gotten that close until this past week. I really thought I wasn’t going to get away tonight…especially after this…” he said, motioning towards the gash in his side.

Dirk was still wearing an undershirt, just as blood soaked as his button-down had been, but tighter. It seemed like it’d be more of a challenge to pull off over his head without stretching the wound too much. Todd frowned.

“It’s going to be a bit tricky to get this off, but I’ve got some scissors. Do you mind if I just cut it off?” Dirk opened his mouth and then closed it again, seeming a bit uncomfortable. He reached down and tugged up the bottom of the undershirt, folding it up over the top of his chest so the wound was more exposed now. He looked up at Todd and raised an eyebrow.

“Does that work? I just… I’d prefer to leave at least something on…” he said, his voice slightly shaky. Dirk’s expression was open and vulnerable, as he spoke. He smirked and added, “At least until we get to know each other a little better.” Todd smiled back and nodded, working the edge of the shirt up a little further. Dirk seemed relieved. Todd started cleaning off the dried blood coating Dirk’s stomach. The reality of their closeness was crashing down on him again. He could hear the Dirk’s soft intake of breath as he pressed the cold wipe against his skin, and swallowed thickly.

“Sorry, it’s cold,” he said quietly. Dirk shook his head.

“No, it’s… it’s fine. Just wasn’t expecting it.” Todd glanced up for a second to find Dirk was watching him curiously. Todd swallowed again and cleared his throat, looking back at Dirk’s injured side.

“So, did they do this to you?” Todd asked. He finished cleaning the blood from his skin and started working on cleaning out the wound. Dirk shook his head.

“Uh, no. That was… well, I mean sort of… indirectly, I guess, but I mean, everything is connected, so then yes, this was absolutely their fault…because if they weren’t-”

“Dirk.” Todd said, pulling him out of his rambling.

“Right, no. I was trying to get over a fence with some of those… like pointed tops on them and slipped a bit and it scratched me up pretty good. Didn’t make it over the fence, but I discovered shortly after, while I was running the perimeter of the fence, that there were actually a couple of very vicious and hungry looking dogs behind the fence that probably would have taken some chunks out of me, so I suppose this was the preferable outcome…” Todd raised an eyebrow at him. Dirk shrugged. “Not really preferable to not being injured at all, but preferable to the whole… dog mauling bit.” Dirk pressed his lips together, looking down at Todd’s fingers working deftly on cleaning the wound. “Is it bad? It feels bad.” Todd shook his head, putting his most reassuring expression on.

“It’s not that deep, which is good. As long as that fence post wasn’t rusty, and you’re up to date on your tetanus shots… it should be okay. I’ll need to give you a couple stitches so it heals properly though.” Dirk frowned, his eyes widening.

“Stitches? Are you sure that’s necessary?” Todd nodded, looking through the first aid kit. Dirk pressed his lips together. “It’ll probably be alright with just like… a bandage or something. You don’t have to get the-” Todd pulled out the needles and suture thread from the first aid kit and Dirk stopped talking, starting to shift away. Todd looked over at him, concerned, and frowned.

“You okay?” Dirk was still eyeing the needle in his hand. Todd lowered it back down. “Honestly, they’re not that bad. I’m not like a nurse, but I used to work in a sketchy club and I got really good at giving stitches. Not bragging, but people said that they could barely even feel it.” Dirk sighed. “Though I’m pretty sure most of them were on some sort of drugs at the time…” Dirk frowned deeper.

“Todd!” Todd shrugged.

“I mean they’re going to hurt, but it’s better than dying from an infection from having a gaping open wound in your side, right?” Dirk rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Todd nodded confidently. Dirk sighed.

“Alright… I guess. Do your thing then…” Todd gave him a small smile.

“Okay. You’re going to need to lay down, though. I can’t really get to you when you’re sitting like that.” Todd grabbed the yellow jacket from behind him as Dirk started to shift into a laying position on the ground. He scrunched it into a ball and shoved it under Dirk’s head.

“Thanks,” he said and smiled. “Is this okay?”

Dirk was laid out, his feet stretching to the other end of the counter, his stomach exposed, his wound open and still oozing blood. He looked up at Todd nervously, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Todd nodded quietly and scooted forward. His leg pressed against Dirk’s arm and he could feel his hand moving near his ankle. Todd wiped over the wound again, making sure it was clean and then held the suture needle over Dirk’s stomach. He felt Dirk’s hand turn and wrap around his leg, gripping him tightly, and he turned to see Dirk had squeezed his eyes closed, his muscles tense.

“Relax. Just breathe, Dirk.” Dirk gave him a tight nod, but kept his eyes closed. Todd started working carefully, softly apologizing at Dirk’s hiss of pain as the needle went in. Without thinking, he started humming a song quietly, and continued, quickly and gently stitching up the wound. Dirk was tense, his jaw clenched and hand tight on Todd’s leg, but he was quiet. Todd finished the stitches, clipping the end of the thread and wiping off the excess blood that had oozed out while he had been working, and carefully applied some ointment over it before grabbing a large bandage from the first aid kit and patting Dirk on the arm. “Stitches are all done. Just going to put a bandage on you and then you’ll be all set.” Dirk relaxed slightly, letting out a heavy breath.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he said shakily.

“You okay?” Dirk’s eyes opened slowly and he nodded, looking over at Todd.

“That definitely did not feel good at all… but your song helped.” He smiled. “What was it?” Todd laid the bandage over the wound and started taping it across his side.

“It was one I wrote. From my old band. Music helps me concentrate.”

“It was nice.”

“Thanks,” Todd said, not sure what else to say to that. Dirk was still looking over at him intently, and Todd was starting to feel like he was an animal in the zoo or something, unused to the constant eyes on him. He cleared his throat as he finished smoothing over the tape. “There. You’re all set.” Dirk glanced down with a strained smile.

“Thank you, Todd. For this… and you know.. before. Honestly. Thank you.” Todd nodded. Dirk sat up carefully, wincing at bit. He pointed at the bloody shirt on the floor behind Todd. “Could you hand me my shirt?” Todd turned and grabbed it, but hesitated before handing it back.

“This thing is covered in blood, you really wanna put this back on?” Dirk shrugged, reaching for it.

“Not really… but it’s not like I have any other options right now. I unfortunately didn’t have time to pack my whole closet with me.”

That weird feeling was coming up in Todd’s stomach again. You don’t care. This is just... some guy. Some weird guy you just randomly decided to stitch up on the floor behind the register and lie to the CIA for... just because... Todd groaned and shook his head, pulling the bloody shirt away from Dirk’s reach and tossing it into the trash can under the counter. Dirk squawked in protest. Todd quickly pulled off his work vest and started to unbutton his flannel shirt.

“Todd! That was my sh- what are you doing?” Todd shook his head, resigned and confused as to why he was currently doing what he was doing, but he was doing it, and he wasn’t going to explain to Dirk or to himself or anyone why. He finished unbuttoning and pulled the flannel off. He still had a black t-shirt on underneath and held out the flannel to Dirk without saying anything. Dirk frowned at it. “Todd, you don’t need to give me your shirt. I can wear the other one, it’s alright. You’ve done more than enough.”

“Dirk, just-” He pushed the shirt towards him again. Dirk huffed at him, grabbing it out of his hand like he was doing Todd a favor. He started pulling it over his arm as Todd put his work vest back on. Dirk started struggling to get it on over his other arm, but was trying not to be obvious about it. Todd sighed, leaning forward, and reaching to grab the end of the sleeve, so Dirk could get his arm in. Dirk huffed again, rolling his eyes, but pushed his arm through. Todd looked down at the bloody undershirt still bunched up on Dirk’s chest and frowned. “You should really take that thing off. It’s pretty gross.” Dirk wiped a hand over the fabric and tugged it back down over his stomach.

“It’s not that bad.” His hand came away smudged with blood and he narrowed his eyes. “Maybe it is a little gross.” Todd turned around, opening a drawer and grabbing out a pair of scissors, and turned back raising his eyebrows at Dirk, who nodded. Todd grabbed the front of the undershirt and started cutting up through the fabric, slowed by how dull the scissors were.

“Sorry, they’re kind of old scissors…” Todd adjusted his grip, squeezing hard as the blades twisted in the fabric. “Maybe I should grab one of our box cutters.” Dirk laughed briefly before gasping, going suddenly quiet. Todd looked up at him to see him looking up at the counter, and turned to see a woman standing at the register, looking bored and a bit irritated. She held up a pack of beer.

“If you’re done trying to undress each other, would ya ring me up? I need a pack of cigarettes too.” Todd dropped the scissors, standing quickly and wiping his hands on his pants frantically.

“Uh, yes, sorry.” He quickly looked to the security monitor, just one car parked at the front. No big scary vans. The store seemed to be empty other than the somewhat scantily clad woman. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the locked display behind him and finished dealing with her order. She smirked at Todd and looked down at Dirk before heading out the door and driving away. Todd turned back around and Dirk was buttoning up his borrowed shirt. Todd took one more look around before sitting back down on the floor.

“I should go,” Dirk said without looking up. Todd frowned.

“What? What if those guys are out there? Where are you even going to go?” Dirk shrugged. He finished buttoning the shirt and dropped his hands in his lap.

“Wherever I’m supposed to go. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter,” Dirk said with a huff. “I’ve put you in enough danger.” Dirk started to push himself off the floor, but Todd pressed a hand on his leg, keeping him from getting up.

“Stop, just… Dirk, listen. Why don’t you come back to my apartment? When I’m done with my shift. You can take a shower and sleep and take a minute to figure out where you’re going to go next when it’s not… 3am.” Dirk frowned.

“No… wait, what? Why? Why would you… why would you do that?” Todd shrugged.

“I don’t know. It just… seems like you need a break?” That answer seemed to make Dirk more upset and he pushed Todd’s hand away.

“That's not... You're working with them, aren't you? You're trying to get me to stay here, to leave with you...” His eyes grew wider. Todd backed up, and shook his head.

“What? No. Why would I be with them?” Dirk shrugged, waving his arms in front of him.

“I don’t know?! You could be pretending to help me to get me to let my guard down, trying to get me to trust you or something?" Dirk pushed back into the counter more, trying to get further from Todd.

"You realize that doesn't make any sense, right? Why would I hide you from other the Blackwing guys, help patch you up, and stay working here another couple hours to trick you to trust me, so that I can then take you to Blackwing?" Dirk frowned. He seemed to understand that it wasn't really logical, but he still stayed pressed up in the corner, wrapping an arm around his stomach.

"I’m not… I can take care of myself, okay?” Todd shrugged and shook his head.

“Okay. I’m not trying to say you can’t. And I swear, I’m not with those guys. I’m just… I’m just some nothing cashier trying to help. No ulterior motives.” Todd was surprised how genuine the words came to him. Dirk seemed to relax a little more.

“People don’t… they don't just do that. Put themselves at risk to help weird bloody guys.” Todd shrugged. Dirk narrowed his eyes at him. “You promise you’re not working for Blackwing?” Todd cocked his head to the side.

“Yes. I promise.” Dirk pressed his lips together. He held up his hand, popping up his pinky.

“Pinky promise?” Todd huffed a laugh through his nose and rolled his eyes. Dirk’s expression stayed serious. Todd wrapped his pinky around Dirk’s.

“Pinky promise. I’m not working for Blackwing.” Dirk sighed and nodded.

“Good…” He smiled, sheepishly. “Sorry, it’s been… well, you know… trauma and being imprisoned and chased and all that… trust issues.” Todd nodded and smiled back.

“It’s fine.” Todd leaned back against the cabinet behind him and sighed. He looked over at Dirk and frowned. “So, if you have that whole holistic, be where you’re supposed to be thing, how come you can’t use it to keep away from those guys? Shouldn’t it like lead you to safety?”

“You’d think so, but it’s not usually an… in my favor sort of thing. As you could probably tell by the hole in my side.”

“And the CIA gun guys chasing you?”

“Yeah, and that.” Dirk yawned, he shifted so he was sitting along the back cabinets too where he could see the security monitor. His leg brushed up against Todd’s, and, once again, Todd was aware of how close he was. “What was your band’s name?” It took Todd a second to catch up. He glanced over and Dirk was looking at him intently again.

“Uh, it was called Mexican Funeral.” Dirk cocked his head.

“Mexican Funeral?” Todd smiled and quirked an eyebrow up, nodding.

“Yeah. I don’t really remember how we came up with the name. It was written on a napkin one night after my friends and I had gone out and gotten just completely wasted. We’d been talking about starting up a band, and then it was just there. We were…pretty good.”

“What happened?” Todd sighed.

“I fucked everything up.” Todd folded his legs to his chest, resting his arms on his knees. He shook his head. “I’m not… I’m kind of… like a huge asshole.” Dirk laughed, and Todd shot him a sharp look.

“Sorry, but you literally gave me the shirt off of your back tonight. That doesn’t really seem like something a ‘huge asshole’ would do.” Todd rolled his eyes, frustrated.

“Yeah, well, I’d hope that I’m not as much of an asshole that I was back then. I’ve tried to be…better… I guess? Stuff with my sister, with my family really messed me up.” Dirk didn’t say anything. He leaned closer, and Todd felt the press of his arm against his own, and helped. “I just… I don’t know, I’d hope that if they ever wanted to see me again, they could see that I’ve gotten better, but I’m just… I’m a broke cashier living in a shitty studio apartment with nobody and nothing.”

“Well, you’re at least doing better than me. You’re not the one that nearly impaled their intestines on a fence a few hours ago.” Todd laughed.

“I guess that’s true.” He heard Dirk yawn again, and the press of his arm on Todd’s side grew heavier, and he felt Dirk’s head drop onto his shoulder. “Dirk? You okay?” Dirk nodded into his neck, his hair tickling over his skin.

“Mmm? Yeah. Just tired,” he said quietly. “Todd?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you… could you hum that song from earlier?” His voice was so quiet that he could barely make out what he’d said, even with his mouth only a few inches from his ear. Todd nodded.

“Yeah, why not…” Todd started softly humming the song again. He kept humming even when he heard Dirk start snoring on his shoulder. After a while, Dirk’s hands started wandering, wrapping around Todd’s arm, hugging it to his chest. Todd sighed, the tired resignation just letting all this happen, and kept his eyes on the security monitor.

The rest of Todd's shift dragged on. There were still two hours until the next shift would come to relieve him. The first hour after Dirk passed out, clinging to his arm, he stayed on the floor, trying to shift around to keep his entire lower half from falling asleep. Dirk shifted after an hour, releasing his arm, and leaning into the corner of the counter, so Todd stood up, stretching out his sore muscles. He wandered around the store checking that everything was stocked and cleaned, but had the urge to get back behind the counter as quick as he could. He took a few minutes to clean up the first aid kit and wipe up any signs of the bloody mess that Dirk has left on the floor, and wrapped the trash and the bloody shirt he'd thrown away earlier in a couple plastic bags, and tucked it into his backpack. He was probably being a bit paranoid, but leaving bloody DNA evidence around was probably not the best idea.

At that thought, he turned back towards the sleeping man, taking the opportunity to take a closer look at him, now that he was asleep and quiet. He looked dirty and exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes, but also strangely well-kempt for someone on the run. There were smudges of some dark greasy substance across his neck and face, and some sticking in clumps of his reddish brown hair, and dirt powdered across his scalp and down his forehead, but he was clean shaven, hair, while dirty and a mess, looked like it had been nicely styled at some point, and the clothes he had been wearing were... not typical fugitive attire to say the least. A bright yellow leather jacket? Button down shirt? Nice brown leather shoes? He didn’t really seem like he knew what blending in means. He seemed a lot more inconspicuous wearing Todd’s flannel shirt. Todd picked up Dirk’s leather jacket from where it was still balled up on the floor and laid it over Dirk’s chest.

They made it through the last thirty minutes of Todd’s shift unscathed. He had a couple customers come in, nobody paying any attention to the soft sound of snores from behind the register, and Dirk didn't appear to shift at the sounds at all, continuing to sleep soundly on the cold tile floor. Todd sat on his stool checking and rechecking the security monitors for any sign of that big black van.

Finally, it was fifteen minutes before his shift was ending and the morning clerks would be showing up soon. Todd stretched up from his stool and tapped Dirk on the shoulder. Dirk groaned, squeezing his eyes tighter.

"Dirk." He groaned again and pulled his jacket over his head. Todd sighed. "Dirk, you need to wake up. My shift’s almost up. I’m going to need to hide you in the backroom or something. I don't want the other clerks to see you in case those guys come back and talk to them." Dirk mumbled something from under the jacket. Todd rolled his eyes. "What?" Dirk mumbled again and Todd yanked the jacket off his face and Dirk yelped, glaring at him. Todd raised an eyebrow.

"Goodness, no need for the violence… why don’t I just go out the front door?” Todd pressed his lips together tightly.

“You’re coming back to my apartment, remember? I parked behind the store, so it’ll be easier to get you out without being seen from the back.” Dirk huffed.

“Todd, I told you, I don’t want to put you in anymore danger.”

"It's fine. Just a couple hours, you can rest up, and then you can go." Todd ignored Dirk's continued protests, grabbing Dirk’s arm, and carefully helping him up from the floor. Dirk groaned, struggling to stand up, clutching his jacket to his chest, resigning to allow Todd to guide him away from the register. He hunched down, trying to keep out of view of the windows, and followed Todd through the door by the refrigerators that read 'Employees Only'. Todd led him back to a small supply closet with a mop bucket and cleaning supplies that smelled musty and wet, and waved him in. Dirk frowned and stared at him blankly. "Seriously?”

"The next shift is coming in like five to ten minutes. They clock in over there,"- he pointed at a grungy looking timeclock next to a shelf of time cards on the wall- "and they will see you if you're just hanging out back here. If they see you, and your friends come back in asking questions, then they will absolutely tell those guys. Because they're horrible. And they hate me, and everyone. And they'd probably laugh if I got shot by a bunch of crazy military agents of death." Dirk sighed and frowned, glaring in the tiny smelly closet.

"Can I at least use the toilet first?" Todd pointed across the small back room at a door marked 'employee bathroom'.

"I need to get back out there, but when you're done. In the closet. Got it?" Dirk nodded. Todd started to walk back to the door, but Dirk grabbed his arm and pulled him into a hug. Todd stiffened at first, confused by the sudden embrace, but then relaxed, wrapping his arms around him too. "Dirk?"

“Thank you, Todd.” Todd stroked over his back. Dirk shoved his head against Todd's shoulder, squeezing him tighter around his back.

“It’s alright," Todd said, still unsure of what was happening. Dirk's behavior had him getting a bit nervous, but there wasn't really time to deal with it. The day shift could be here any minute.

“I mean it. Just… thank you, okay? You’re not an asshole.” Dirk released the hug and wandered over to the bathroom. Todd frowned, watching the door close, and then returned to the front of the store.

He heard the toilet flush after a few minutes and the soft thud of a door closing and he was able to relax, just slightly, as he waited the last couple minutes. He watched the security monitors for any movements, and his eyes caught on the corner of the screen, causing his stomach to drop.

There in bright red. RECORDING.

Oh, fuck. Of course. If anyone sees that footage from last night.…

He saw the car of the day shift ladies pull past the back camera, disappearing into the blind spot behind the store, and his heart raced. He quickly scrolled through the security monitor menu, trying to remember the password for the saved recording folder. His boss had a horrible memory and he knew he had it written down around here somewhere. Todd heard the chime of the backdoor sensor and the sounds of laughing as the day shift ladies walked inside. He dug frantically through the drawers behind the register, finally finding the post it note with the password he was looking for. He entered it into the password pop up, and quickly deleted the file for the past 24 hours of recorded footage. He switched back over to the monitor screen just as the two ladies walked out, ignoring Todd, and shoving behind the counter. Usually, he'd be more bothered by their behavior, but he really just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. He rushed to count his drawer and close out, grabbed his backpack, and started heading to the back.

“Todd!” One of the ladies called out to him before he could reach the employee door. He stopped, turning back around, wondering what he had missed.

“Yeah?”

“Did the Pepsi guy drop off the deliveries last night?” Todd felt his muscles relax. He shook his head.

“Uh, no. They didn’t bring them.” She rolled her eyes, and turned back to the other clerk, apparently finished with Todd, and he took the opportunity rush through the door. He clocked out and ran to the supply closet and pulled the door open.

"Dirk, we-" He stopped, his voice cutting off as he saw inside the small room.

It was empty.

There was no Dirk.

Todd looked around, peering around the back shelves, but saw no sign that Dirk had been in there. He shut the door and rushed over to the bathroom. The door was already open, lights off, and, again, no Dirk. He felt like his stomach dropped down to the floor.

“Dirk?” He said in a hushed shout. There was nowhere else in the back that he could have gone. He hadn’t come through the front. Todd clenched his jaw, walking hesitantly toward the back door, not wanting to confirm his looming suspicions.

He walked out into the back alley, seeing his car, his coworkers car, the dumpster… and no sign of Dirk. Todd’s breath started to race and he shook his head.

“Dammit, Dirk.” He looked into the windows of both of the cars, and peeked inside the dumpster, but he already knew Dirk wasn’t going to be in any of them.

After a couple of minutes, desperately looking around, he finally gave in, accepting that Dirk had left. That strange hug, thanking Todd, he'd been saying good-bye, and Todd knew it, but hadn't wanted to, so he ignored it, and now, Todd wouldn’t ever know where he went or how he was or if he makes it away from those Blackwing guys. All he'd have is the blood covered shirt he had wrapped in plastic bags in his backpack and that card with the Blackwing guy’s phone number.

He let out a sigh that turned into a yawn and got into his car. It had been a long night.

He hoped that he’d catch a glimpse of bright yellow as he was driving back to his apartment, but other than the random school bus, there was no sign of that jacket. Not that day, not the next or the next...

A few days later, his boss called him, yelling about the missing security footage from his shift, and ranting about last chances and him not working out, and once again, he was unemployed.

Fortunately, Todd had seen some job posting about a bellboy position at a hotel downtown, so who knows… maybe that’ll be a little more exciting than being a cashier at the KwikMart… Only time will tell.

#dghda #Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency #dirk gently #Todd Brotzman #brotzly

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translightyagami · 3 years

Note

I’m so torn when fic requests open up because I love requesting fics and getting ficlets back but I hate that the reason for requests being open is to get back your creativity. It happens to me so much so I know how hard it is, and I wish you the best of luck and send you good vibes ❤️

For the request! How about a Lawlight coffeeshop AU? I’d love to see your spin/take on that.

(hey hey! I did write a coffeeshop AU like a few years ago, but I thought I’d try again with this short prompt.)

cross-posted on ao3!

Being Kira and being the assistant manager of a university Starbucks was, Light admitted, a lot for one person to handle. Especially when two of their newer “partners” called in sick to their shifts, and no one was answering his “Can you put in some extra hours” texts on their days off – and also he had humiliated himself on television the night before thanks to an international detective. Light grabbed the soy milk harder than he needed. Just thinking about that smug voice-scrabbling scolding he got made him squeeze the damp cardboard in his fist.

“Don’t squeeze too hard,” Ryuk said. The Shinigami floated over the Starbucks dining area and examined his rings. “You’ll make a soy explosion.”

If he weren’t wearing a microphone headset right then, Light would have said a few choice words to his hanger-on. Ryuk didn’t even need to come to work with him; the death god chose to after he finished watching all of Light’s VHS.

“Light,” the cashier, a short blue-haired woman, pulled him over from where he was finishing a vanilla latte. Her big green eyes filled with the particular fear of a complicated order. “Please. You have to tell this guy he can’t have that many syrups.”

“I want that many syrups,” Ryuk leaned over the register screen, big yellow eyes pressed to the long itemized list. “Shinigami realm doesn’t even have one syrup.”

“The customer is always right,” Light rattled off. He wiped his hands on his black apron, not looking to see what sort of freak wanted – what was it, all of their flavor syrups? That would taste terrible, but it was what the customer wanted. “Just charge this man and we’ll make his drink.”

“I’m not a man.”

For a moment, Light froze. Misgendering customers wasn’t usually his business – leave that for the newbies, who still wrote Jeff as Jeb every time. He gave his cashier a pat on the shoulder and told her to take up drink service for a minute. Slipping in front of the register, Light glanced up at the customer causing all the fuss. Lean, with long unkempt black hair, deep under-eye circles, an arrogant, aquiline nose, they bore the air of someone taller than their deep hunch showed. They watched him with immense focus, leaving Light to feel butterfly-pinned. He smeared a smile over his lips.

“So,” Light said. “I’m so sorry for all the trouble. Let me give you this one on the house, as an apology.”

“No need,” the customer picked at their chapped lip. “Do you think it’ll taste good?”

“I’m sorry? Are you asking if I think what you ordered would be good?”

“Yes.” Dark hair flopped as the customer nodded. “If I trust anyone’s opinion on a coffee order, it would be you” – they squinted at Light’s name badge – “Light, Starbucks employee.”

“Partner,” Light said, his response ingrained. “We’re called partners now. We get stock, sometimes.”

“How wonderful for your financial portfolio,” the customer said.

Dull but present throbbing started in Light’s head. Bullish customers reminded him of that stupid L from the television. No matter what Light did, that detective had a comeback, a little maneuver to leave him steamed, although the thrill of countering those moves was natural for him. Customer service wasn’t dissimilar in requiring quick response time – and Light was an expert at making things go his way. After all, he managed angry mothers who didn’t realize mocha drinks had caffeine all the time. Some asshole with international acclaim goading him from behind a computer screen wasn’t that bad.

Still though. Headaches all the same.

“I think that whatever you choose will be right,” Light said. He already entered his manger override and was about to push the order through. “It’s your drink.”

“Tell me,” the customer shoved their hand over the register screen, halting Light in his steps. “Have you ever once told a customer the truth in your life, Light?”

Their gray eyes bore into him and Light found as he stared at their features a certain handsome severity in them. Behind him, the kitchen hushed. Heat burst in his cheeks, giving Light an unwelcome blush. Was this person really going to humiliate him over some stupid drink order? Light swallowed the indignant spit welling in his throat.

“Your drink is going to taste bad,” he said – more spat, to be honest. “If you mix that many flavors, all you’ll taste is the artificial sweetening and the drink won’t even be digestible, I think. But you wanted it, so we’ll make it. Is that truth enough for you?”

The customer smiled. Light’s blushed deepened; not fair! It was a really cute smile.

“What would you recommend for someone who wants a drink that’s very sweet, then?” they asked. “If not all the sugar syrups combined?”

“I guess,” Light turned his attention to the menu, erasing the previous order. Making custom drinks was a particular pastime he enjoyed of his job. Finding elements from every part of the menu, pulling them together with knowledge borne of both taste testing and simple common knowledge: it all felt like a fun science experiment. “Hm. Well, I’d start with a blonde vanilla latte, three shots because you look like you’re not much for sleeping.”

“Excellent deduction,” the customer said. Although Light didn’t look up, he heard their tone warm, and grinned to himself. On a roll now, he thought.

“Then I’d add two shots of raspberry, two classic syrups shots, one pump pistachio sauce,” Light’s finger flew over the register screen. “Regular ice, wait, no. Extra ice. Whip cream and, just for you, freeze-dried strawberries on top.” He stopped and looked up at the customer. “Sorry, do you have any dairy restrictions? Is two percent okay?”

“Oat milk, please,” they said with a stupid, cute smile on their thin lips. “You’re quite good at this.”

“Oh, well,” Light finished out the order, not denying himself a little satisfied smirk. “I’m happy to help. What’s the name on the order?”

“Put it under,” the customer paused, their smile falling for a second. Above them both, Ryuk wheezed with laughter. “Put it under Lawliet, please.”

Light took Lawliet’s card, running it through the reader. Ryuk being annoying didn’t dampen his spirit, really. As he handed the card back, his and Lawliet’s fingers brushed. The caress stayed a phantom on Light’s skin as he made the drink. The entire time, he didn’t spare a single thought for L.

I wonder if Lawliet will come back, he thought as he watched them sip at his creation and nod approvingly. Light surprised himself with his next thought: I hope they come back.

#death note #lawlight #coffeeshop AU #my fic #ahhhhh the prompt filling begins!#graciegirly06

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greenbriar-j · 3 years

Text

Muscle Memory, full wip, unedited 4.7k, scroll at ur own risk; tagging some people who showed previous interest @halleiswriting @chazzawrites @pe-ersona @druidx and also @pens-swords-stuff this is what I’ve been up to lately

Saint Joseph’s Catholic Church bustles with activity. It’s peculiar, for it being a weekday. More peculiar still that the bustling is being done by young men and women who could very well be engaging in… more satisfying summer indulgences.

The Youth Group’s power couple sweeps in an hour late, ever put together even when, by all rights, they ought to be melting right out of their fancy outfits. Cheers rise from the crowd when they appear, each splitting off in their own directions to their own stations.

Y Nhi beelines for the painters, flicking her sleek ponytail to make sure it’s out of the way. The girls hand her a brush while detailing what’s left to be done. Vinny bustles for the sound technicians - who, really, are already done for the day, but are staying for the social factor.

Two things to note about St. Joseph’s power couple:

Y Nhi isn’t sure she believes in God very much anymore.

They are not a couple, but it’s easier to let everyone think so than to correct it.

“Jude,” Mary says (everyone calls her Jude because she and Vinny made a big deal of it years ago), “Are you sure you can’t help out during the week?”

Y Nhi shrugs. She’s not busy or anything, but it feels wrong to shepherd children into a religion she’s falling out of - even if Vacation Bible School had been one of her favorite summer memories for her entire life. That’s where she met Vinny, after all.

Vinny, laughing with the guys at the sound booth. To be more accurate, Vinny himself is only smirking, but that’s as close to a laugh as he gets around here. Stupid smirk. Stupid boy.

“I have work. Unfortunately,” Y Nhi mutters, dragging her brush across a cardboard cutout. “Vinny’s taking the week off, so I’m picking up his slack.”

Mary grins widely at that. “I swear it’s like you’re married.”

For whatever reason, Y Nhi’s heart clenches at that. Picturing herself and Vinny in wedding attire on the altar sickens her, but putting a faceless someone in her place makes her feel worse. But it’s not like she likes him. She’s sworn to herself that she’d become a cat lady in her old age - her army has already begun with a fluffy black kitten. It’s not looking too good for her future; Toothless likes Vinny more than her. She’s already failed as a parent.

Belatedly, Y Nhi realizes she’s supposed to be engaging in a conversation, not thinking about Vinny and their co-parenting of a cat. If it can be called that.

“Don’t hold your breath. The wedding is a long way off,” she says tightly. Like. Never. Never is a long, long way off.

“I wouldn’t be too sure.”

This time, Y Nhi lets the comment slide. She paints while singing under her breath, as she always does. A long time ago, she had no qualms about belting it out, but time has weathered away her volume, reducing it to only this. No one’s noticed the change or found it strange.

The conversation turns to something - anything - else. Degrees, internships, other boys who don’t dress in all black and aren’t named Vincent Truong. Y Nhi listens, but doesn’t contribute.

By the time the call goes out for a lunch break, Y Nhi is finishing three tasks at once. One of the other girls brings her a burger, slathered with ketchup and mayo and tomatoes. Y Nhi thanks her and continues wrapping one of the white pillars in cardboard paper to simulate a palm tree.

Not long after, someone nudges her. Eyes flickering upward, she’s met with the bored eyes of her very best friend. “Bite.”

She doesn’t, not yet.

Vinny wiggles the burger he’s holding in front of her mouth. “Only half a slice of cheese. No tomatoes. Freshest patty of the batch. Eat.”

She still doesn’t take the bait, even though he’s tailored this burger to her weirdly specific tastes.

Vinny sighs. “Jude. No one’s watching you. I promise all they can see is my back.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.” It’s true she had a complex about eating in public for a while, for reasons she’s never told anyone including him. “Just not hungry.”

“Not very Gucci of you to lie in the house of God.”

“Not very Gucci of you to breathe.”

“Jude! The fuck, man.” But he’s grinning. Not the half-assed grin he gives everyone else, but an honest, mirthful grin reserved for Toothless and Y Nhi only (usually Toothless. Damn cat).“Just eat this, okay? I’ll eat the other one.” His whole demeanor softens as he picks up the burger she had ignored - the one that is surely cold by now.

She is hungry. After all, the reason they were late is because Vinny had to coax her to every step of getting ready this morning. He even applied her eyeliner with the even strokes of a practiced hand - so practiced that even Y Nhi admits it looks like her own work. If she had a choice, she would waste away in bed for the day, but Vinny has never been much of a fan of that plan.

According to her own plan, Y Nhi had been wasting away since before yesterday’s dinner. Famished might be a better word to describe her present state.

But today is one of those days that she feels guilty cementing the married couple narrative any more than it needs to be. They’re not getting any younger, Vinny and Y Nhi, and just because she’s sworn off marriage doesn’t mean he has. How’s he supposed to get a nice girlfriend if she keeps hanging around?

Objectively, it’s a stupid reason to risk passing out in a church of all places, but something about him just makes her stupid. Always has.

The longer she ignores his peace offering, the twitcher he gets. He finishes his own burger in ten massive bites. When Y Nhi still doesn’t eat hers, he eats that whole thing too. “We’re leaving early. Say an hour? Think about what you want to eat.”

With that, he’s gone. Y Nhi is not hyper aware of his presence as it moves through the open space. She does not miss having him next to her. Not even a little.

Y Nhi writes, appetite??? in her journal when she gets home. It’s the third time something of this nature has appeared on its list which isn’t titled - but if it was it would be something like “Things About Vinny T. that Don’t Make Sense.”

Even after inhaling two burgers, he took her out for pho and Thai tea, and he ate so slow that his noodles expanded in the broth. Still, he finished a medium bowl with relative ease, and Y Nhi was content after she’d finished a small.

How does someone who eats like that look like that? It has to be some sort of stupid freaky metabolism. Genetic polymorphism, she thinks, then adds that she might be incorrectly using the term she’d heard in class about two semesters ago.

She writes freeloading on the list. It’s not technically true, but he spends enough time at her place to make it feel like it. Right this minute, he’s setting up the living room to sleep in, awaiting her delivery of the overnight bag he always leaves stocked in her apartment for emergencies.

That goes on the list too. Definition of ‘emergency.’

According to recent months, an alarming amount of things fit under this category of Vinny’s mind. It might be nearing time to stage an intervention, but who’s Y Nhi to tell him to relax when she’s the one bordering on anxiety attacks all the time? Only god knows how many times he’s clutched her shaking hands until they stopped.

Y Nhi closes the journal. Snaps the band over the cover. Shoves it under her pillow. Vinny wouldn’t dare read it to begin with, but for some reason, she doesn’t even want him to know of its existence.

Quickly divesting herself of the impeccable outfit she’d worn for the day, she slips easily into one of Vinny’s large, large shirts and the shorts she affectionately calls game day shorts. Ever since high school, she’s worn them for events that require equal amounts of comfort and courage - or just for comfort, to be honest.

“Hey, loser,” she greets Vinny, emerging from her room. He’s got her guitar in hand, and is humming some tune that she recognizes but can’t place. “Your stuff is on my bed. Have you seen Toothless?”

He nods, and keeps playing. It’s in experience, being stared at with such intense eyes while trying not to stare at the other party’s stupid pretty hands playing her guitar. Fuck him, honestly, she thinks angrily.

Leaving him there, she pours each of them a glass of water in the kitchen. A shadow looms on top of the fridge, and she jumps. “Toothless, baby. Please stop napping on the fridge.”

Toothless is not napping. He stands up, shakes his tiny body and hops to the counter, then to the floor, twining around Y Nhi’s feet before scuttling off.

Vinny is singing now. It’s a new song, she supposes, and it sounds like a love song.

Slowly, Y Nhi moves around the kitchen, making as little noise as possible while doing absolutely nothing. She just wants to listen to Vinny and his new love song without him watching her reaction.

Once she gets past the lyrics about gentle touches and midnight escapades, she realizes something. Re-entering the living room, she deposits his water on the table. “Is that my melody? Why would you steal it?”

The guitar is placed awkwardly on the floor, the neck of it leaning on the couch. “Oh, is that where it’s from? Thought it was familiar,” he says with mild disinterest. “Well, I wasn’t that attached to it anyway.”

“Are you saying it sucks?” Y Nhi settles on the floor on the other side of the table, pulling her knees into her chest. Glancing through her lashes, Y Nhi watches Vinny’s expressions.

“I’m saying I’m not taking your work, you brat.” Then he hesitates. “I mean. Can I, just for one person?”

“What the fuck.”

Vinny twitches, finally. “I… Wrote the song for someone… So I’d like to sing it for her, just once.”

Something vile rises in her throat, and she wishes Toothless would notice her distress. Hugging the cat might make her feel a little better about the fact that Vinny’s written a song about a girl using her melody - and it’s not about herself and for some odd reason, that bothers her.

“Can- Can I hear it?” Y Nhi asks in a tiny voice. It’s easier than No, you cannot take my song to sing to some other girl who will take you away from me.

“Haven’t you been hearing it?”

“Vincent.” Because that’s easier than You colossal idiot, what shit are you pulling after two years?

“Jude-”

She stands suddenly, fleeing to her room. Shutting the door, locking it, she tries to breathe. Of all people, Vinny should be the last person to push her to this reaction. She doesn’t know what to think.

Vinny knows.

Vinny knows where her hard limits are. Technically, he hasn’t passed them. But he’s pretty damn close.

Y Nhi slips into the shower, leaving it on the hottest setting to boil the emotions out.

For the next two days, Y Nhi doesn’t emerge from her room. Her phone dies, and she lets it. Her body self-destructs in hunger and dehydration from crying, and she lets it. She stays in bed for most of it. Whether Vinny continues to sleep on the other side of the wall for those nights, she doesn’t know. Nor care.

It’s punishment for believing she might be ready to give love another chance.

The third day, a letter slips under her door.

She almost flushes it down the toilet without reading it. Everything is in position to do so, paper fluttering in unsteady hands above the toilet bowl. But she wants to know. What can Vinny possibly say for himself?

Jude. I wrote the song for you. I didn’t mean to steal your tune - honest to god, I didn’t. But when I found out, I thought it was fitting that we’d worked on it together. (“Together”)

Jude, the song is up to your interpretation, but it’s yours. I wrote it from my core, and it’s yours. Charge your fucking phone and check the lyrics I sent you.

Take a shower, and call me when you’re ready. You have a few days’ worth of takeout in the fridge. Please take care of your health; I know you’re not right now. I mean it in the best way.

It cuts off there. Unceremonious and blunt, and so very him. She hates it very much.

Y Nhi charges her phone while she showers. Working quickly because she’s so unsteady on her feet, she does the bare minimum before stumbling into the kitchen for food.

While she nibbles on the stir fried noodles he left, she pens her own note.

Vinny,

I will not read the lyrics. I don’t want to know, and you don’t have to pretend it’s about me.

Your joke took two years to reach completion. Congratulations. I hope I was amusing and that my downfall wall be the stunning conclusion you wanted.

She tapes it on her front door so he’ll see it the next time he comes over. Soon, probably.

Momentarily, she wonders if she’s being rash. Is it so impossible to think that he could find romantic attraction to her?

Then she remembers. Y Nhi is not built to be loved, if her history is anything to go by. Even if she’s wrong, even if Vinny loves her for real, she will resist. Losing him this way is better than the alternative: watching him dissolve to some monstrosity while loving her.

Nothing changes after that. Apart from Vinny’s absence from her apartment, they interact in exactly the same way.

Vinny says something borderline rude.

Y Nhi retorts with something blatantly rude.

They laugh about it and move along.

There are no gentle touches to avoid because Vinny rarely touched her to begin with - despite the way he slings his arm around everyone else, he wasn’t like that with her. No arm around her shoulder, no hugs, not even extended contact with her hair.

Y Nhi pretends not to notice when he goes through a full dinner with an arm draped over the back of his friend Justin’s chair. He leans on it, adding the tiniest space between himself and Y Nhi. He still passes her the condiments and spices she likes before she asks for them. He takes her home at the end of it.

This should be enough. Up until now, it always had been. These tiny acts were his long distance hugs. It had always been enough, but now it isn’t, and Y Nhi doesn’t know what to do.

Isn’t this what you wanted? For him to get a life away from you?

“How’s that girl?” She asks on the way home, just because the silence is killing her and perhaps because she’s a masochist. “The one you wrote the song for?”

Vinny looks at her for a brief moment, something like grief in his eyes. It’s a confusing expression. “She hasn’t really talked to me since.”

Y Nhi tries not to sit straighter at this revelation. “Oh, really? Hm. That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

Something about the word is profoundly heartbroken. She can almost feel the emotions hurtling off him in waves, but he doesn’t lash out at her. All it does is enclose each passenger of the car in a separate bubble. This is the closest they’ve been in a long time, but Y Nhi has never felt so isolated.

Her throat constricts, and her hands start to shake. “Do you… Know why?”

Vinny thinks for a moment, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “I think she doesn’t believe me. But I don’t really think it’s me, I think she thinks that love is meant for everyone except herself. She’s pretty bent on self-destruction now, as far as I can tell - No, don’t say anything yet.”

Every girl Vinny’s talked to in the last week pops up in her mind. Which of them seems most self-destructive? If she can’t keep herself by his side, he should at least have someone who can care for him. She could talk to them, probably, if she knew who it was.

“I… She thinks this is sudden, but I’ve been in love with her since I was fifteen. Or something. Like it kind of just happened over time, and I thought she knew.”

Fifteen means Vinny’s been futilely in love with someone else while she fell for the guy who ended up cheating on her.

They were happy in high school. It was college that broke them. Distance. The communications became less frequent in an inverse relationship to Y Nhi’s alcohol intake. Her grades suffered, and she convinced herself that she was too stupid for higher education. On his birthday, she drove for hours to his dorm to surprise him, only to find him making out with another girl. Sober.

Not that any level of inebriation could excuse him, but perhaps it would’ve hurt a little less.

Vinny isn’t done. “I fucking cut fruit for her every time we hung out. I did her dishes sometimes. I don’t know, I- I thought I did everything right. My mom thought I was doing everything right.”

“You tell your mom about your love life?”

Y Nhi doesn’t. Her parents don’t care enough to know anything about it beyond that she let go of a future doctor and that she’ll never find another because she’s past her prime. That’s what it feels like, anyway.

She’s literally twenty four. She has time.

“Not really. But they’ve met.” Vinny parks the car in front of her apartment, but he makes no move to get out or to let Y Nhi get out. “Jude, listen to me.”

“I’m listening,” she says. Training her eyes on her kitchen window, she thinks about the dishes she hasn’t done yet, the fruit she hasn’t cut yet, and how she hates thinking about it because it reminds her Vinny is fading.

Human adaptability is a remarkable thing. One more week, and this new normalcy will cement itself.

“The girl I love is you. Okay? I’ve walked around the topic for years, and I understand if you’re still not ready for it. But I know you’re getting the wrong idea in that head of yours. It’s you, and it’s always been you, and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it if you let me. I’ll also bow out forever if that’s what you need from me. But I need you to talk to me. I-”

Holy shit, is he about to cry? With wild eyes, she glances at him. If she’s made him cry, he’ll return the favor five-fold. No, she backtracks. That’s not Vinny. That’s the behavior of her second ex, the one that reduced her to a stiff puppet of a girl.

“Come back to me,” he says in a small, strangled voice. “I don’t even care if you break me in the process, but please come back to me. You can do whatever you want, as long as you do it by my side.”

For the longest moment, they say nothing. Then Y Nhi opens the car door. “Can you cut my strawberries for me? They taste better when you cut them.”

Vinny washes her dishes and her strawberries and quarters the already small fruit for her. He deposits the snacks in front of her and watches her eat - slowly, since they’ve just come back from dinner, after all.

“So it’s me?”

“Always has been.”

“And you never said anything.”

“I did. You ignored it on purpose.”

“No, I’m just a stupid hoe.”

“You’re not stupid. Or a hoe.”

“You’re always calling me stupid.”

“Not like that, stupid.”

“You’re going to have to undo a lot of damage if we date.”

“I know. I’ve been working on it already, didn’t you notice?”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna get worse if we date.”

“Have you considered therapy?”

“Vinny, I’ll be a pariah.”

“A happy one, maybe.” Hesitantly, he reaches for one of her hands. Halfway, he flips the palm up and waits for her to complete the gesture on her own. “You don’t have to decide right away. It’s just a thought.”

She puts her hand in his a little too eagerly, then pulls back a little too harshly. It feels like touching the flame of a candle.

A defeated look momentarily crosses Vinny’s eyes, but Y Nhi barely has the time to look at it before she steels her nerves and takes hold of his hand again. The coldness of his rings grounds her somehow. “We need a list,” Y Nhi says, “of things. First, you’re going to Google touch starvation.”

Her best friend jerks in a little victorious motion, jamming his knee unceremoniously on the table leg as he does. “Fuck, that hurt.”

“What was that about?”

“I wasn’t sure if you were actually touch starved or if you didn’t like men touching you.”

“And you didn’t ask?” Y Nhi is incredulous.

“How am I supposed to ask? ‘Jude, when I touch you, does it remind you of your sleazy ex boyfriends?’ You’d say no. Like a liar. Or so I thought.” He pauses. “Anyway, this means I can hug you now, right? 24/7.”

“If you ease into it.”

“And you’ll stop wearing those gigantic shirts that literally drown you.”

“...No. What?”

“Okay, never mind, nothing. What else? What other boundaries do we have?”

Of all questions she’s been asked today, this one is probably the most confusing. Her previous relationships are no help; she hasn’t exactly had the best exposure to “healthy relationships.” She’s aware that the bare minimum counts as decadence for her, so the question has her a little frozen.

After watching her face flicker through whatever emotions it’s displaying, Vinny rubs a thumb over her knuckles. “How about this: I have a specific thing I want your help with, and when things come up, we can talk about it.”

Y Nhi nods, though they both know she won’t talk about shit. But perhaps watching Vinny sort out whatever issue he needs sorted will give her inspiration on how to approach this. “Can we-?” She starts and stops abruptly.

Vinny blinks, then feeds her a strawberry slice. “Go ahead.” It’s a tactful move. Putting food in her mouth means she has to chew, meaning she has a few more seconds to gather herself and her thoughts, or at the very least, the desire to continue speaking.

“Can we not label this?” She finishes. “Whatever is between us.”

To her surprise, Vinny nods and acts like she hasn’t asked the bitchiest question of the night. “Sure.” You can do whatever you want, he’d said, as long as you do it by my side.

“And… Get rid of Jude.”

“What?”

“Jude. You remember why I picked that name?”

“Because of some fictional fairy queen that had the same name? You thought she was a conniving boss ass bitch and-”

“Shut up. Saint Jude. Patron saint of?”

Technically speaking, he hasn’t been wrong about the fairy queen bit. Unlike the suckers who fell for Cardan Greenbriar, Y Nhi’s wimpy ass was all in for Jude Duarte, mortal queen of the fae. And it was easier to admit that than to admit the truth that was dawning on Vinny’s face in 3… 2...

“Hopeless causes,” Vinny answers easily. Then his expression sobers. “Oh.”

Y Nhi nods. “But the me with you isn’t a hopeless cause. I don’t want her to be, anyway.”

There’s a lot that goes unsaid, but she’s certain Vinny hears it. Logically, she can’t keep relying on whatever instinct says, He’ll understand because he’s Vinny, but up to this point, it should work out okay.

Gently, he says, “Y Nhi,” reacquainting himself with the syllables of her given name. “Y Nhi.”

“Yes, Vinny?” She says just as gently.

He lowers his voice to a husky whisper, “You’ve never been a hopeless cause. You were a cause for hope.”

Vinny’s request is this: that Y Nhi teach him to be soft again.

The request makes her question if she and Vinny exist in the same dimension because who the hell convinced him he wasn’t soft? Hardened, prickly souls don’t master winged eyeliner for the sake of their loved ones. They don’t volunteer extra hours at Vacation Bible School while working graveyard shifts at the hospital. Don’t do the dishes because as much as they hate them, their roommate hates them more.

Vinny is soft, and Y Nhi is out for blood. “I need names, Vincent. And addresses if you have them.”

“My ex,” he says.

An awkward sound emerges from Y Nhi’s throat.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “What? I dated around. Didn’t think I should be hung up on you, but nothing ever went as planned. Anyway, my one ex did a really good job making me become someone I wasn’t. I didn’t like the person she made me, but it was kind of too late to turn around.”

Again, Y Nhi is confused. The narrative is promising, though, so she lets him continue in hopes that it’ll clear something up.

“If you don’t know me, how would you describe me?”

“Vinny.” She doesn’t have an answer, she just doesn’t want to say it. It’s not all good, and they just came back from an awkward fight. Was it a fight?

They’ve slipped back into their normal existence so easily. Nothing has changed, but at the same time, everything has.

“Just- The rings and the black and the tattoos. You’d think I drove a motorcycle or something, right?”

“You drive a Lexus. It’s the same in terms of your fuck boy vibes.”

“Y Nhi!”

“BMW would’ve sealed the deal. How many Hennessys do you drink a night, again?”

A pout settles on his face. She likes this version of him. “I see you get my point. I look like a baddie.”

“Yeah. Bad at life.”

“I swear to god.”

“Don’t do that, that’s a sin. Don’t use the lord’s name in vain and all.”

“Anyway. You of all people know I am soft, actually. She didn’t like that. And so I gained a second personality and-”

It’s rude, the way Y Nhi interrupts, but Vinny doesn’t seem to mind at all. “So if you’re always soft, what’s left for me to help you with?”

“You’ll see,” he says. “Actually. No, I’m going to tell you. I get embarrassed about my relationships. So if it ever looks like I’m pushing you away… I’m just really fucking embarrassed, at least for this first stage. Do what you will with that.”

- bonus/epilogue -

They return home for Y Nhi’s mom’s birthday. They’ve always rode home together, since they are neighbors no matter where they are. No one finds it odd that they hold hands more than before, that Y Nhi is still averse to touching everyone but him.

They appear at social events hanging on each other’s arms. Commentary about their status as a “married couple” breeze over their heads, but they never confirm nor deny anything. In public, they remain aloof to each other. They show tenderness in only the smallest of gestures.

In private, they are as they ever were. Vinny still does her eyeliner on her bad days, but now she cuddles him on the couch on his bad days. Between the two of them, there are a lot of bad days, days when they almost threw in the towel.

But they didn’t. Instead, they’ve introduced all manner of pet names (Vinny’s favorites to use are love, darling, and lately, em. Y Nhi’s favorites are Vinny and anh). They write songs to each other, for each other, with each other. Every morning, they make the choice to keep loving each other the way they have since they were fifteen - and while they joke that they wasted so much time, it was a necessary time for them to spend apart to learn how to exist together and how to choose each other even when it’s the harder choice than letting go.

Even I get lonely too

It’s not hard

Every question’s got an answer

And mine is you

Where you go then I will follow

All my life

You’re the name that I will whisper to the night

#musclememory.wip #it turned out differently than planned #but I hope you enjoy it!

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kyloswarstars · 3 years

Text

The Shelby Family Teleported Through Time • Part 3

„Right Into a Viking War“

Peaky Blinders • Series AU • Shelby!Reader

It seemed like all of your siblings barely had any time left for the family. You wanted to fix it all up and get back to what the Shelby siblings once were. At the Lee’s campsite you are gifted an ‚enchanted amber‘, along with the promise that it would help you get closer to your siblings again. Never did you think it would teleport you into another time: being faced by more problems than before.

Words • 4.8k

A/N • Lemme know what you think about it 🌚

TSFTTT • masterlist

/////

The sky was pitch-black. If it wasn’t for the burning houses you wouldn’t have been able to see the person next to you. Flames were making their way out of every second house, eating thatched roofs and burning people alive. Lifeless bodies were covering the ground. Desperate screams filled your ears. The smell of burned flesh instantly creeped in your nose and this time, still with the twisted stomach of your time jump, you bent forward and vomited into a corner of the dark alley.

A hand was touching your back as you gagged. It helped you sit up and get to your feet. Finn. The flickering flames all around you were brightening his face. He looked deeply worried.

None of your siblings were up for any jokes or blaming you for sending them here. Fear was winning over and made everyone step closer together. Your brothers shoved Ada and you behind their backs.

People were running through the alleys. Some tried to run away, others were running after them. Swords in their hands, mud under their boots and blood that was glueing their long hair together into big chunks.

„Please tell me this is a role play again,“ Finn spoke.

Tommy reached down to one of the many bodies and grabbed the sword from their grip. „I don’t think so.“ He examined the weapon and observed the people running past your sibling pile.

„Did anyone of us fight with a sword yet? Except for me last night?“ You were worried and instantly wished Boomer, Eliza and Otter would’ve taught you some role play yielding techniques.

„No. But I think we will soon gain some experience,“ Tom nodded to your right. Two men were fighting at the end of the alley you were still in. Every time their swords met a metallic clicking was echoing over to you. One of them was slowly gaining the upper hand and placed several thrusts on his opponent. It took him one swift stroke to chop the other one’s head off.

Your eyes didn’t close soon enough to prevent yourself from seeing the head fall to the floor and rolling away.

The winner was turning around, spotted you and hurried over, driven by his blood frenzy.

Arthur grabbed a sword up himself, just in time for when the stranger reached you. He brought it up into the air, his arms shaking with not being used to the weight of the sword. Metallic clicking was ringing in the air when their swords met. Your oldest brother tried to parry the hits but the stranger was a warrior. He did to Arthur what he was probably doing for a long time now.

You closed your eyes again. You couldn’t see Arthur’s head fall to the floor as he tried to protect his siblings. That was something you wouldn’t be able to forget for the rest of your life.

An extremely loud gunshot next to you let your eyes fly open again, though. John was standing there with the rifle to his shoulder. In the chaos of the moment you forgot he still had that gun.

Arthur’s opponent was sinking to the muddy ground. He was dead. „Gun fucks sword,“ John stated with the smallest of a smirk.

„Fuck!“ Arthur wasn’t able to keep himself on his feet. He knelt down next to the dead man. „Who is the fucking enemy here, eh? This guy?“ First he pointed at the body in front of him, then to the one without a head at the end of the alley. „Or that guy?“

„When are we, Tom?“ Ada was stirring beside you.

Tommy knelt down next to Arthur. „That one looks like a Viking to me.“

„Bloody Vikings?“ John was losing his shite agin. „Can’t we just go back to our friends with the cardboard swords?“ He came over to you, an arm around your shoulders. „Can you bring us somewhere else?“

You closed the fist around the amber but it was pointless. Within this mess you would never be able to concentrate.

Ada and Finn were talking to each other in low voices. She seemed to calm him down.

A sudden voice startled you. „Who the fuck are you guys?“ When you turned and saw an armoured man coming to a stop in the dark alley, Arthur, together with Tom this time, stood up and held the sword in front of him. The stranger was looking at you closer, almost a little amused. „Travel theatre?“

„Are you the enemy?“ Arthur was still shaking but that wouldn’t hold him back from taking a second try at sword fighting.

„Fuck no. I’m just trying to save my own arse and get away from here. So, travel theatre?“

„Yes.“ Ada called out. Was she trying to lead the conversation again? To be honest, she had done a pretty good job back in the 21st century.

For a while the stranger was checking the surroundings and then observed you and your siblings again. „If you’re fast runners I can help you out of town if you want.“

The chances to die in this burning shithole were fifty-fifty. You had to get out for a fair chance at teleporting you to another time, or hopefully home. Tom shot a glance at you with a question mark imprinted on his face. You just nodded.

„Ok,“ he said to the stranger. And to the rest of you: „Everyone grabs a sword.“ You did as you were told. You knelt down into the cold mud to one of the countless dead people. Their fingers were already stiff around the hilt. You forcefully removed them with a whispered ‚sorry‘ on your lips. When you got back up, you spotted their belt with the scabbard attached to it. Once again, you knelt down, unbuckled the belt and yanked it free from under the lifeless body.

With the belt around your waist, and when everyone else had a sword too, you hurried after the stranger. He led you out of this alley and through many other ones. So many slaughtered people were plastering the way, the blood had seeped out of their bodies. You were unable to tell what outweighed: blood or mud on the ground.

Your pulse was roaring in your ears and made it hard to understand the stranger’s voice, whenever he told you to follow as he changed directions.

He took a detour through a burning house. Some flames suddenly burst down from the roof as you left the single room into the backyard. They almost caught over to your clothes but someone pushed you. You fell to the ground, the smell of burned hair in the air, but out of range for the flames.

„Y/N!“ Finn helped you up, checked you for burnings, then grabbed your hand when he didn’t find any and hurried with you after your siblings.

It felt like it was never ending. You kept running even when you made it to the last house. You kept running when you left the wall behind your backs, which initial purpose to protect the village had failed. The screams of dying people let your feet continue to run, even though they grew distant when you reached a forest nearby. The stranger willingly guided you in. He repeatedly cursed, whenever a branch hit his face in the darkness, and kept up the high pace. You hadn’t done nearly enough boxing sessions at King Maine’s to keep up with that. Not without your lungs feeling like they were close to give out. Which brought up the question as to why this man was so good with running. Maybe he was a thief and running away was part of his job.

At some point you fell into a jog instead of the running. It was easier that way but not less tiring. The trees and their shadows were constantly surrounding you. The sounds of cracking branches under your steps were fading but it didn’t fully reach you until you ran into one of your siblings.

The stranger had stopped and everyone else had too.

„This should be five miles. We should be good.“ At least his voice seemed exhausted as well.

„No one will come after us?“ You heard Arthur ask but couldn’t pin down which of the shadows was him.

„Not tonight,“ the stranger responded. „Not when there are still women to be taken, ale to be drank and silver to rip out of the church.“

John’s voice was as breathless as your lungs felt. „Who are they?“

„What do you mean?“ The stranger was laughing at him. „Those are the fucking Danes.“

„Vikings,“ John pointed out, probably remembering Tommy’s words back in the alley.

The stranger laughed again. „Doesn’t matter what name you call them. Fucking barbarians, all of them.“

This pitch-black night, in a time where Vikings were all over England, which probably wasn’t even England yet, was creeping into your bones. One hand was wrapped around the amber, your other hand around the hilt of your sword. You had put it in the scabbard and it was dangerously dragging you to one side, constantly letting yourself fight for your balance. That thing was way too heavy but you wouldn’t dare to loosen the belt and put it away. Not after what you had seen in the village.

You wanted to go home. So bad. Your fingers were tight around the amber and your eyes shut. No twist appeared in your stomach, no dizzying headache.

„Well, thank you for bringing us out. We’ll head our way then.“ Tommy’s voice was cutting through and ripped your focus from the amber.

„Who said you could go? I didn’t.“ The stranger laughed once again, but this time it didn’t sound that devilish. Maybe he was just amused with what stupid folks you were. „I helped you, now you’ll help me.“

You heard some noises from below. Leaves and branches getting brushed together. Some clicking soon after. Not that metallic clicking of swords, though, more dull.

When a small flame came to life, being ignited by the stranger, it was as intense as the sun during daytime. Your eyes were blinded for a while until you eventually got used to it. It was relieving to see the outlines of your siblings faces again.

„We’ll crash down here for tonight.“ He sat down next to the flame and shoved more branches to it to let the fire grow. „My name is Alfred and if you don’t want to say your names that’s alright. But you’ll help me steal a horse and some other necessities I need, so I can travel south to Wessex.“

Tommy didn’t sat down, so none of the other Shelby’s did either. „Is this theft involving fighting?“

„It might.“ The stranger with a name now, Alfred, got rid of his sword and tried to close his fur coat tighter around his body. Seeing him warm his hands at the fire, with the adrenaline in your veins slowly subsiding, the coldness kicked in and sent shivers from your feet all the way up to your neck.

„We don’t know how to yield a sword.“

„Then I’ll show you.“ Alfred slapped his hand to the ground next to him. „What are you waiting for? Sit down.“

Your siblings waited for Tommy to make a decision. Your mind was circling around the words ‚behave, adapt, survive‘. Alfred thought you were travel theatre people, so you should behave like some.

Tommy sat down and everyone followed his example. Him and Ada were trying their best to pretend you were who Alfred assumed you were. He was talking about the Danes who had come to raid the town and that he had been too long in the North already. He asked where you were originally from. Ada, even amid the exhaustion of this day, was giving the best answer possible: „We’re a travel theatre. We travel, we don’t have a home.“

„And you always carry your belongings with you in those tiny bags?“ Alfred referred to the plain jute bags Eliza had given to each one of you. You had stuffed the sweatpants, she had given to you, in yours. As well as two stones. You had picked up a pebble stone as you sat in the bushes when that Roman cohort was passing by. And one from the parking lot as you went grocery shopping with Eliza in the 21st century.

Tommy was still nervous. „We like to be prepared, which seems to be a good thing when Danes are suddenly appearing.“

„Clever, should’ve thought about that as well. Then you wouldn’t have to help me get new things.“ He was laughing at his own statement. You didn’t like him at all. Sure, you were thankful he had guided you out of the flames, but you didn’t like sitting on this cold soil around a fire with this stranger.

It seemed you didn’t really have a choice for now, though.

You slid closer to Finn who sat next to you. The night was getting colder minute by minute as you didn’t move around anymore. He laid his arm around you and pulled you into him. It was a little better for a while, but once the cold took over your body completely, it didn’t leave you anymore. You froze with your teeth clattering and noticed your siblings doing the same. Alfred’s fire was as effective as a candle.

/////

When the sun rose and covered you in its light, the shivering, which had followed you all through the night, finally lessened. You were entangled with Ada and Finn under your coats. A couple of times you fell asleep, but each time not for very long. You always woke with the image of all those lifeless bodies on the ground. The sword you stole from one of them was laying at your feet. And when the first daylight had brightened the people around you, your eyes were fixed on Alfred. He laid knocked out on the cold ground like nothing had happened. How many of those raids did you have to witness for it to become less haunting? You didn’t really want to know the answer.

Arthur and John decided to hunt some breakfast right after they woke up. Your empty stomach was crying out demandingly when the word ‚breakfast‘ fell. Their commotion woke up the rest of your siblings and Alfred.

Ada and Finn removed themselves from your arms where they’d been sleeping in last night. Your limbs were hurting as you moved for the first time in hours, so you got up on your feet to stretch your muscles.

„Y/N.“ Your sister gasped as she stared at you. She got on her feet as well. „There’s blood all over you.“

You didn’t get hurt last night, you were sure of that. When Finn pushed you away from the flames you fell, but you didn’t hurt yourself. So… the blood Ada was talking about must be from the dead.

Close to vomit again, Ada grabbed your hand. „Alfred, do you know if there is water somewhere?“

He observed the surroundings and tried to remember where you were. „I believe there’s a small stream in that direction.“

Ada instantly dragged you along, following the direction Alfred’s hand had gestured in.

You hadn’t noticed you had blood on yourself. Your siblings didn’t either last night with the little light the fire had brought.

The nausea in your stomach wanted to escape, but when you bent forward as you supported yourself at a tree, nothing came out. The gagging was worse when there was nothing left in your stomach. It brought hot tears to your eyes and it also brought back the screams of the dying people.

Ada dragged you further until she found the stream.

You hurried into it, not caring about your clothes that got soaked wet or the freezing water temperature. Your hands frantically splashed water to your face and tried to wash the blood all off. Along with your skin as it seemed by how forcefully you were scratching at it. You couldn’t stop yourself, though.

„Y/N.“ Ada grabbed your arms and held you still. „It’s okay. Let me help you.“

She guided you to a stone and sat you down on it. Ada pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, dipped it in the water and softly rubbed it against your temple.

Due to your rapid way of getting rid of the blood your clothes were all soaked now and your hair wet. Your body started to freeze again, after having a way too short time not doing so. Maybe you were also crying because that hot sting in your eyes didn’t stop. You didn’t understand why this was so upsetting. Back home you had seen a lot of blood as well, some dead people too, that was what came with being a Shelby. Here, this cruelty had a whole different impact.

„It’s okay,“ Ada repeated.

„It’s not.“ Pictures were flooding your vision again and they didn’t go away with shutting your eyes. „There were children. Dead on the ground.“

„I know.“ Her head hung low. Did she think about Karl? Did she think about all those mothers who lost a child last night? But those mothers were probably dead as well.

She continued washing the blood off of you, rinsed your hair once more and then walked back to the others with you.

Ada told Finn to collect some wood and start a decent fire, so you could dry yourself at it. At first, when Finn had managed to create a way bigger bonfire than Alfred the night before, those images were rushing back at you once more. You remained sitting there anyway and tried not to think about it with a fist tightly closed around the amber to help soothe your mind. Only when Arthur and John came back with two dead squirrels and a tiny rabbit, your brain was finally able to focus on something else. Their loud voices, bragging about how they hunted the animals with only their knives, was a welcoming distraction.

Your hunger came back when they roasted the animals over the fire. And it was relieving to finally assuage it.

Arthur chewed every last bit of meat off the bones. John was laying on his back again, floating in probably the same relief you felt. Tommy was talking to Alfred, but you couldn’t hear their conversation. Ada and Finn were sharing a rabbit leg and kept the fire burning.

„Time to teach you how to fight.“ Alfred finally said, putting an end to your breakfast gathering. It was foreign to receive a command from someone other than Thomas Shelby. But Tom followed his words, so everyone else did too. Behave, adapt, survive was the great motto.

It wasn’t actually swords you learned how to fight with. Alfred told you to cut some branches off a tree, remove the leaves and use them as swords. The first well-reasoned words you heard leaving his mouth.

Finn was your training partner when you mimicked the way Alfred was yielding his sword. You placed hits at Finn’s neck, his stomach, his chest, fake-cut his leg off and received the same in return. It reminded you a lot of your childhood, when you snuck out into the woods and pretended to be knights with your twig swords.

It was fun. The circumstances under which you learned how to yield a sword were not.

„Y/N, help me find some more squirrels to roast over the fire, eh?“ Tommy, with a leaf less branch in his hand, came up to Finn and you. Alfred was occupied with Arthur, giving Tommy the opportunity to shoot one of his demanding looks at you.

„Sure,“ you replied, sensing that it wasn’t only the squirrels why he wanted you to come along.

Tom loudly announced you would go look for some lunch and then walked away from your little campsite.

He actually did look out for some animals crossing your path, a knife in his hand to throw if a chance would come up. You pulled your small knife out of your sock to increase your chances.

„How are you, Y/N?“ When you had left your siblings and Alfred behind, and couldn’t hear them anymore, Tommy stopped in his tracks and turned to you.

Was he being serious? „I don’t know, how are you?“ The sudden anger which filled you with his question and caused you to snap at him, subsided immediately again because he was indeed serious. „I feel guilty,“ you admitted and walked off, looking for food. You missed the 21st century supermarket a lot right now.

„About?“ Tom came after you.

„Everything. I mean it’s clear you and the others blame me for getting us in this mess – which is totally justified because I am the one to blame here.“

„Y/N–“

„And last night–“

„Y/N, stop it.“ Tommy grabbed your arm and stopped you from walking away again. „None of this is your fault. You couldn’t know what would happen with that amber. Your intentions were… brave.“ His hand pushed back his hair which had already grown out some. „Everyone knows we’re not the same anymore. No one admitted it, though. You were the one who wanted to change something.“

Thomas’ confession somehow caught you off guard. „If everyone’s aware of it why am I the only one who wants to change something then?“

„Because you’re the bravest out of all of us, I guess.“ A smirk was appearing on his lips.

„Sure, Tom.“ You rolled your eyes at him and continued searching for squirrels. They weren’t easy to be found and you wondered how your clumsy brothers John and Arthur were able to cull two of them.

A hedgehog was the only animal you laid eyes on. And you pushed Tom away when he wanted to throw his knife at it. „Don’t you dare,“ you half-laughed and continued the hunt.

Tommy successfully threw his knife at another small rabbit not long after the hedgehog incident. And it stayed with that animal. It wasn’t the time of day for the forest animals to stroll around and wait to be killed.

„Y/N,“ Tommy held you back when the voices of your siblings came into earshot again. His face was wearing the expression you had waited for: the initial purpose as to why he wanted you to accompany him. „I’ve talked to this Alfred. He’s a lot of trouble. When you’re ready, try to get us away from here, eh?“ Your hand automatically reached for the amber around your neck. „I don’t want any of us getting killed helping him steal whatever comes to his mind.“

You nodded.

Lunch. More sword training. Dinner, after Arthur and John came back from hunting. Again with squirrels. How? And a bonfire, not made by Alfred, which would keep all of you warm this night.

One hand was around the amber, your other one was fumbling with the burned hair on your left side. You pulled the knife out of your sock and handed it to Ada.

„Can you make this go?“ You tugged at the burned hair with a questioning face.

„I never cut hair before.“

„I don’t really care. Just make the burned parts go away, okay?“

She nodded with a tiny smile and shuffled to sit behind you. It would’ve been easier to have scissors but Ada seemed to do well. She first cut off the tips of the burned parts and then tried to even it to the same length on the right side. You couldn’t see yourself but the fact alone, that the burned parts were gone and couldn’t remember you of that night anymore, was good enough.

John crawled over to you. „Oi, clean up my hair too?“

Arthur joined as well. „And mine?“

„I can try?“ Ada offered. You could feel she wasn’t sure about it. Their signature haircut was something complete different than your hair.

„Well, I’ll take Y/N for my hair. She’s better with a knife,“ John smirked. „No offence, Ada.“ Your brothers moved to sit in front of Ada and you. John gave you his knife, which was way bigger, because Ada already started on Arthur's hair with your knife.

Usually, John kept his hair combed back. Since you had left your Birmingham he hadn’t been able to do that really, so his curls created one big mess. You didn’t know what to do about that, so you decided to only shave the sides.

Pushing the blade to his skin and dragging it along, you were slightly scared to hurt him. And him constantly fidgeting around didn’t make it any better. „John Boy, stop moving for fuck’s sake,“ you whispered, highly concentrated to follow the line of his hair. He obeyed and let you finish one side. The other side was done pretty quickly as well, faster than Ada was with Arthur’s hair. Having a bigger blade was probably the only reason why.

„I mean the hair is gone,“ you stated, not really able to decide if the result was better than the mess before.

„It looks fine,“ Ada endorsed with a smile. You handed her John’s knife for the rest of Arthur’s hair.

„Can you fix up mine too?“ Finn’s voice was full of hope. Ada and you just looked at each other for a second, thinking exactly the same, and broke into a small laughter.

„Sorry, Finn. We ain’t gonna repeat that sin of a middle parting.“ As his twin sister you were permitted to tell him his middle parting wasn’t really suiting him, weren’t you? You liked his curls, your mother had granted him, way too much. „Time for you to get a real Blinder haircut I suggest?“

„Who even told you that middle parting was a good decision?“ Ada dragged him over and sat him between the two of you, tugging at his hair to think of a way to tame it.

„Arthur did!“ Finn pointed at him and almost got up to throw a punch at him, realising that Arthur probably didn’t suggest it in all honesty.

Arthur broke into laughter, this real loud laugh coming from deep inside his chest. It was infective. „Wanted to see how long he’d look like an idiot until he realises.“ His voice was cracking a few times, unable to bite back the laughter. „Didn’t happen yet.“

„Not cool, Arthur,“ you called him out.

He didn’t care, though, still laughing and joking with John about it. Ada started to work on Finn’s hair, having a harder job this time to shave his sides because his curls made it hard to cut a straight line.

„Tom, you want me to fix yours too, now we’re at it?“ You had helped Ada with your own knife this time and looked from Finn’s hair to Tommy.

„Don’t worry, I’m handsome no matter what my hair looks like,“ he stated in all seriousness and for a few seconds everyone froze. You stared at him blankly and then, together with your siblings, even Tommy himself, you broke into the hardest fit of laughter you had in a long time.

You had such a good time that evening. Fixing your brothers hair had been something you had never done before, but the trust they had offered you made you happy. Tommy was all for jokes that evening and everyone joined in. Even Alfred was a bearable company tonight. He had been hunting and brought back a satisfying dinner.

Finn asked you why you didn’t tell him earlier that the middle parting looked odd. To be honest: It wasn’t your place to tell anyone how they should look like. And you didn’t really know why you had done it today. There was nothing wrong with him wearing his hair the way he liked. You knew, though, he was too much depending on the personal opinions on others. He shouldn’t be, though. Other opinions didn’t matter as long as he felt okay with himself.

Your heart was a little lighter today. Throughout the day you had been able to ban the pictures of the previous night. When the sun began to sat, they slowly crept up on you again, dancing in the flames of the bonfire.

The fist around the amber was tight. You were the only one able to save your siblings from whatever Alfred wanted you to do for him. You wanted to be stronger, together with them. Just not in the sword yielding way if possible. You wanted to go home. And you wanted your siblings to have more peace. You wanted more of those joking nights.

One of your siblings gasped in the exact same moment as your stomach started to twist. Your eyes were closed as you almost gladly welcomed your head hurting like it could explode any second.

When you opened your eyes again, you couldn’t believe what they were looking at. You knew those surroundings too well. Charlie’s Yard.

/////

Tag • @theshelbyclan

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wkemeup · 4 years

Text

I’m With You (1/3)

series summary: When two strangers meet on a layover in the Charlotte Airport, they find that a lifetime can sit in the span of three days and it doesn’t take very long at all to fall in love. pairing: bucky x reader warnings: super soft!bucky, shenanigans, literally no legit warnings its a miracle, rare kas fluff a/n: the first part of this fic was inspired after I got stuck in Atlanta on a layover a few months back and my imagination ran wild lol 🌸series masterlist // series playlist 🌸

T H E L A Y O V E R

Perhaps you should have known it was coming after the second time the flight got delayed. Nearing on two hours past your departure time and with a monsoon brewing past the windows outside, it was a wonder anyone at the gate was still holding onto hope. That was, until the moment the young gate agents with cheeks burning bright red announced that your flight had been canceled.

In most circumstances, you wouldn’t have been relieved as you were in that moment, standing in a never-ending line extending out into the middle of the walkway with disgruntled, stranded passengers grumbling under their breath and arguing amongst one another.

Most circumstances didn’t involve you flying to Atlanta to attend the wedding of the last and only man to break your heart.

You stood behind a rather tall man in a dark navy business suit, carrying a leather briefcase and tapping his toe incessantly as the single gate agent attempted to address the needs of the completely booked flight currently waiting in line. The man in the suit was barking orders at what seemed to be a poor intern on the other end of the phone as he nudged an elderly woman ahead of him to take a step forward the very second the line moved up.

With a roll of your eyes, you took a sip from the burning hot coffee you’d purchased shortly after the second delay, despite the fact that it had been nearing 11:00pm at the time. You seemed to be the only one who was mildly relieved by the cancelation and threat of spending an overnight stay in the Charlotte airport, though that didn’t surprise you much. Still, you didn’t much mind the possibility that you would have a genuine, no-fault-of-your-own, entirely-mother-nature’s-curse, excuse to avoid your ex’s wedding.

Then, carrying gently between the aggravated conversations around you, the soft humming of someone standing behind you pulled you from your daze.

You didn’t dare turn around, but you listened intently, caught up in the low vibrations of his voice, not entirely in key, but charming, and sweet. It sat in sharp contrast to the chaos surrounding you to hear something so relaxed, at ease, amongst the panic and frustration.

The coffee was still hot on your lips and you winced as it passed on your tongue. The man ahead of you folded his arms over his chest, relentlessly making a show of looking up and around those ahead of him to prove he had better things to do, to show that he was impatient and clearly irritated by his situation as he was the only one with somewhere to be.

Those ahead of him weren’t much better; the lot of them all on the phone with representatives from the airlines and demanding their money back, demanding answers for next available flights, and blaming poor customer service for their troubles as if it was the gate agent’s fault that a monsoon had plundered its way through North Carolina.

“What a bunch of barbarians,” the voice behind you chuckled under his breath, the humming pausing for only a moment. His tone was like honey and you found yourself smiling, suppressing the subtle movement of your shoulders as you laughed quietly to yourself at his comment.

“Bet the guy at the desk is going to lose his shit in about two minutes,” he said to himself, though you wondered briefly if he was talking to someone next to him or behind him, or maybe even you, though you didn’t dare to turn around. No one else responded to his commentary.

You glanced up ahead to who he seemed to be referring to, to find a middle-aged man in khaki slacks and a light blue polo, gripping a newspaper harshly in one hand and tapping his knuckles against the counter top with the other. His face was beet red, jaw clenching, and starring daggers into the poor gate agent.

It barely took longer than a few seconds before the man slammed his fist down onto the countertop, causing you to flinch in response. The honey-voiced man behind you chuckled under his breath, clearly amused by the aggressive reactions of those around him.

You found yourself wanting to turn over your shoulder, to steal a glance at the man with the sweetest sounding voice, even in off-key humming, who laughed in times of chaos and didn’t seem to be bothered at all to be standing in a seemingly never-ending line nearing midnight in the middle of Charlotte Douglas International.

In your brief moment of distraction, you didn’t notice the man in the suit take a sharp step back in reflex to the person at the front of the line waving their hands about, setting off a chain reaction of passengers flinching away from the scene. His elbow slammed down into the lid of your coffee and it slipped from your fingers with a gasp.

The cup fell to the floor in the kind of slow motion you see in the movies, like maybe if you reached out in time you could have grabbed it mid-air, but instead the cardboard cup slammed to the tile and the coffee spewed from the top as the lid broke away, dousing the pant legs of the man in the suit ahead of you. He yelped, jumping away from you and shoving you back with a harsh thrust.

Unsteady on your feet from the shock of it, you fell back into person behind you, into the man with the honey voice and the amusing observations. He caught you before you hit the ground with his arms hooked under yours, smelling of something like warmth and comfort and flannel and fireplaces, before you even caught sight of his face.

Blue eyed. The damned near bluest eyes you’d ever seen in your life and they were gentle, kind, like they were painted with care with several shades from the Mediterranean Sea and a cloudless sky and the petals of an iris. Bristles of scruff on his cheeks and dark brown hair brushed up in sweeps away from his eyes. He smiled softly at you, reassuringly, as he helped you back to your feet.

“You alright?” he asked softly and you nodded, just about lost in the smooth tone of his voice, up until the moment suit-man let out an aggravated howl.

“Look what you’ve done!” the man shouted, grabbing at the backs of his pant legs in disgust and sending darting glares at you.

Your lips parted to say something, but you were never good under pressure, not with so many wondering eyes looking over in your direction, whispering to one another, pointing and staring. Cheeks burning red and heating all the way down your neck, you felt a pang of embarrassment, of shame. You bent down quickly to retrieve the empty cup, stepping away from the pool of coffee on the floor.

“I’m-- I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t--”

“You didn’t mean to?” he scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?! Probably more than a month of your salary, sweetheart!”

“Hey man, back off! It was clearly an accident,” blue-eyes interjected from behind you, carefully side stepping around you to put himself in the cross hairs. “It was your elbow that knocked it out of her hand in the first place.”

The man glared at blue-eyes, studying him up as if he was determining if carrying on this fight was worth it with a man at least a decade younger and a build twice his size. He seemed to only be eager to kick and yell and fight when it was at a target without much of a will for defense, someone like you. You clenched your jaw, hating how easily you fell into that trap.

“Goddamn millennials,” the man in the suit grumbled under his breath, narrowing his eyes on you one last time before he turned his attention back to the front of the line. You let out a heavy sigh, the relief pouring through you almost instantly. You gripped the empty cup in your hand until it bent and crumpled at the center.

“What an asshole,” blue-eyes grumbled next to you, offering you a soft kind of smile that still managed to crinkle up by his eyes. He glanced down at the cup folding under your tight grip. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you replied slowly, though you kept an extra foot of distance between you and the man in the suit, even as he took a step forward when the line moved. “Thanks for that, by the way. You didn’t have to say anything.”

“Sure, I did. Chivalry still exists, you know,” blue-eyes said, that charmingly smooth tone of his voice running almost in shivers up your spine.

“Not in my experience,” you muttered under your breath, uncertain if he could hear you, though he raised an eyebrow, his smile faltering somewhat. If he heard you, he didn’t say anything.

You waited for what felt like another hour before you made it to the front of the line. The gate agent looked exhausted and practically winced at you stepped up, as if he was preparing himself for another verbal attack, but you were soft spoken and patient with him, a kind of change he wasn’t expecting.

Blue-eyes was on your right, talking with the second agent who had rushed up to the counter to assist. You could feel him glance over at you every few moments as you complimented the agent on his organization and calmness under pressure, getting the young man to laugh nervously in response.

The gate agent smiled a bit as he handed you a tentative flight and instructed you to listen to the overhead monitors for any changes. You nodded as you took the new ticket and grabbed your bag, getting ready to go find a quiet place by yourself to mentally prepare for facing this weekend after the nightmare it was already starting out on.

Attending your ex’s wedding was already a worst case scenario on its own. Now you’d have to show up with less than a few hours night rest, if any at all. You were sure you’d hear comments circulating about the bags under your eyes and the exhaustion plated on your face they’d no doubt attribute to remorse for a relationship that was kinder in your memories than it was in real life.

You started to make your way out to the walkway when you heard a voice call out behind you.

“Wait, hold up!”

You turned over your shoulder to find blue-eyes finishing up at the counter and swinging his bag over his shoulder, a new ticket in his right hand. He jogged a few paces to catch up with you as you stilled.

“Any chance you’ll let me replace that coffee?” he asked with a warm smiling brimming on his lips.

“What?” you gaped.

You glanced down at your faded leggings, worn sneakers, and flannel hanging loosely over your shoulders. You didn’t consider yourself the type that men approached for that sort of thing, especially men with eyes that blue and a voice like honey.

“I figure it’s going to be a long night and finding sleep in a place like this is almost impossible,” he chuckled nervously, scratching at the back of his neck, “so why not stock up on caffeine? I know a café in Terminal C with a halfway decent blend and its usually pretty empty.”

“Oh,” you muttered anxiously, cheeks heating red because a man that gorgeous couldn't possibly be serious. The suspicion was already creeping up through your stomach, screaming at you that he was like the rest of them, like he was exactly like your ex, that he would hurt you or that he was looking for repayment of some kind. You didn’t have much experience of anything else. “Well, I don’t-- I don’t know--”

“You can say no,” he offered quickly, though he winced as he said it. “Of course, you know you can say no. What I mean is, you can tell me to ‘eff off’ and I’ll leave you alone, but I just thought... I thought that guy was a jerk and he ruined a perfectly good full cup of coffee and if you wanted, I’m happy to get you a new one. I just—I figured that your night is already pretty shitty with the flights being grounded and then that sonuvabitch -- who didn’t even apologize -- yelled at you for no reason and--” he grimaced. “I’m rambling. Sorry.”

You watched him carefully, studied the way he fumbled over his words, his cheeks turning a soft shade of pink, even through the light scratches of his beard. It was almost endearing. You hadn’t seen a man blush like that before. There was a lingering kind of sadness behind the ocean blue of his eyes you couldn’t quite place and it drew you in unlike anything else.

“Terminal C, huh?” you asked, pulling the nerves from your voice the best you could and his smile lit up again instantly.

“Yeah, Terminal C. It’s a bit of a walk, as long as you don’t mind?” he said, lugging his bag over his shoulder and gesturing for you to follow him out into the hall.

“Don’t got much else to do,” you shrugged, surprised that you found yourself smiling as you strolled up next to him.

He had a comforting kind of ease to him and you wondered why he also seemed to be relieved by cancelations. You had your reasons and looking around at the frustrated looks on bystanders faces as you walked by, the arguments amongst family members, the children crying, you couldn’t help but question why blue-eyes didn’t seem to be bothered at all.

“My name’s Bucky, by the way,” he said as he stepped aside at the moving walkway, letting you pass by him to take the first step. He slid onto the walkway behind you with one step.

“Well, it’s nice to be meet you, Bucky,” you replied sincerely, leaning against the right side of the railing as the floor beneath you carried you slowly down the hallway. You had the time to be leisurely and let the walkway move for you.

In the brief moment of silence that followed, Bucky was smiling as he stared at the floor, stealing glances over at you like he was waiting for something. You were about to ask him what he was looking at until he asked, “do I get the pleasure of your name as well, or should we save that for later?”

You laughed, the nervousness offsetting the embarrassment of completely forgetting obvious social cues. Gripping at the edge of the railing, you watched as he stared out into the sea of people as you rode by, smiling softly at the kids who were curled up under their parents’ coats draped over them in blankets and laughing, almost impressed, at the teenagers who had started gathering in a circle, all huddled around their portable games.

Pushing out a kind of confidence you hadn’t known in years, you said, “you buy me that coffee you were talking about and maybe I’ll give you a name.”

Bucky grinned, turning back to face you, clearly amused by your answer. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Walking at a leisurely pace, it took a half hour before Bucky gestured for you to stop in front of a small café tucked into the corner next to one of the empty gates, lights barely illuminated with a single staff member hunched behind the counter on his cell phone. The tables were empty and it looked like no one had been there all day with the shelves of to-go items fully stocked.

“Welcome to the best coffee in the Charlotte Airport,” Bucky grinned, extending his arm out like he was showing off a new car. You narrowed your eyes on his, pursing you lips and he dropped his hand, chuckling lightly. “I never said it was particularly good, but it’s not terrible. Plus, we’ve got the place to ourselves if you allow me to stick around.”

“You want to?” you asked, cursing yourself for how timid you sounded. Another thing to blame your ex for. The ex whose wedding you’re supposed to be attending tomorrow. Goddamnit.

“Don’t got much else to do,” he shrugged, repeating your words from when he had asked you to come with him in the first place with a teasing kind of smile that made your stomach twist into knots.

You nudged him hard in the side, laughing, and he stumbled away a few paces, grinning wildly until it crinkled up by his eyes. You wondered if you’d ever seen a man more beautiful in your life, though you pushed the thought away quickly.

Bucky jogged up to the front counter, gathering the attention of the teenager on his phone as he slowly glanced up, slipping his phone into his pockets.

“What can I get you?” the kid asked, voice low and slow, like he’d just woken up from a nap.

“Anything fancy for you or keep it simple?” Bucky turned back, asking over his shoulder. You gave him your order and he smiled at it, ordering one of the same. The teenager didn’t seem to be amused by Bucky’s charming smile and huffed an exasperated sigh as he started to make the drinks.

“You sure you don’t mind?” you asked as Bucky handed over his card.

“It’s just a coffee, doll. I don’t mind at all,” he said, the pet name rolling off his tongue as if it didn’t mean much of anything. It left a burning, twisting ache in your stomach and a heat in your cheeks, forcing you to nervously tug and pull your hair behind your ear.

You wondered if it was a name he gave for any woman whose name he hadn’t yet learned; perhaps, the same way older men called waitresses ‘sweetheart’ or the way the man in the suit had so patronizingly taunted it at you earlier, though there wasn’t even a hint of a condescending tone in Bucky’s voice. It was genuine. He was genuine.

You thanked him and followed him to the small table tucked in the corner of the café, away from the hall though with enough of a vantage point to watch for stranded passengers as they walked by. Terminal C seemed to be pretty empty so there wasn’t much chance for that, though he told you he liked to take every opportunity to people watch as he could. There was just something so fascinating about how strangers acted when they weren’t putting on a show, when they were at ease, purely themselves.

You set your new ticket on the table, keeping a watchful eye of the flight number like the attendant had instructed you to in case any changes were made overhead. Bucky did the same and you noticed they put him on a separate flight. The ounce of disappointment didn’t slip your notice but you shoved it aside.

“The departure board’s got more red on it than green,” Bucky said as he settled into his chair, “might be time to seek food and shelter and buckle in for a long night.”

“You sure you’re in Charlotte Douglas and not the Hunger Games?” you laughed, adjusting your bag next to your feet.

“You’ve never endured an overnight in Charlotte, have you?” he countered teasingly.

You shook your head and he let out a heavy sigh, though a smile brimmed on his cheeks, almost like he was excited.

“The hotel’s already booked up by now and as soon as these people realize they’re not getting a flight out of here until tomorrow morning, hell is gonna break lose,” he informed you, carefully watching a family of five as they passed by hand in hand out in the walkway. The father had an anxious kind of look on his face every time he glanced at the youngest of the children as if he was expecting for the boy to realize at any second he wasn’t going to be in his bed tonight with his favorite stuffed animals. He was a ticking time bomb.

“We’ve got about an hour left before the food joints start shutting down and then after that, nothing until six-thirty sharp,” Bucky continued, “Plus, you figure you need to secure an outlet or two and a decent place to sleep, if you’re able to do that sort of thing in a place like this.”

“Good lord,” you exhaled, crossing your arms over your chest as you smirked at him, “guess you better get started.”

“Oh, I am,” he replied casually with a shrug. “Step one is securing alliances.”

You narrowed your eyes on him, scouring his face for signs that he was mocking you and searching behind him for a hoard of his buddies hanging over his shoulder snickering to themselves as their friend messed with the sad girl alone at the airport, you came up completely empty.

“You’re actually serious?” you gaped.

He nodded. “Of course. I’ve already got the caffeine and the ally. We’ll need to secure some snacks next. When you’re ready, of course. Though, we do have a time restraint here so don’t be too long with your coffee.”

“Well, for one, I can take this on the go,” you joked, lifting up your coffee with a teasing grin.

“See how well that went last time though? Can’t risk running into any other asshole businessmen in expensive suits worth a month of your salary, sweetheart!” Bucky mimed eccentrically, trying to mock the voice of the man in the suit but failing halfway through in a fit of laughter.

“Okay, fine,” you conceded, removing the lid to your cup and letting the steam loose. You sighed at the fresh smell of coffee as it filled your lungs and warmth spread through you before you could even take a sip. “So, we stay here for a bit and finish our drinks. Then we’ll find snacks. Then what?”

Bucky shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee before he spoke again. The content sigh that followed sent shivers up your spine. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, doll. It’s a process.”

“Naturally,” you agreed with a smile on your lips so wide it ached in your cheeks.

Bucky sighed, leaning back into his chair, glancing out into the walkway and studying those who passed by. He was so content, so unbothered by the cancellation, as he casually sipped his coffee, stealing glances over in your direction every so often, you couldn’t help the curiosity as it built up.

“So, you were going to Atlanta, too?” you asked before you took another sip of the steaming coffee.

“Trying to. It’s been, uh, it’s been a while since I’ve gone down there,” he replied, though his smile faltered a bit before he could catch it. You narrowed your eyes on him, surprised by his reaction, though you didn’t push it at all. He cleared his throat, pushing it back out though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How's the coffee?”

“Wonderful now that it’s not covering the back of a furious businessman’s suit,” you responded, taking another sip. Bucky chuckled under his breath and you found yourself missing the soft glimmer behind his eyes. It returned when you asked him about the last time he’d been stranded in Charlotte, as he clearly had experience with it.

He spent the next half hour telling you every ridiculous story you couldn’t have made up if you tried about the bizarre things he’d witnessed at three in the morning walking around the terminals and what kinds of trouble he got in back in his younger days with the airport security for doing cartwheels down the halls.

“Cartwheels?” you laughed, struggling to keep your breath as your eyes watered. “You can’t be serious…”

Bucky was beaming as he nodded, all blue eyes and pink lips and chocolate colored hair raking through his fingers. He pointed over your shoulder to an open space by the escalator.

“I crashed into the railing right over there,” he nodded, then gesturing to his hip bone, “it landed me a bruise for a few months right on my side.”

“How old were you?” you asked, struggling to contain your laughter enough to take another sip of your coffee that was already room temperature.

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, cheeks red, and so incredibly adorable it was simply unfair. “Twenty-one.”

“Of course, you were.” You shook your head, watching as he hid behind his coffee cup as he took a big gulp, evading your eyes and glancing over to the open space like he was caught up in memories.

“So, what about you?” he asked as he set his coffee down again. “You ever been stranded here?”

“Fortunately not,” you shrugged, finishing off your drink with a content sigh. You glanced over at the clock, wondering how so much time had passed without even realizing it. It had been ages since you’d felt that way around someone.

“Sounds like you're in need of some Charlotte layover tradition then, doll,” Bucky grinned, something mischievous brewing in his head as he chugged back the rest of his lukewarm coffee and tossed the cup into the nearest trash with a full layup stance. He did the same with yours. “Come with me.”

He extended his hand to you as he stood, long lifelines extending along his palm and you noticed a sliver of marred scarring peeking out behind the sleeve of his over-shirt. You narrowed your eyes on it, curious, but he pushed down the fabric nervously.

“Please, doll. I promise it’ll be fun,” he urged, not letting his hand drop away even as you eyed him reluctantly.

“How do you know my idea of fun? You still don’t know my name,” you teased, having already decided to take up his offer the moment he extended his hand but it was so incredibly endearing to watch his nerves on display.

“Oh, I know, but I’m confident you’ll tell me soon enough,” he said, grinning wildly as you slipped your hand into his regardless. Firm and rough, with callouses on his hands like he’d spent years in service and labor jobs, but gentle like he was holding something precious as he helped you stand. An enigma.

The teenager behind the counter had been watching you with an irritable look on his face and you nudged Bucky’s side as he picked up both of your bags in his free hand. Bucky followed your gaze and then took a quick glance at the clock before he started to laugh, pulling you towards the hall.

“Think we overstayed our welcome here,” he grimaced, nodding to his watch that read it was past midnight. “Coffee shop was supposed to close ten minutes ago.”

“Oh no,” you pouted, turning back to the cashier with an apologetic smile as you called, “sorry about that!” over your shoulder.

Bucky led you to the center of the hall. Around you were a few stranded passengers from flights heading out west, all looking like they’ve been kicked and dragged through the mud. Meanwhile, Bucky was smiling like he just won the lottery. You didn’t realize his hand was still gripped in yours until he dropped your bags beside him with a heavy thud and he let go.

He took in a deep breath, sending a wink in your direction as he took a single step away from you and pushed his hands out into the sky, swing his momentum around in an acrobatic swing that was admittingly quite awful, with bent legs and wobbling landing, but... a cartwheel.

Holy shit, he was serious.

A few random passengers lying on the floor had propped up to look in his direction before turning over to ignore him. Bucky wiped his hands on his pants as he grimaced at the dirt he’d collected. He nodded at a woman in high heels as she walked past giving him a strange look of both disgust and attraction. She might have been eyeing him before he went and did that ridiculous cartwheel, but a man that handsome had some allowances for odd behavior, didn’t he? She seemed to think so, but Bucky paid her no mind as he turned back to you.

“Your turn.”

“Absolutely not,” you scoffed, laughing nervously as you took a step back.

“Absolutely, yes,” Bucky retorted, grabbing your hands and tugging you to the spot where he was just standing. “This is tradition, doll. You can’t mess with a tradition.”

“Do you realize how insane you sound?” you accused, though you were smiling so wide it started to hurt in your cheeks. His hands were still on yours and his lifted them above your head, nudging your feet with his shoes to get you in starting position.

“You’ve done a cartwheel before, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” you shot back, “back when I was fifteen, Bucky!”

He grinned, stepping back and letting go of your hands. “Then you’ll be perfect. Just like riding a bike.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it’s the same thing,” you mumbled, blushing as a middle-aged couple walked by and rolled their eyes at the two of you. Bucky must have noticed.

“Don’t worry about them, doll,” Bucky said quietly, arms folded over his chest as he planted his feet, waiting patiently. He smiled softly at you, the overly confident and borderline cartoonish character falling away for a moment and you found yourself lost in shades of blue you could have drowned in if he’d let you.

Shit. You shook your head, tearing your eyes away from his. Stop thinking like that.

Do the damn cartwheel.

Bucky rubbed his hands together in anticipation and you closed your eyes. One deep breath in, you held it in your lungs as you propelled yourself onto your hands, touching the ground with the full of your weight for only a second before you were on your feet again.

Guess it was like riding a bike.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Bucky shouted, drawing the attention of the very irritated passengers attempting to sleep in the corner of the hall. It was still midnight, after all. But in the mist of his energy and the way he was smiling at you and rushing towards you to high-five your hands now covered in a thin layer of dirt, you couldn’t bring it in yourself to care about the wondering eyes of the stranded observers.

“We better get those snacks before the shop closes,” he said, turning to you with a massive smile.

How was it possible to so easily get lost in the eyes of a stranger you hardly knew? Blue and grey waves sharper and softer than that of the ocean. Pink in his lips that drew you in and you didn’t realize you were staring until he grabbed your hand, tugging you along.

You started to laugh as he dragged you down the hall, not letting go of your hand as he led you down to a corner store with walls lined with snacks. He grinned like a kid in a candy store and gestured for you to walk in like it was a five-star restaurant. The fact that he waved at the cashier who returned his greeting in a familiar smile didn’t slip your notice.

“Do you know him?” you asked, following Bucky further into the store to the back wall lined with snacks, in past the magazines and novelty t-shirts.

“Charlie and I go way back,” he nodded, strolling carefully through the aisles, hands clasped behind his back as he contemplated his choices and he glanced back up at you, smiling that sweet smile that made your stomach twist. Though he paused as he said, “I used to get trapped here overnight a lot growing up.”

He lost his smile a bit as he spoke and it surprised you, unsure of what kind of memory he was thinking back to that could possibly take even a sliver of his smile away from him. You grabbed a bag of your favorite chips from the wall and tossed it over at him. They hit him straight in the chest and he caught them before they fell, the smile returning quickly as he looked over at you with a feigned look of offense.

He grabbed a few bags off the wall after careful selection and raised them up for your approval. You nodded at every choice, except for the bag of jerky he’d held up teasingly. Once he’d gathered enough to fill his arms, a solid mix of salty chips and sweet chocolates and candies, he made his way up to the cashier.

Charlie’s name tag was long faded and he looked like he had been working here for decades. He took his time scanning through Bucky’s items, though he raised an eyebrow at the bag of Skittles and Bucky nodded, a silent conversation between the two before Charlie slipped the candy into the bag.

True to his word, Bucky pushed aside the cash from your hand as you tried to pay and he handed Charlie his card. You grunted, doing that little dance most couples do on a first date when the bill comes, though you started to blush as soon as the thought made its way into your head.

This wasn’t a date. This was... well, you didn’t know what this was, but it was certainly anything but a date.

An acid trip, maybe? An elaborate dream? One of those cheesy Hallmark movies where an angel or a ghost from your past teaches you how to open up and love again?

Probably.

But definitely not a date. He didn’t even know your name.

By the time Bucky gathered the bags of snacks and you followed him out to the main walkway, stranded passengers had begun lining up at every fast-food join within sight, lines carrying far down into the hallway and grumbled groans as managers came out to inform the crowds they were running out of food.

“What did I tell you?” Bucky grinned, nudging your shoulder and you shook your head, trying to suppress your laughter. “Chaos starts once these tourists realize they’re trapped. Someone’s going to start trying to buy food off of people before they take their first bite. Just you wait.”

He was something from a dream, you were sure of it.

“Okay, fearless leader. What’s next?”

He chuckled at that and your stomach flipped a little, though you did your best to ignore it.

“Outlets and shelter,” he replied matter-of-factly, like he’d done this dozens of times before, as he studied the hallway to the left and right, determining which was the better way to go. He chewed on his lip, clearly caught in thought before he straightened his back and turned to you with a grin. “I’ve got a place in mind. You trust me?”

“I don’t know you and you still don’t know my name,” you responded teasingly, though somehow, you knew the answer was yes.

“Sometimes trust is something you learn over time and sometimes it’s a gut instinct,” he shrugged, offering you his hand. “What’s your gut telling you, doll?”

“That you might be an insane person... or an abirritation,” you laughed, though you grabbed onto his hand and let him lead you out into the hallway, “but clearly, I’m okay with that.”

“That’s all I need,” Bucky beamed, tugging on your hand to get you to walk faster until you were practically jogging.

Lugging your suitcase behind you as Bucky held a firm grip onto the bags of snacks in on hand and you in the other, he led you far away from the crowds of people, past the moving walkways and the food courts, past the gates with attendants behind the counter, until the lights were dimmer and you passed by nearly five gates that were completely empty.

He let go of your hand and gestured to the gate marked A29 with a familiar smile on his face, though it seemed a little sad with a crease forming in his brow and a slight tremble of his hand clenching by his side.

“How did you know this place would be deserted?” you asked in awe as you tossed your bag onto one of the dozens of open chairs, spinning yourself around freely like you were in the meadows on a warm summer day and not currently trapped in an airport with a monsoon outside and stuffy air-conditioning blowing through the vents.

“Had a hunch,” he replied, though when you rolled your eyes playfully at him, he chuckled, conceding, “I saw this terminal had most of its flights out before the storm broke. Figured it would be pretty untouched for the rest of the night.”

“You’ve been out here before,” you observed, catching the way he stared longingly over at a corner by the desk like he was watching an old memory play out in front of him. Though he wore his smile again, it was softer now, sadder. He seemed caught up in his imagination and you took a careful step forward, tapping on his shoulder and smiling enough for the both of you. “Come on. I’ve got first dibs on the Doritos.”

“So,” Bucky started, “you never said why you were going to Atlanta.”

“Neither did you, smart guy. Why would I give that information away to a complete stranger?” you teased, following Bucky as he led you to the series of outlets against the wall. You slid down the window, leaning against it as rain pummeled against the glass from the other side.

Bucky shrugged, smiling encouragingly as he sat down next to you and pulled his phone charger from his bag. “You don’t have to tell me anything, doll, but I noticed the way you smiled when the gate agent announced our flight was cancelled when everyone else was groaning and crying. You were smiling. Just curious, is all.”

You narrowed your eyes at that, watching him silently as he plugged his phone in and the face of a young girl illuminated on the screen. She was smiling, almost mid-laugh, and Bucky was off in the background of the image, racing towards her, perhaps a few years younger judging by the haircut. She looked a little like him.

You wondered then if she had anything to do with why he had lost some of his energy as he came up on this gate, falling into a memory he recognized. He was complex man; you’d give him that.

“I was... um... going to a wedding,” you confessed slowly and Bucky smirked, pleased to get something out of you.

“You sound unsure about that,” he pointed out, ripping open a bag of chips and plopping four into his mouth.

You shrugged, “yeah, well, even if I make it in time tomorrow, I still don’t know if I’ll go.”

“Why’s that? Seems like a long way to travel if you’re not gonna--”

“The groom is my ex.”

“Oh shit,” Bucky coughed on the chips that were about halfway down his throat. He leaned over, heaving into a napkin and you rubbed at his back instinctively, careful circles over the soft fabric of his t-shirt as his whole body shook with each cough. You pulled away with a blush as he smiled at you once the fit subsided. He sat back again the wall, brushing his wrist over his lips as he stole another look over at you. “You’re joking.”

“Afraid not,” you shrugged, pressing your lips into a thin line.

You were embarrassed to even say it aloud, to have to first explain to all of your friends why you agreed to go even as they begged you not to, to have to pack your bag and tell your mother why you won’t be home for Sunday dinner, to have to say it even to this man who was practically a stranger who’s approval and kindness you suddenly found yourself craving. Two years since the break-up and you still struggled to get past the man who broke your heart. Saying no to your ex, to Jack, wasn’t something you were used to and it came as old habit.

“This monsoon might have just saved you from a weekend in hell,” Bucky exhaled, turning to face you with a smile that lightened the anxiety in your chest. He offered you the bag of chips and you took them gratefully.

“You’re probably right,” you said, tossing a few chips into your mouth, though you knew the universe would find a way to get you to that wedding, whether or not you were ready for it.

“You on good terms with the guy, at least?” Bucky asked and you shook your head, clenching your jaw.

He frowned, though he didn’t press you any further as he must have noticed your cheeks flush, shame seeping in you. Bucky let out a tired exhale, leaning back against the window and slumping further to the floor.

He cared, that much you could tell. He was bothered by the fact that you were going to this wedding, alone, and that even with all that you didn’t even have a good post-breakup relationship with the guy. You wondered how it was possible for someone to learn to care so fast and what your night would have been like if he hadn’t been standing directly behind you in that line, if the monsoon never rolled in and this handsome, incredibly endearing stranger never stormed into your life.

Would you have gone to that wedding, watched the man you once thought was the love of your life devote himself to a woman after he broke your heart over his inability to commit? Would you have cried through the ceremony and drank yourself into obligation because he’d hurt you so bad you hadn’t been able to even date since he left you?

Would you have boarded that flight without a second thought to the stranger with the blue eyes and the infectious smile?

“What about you?” you asked carefully, taking another bite of the chips before handing it to him.

“What? You trying to do a something-personal-for-something-personal kind of thing?” Bucky laughed, though there was a nervous edge to his voice.

“Only if you want,” you offered, smiling gently at him and giving him the out if he wanted it. It hadn’t been very long since he avoided the question the first time when you had been sitting over coffee in the empty café.

He took in a heavy breath, though it was shaken. You narrowed your eyes, watching him carefully as he sat up, straightening his back and brushing his hair back from his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m, supposed to uh, I’m supposed to see...” he sighed, scratching at the back of his neck, his voice falling low suddenly. His lips pursed into a frown and the light faded from the blue of his eyes. Something was clearly bothering him and he couldn’t seem to even string the words together.

“I haven’t seen her since I... and my ma says that I’ve been...” he groaned, clenching his jaw and running his hand over his lips. He wasn’t making much sense, that much was clear to the both of you. His eyes fell to the floor and he was only a whisper of the man who stood laughing at the hoard of passengers at your gate.

He was layered, dimensional; both the man with confidence unlike you’d ever seen and the shy, nervous guy with a heart bigger than most men you knew.

Your stomach hurt just watching him struggle to answer your question.

“Y/n,” you blurted out, catching his attention and he raised an eyebrow. You let out a steady breath. “My name. It’s Y/n. Something personal for something personal, right?”

Bucky nodded, repeating your name back to you and a soft smile came over his lips. It sounded like velvet and honey and all kinds of wonderful coming from his voice. He relaxed a bit, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “It’s a nice name. Y/n. Suits you.”

But his voice was still low, aching, and it made your heart twist.

“Come on,” you urged, grabbing his hand and lugging him back up to his feet, determined to bring back the witty and charismatic man who threw you into this mess to begin with. You didn’t like seeing him upset.

“Thought you wanted to know--”

“Not now,” you replied casually and you could practically feel the weight lift off his shoulders as you dragged him over to the massive checkers set in the corner of the gateway set aside for restless travelers. “I’ve got a preposition for you.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I get to ask you a question every time I knock one of your pieces off the board,” you proposed, positioning yourself on the side of the board with red chips as big as your shoes, “and if you get one of mine, you get to ask me a question.”

“Do I have to answer?” Bucky teased, folding his arms over his chest and you could already see him coming back into himself.

“Only if you don’t want to be a total loser,” you shrugged kicking your piece out to make the first move. Bucky laughed and squatted down at the board, taking his time to determine his trajectory before he made his move.

It only took three turns before you knocked out one of his pieces.

“Truthfully now,” you started, eyeing him as he crossed his arms over his chest, “in all of your layovers, how many people have you dragged around this airport doing cartwheels and raiding convenience stores?”

A laugh burst from Bucky’s chest and you swore you’d never heard a more beautiful sound in your life, his whole body caught up in the moment. It had been a while since you’d seen someone laugh like that without trying to suppress it. He was unlike anyone you’d ever met, though, you supposed you knew that already.

Then he paused, folding his arms, studying you. “You want to know how many women, don’t you?”

“That’s not what I said,” you retorted, trying to hide your blush, though it was obvious as day.

“Only one before you in all my years,” he responded with a nod, “but she was a frequent flyer with me. Not what you think and certainly not the same.”

“That didn’t make a lot of sense, Bucky,” you accused with a grin, “you’re being cryptic.”

“Maybe you should ask a more specific question next time,” he countered with a sink.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you grumbled as Bucky started to eye the board for his move.

“So, you think I’m cute?”

You froze, heat flushing into your cheeks as you realized what you said. Glaring up at Bucky as he watched you amusingly. You rolled your eyes.

“Like you don’t already know,” you huffed, trying to push aside the embarrassment you felt through a playful smile.

“Still, it’s nice to hear,” Bucky grinned, nudging his piece to jump over yours and he discarded the red coin off to the side. “How long were you with this ex?”

Your breath hitched in your lungs and you cleared your throat, taking your time to meet his eye again. “You don’t mess around, do you?”

“Nope,” he replied, popping the ‘p’ on the purse of his lips.

“Three years,” you said quickly, before you could lose your nerve. “He was my college boyfriend. Had plans to move in together and talked about getting married ourselves before he decided he’d rather ‘explore his options’ once graduation came around. Hadn’t heard from him since. Until I got the invite to his wedding. Guess he found a better option.”

“Yikes,” Bucky winced, “what an asshole. Why did you even agree to go to his wedding?”

“Sorry, you already used up your question. Better wait for your next turn.” You winked at him, holding your pointer finger up as you maneuvered your way around the board to find your next move. It was a relief to cut him off. Your relationship with Jack wasn’t an easy one to talk about and you didn’t want him to think of you the way Jack often saw you; small and spineless. So, you pushed out a smile and pretended you were fine.

Bucky shook his head, armed folded over his chest enough to see the prominent outline of the muscles in his biceps, and he laughed at your response. It was a sweet kind of sound that made your chest fell warm, even with the anxiety in your stomach at the very thought of your ex. It was genuine for as often as he did it and it seemed to live permanently etched into his cheeks.

You went back and forth for a few turns, each picking off the other’s pieces on every round. He asked you about your family, about your favorite flavor of ice cream, about your movie preferences and your day job. You asked him about the scars lining his left arm, peeking out as he scratched at his wrist and he told you it was from an accident on the job, though he didn’t elaborate further. You asked about the college shirt he was wearing any why he dared to go to school in Georgia if he was really a New Yorker like he claimed, though he laughed it off and said it wasn’t his alma mater. You asked about his typical coffee order and hair routine and how he got it so fluffy and he laughed so hard, tears welled in his eyes.

It was almost a half hour of the simpler questions before Bucky knocked out another one of your pieces with satisfied hum and took a moment to think of his question. He watched you for a moment, studying you almost, and your stomach lurched a little. Not because he made you uncomfortable, but because you could see the carefulness behind his eyes, the soft smile on his face, and a man like that looking at you like you were something special was an unfamiliar feeling to say the least.

“You don’t really think this woman he’s marrying is ‘the better option,’ do you?”

You bit down so hard on your lip you drew blood. The sincerity of his question threw you and your heart must have skipped about a dozen beats before you could even blink. Bucky must have noticed your sudden distress and he clenched his jaw. A red heat formed in his cheeks you never would have expected.

“Maybe I should say I’m not trying to pry, but I clearly am,” he admitted with a tired laugh. “I’ve only known you for a few hours, Y/n, and I don’t know how anyone could think you’re anything but the best option. And if this guy was with you for years, it shouldn’t even be a question.”

“That’s... that’s really kind, Bucky, but you don’t know me,” you mumbled, unable to meet his eye and losing every ounce of confidence you had clung to around him. Jack had a way of doing that to you, even when he wasn’t around.

But Bucky was determined. He shook his head, crossing the board and grabbing a tender hold of your arms, urging you to look at him. His hands were warm against you, large, a little calloused and rough on the edges but so incredibly gentle.

“I know that you treated that poor gate agent with empathy and patience and got him to laugh after the hell storm of passengers who had just spent their time yellin’ at the guy. I know that you agreed to follow a borderline intrusive stranger through an airport at midnight at the promise of caffeine,” he said, smiling sweetly. “I know that you apologize to teenage employees for staying a few minutes past close without realizing it. I know that you can do a near perfect cartwheel and how you take your coffee.”

“Bucky, I--”

“I know that you’re funny and adventurous and kind. I know that you’re incredibly perceptive and you changed the subject when you caught onto how hard it was for me to tell you why I’m going to Atlanta,” Bucky said casually, sternly almost just to make you believe him, as if his words didn’t make your heart swell so much in your chest it hurt. “Your ex is an asshole, is all I’m saying. He never should have said something like that to you. You’re someone’s best option, you hear me? Don’t settle for some jerk who tells you you’re anything less.”

You swallowed nervously, getting caught in deep oceans of blue and grey as Bucky held onto you. There wasn’t a trace of anything but sincerity in his eyes and you wondered how it was possible he even existed. He rubbed gently at your arms, like he was trying to draw warmth, and the smile on his lips was enough to float butteries in your stomach.

“Thanks, Bucky,” you said softly, sincerely, and he nodded at you encouragingly.

He stepped back to his side of the board and you missed him standing so close to you, missing his hands on you, and you clenched your jaw, trying to push the feelings away.

“Since you didn’t technically answer my question, I’m asking another one,” he said lightly, grinning wildly and it brought back the smile to your face. “You’re from New York, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Queens. Live there now, too,” you replied, wondering how on earth he was able to deduce that and watching the way he smiled to himself, nodding. “Why?”

“Not your turn to ask questions, Y/n,” Bucky teased, though he seemed pleased with your answer. “Make your move, Queens.”

You laughed, already feeling light again and amazed by how easy it was for him to bring that back out in you. You nudged a piece with your foot and swerved it around of two of his. You kicked two black pieces off the board.

“That’s two questions,” you pointed out and he shrugged, challenging you.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you studied him for a moment. There were a million different questions you could ask. You thought about asking whether he’d been born and raised in the city like you, if he’d ever traveled abroad, what the military tag on his suitcase was for and if he ever served. You wondered if he was single, if this was a one night thing where you’d go your separate ways and never see one another again, if he was really as kind and as charming as he seemed because you still couldn’t believe he was real.

You were about to ask him something trivial because you were too afraid to get an answer that would break your heart when he cleared his throat.

“Or,” he started, nervously, “you could ask one big question?”

You narrowed your eyes, confused, and waiting for him to continue.

He sighed. “You could ask about my sister. If you want?”

You paused, watching the way he swayed in his stance, arms fold tightly across his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. She must be the girl in the picture on his phone, the reason why he started acting strange, upset, when he tried to tell you why he was going to Atlanta.

He nodded at you and you could tell he was ready, that he wanted to talk about it now, and you gestured to the wall adjacent to the game. He followed you silently, sliding down the wall to take a seat on the floor next to you. He folded his legs under him while you tucked your knees up to your chest, waiting patiently. You didn’t know the question to ask, but he let out a heavy sigh and started for you.

“Her name’s Rebecca. Bec. We used to travel alone a lot when we were kids to go see our dad,” Bucky said softly, scratching the back of his neck. “We had layovers here a lot and if the flight got cancelled, we’d just get stuck overnight. I mean, I was old enough to watch out for her okay so it wasn’t a big deal, but she used to get scared. So, I started making it a game. It happened more times than you would think and it managed to make her feel better, got her laughing. We used to spend all our money at that convenience shop on chips and candy and race in these halls and do cartwheels and blast music and play games over by that gate.”

You smiled as Bucky talked. He stared off across the gate to where your bags were, over where the memory he had been reliving earlier was, and avoided your eyes, but you knew this wasn’t the hard part of the story. You let him keep going without interruption.

“We got to know some of the people who worked here over the years, like Charlie,” he continued, though his voice dropped a little as he tried to clear his throat. He took in a heavy breath but he struggled to find his words again.

“That sounds really nice, Bucky,” you said encouragingly and he nodded.

“Yeah, she uh, she used to love it, but we don’t-- she doesn’t talk to me anymore,” he confessed, clenching at his jaw painfully and winging his hands in his lap.

You watched as he yanked and pulled on his fingers, a nervous habit you used to see in your father after he’d been in a near fatal car accident, a symptom of anxiety. Without giving yourself a second to back out, you reached into his lap and placed your hands over his until they stilled.

He froze, staring down at your hands and allowed you to pull his left from his right and carefully grasp it in your own hand, holding it tight and offering him a gentle smile. He exhaled, relieved, and squeezed your hand before he continued.

“I enlisted right out of high school,” Bucky said, pulling your hand to rest on his thigh as he ran his free hand over the back of your palm. “Bec was so pissed at me. Especially when they sent me overseas. But she still wrote, still answered my calls. Until I got hit by an IED and got my whole arm shredded.”

He pulled up part of his sleeve to reveal marred skin under the t-shirt he wore. It was faded, healed over the years, but still ridged, still mutilated by the blast. He sighed, pushing it back down like looking at it was even difficult for him. You squeezed his hand.

“I was home for a bit, just trying to heal,” he continued, “but once I was cleared by the doc’s, I wanted to go back. That was the last straw for my sister. She—she just couldn’t understand why I’d go back after that. She said she’d never speak to me again if I did and I tried to tell her that I had a duty, that I had friends who died in that blast and being over here was hell for me. It was back then. But she didn’t understand. She still doesn’t and she held true to her word. She hasn’t spoken to me since I went back, not since I came home either. I’m out now and I still can’t get her to return my calls. She just cut me off completely.”

“Oh, Bucky,” you sighed, heart breaking as he bit on his lip, clearly trying to suppress a lump in his throat.

“I’m supposed to be going to her college graduation,” he said tensely, sniffling a bit. “She doesn’t know, but Mom’s been on me to fix things for years. I just... I don’t know how and I’m fucking terrified that she’s going to take one look at me and tell me to leave or turn her back to me or, I don’t know, ignore me completely. She’s my little sister and I miss her but I don’t know how to make her understand. I’m not sorry for going back. It’s what I needed to do but, I hate that I lost her because of it.”

It was silent for a moment and you watched as the clock opposite you turned on three in the morning. Bucky’s breaths were uneven beside you as he tried to pull himself together. Each passing moment you spent with him, you only wanted to learn more, wanted to ease him through his pain, to make him smile and laugh.

But there was a truth he needed to hear.

“I’m not sure she’ll ever understand, Bucky,” you said slowly and Bucky clenched his jaw. It was clearly something he’d been thinking about, though he didn’t want to admit it. You sighed, rubbing at his hand in slow circles. “I don’t think anyone but someone who has lived through what you have could understand wanting to go back. She clearly loves you and she was probably terrified for you. Sometimes, when someone you love puts themselves back into the heart of danger like that, it's easier to shut down than deal with the possibility of losing them.”

Bucky nodded, taking in your words. You gave him the time he needed, letting him sit with the silence and the thoughts in his head until he was ready. You watched the gears turning, watched as he squeezed your hand in even intervals, and let out a steady breath.

“Sorry I’m such a bummer,” he said after a while, a tired laugh in his voice and he shook his head as you started to object. “I hate that I was relieved when our flight got canceled but I know I’ll have to find a way there regardless. I thought I’d spend tonight in this airport just sitting in my anxiety and thinking about all the ways I’ll disappoint her again, but then you spilled your coffee all over that pretentious asshole and you... you caught me by surprise, Y/n.”

He turned to you, his free hand snaking up to slide along your cheek, cupping the side of your face as his fingers danced in your hair. The way he was looking at you, with startling shades of blue and a sincerity you hadn’t known in a man in years, your stomach twisted and turned on itself in the best possible way. His eyes flickered down to your lips.

“It’s your turn,” you whispered, eyes drifting over to the game.

“Will you let me see you again?” he asked quietly without skipping a beat, not even bothering with the pieces on the board and you didn't mind, not as he was leaning closer to you, his breath against your skin.

His lips touched yours and it was sweet and short so impossibly brief because suddenly the overhead speakers let out a sharp, high-pitched chime as the transmitter turned on. You jumped at the shock of it and Bucky pulled away, the spell broken and the ghost of his lips aching on your own.

“Attention passengers flying from Charlotte to Atlanta on flight 937,” the voice called in muffled tone, “Please see an agent at Gate B9. Your flight is now scheduled to depart at 3:50am.”

You sunk against the wall and Bucky fiddled nervously with his hands.

“That’s your flight, isn’t it?” he asked, disappointed and you nodded. He sighed, hulling himself back up to his feet and offering you his hand. “We better get you over there in time, then.”

You looked up at him for a moment and contemplated just skipping the flight to spend a few more hours with him. Was it insane? Naïve? Maybe. But he was unlike anyone else you’d ever met and you didn’t think you could stand this being the last time you saw him.

“Come on,” he smiled sweetly, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “I’ll walk you to your gate and everything, be a proper gentleman since you’d been so gracious tonight before I send you off--”

“Attention passengers flying from Charlotte to Atlanta on flight 1176,” the voice spoke again and Bucky froze, “please see an agent at Gate C2. Your new flight is now scheduled to depart at 3:30am.”

“Shit,” he cursed, glancing down at his watch to find it was already nearing 3:20. He clenched his jaw, looking down at you apologetically. “I... I have to go.”

You took his hand and he helped you back up to your feet, though he didn’t let go right away. He stared at you for a moment, longingly, like leaving right now was the last thing he wanted to do. It was the last thing you wanted, too.

You walked with him, hand in hand, to the side of the gateway with your bags. He stuffed the snacks into the plastic bag and handed them to you, though you tried to resist, but he shoved them into your backpack with a smile anyway.

“Take the skittles, at least,” you tried to persuade him, “you picked those out.”

“I can’t stand ‘em, actually,” he chuckled sadly, shaking his head. “I always got them for Bec. Guess I was a little stuck in routine.”

“So, take them with you,” you encouraged, kneeling down next to him and pulling the red bag from your luggage and placing it in his hands. He stared down at it for a moment, tensely. He didn’t meet your eye but you carefully rubbed at his shoulder until the tension drained. “Bring them for her. Call it a peace offering.”

Bucky smiled sadly, but he nodded, the appreciation clear in his eyes as he rose back to his feet and offered you his hand, which you took effortlessly.

“How did I manage to find you?” he asked so quietly so you almost didn’t hear it. He was watching you with a kind of bewilderment in his eye and your cheeks began to flush, until you noticed the clock affixed to the wall over his shoulder. Your heart sank.

“You should get going, Bucky. You’ll miss it,” you said, trying to mask the sadness in your voice though it did little use.

“Yeah,” he replied. He didn’t move.

The two of you stood there for a few moments, just staring at one another, wishing the night didn’t have to end. But you had a wedding to attend. And he had a graduation.

“Bucky,” you urged again, squeezing his hand.

He nodded, detangling your fingers with a new kind of determination. He reached into his bag and dug around for a pen and paper. Scribbling messy handwriting on the notepad, he ripped off a page and handed it to you.

“Take this, please,” he said, and you grasped the crumpled paper in your hand. A series of numbers listed on one side in thick black ink. “You don’t have to do anything with it if you don’t want, but I hope you do. I hope you call.”

You nodded, running your thumb along the dried ink before you met his eye again; blue unlike even the clearest morning sky.

“I have to run,” Bucky said sadly as he started to back away. “Thanks for putting up with me for a while.”

“Thanks for asking me to,” you called back, watching as he walked backwards as long as he could until he checked his watch again and grimaced at the time.

He wanted to say more, that much you could tell, but there wasn’t time. He gave you one last wave and turned on his heels, sprinting down the terminal and taking a sharp left. You watched until he disappeared from view and you were alone in the gateway, surrounded by his memories and a new one of your own.

The crumpled paper stayed firm in your grasp the entire walk to your newly assigned gate, your mind caught on Bucky with every step. Even as you boarded, as you sat in your seat and closed the window shade, leaning against the wall in an attempt to find rest, the paper never left the grip of your hand.

A crumpled paper with a number of a stranger. A friend. Maybe something more if you let yourself believe it.

It was exciting and terrifying and magical at once.

You slipped the paper into your pocket as the plane left the runway and lifted into the air, whirring sounds of the engines and cabin pressure lulling you to sleep.

You thought only of Bucky; of blue eyes and nervous laughs, of cartwheels and potato chips, of painful questions and reassurance unlike you’d had in years, of rosy cheeks and soft pink lips.

You weren’t sure you’d ever think of anyone else again.

How does it start? And when does it end? Only been here for a moment, but I know I want you But is it too soon? To know that I’m with you There’s nothing I can do [I’m With You - Vance Joy]

feedback is so so appreciated 💖(apologies if you got tagged twice - the whole post deleted itself for a hot second lol)

tags 🌸@sweetheartbarnes / @musiclover1263 / @pies-wands-and-more / @buckygrantbarnes / @mywinterwolf / @breatheeagainnnn / @jewelofwinter / @panic-naran / @fairislesheets / @kaliforniacoastalteens / @captain-hammer-of-asgard / @daydreamsquad / @deanssweetheart / @maybesomedaytho / @montypythonsholysnail / @saharzek / @imsoft-barnes / @galaxkay / @vitamingrant / @alohafromhell1 / @happyeyesandsunshine / @hillface89 / @searchingforbucky / @20coldhearts / @past-perfect-future-tense / @bucknasty-barnes / @clarysthing / @denimandcabernet / @ohthedevilsanus / @sarcasm-ing / @yknott81

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #marvel #buck barnes x female reader

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aloysiavirgata · 4 years

Text

The Way That Light Attaches To A Girl

Title: The Way That Light Attaches To A Girl

Author: Aloysia Virgata

Rating: PG (language)

Timeline: Season 1

Summary: Maybe she’s not so bad, this gingery little doctor.

Author’s Notes: Mulder reads Cicero and finds the method of loci tool useful in honing an eidetic memory. Also, the timeline of this show is absurd. Per canon, the Pilot is in March of 1992. But here it’s March of 1993 because...I just can’t, honestly. Thank you to @perplexistan for reminding me that I wrote this in 2013, and talking me through the timeline.

*** It's been a long December and there's reason to believe Maybe this year will be better than the last I can't remember all the times I tried to tell myself To hold on to these moments as they pass - Counting Crows *** It’s gritty outside, gritty and gray with a rime of salt on everything. There are pockets of rotten snow for him to kick, slushy and satisfying against his heavy shoes. He pulls his coat tighter, feeling like a hard-boiled detective in a pulp paperback, thinking this would be a good time for a cigarette if he still smoked. His divorce papers were filed this time last year, just like his parents’ had been a couple decades back. The ink had scarcely been dry on the marriage certificate when they realized they didn’t know each other and changed their minds. It was the same time Diana left him and his - their - files for whatever the fuck had summoned her across the sea. Paperwork, as ever in his life, was all that remained of these experiences. If this were really a detective story, he thinks, stepping over a soggy Washington Post, a tall cool blonde would have walked in through the frozen mist and into his arms. Someone lithe, with red lipstick and half-lidded violet eyes. She would look like Veronica Lake and speak in a low, compelling voice, urging him to do brave and outlandish things to thwart the Nazis. He’d wear a fedora, buy a mink stole for the blonde. They’d drink martinis and make love in dark hotels smelling of leather and intrigue. But he’s not living in a dime-store novel, he’s living in Alexandria on Christmas Eve 1993 (“The New Age of Angels,” claimed Time magazine, somewhat cryptically) and is eager to turn the last page in his calendar. Mulder knows it’s symbolic only, that his Eurocentrism is showing, but he still watches the ball drop on TV. Last year he’d kissed a woman in a bar and gone home with her too, but doesn’t think he’d remember her face if he saw it. He hasn’t got the energy to entice a stranger this year, and Scully’s hardly his type. He shouldn’t be sleeping with coworkers anyway, it’s never worth the trouble and the FBI is full of people who are paid to do nothing but sniff out secrets. Besides, he is now 32 years old which is really about time to start getting your shit together even if your baby sister was abducted by aliens at Thanksgiving. Mulder generally holds the holidays in low regard. He pauses to watch a small flock of cats at an upended trash can, feasting upon pungent things like battlefield ravens. One of the cats glances at him sidelong, narrowing round yellow eyes as though Mulder has designs on the gray thing it’s gnawing at. He holds his hands up to show the cats he wishes them no harm, keeps walking. Scully had offered to drive him home but he thanked her and caught the blue line, the clank and rattle of the train making him feel like some variety of normal businessman. Maybe people thought he was a banker or a Congressional staffer, going home to a twinkling Douglas fir and a mantle hung with stockings. Nine months and a broken condom can, in many circumstances, result in a whole new person. But it’s been nine months with Scully and she’s still her own woman, though Christ knows Mulder’s tried to remake her in his own image. She’s trudged alongside him through graveyards, military bases, bad diners, and one memorable night in Pennsylvania where she had captured a frantic bat in the hotel lobby. (“Do you want to wait for it to take human form before I release it?” she’d asked drily.) Through all of it she remained disbelieving and supercilious, leaving him vexed. She’d chirped “Merry Christmas, Mulder” at him, assuming that he celebrated Christmas and was capable of merriment. He was afraid Scully’d bring in a little Charlie Brown tree for the office, ornaments smooth and shining as her earnest face. She is skeptical in all the wrong ways and probably has the Michael Bolton Christmas album on her stereo at this very moment. She probably has eggnog in the fridge and will drink it without rum. She probably likes fruitcake and ham with pineapple rings on it. Mulder, going home to the shadows of his apartment where he might listen to Pink Floyd and nurse his resentment with three fingers of whiskey, feels justified in his scorn. A couple loaded with gifts pushes past him and he nearly loses his balance on a patch of black ice, clutches at a lamp post. He gazes up at the endless sky as snow begins to fall again. (Scully’s probably delighted by the prospect of a white Christmas, probably whistling a few bars of the song as she puts on a green sweater.) But he’s being unfair, isn’t he? For all her tattling back to the higher ups, she’s never tried to present herself as an angel. Her primary fault is in not being Diana, not being a tall dark moon goddess. Being pretty rather than beautiful, being frank rather than alluring. He’s seen her smoking a couple of times, discovered that she says “Jesus!” a lot so that she doesn’t say “fuck” or “shit.” This amuses him; he thought the blasphemy would be worse. He knows Scully watches what she eats but turns to carbohydrates and wine in times of stress. He found out she was sleeping with that asshole Jack Willis, which really threw him for a loop because Scully has a schoolteacherish quality that led him to presume premarital abstinence. He thinks of her in that first motel room, her smooth back beneath his hands, her panic turning on some masculine caveman switch. It’s been a long year, perhaps she could be his type after all despite her sensible underwear. She’s attractive enough if you like that sort of Hibernian look. He can tell she’s a bit awed by him and he could manipulate that to his advantage. Mulder walks the last slushy block thinking impious thoughts about Catholic school uniforms and playing doctor. The honeycomb tile of his building is muddied, layered with fragments of leaves and footprints. A radio blares something about Barbra Streisand doing her first live concert in twenty years. Mulder shakes his head and imagines his mother on the Vineyard, frothing with excitement. “Merry Christmas Agent Mulder,” says Leo, the maintenance guy. Leo’s got some kind of intellectual disability that Mulder hasn’t bothered to diagnose, but he’s always quick to replace a kicked-in lock or a shot-out window, and Mulder therefore regards him as a master craftsman. He gives Leo money every year at Christmas. At present he’s attacking the hallway sludge with an ancient mop. “Merry Christmas, Leo.” He gets his mail, sorting through it as he ambles to the elevator. Bill; bill; Playboy; Christmas cards from his doctor, dentist, and insurance agent; coupons; a thick manila envelope from the divorce attorney. Mulder rolls it all into a bundle and shoves it under his arm. He’s fumbling with his keys when the elevator deposits him on the fourth floor. There are wreaths on most of the doors in his building, a handful of mezuzas. Number 42, as usual, conforms to no given standard. He stops when he sees Scully leaning against his door. “Um,” he says. “Hey.” She waves her fingertips, looking uncomfortable. She’s holding a cardboard FedEx envelope. “I forgot to give you this before you left.” “Okay,” he says, uncertain about the idea of Scully on his turf. “Hang on a sec.” He makes sure the packet from the lawyer is hidden, though she’s probably heard the whole story. He knows what the talk is. They all act like he’s John fucking Douglas, like he can guess what number they’re thinking of based on how they part their hair. He’s a sideshow act, the guy who can think like John Roche and Monty Props. A freak. Scully turns to slouch against the wall while he jiggles the latest lock open, wishing there were a convenient place to stash a can of WD-40. “So, uh, come on in, I guess.” She turns, walks under his arm as he hold the door open, and stands in the entryway. The door clicks shut behind him, a final sound. Mulder puts his mail on the kitchen counter, tossing his coat over it. “You want anything to drink?” he calls to her, unsure if he can make good on the offer. What the hell does Scully drink? Tea? Zima? He’s got a few beers in the fridge, his wife’s wine is long finished. “No, I’m good.” Her coat’s draped over her arm when he comes back out, and he hangs it up for her. He notices that she’s wearing jeans with a navy cable-knit sweater, no tartan in sight. Her boots are dark and practical. Mulder shrugs off his jacket, loosens his tie out of its regulation noose. “Here, sit down. There’s, uh, the couch is right over there.” His couch is the atramentous green of algae, appearing black in the close room. “So what’s up?” She holds out the folder to him. “I realized I had this when I got home and since it’s a three day weekend, I wanted to make sure you had it. I thought it might be important.” Scully sits down close to the edge of the couch, much of her weight on her knees. She presses her hands together between them after Mulder takes the envelope, bouncing a little bit. He looks at the return address and groans. Arlinsky, that idiot from the Smithsonian. Mulder’s got enough credibility issues without this nutcase on his tail. He tosses the envelope on his cluttered desk for later perusal. Scully, as the messenger, looks apologetic. “Bad news?” He sits next to her, why not? “Nah, just…you know. The usual.” “Ah.” He watches her do a quick scan of his apartment. He has nothing to be ashamed of, she can look around. Mulder removes his tie completely now, untucks his shirt and leans into the corner of his couch. “So I’m surprised you’re here, Scully. I got the impression Christmas was a…thing. For your family.” He waves his hand vaguely, as though families are something he read about in a Margaret Mead article but never fully understood. Something closes in Scully’s face, which intrigues him. Discomfort usually comes with a good story, but he’ll tease it out of her later. She scratches her elbow, stalling. “I’m going to go by my parents’ house tomorrow.” “Not tonight? No big Scully celebration with stockings hung by the fire and cookies for Santa?” He has picked these ideas up from Oxford and Christmas music. Santa would probably prefer a cold longneck and some nachos. “My sister’s coming in tomorrow, she’s staying with my parents so they’re getting everything ready tonight. My younger brother and his family too, they’re getting in late.” Scully looks faintly guilty for this wealth of relatives. Which one of them are you avoiding, Dana? “Fun,” he says in a tone that he hopes is not sarcastic. Scully shrugs, picks at the cuff of her sweater. “Yeah, it’ll be good. I’ll get to see my niece and nephew. What about you? What are you doing?” “Oh, just…you know. Laying low.” He’s meeting up with the Gunmen for Chinese food and bootleg video games from some Japanese guy they know, but he’s not ready to tell Scully about them. In part because she might want to meet them and would end up charging Frohike with a sex crime. “Sounds good,” she says in a non-judgmental tone. “I could use some down time myself.” “Job wearing on you?” Going to wimp out and request a transfer? She puffs a breath of air out, pushes the tip of her tongue to her top lip. “No. Well, I mean, it’s hard. We travel so much, I didn’t do that before and it’s taking some adjustment.” Mulder drapes an arm over the back of the couch, wishing he could take his pants off and order a pizza. But he wants to know more about what drives her; Diana left him wary of unknown quantities, and this is his first opportunity to peer into Scully’s head. “Yeah, I guess they mostly shipped the cadavers to you before, huh? When you were doing doctor things?” He sees a slight narrowing of her eyes at this, the implication that she’s not a doctor now. The fact that she took it as an insult means it’s a vulnerability. “Mostly.” He decides to push it, being as he has home field advantage. “How come you decided to stop practicing medicine?” Scully sits up straight, her palms on the tops of her thighs. “I didn’t realize I had.” Prickly. “Oh, sorry, no offense. I just….you left your residency to join the FBI, right?” Faker, he knows her career trajectory down to the day. “My work as a Special Agent has always revolved around my background in forensic pathology. I just felt…called to the FBI as the place to best put those skills to use.” Called, religious imagery. Interesting. Her reply had a rehearsed sound, it’s something she’s repeated numerous times. Who gives her grief about being an FBI agent? A younger brother wouldn’t, would probably look up to that. Mom or Dad, most likely, though it could be one of the older siblings. He’d put his money on Dad or big brother based on the cold formality of her words. Both men are in the military, she’d speak to that. And big brother wasn’t mentioned as being in town, so Dad it is. He throws her a bone for revealing so much. “I’ve heard nothing but commendations.” “Thanks.” The appreciation seems genuine. “So what about you, Mulder? Why….this?” Scully holds her arms out like an orchestra conductor. The gesture encompasses his desk, the groaning bookshelves and fading newspaper clippings. Area 51, Reticulans, ectoplasm, and jackalopes. “Study hard what interests you the most in the most undisciplined, irreverent and original manner possible,” he quotes. “Feynman.” Scully knows her physicists. “It’s the perfect con, really. I figured out a way to get the federal government to pay for my hobbies.” He hopes that will satisfy her, but knows better. “Why is it your hobby?” Ah, Scully. You little investigator, you. “I’m a lousy knitter.” She smiles. “Because of your sister?” He steeples his fingertips, taps them against his chin. It’s tempting to blow her off, but he considers the implications of her presence. There was no reason to bring that letter by; she could have called and he could have told her to round-file it. She’s trying to build something between them, she’s looking past his annoyance with her assignment and he’s not going to slap her hand away on Christmas Eve. “Hold that thought,” he says. Mulder goes to the kitchen for the beers and the churchkey magnet stuck to the freezer. He checks for food, but a cursory examination reveals that Scully is going to have to make do with some brews. She’s peering into the fish tank when he returns, scrutinizing the inhabitants. “I think one of your mollies is pregnant,” she says. “That spotted one.” “Yeah, they’re prolific little cannibals. Here, Scully. Have a drink.” He holds the bottle out to her when she turns, watches her hesitate for an instant before accepting. “Thanks,” she says. “Though I probably shouldn’t.” She pops the lid off when he’s done with the opener. Takes a long drink. “So,” he says, returning to his seat on the couch. “Why do I spend my time looking for ET and yetis, right?” Scully rolls the bottle between her palms. “It’s hard for me to understand why someone with your abilities chooses to use those gifts this way.” Once she rides out this dogleg, Mulder thinks, she’ll go far in the Bureau with her careful diplomacy. “When my sister was…taken, it was the first time that none of the authority figures in my life had an answer. Not my parents, my teachers, the police…no one could tell me what had happened. Years went by and there was still no solution. People stopped thinking about it, you know? They just acted like she was gone and that’s all there was to it.” “But not you.” Her voice is gentle. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that this was a question with an answer, even if no one wanted to delve deeper into what that answer was. I became, well, obsessed with the idea that there were all of these mysteries out there with answers that people were uncomfortable finding. So when I found the X-Files…” He glances sidelong at his partner, her nutmeg freckles and her cinnamon hair. “Isn’t that what you were doing already, though? Solving impossible cases?” He shrugs. “They weren’t impossible. They followed a pattern if you knew what to look for. But what I do now, no one wants the answer, Scully. That’s the real challenge.” “You caught Monty Props. Props, Jesus, that case is legendary! I want to understand, I do. I see what you’re saying about the challenge, it does make a kind of sense. But when I think about the people you stopped…” She shakes her head. She doesn’t get it. But she’s trying instead of dismissing him. That’s something. “That’s just it. Your reaction, it’s…look. Serial killers, they’re sexy. The public loves them. Everyone wants to be Bill Patterson or, or… Jack Crawford, right? People still read about Jack the Ripper, they practically turn these psychopaths into folk heroes. There will never be a shortage of people wanting to do what I did.” Half the beer is gone in his next swallow. Scully looks thoughtful, her thumbnail at the damp corner of the label on her bottle. “So this is like, what? Like a martyr thing? If you walk away from the limelight for this then it makes up for never knowing what happened to your sister?” She turns her head to give him a level gaze, her eyes so blue and clear they seem artificial at times. He’s been called worse than a martyr, but somehow it stings. “Martyr? That’s condescending.” “I didn’t mean it like that, I’m sorry. I just, I guess it’s hard for me to understand what you hope to gain. What all this means to you in the end.” Mulder’s had enough of her analysis. “I’m not like you, I don’t crave approval.” It’s her turn to look stung. “I didn’t mean to pry.” He sighs. “Your questions aren’t unfair. It’s been a hard year.” “I heard.” There’s sympathy in her tone and he tries not to resent it. “Listen, Scully, I know you didn’t ask for this assignment and you’re doing your best with a bad hand. It’s just hard to share a career I’m passionate about with someone who pretty clearly thinks it’s a waste of time.” Scully sets her beer on the coffee table, resting her elbows on her knees, her hands cupped around her chin. Mulder props his feet up next to her bottle, patient in the silence. There are deep shadows in the room, illuminated by the ambient streetlight through the curtains, the cool blue aquarium lamp. Puddles of light leak from the kitchen, but they barely stain the rug. Scully looks like a Hitchcock girl, white and pure, untouched by the surrounding gloom. She reminds him of Ingrid Bergman or Greta Garbo, her good bones and heavy-lidded eyes. “You know,” Scully says, muffled, “Pathology’s hardly the hottest specialty in med school. It’s not really seen as a place to make a career.” “The malpractice can’t be bad though, right?” She rolls her eyes. “You spend years of your life learning to care for the living and use it to examine the dead. People have…opinions about that.” This had not occurred to him, and he says as much. Scully sits up and settles back into the couch. “And to then take that to the FBI, well…” Full circle to the truth. “Lots of grief for that?” She shrugs. “From some more than others. My dad, he – look, Mulder. I’m not saying we’re in the same place or have the same ideas or that we’re both noble misunderstood renegades. I am not trying to oversimplify anything. I’m just telling you that I know what it’s like to care deeply about something that other people don’t necessarily understand.” She looks defensive after this, takes a fierce swig of her beer. Mulder eyes her up with a new appreciation. “I guess I just figured all doctors sit on pedestals.” “If so, some of the pedestals are much higher than others. I know you don’t like me, Mulder. Or at least you don’t like our partnership. We may never be friends, I realize that. But it’s been three quarters of a year, you have to let your guard down if we’re going to work together. I want what you want, answers to these questions.” He smiles at her. A real smile, and thinks that it’s been a long time since he’s done it. “But you still think I’m spooky.” Scully smiles back. “Absolutely. And I still don’t believe in aliens. Or yetis. Or missing time or vampires or Nessie. But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe there are answers.” He scratches his chin, five o’clock shadow rough on his fingertips. Maybe she’s not so bad, this gingery little doctor. “I did say I wanted a challenge.” “You did at that.” She returns her bottle to the table, then turns to face him. The aquarium provides a ghostly backlight, her hair gleaming like rubbed copper. He holds this image of Scully in his mind until it is indelible, then tucks it away to remember her by. The Rhetorica ad Herennium advises sensory encoding to aid in recall, and so he places her in the sunlit portrait gallery of his memory palace. Scully stands, crosses the room to take her coat from the rack. “I’m sorry the letter wasn’t good news.” Mulder gets up to join her. “It’s okay.” He squints when she opens the door, the hallway so bright it hurts his eyes. “Thanks for bringing it by.” “Okay, well, I’ll see you on Monday, I guess.” She seems hesitant to go. She probably feels sorry for him. “Thanks for the drink. And the company.” “Go,” he says. “You don’t want coal in your stocking for oversleeping tomorrow.” She laughs a little, then takes his hands in her small white ones. She gives them a squeeze. “This is going to be okay, Mulder.” He thinks she might be right, squeezes back. She lets go of him, walks out and turns right. He locks up behind her, her perfume still lingering on his side of the door. Diana’s not coming home. It’s time that he moved on.

#my fic #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #season 1 #new years eve

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beanfic · 4 years

Text

Don’t tell my dad!

Pairing: peter parker x stark!reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Summary: you overhear your Dad’s intern talking about a party, and you decide to sneak in with your best friend

Warnings: underage drinking, poorly made decisions, rebellious teens

Author’s note: it’s not really peter parker x reader, more like in a platonic friend way? I just had a dream about this happening, so I decided to write about it :) Also meet Kenzie! She is an OC and I decided to add her into this as y/n’s bff. I hope you guys enjoy it!!

You had heard about the party from your Dad’s newest intern, Peter Parker, when asked about his weekend plans. He mentioned he was attending a party at a friend’s house, and you were interested immediately. You had talked to Peter a few times while passing in the tower. He was a nice guy, the same age as you, also. Both of you were 17. He didn’t strike you as the party type, but you weren’t going to question it.

You had been raised in the tower since you were five, the year your Dad had taken custody of you after the death of your Mom. Living with the Avengers and bearing the last name ‘Stark’ meant that you never got a chance to go to school with other kids. Instead, you were homeschooled, first by your Dad, but now you were learning the complex subjects from Dr. Banner. You didn’t surprise anyone when you showed the same interest in engineering at a young age, being a Stark and all. You were greatly appreciative about the challenging schooling you received, but you regretted not developing the social skills a normal teenager would have.

You have a few friends including a best one named Kenzie, a daughter of your Father’s friend but that didn’t help with socializing. You wanted to experience a high school party, just like the ones you had seen in the movies. It was a perfect plan, you could find out the address somehow, and go along with Kenzie. Kenzie was also homeschooled but was more normal than you could ever feel.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” Kenz said as she sat beside your bed, strapping her shoes.

“Yes! My Dad is out tonight and I had FRIDAY do some research, and this guy, Flash, is known for throwing huge parties where multiple high schools go. It’s not like we are going to see anyone we know.”

“What about your Dad’s intern? Isn’t that how you heard about the party?”

You shrug, “He doesn’t seem like the party type so I doubt he will even show up, and if he does I’m sure we can find a way to avoid him. We can just find a corner to drink in.”

“This is so risky, Y/N!” Kenzie grabs your arm and shakes it.

“I know, it’s exciting.” You shove Kenzie off of you and you flash an annoyed smile.

“Ready?” Kenzie stands up and you nod. Both of you tiptoe down to the garage, avoiding Steve who was usually in the training facility at night. Fortunately, he wasn’t there.

“Should we take the Mercedes?” you ask Kenz who look over at you with wide eyes.

“You have a Mercedes? You have options?”

You giggle, “My Dad lets me drive any of his cars except his Lambo. We can also take the Porsche.”

“I’m good with the Mercedes, we’re trying to lay low! Plus how are we getting back if we both want to drink?”

“My Dad has programmed FRIDAY into each of his cars so it can do autopilot,” and right on cue, the car lit up with FRIDAY’s voice.

“Hello, Y/N Stark. Where are we going tonight?”

“Whoahhhh,” Kenz gasps under her breath. You repeat the address that FRIDAY had found back at the car.

“I’ll drive, FRIDAY.” You grab the wheel and rev the engine a little before pulling out of the garage into the cold streets and the starry night sky.

“I’m nervous,” Kenzie admits as you park down the street from the house. It was big and lit up with multi-colored lights. It was on an isolated street down a private drive, which was a good thing because with how loud it already was from the outside, you were certain police would show up at some point.

“It’s okay, I just need to make sure no one recognizes me and that we avoid Peter.”

“Sounds easy enough, sure, yeah, whatever you say” Kenzies’ tone is filled with sarcasm but you just roll your eyes at her.

“I’m not that famous.”

“No, of course not! Just the rightful heir of Stark Industries, no big deal!”

“C’mon, let’s just get inside and grab a drink.” You open the car door and are greeted by the chilly night air. You walk up to the angular house, flashing a smile at the group of preppy looking kids playing beer pong on the huge and perfectly manicured front lawn. The music pounds out of the crack in the door as you push it open. A kid in a colorful floral hawaain shirt spills beer over himself as he stumbles past you in the hallway. Immediately, you know you're in the right place.

“FRIDAY, check for Peter,” you whisper to the black glasses on your face. It was a good thing fashion glasses were in style, but you think to yourself that these might look a bit outdated. “Hm?” Kenzie turns to look at you. You point to your glasses and she mouths an “ohhh”. Even if you wanted to, you wouldn't be able to hear her over the music.

“We’re good, no Peter yet. I’m sure the drinks will be in the kitchen, right?” you ask and Kenz nodded. It was difficult to maneuver through the sweaty, heaving crowd but eventually, you discover the kitchen. There's a sign above the granite counter that says “live, laugh, love”. These people fuckin suck. You notice a crappy cardboard sign that says “Shot Station” written in bold sharpie.

“Should we do shots?” Kenzie asks you nervously.

“I’m down,” you smirk, letting the Stark in you take over. You remember your Dad’s famous words in your head “never do something I would do when I was your age.” Doing something you knew you weren’t supposed to do made you bubble with excitement.

You take lead and grab two tiny red solo shot glasses and fill them up with a bottle of Malibu someone pulled from the fridge. It smells strongly of coconut and alcohol.

“To being adventurous!” Kenzie shouted, raising her cup for a toast.

“Being adventurous!” you yell back, bringing the cup to your lips and letting the warm liquid slide down your throat.

“What now?” Kenzie asks.

“Let’s make a mixed drink to carry around with us and we can go explore the rest of the house. FRIDAY told me there is a game room!”

“Okay!” Kenzie agrees. You throw some lemonade and the rest of the malibu into a bigger cup, and Kenzie does the same. You hope that the drinks are for everyone, after all they are just sitting out so you don’t worry too much.

“Sorry, I made ‘em kind of strong!” you hand Kenz the drink and she takes a sip, eyes going wide.

“That’s delicious!”

“That’s why mixed drinks are dangerous.”

The two of you wander around the house, making sure to watch for Peter until you find the game room. Both of your jaw’s drop when you first open the door. There are pool tables, foosball, ping pong machines, and tables for card games.

“Hey! We’re playing a game of rage cage, want to join?” a slurred voice calls out towards the two of you.

“Us?” you and Kenz look at each other.

“Yes!”

You look over at Kenz with a questioning look, and she raises her eyebrows in a confirming manner. The people seemed nice, and you didn’t recognize any of them.

“How do we play?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink. A taller blonde guy, probably around your age as well, shuffles the cards and smiles down at you.

“You never played?”

“Nope,” you shake your head, feeling the heat bleed into your cheeks.

“It’s easy, you just try to make the ping pong ball into your cup before the person next to you, and if you don’t make it you have to chug the drink and try to make it again. If you get stacked then you have to drink.”

“Seems simple enough,” you muttered.

“Let’s do it!” Kenzie cheered, causing a few others to cheer with her. You wish you had the same charisma as her, but maybe the alcohol was already playing a role. You take another large gulp of your drink hoping you would feel something soon.

The game was confusing at first, and both you and Kenz ended up chugging about three glasses of beer before understanding. You both got a hold of it and ended up doing pretty well.

It was down to the last cup, the bitch cup as they called it, and it was your turn next. If you didn’t get the ball in the tower of red solo cups before the person next to you, you had to chug the entire cup of randomly mixed alcohol.

“No!” you shouted as the person next to you stacked their cup on top of yours.

“You gotta drink the bitch cup, bitchhh!” Kenzie sloppily points her finger into your shoulder. You looked over at her, and you could sense she was pretty drunk.

Fine!” you grab the bitch cup and everyone starts chanting “chug! Chug! Chug!” and you down the nasty drink.

“holyyy,” the everyone at the table all gasped at how fast you drank the bitch cup. You wiped your mouth and smiled with glee. You were a Stark, after all.

“I need airrrr,” Kenzie leaned on your shoulder.

“Me toooo,” the room was spinning as you started to walk out of the room, into the hallway and back towards the stairs.

“I feel so funny,” Kenzie giggled clumsily. “I feel like I can dance in the… in the sky!” She starts spinning in circles, flapping her arms like a bird.

You laugh until you can’t breathe as you watch your best friend drunkenly dance her way upstairs. Your stomach is spinning with alcohol, and you need fresh air, quickly.

“I feel sick,” you mumble to Kenzie.

“But I wanna dance!” she grabs your hands as you reach the main floor where the music is pumping and everyone is swaying together in synchronized rhythm.

“Kenzzzz,” you groan.

“Y/N Stark, you have a blood alcohol concentration level of .228. It is best you get along home.” FRIDAY’s voice sounds in your ear. You grab your glasses and shove them in your pocket. You can hear FRIDAY objecting as her voice is muffled in your jeans.

“I need to-,” you start to tell Kenzie as you feel the contents of your stomach start to fill up to your throat and you grab your mouth as you tumble out the back door to the dark patio before falling over into the damp grass. You spill your guts into a bush the moment you reach the backyard. You know that a ton of people probably are watching you right now, but, at this point? You could care less. You wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your sweatshirt.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice calls out behind you.

“Peter!” you whip around quickly, causing you to trip over your own foot and spin right into him. Peter’s arms were around you instantly, keeping you from hitting the concrete.

“What are you doing here?” he helps you stand up.

“Please don’t tell my Dad!” you manage through clumsy lips.

“I won’t, Y/N.” He wipes a strand of hair away from your face as he studies you. You feel uncomfortable with his gaze.

“Y/N? Where are yo-oh.” Kenzie stops mid-sentence as she sees Peter holding your shoulders.

“She threw up,” Peter looks over at your friend.

“I thought FRIDAY was supposed to tell you when he was nearby,” Kenzie tries to whisper to you but fails as Peter hears her.

“What?” he looks over at you as you grab the glasses from your pocket, showing him them guiltily.

“Ah, I won’t tell your Dad! I promise! You should go home though, you’re really sick Y/N.”

“I’m fineee,” you lean into Peter’s arms, resting your head on his strong shoulder.

“Erm.” Peter’s cheeks blush, he had barely talked to you and now you were drunkenly resting in his arms.

“I wanna danceee, are you drunk too Peter?” you ask him.

“I don’t, um, drink, but I really think you and your friend should go back home. Did you drive here?”

“We took a Mercedes!” Kenzie giggled.

“Right, well how about I drive you two back home?” he suggests.

“FRIDAY can driveee,” you hiccup. Peter couldn’t help but chuckle.

“I think it would be best if a human made sure you two got home safe.”

You pout, “But Spide-” but Peter’s hand comes closing in on your mouth before you could finish your sentence.

“Let’s go!” Peter grabs your hand and Kenz’s arm and pulls both of you towards the very recognizable Mercedes.

“Hi, Peter, headed to the tower?” FRIDAY’s voice chirps over the speakers. Kenz was in the back seat laying down. You stared over at Peter, taking in the brown curls that lay gently on his forehead.

The drive back to the compound was short, but maybe that was because you had closed your eyes and dozed off a couple of times. There wasn’t music playing either, so the silence was only filled with the soft snores of Kenzie in the backseat.

“We’re here,” Peter shakes your shoulder softly, trying to wake you up from your dazed state. You could barely keep your eyes focused on the brunette in front of you.

“Kenzie” you mumble but you hear her stretching and yawning in the back.

“I’ll help you too upstairs, you’re on the third floor right, Y/N?”

You nodded, “Next to my Dad’s room.”

Peter nods, shutting the driver’s door and walking over towards the passenger side to help you out. Kenzie ends up being in a better state than you. She was able to walk but you rely on Peter to even stand up.

“You’re cute, Peter.” The words slips off your tongue as you all manage to stand upright in the elevator.

“Erm, thank you.” He scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. The elevator doors open with a ding to the third floor.

“Well, this is a surprise,” your Dad’s stern voice greets you. He walks into view with his arms crossed against his chest.

“Damnit,” you groan. You keep your eyes on the ground, avoiding your Dad’s glare.

“Hi Mister Stark, I found Y/N and Kenzie at the party and thought I should get them home safely. I made sure nothing bad happened to them!” Peter rapid fired.

“I think I will take it from here, thank you Peter,” your Dad patts his shoulder, looking up at you knowingly.

“See you around,” you slur. You almost begin to stumble over when Peter removes his arm that was holding you up, but your Dad catches you.

“Whoa there, are we drunk?” His voice has a hint of sarcasm in it.

“I don’t knowww, am I?” you giggle.

“You should sleep, same with you Kenzie. Do your parents know what happened tonight?”

“No, sir,” she shook her head.

“I won’t tell them, but take it from a parent. Being honest is better than keeping secrets. You can sleep in the guest room, I’m going to go take Y/N here, to bed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Kenzie walks down the hall towards the familiar guest room. You feel a bit guilty that you had put her in this position, but you were not expecting to get as blasted as you were. Your Dad practically carries you to your room and you lay down on the bed, feeling the warm pull of sleep immediately.

“Y/N,” your Dad begins to speak.

“Mmm, tired,” you mumble. You lay in the fetal position, head on the pillow and eyes already closed. You can hear your dad sigh heavily and feel a heavy blanket being pulled up and over your body.

“We will talk about this tomorrow and discuss consequences, but for now I’ll let you sleep. Love you, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry,” you squeak.

“I know, but we will talk tomorrow. Get some rest.”

“Okay, love you Dad.”

It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, and even though you were mentally prepared for the lecture from your father, nothing would have prepared you for the massive hangover you were about to be greeted with in the morning.

#marvel fanfiction #avenger fanfiction #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark!reader #stark!reader #irondad #tony stark x stark!reader #avenger fanfic #avenger oneshot #avenger imagine #marvel imagi #marvel onesh #peter parker fluff #peter parker angst #beanfic

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thornescratch · 3 years

Note

🖊🌙 😐📝

What time of day do you prefer to write? Why?

Late at night, more out of necessity than preference. It’s when I have the least amount of interruptions. Also, it’s a proven fact that the words flow best and hardest when you need to be sleeping or getting ready for bed. It’s just how it works in the universal scheme of things.

What embarrasses you most about your own writing?

When I realize that I’m projecting too much on a character or situation and making it obvious. Like, there are some tropes I don’t mind revisiting over and over, but I get twitchy when I realize, Oops, that’s my issue, not Character X’s, and it’s less realistic they’d feel that way. Or when I catch myself reusing a description or phrase too often. I need to stop limning people in gold; I do it way too often. Or focusing on sweat in weird places during sex scenes. Though, it’s my experience that you do always notice the sweat during sexytimes.

Sometimes it embarrasses me how appealing I find some really OOC or over the top trashy stuff, but everyone’s got their favorite woobie and tropes, so I’ve stopped feeling bad about that.

What is one growth area you have for your writing?

Pacing. I do outline, but for a couple of my stories that were written for exchanges, you can tell where I hit deadline and had to just get it done instead of having a few more scenes or length that might have improved it. (Or, conversely, I should have been more brutal and cut shit that I liked but which ultimately wasn’t necessary. But then again, it’s fanfic.)

Also, uh, just finishing shit. And feeling less silly about it. I don’t like posting WIPs because I like to finish them first, but then I get interested in something else or I think it’s not good enough to post, and it languishes on my hard drive for years.

Post a snippet from a current WIP.

Again, not sure what fandom you're from, so let's go back to hockey since I have it open right now.

"Hey, hi, so like, O and Backy turned into chickens, it's not my fault," Willy said, standing on his front step with a large cardboard box in his arms.

"It's his fault," Burky said from somewhere behind Willy.

"Totally Whip fault," someone else—Kuzy? said, also from behind Willy, who took up a lot of space on a normal basis and even more so when he was apparently hauling boxes around. One arm poked out from behind him and waved wildly, and then there was an unmistakable giggle, so it was definitely Kuzy. "Batya, let us in."

"Fuck you, it's not!" Willy said, and then hoisted the cardboard box up slightly. The box peeped at Brooks loudly, and he jerked back in surprise. "Here, let us in, lemme just explain," Willy added, and then Brooks had three—no, four, no, five, Djoos and Orlov were apparently quietly lurking at the back of the pack as well—teammates stampeding into his house like they were trying to outrun the cloud of youthful indiscretion that Brooks could just fucking see hanging over them.

"Curse my slow door-slamming skills," he said to his now-empty front step, and then closed the door and took a deep breath in order to prepare for whatever the hell was going on.

Most of them were all in his kitchen. Willy had put the box down on the kitchen table and he and Burky were in his pantry; Kuzy was looking in his fridge; he didn't see Djoos; and Snarls, bless his heart, was the only one being polite and standing near one of the chairs, clearly waiting for permission to sit down. Brooks made a mental note to tell Ovi about it, since Ovi believed in positive reinforcement when it came to nurturing the kids, and would probably buy Dima a new car or something.

The box on the table was still peeping. Before Brooks could deal with that, it was drowned out by an even louder noise, which was apparently directly related to Kuzy pawing through his vegetable crisper drawer.

"Batya! It's terrible!" Kuzy said, leaning out of the fridge and brandishing an eggplant at him.

"All of his crackers are wholegrain stuff," Burky called out from the pantry, muffled. "He doesn't have any chips."

"He's got two bags of Skinny Pop, though," Willy added. "Original and White Cheddar."

"Everything so healthy," Kuzy said, making a face. "It's terrible but I guess also good. I know we make best choice to come here."

Brooks took the eggplant away from Kuzy and slapped it against his palm once with a pleasantly solid noise. It had some good heft. "The last person who isn't sitting down at the table quietly in the next fifteen seconds gets to explain to Barry why they have to go on LTIR because someone beat them senseless with an eggplant."

"Like, a real eggplant, or is this a dick joke," Willy said, leaning out of the pantry before his eyes went wide. "Oh."

Kuzy was already opening his mouth with that glint in his eye again, so Brooks pointed the eggplant at him. "Sit. Down. Where's Juicer?"

"I was using the bathroom, please don't hit me," Djoos said meekly, slipping back into the kitchen and sitting down immediately, hands folded on top of the table neatly like a good little d-man. Brooks made another mental note to let Nicky know. Nicky had his own nurturing system for the kids, though that usually ran along the lines of a series of slightly less murderous than usual glares that he used for those currently in his favor.

"Can we bring some Skinny Pop?" Burky asked. "Actually, can we bring both bags?"

"I mean, actually you wouldn't really need to explain so much—" Willy said, and then Burky wiggled past him out of the narrow pantry doors with a bag stowed under each arm, and dove for the table, yelling out, "Hit him, Batya, hit him!"

"Hey!" Willy said indignantly, rushing after him and almost knocking Kuzy over in the process.

There was a briefly chaotic interval like a particularly violent game of musical chairs, but it ended with everyone sitting down in a chair, even if Burky and Djoos were sharing one. Less sharing, maybe, than Burky getting physically dumped out of two chairs in quick succession by Willy and Dima, and then Burky climbing into Djoos's lap, planting himself there, and winding his arms around Djoos's neck despite Djoos's wide-eyed expression of panic, but Brooks decided he couldn't afford to be too particular about it, and Djoos was just going to have to learn to desensitize himself to Burky-induced boners and personal space issues.

The box was still peeping.

Brooks eyed all of them, trying to decide who he had the best chance of getting the story out of the quickest, and then decided that he might as well give up on that and picked Willy, since he had a distinctly guilty expression that was only slightly marred by how he was currently shoving a double handful of Brooks's Skinny Pop into his mouth. "Willy. Explain. And no one else talk until I say they can."

Willy swallowed and licked his lips. "Okay, so. Magic."

After a minute when nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, Brooks cleared his throat. "That's it? That's all you got?"

Willy glanced around the table where all of his teammates were successfully avoiding his gaze (Kuzy and Dima were both pretending to read the nutritional info on the back of the popcorn bag; Burky was actually hiding his face against Djoos's neck; accordingly, Djoos's panic looked like it had ratcheted up by several degrees, and he was staring off into the middle distance with a muscle twitching in his cheek) and when it seemed obvious that no help was forthcoming, he shrugged. "Kinda?"

#I think this is the last one #meme #writing #fanfic

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silverblogs · 3 years

Text

@dr-nero-is-god here’s your present for the gift exchange! I took the exchanging presents thing and expanded on it a bit. Sorry for the long post, I dont know how to put something under a cut on mobile, but I hope you like it :)

“Okay okay okay, it’s the most wonderful time of the year,” said Shelby, flinging herself down on the bed next to Laura, “which means.... drumroll please...”

The other five provided it with feet on the floor, and Shelby flung her hands up in a dramatic flourish.

“Presents!”

Since H.I.V.E. didn’t have normal school holidays at the end of every term, Nero seemed to consider it no great loss to their education to give the entire school time off for every religious celebration. It still amounted to less than half the holiday they would have at an ordinary school. So on Christmas Day, Otto, Wing, Shelby, Laura, Franz and Nigel were gathered in the girls’ room for secret Santa.

There was no legitimate way of getting presents at H.I.V.E., so when Otto had suggested secret Santa, it had been clear they would all have to rely on ingenuity. H.I.V.E.mind had given them all a name, and over the course of the last month, they had all found some way of getting a gift.

“Sounds good to me,” said Otto, “okay, everyone close their eyes, and one by one we’ll open them and leave the gift next to the person.”

The boys had all put their gifts inside their school bags to maintain the secrecy, and everybody closed their eyes while Otto deposited his present. One by one, all six of them left them, Laura last.

“Okay, all done,” she said as she sat down.

“I think we should be starting alphabetically,” said Franz with a grin.

The others laughed, and Shelby nodded.

“Go on then,” she said, looking at the cardboard box in front of him that was much too big to have fitted in anybody’s school bag, “we all want to see what’s in there anyway. Franz first.”

Franz lifted the lid of the cardboard box, and his face lit up. He pulled the lid further back to reveal a slightly messily iced, but still delicious looking gingerbread house.

“That is it,” he said, “I have already won.”

“Damn, you kinda have,” said Shelby, “who and how is what I wanna know.”

“Me,” said Laura with a grin and a wave, “I helped Mandy in the kitchens automate some of their systems and she let me come in in a free period and make it.”

“Thank you!” said Franz through a mouthful of the roof, “it is being excellent.”

“Ok, your turn, Laura,” said Nigel.

Laura tore open a small package to reveal a necklace with several tiny but quite definitely real jewels hanging from it. It wasn’t hard to guess who it might be from.

“Oh my god, Shel,” she laughed, “Ms Leon’ll kill you!”

The jewels were recogniseable as those that had been used as goals in the Maze during past lessons.

“Nah, I leave no trace,” said Shelby, “I put trackers on them when I got them in class, so when I returned them I know where she put them, then waited til the year above had a lesson in the Maze and stole them that night so they’re the suspicious ones.”

“Aww Shel,” Laura knocked their shoulders together, “you really put in the effort, didn’t you? Thank you.”

“Anything for my favourite geek,” she said, “my go?”

Without waiting for an answer, she tore open the tiny square at her feet, revealing a little black cube with a lens on one face, a screen on the opposite one, and two buttons and a joystick on top.

“I may as well reveal myself to explain,” said Otto with a grin, “point the lens at a lock and it’ll scan it for you, and show you an image on the screen. I built it in the professor’s lab.”

“Damn,” said Shelby, turning the cube over in her hand, then pocketing it, “and portable. Thanks Robotto. Maybe you’re my favourite geek after all.”

Laura shoved her lightly, and Shelby grinned and tossed an arm around her shoulders as Otto reached for his own package, small and flat. Peeling it open, he revealed an iPod, and a gasp went up.

“Okay, that’s definitely the most impressive so far,” said Nigel, “no offence everyone. Who got something from off the island?”

Wing grinned, and gave a small wave.

“How?” asked Otto, “we haven’t left since the hunt, and that was hardly an occasion to pop into the apple store.”

“I have my connections,” said Wing with a cryptic smile.

“Spill, big guy,” said Shelby.

“I simply asked Raven nicely.”

Franz choked.

“You were asking for Raven’s help?”

Shelby huffed.

“He just loved to rub it in that he’s her favourite.”

“Aww, someone’s jealous,” said Otto, pinching Shelby’s cheek.

She pouted at him and nodded to Wing’s dubiously wrapped present. He carefully peeled it open, and his smile broadened as he lifted out a tiny bonsai tree in a pot.

“I hardly need to ask whom I have to thank for this,” he said, turning his smile on Nigel, who turned pink.

“Well I heard you say Lao used to have a lot, and I thought you might like one. Miss Gonzales doesn’t let me experiment anymore, but she let me use the Violet spot again for a normal plant.”

“It is lovely, thank you,” said Wing.

“I wonder who Nigel’s could be from,” Otto said with a grin as Nigel picked up the envelope that had been left in front of him.

He opened it and read the slip of paper inside, then looked at Franz, shocked.

“You’re joking.”

“I am very genuine, my friend.”

Nigel broke into a huge smile.

“I beat you all,” he said, then read the slip aloud, “coupon, good for ten pieces of finance homework.”

Cries of jealousy filled the room for a few seconds, then gave way to laughter.

“Good idea Otto,” said Shelby, poking him with her toe, “this was fun.”

“Thought it might be,” said Otto, “happy Christmas everyone.”

***

Professor Pike came into the staff room to find Colonel Francisco and Ms Leon already inside, the Colonel drinking coffee and Ms Leon pawing at her tablet, grading essays. He avoided eye contact with Ms Leon, making a beeline for the colonel.

“Colonel,” he said as he hurried over, “I believe today is the day for secret Santa deliveries.”

“Well I must say this is very secretive, Theodore.” said Colonel Francisco, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, well, I didn’t just want to leave this lying around in a pigeon hole in case someone else picked it up, but Merry Christmas.”

He reached into one of his deep lab coat pockets and retrieved a pistol, handing it over grip first.

“I’ve already got a few of those.”

“Not like this one,” said the professor, eyebrows leaping in excitement almost to join his hair, “I call it the sandboy. Just like the sandman rifles, but condensed.”

The colonel eyed the pistol and grinned.

“Looks great,” he said, “though the name could use some work. Thanks.”

“Pleasure.”

“Professor.”

A French accented voice made him cringe and he looked down the table to see a small box sliding along it, pushed by a white paw.

“Merry Christmas.”

Even her synthetic voice conveyed her irritation at being given him for the staff secret Santa, but he gave a grateful if slightly fearful smile, and opened the box. Inside lay a grid of chocolates and a typed note.

Merry Christmas. Enjoy the chocolates - one of the many benefits of a human body.

“Thank you Tabitha,” he said weakly, inwardly deciding not to risk eating any of them.

She didn’t reply, and Colonel Francisco rolled his eyes.

“Well since nobody seems to care about the “secret” part of secret Santa, here’s yours, Tabitha.”

He slid a package down the table, and a terrifying flurry of claws and a few seconds later, a small cat outfit was visible on the table. Ms Leon gave as much of a glare as a cat can manage.

“I am not a pet, Colonel.”

“It’s an ISIS suit,” he said hurriedly, “tailor made.”

Ms Leon paused, then eyed the suit.

“It’s lovely,” she said, “and very useful. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

***

Raven stepped off the shroud’s ramp, heaving a sigh of relief. She hated going to Moscow on assignment - it was uncomfortably familiar and it always threw her off her game - but she had achieved her goal, and even completed the mission she’d been assigned along the way.

“Where do you want the cargo?” the pilot asked.

“I’ll have the crate now,” she said, “send the rest to the professor for analysis.”

“Got it,” he said.

A few seconds later he came back to the ramp with a crate, complete with penguin gift wrapping he hadn’t dared to ask about. She hadn’t lost the edge of fear with the staff, even if a few of her students were getting unacceptably unafraid of her - Wing had asked her to pick up a Christmas present! And she’d done it!

She took the crate with a nod of thanks, and set off in the direction of her quarters. She’d arrived back just in time for secret santa. She’d finally given in this year and agreed to participate. Much to her relief, she’d been randomly allocated Nero. She suspected H.I.V.E.mind had made that selection less than random so she wouldn’t bail.

Thankfully, she passed nobody in the corridors while carrying her festively wrapped gift. She reached her room without incident, and quickly changed, then put the crate in a suitcase. She had been lucky enough not to pass anyone on the way here, but it was a decent walk to Nero’s office. When she arrived, she let herself in - she was the only one who had that security clearance after the Contessa incident. Nero looks up from the work on his desk and smiled.

“Ah, Natalya,” he said, “was Moscow alright?”

She knew he hated sending her there, mainly because she hated to go there, but the business had been unavoidable. Besides, one of the only crates in the world of the kind she had in her suitcase resided there, in the home of an oligarch she’d broken into purely to get it.

“Fine,” she said, “I got it done.”

“You always do,” he said, “you can fill me in tomorrow. Is that for the professor?”

“No, the stuff is on its way to him already, this is for you. I’m just in time for secret santa, I think.”

She opened the suitcase and removed the crate, lifting it and nodding to the things on Nero’s desk, which he cleared to the side to allow her to put it down.

“I’m intrigued,” he said with a smile.

He took a letter opened from his pen pot and sliced along the top of the wrapping paper, then pulled it back to reveal a wooden crate, which he opened. Inside sat a dozen bottles of some of the rarest brandy in the world, and Nero’s face broke into a smile. The one bottle he’d gotten his hands on five years ago was almost empty, and he had despaired of finding any more.

“My dear, you’ve outdone yourself,” he said, “thank you.”

“My pleasure,” she said, “don’t drink it all at once.”

“Keep Mr Malpense and co. under control and I won’t need to,” he said wryly, “coincidentally, I am also your secret Santa, but this feels a little... well, little, now.”

He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a box big enough to fit in the palm of his hand, perfectly wrapped. Raven tore back the wrapping paper to reveal a black box, and inside, a bracelet. It was soft, braided black leather, with two connecting silver angels’ wings as the clasp. It looked comfortable, the wings didn’t dangle inconveniently, and it wasn’t flashy, though Nero being who he was she was sure it was obscenely expensive - she’d never been a fan of jewellery, but this she would wear. She took it out with a smile and fastened it around her wrist, turning her hand to look at it.

“I saw something similar when I was last in London, and it made me think of the “guardian angel” joke everyone’s always making, so when I got you for secret Santa I had one made.”

“It’s lovely,” she said, “thank you.”

“No problem. Now, have a glass of this with me.”

***

Watching the cameras around H.I.V.E. as he always did, H.I.V.E.mind’s wireframe face curved into a smile. The secret santas were far from random, and organising them was the highlight of his year. Another successful Christmas at H.I.V.E.

#h.i.v.e.#hive gift exchange #long post

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you-guys--are-losers · 5 years

Note

Can you write a fic about MJ ranting to Betty about her crush on Peter

//You know I can, and I will. ;) I actually even have a part two planned for this, so thanks so much for a prompt that I know I can build off of! I’m really excited to dig into this.

a momentary lapse

summary: when mj gets stuck waiting out a psychotic water monster, she finds her tongue is as slippery as the venetian streets when it comes to peter parker.

characters: michelle jones x peter parker, betty brant x ned leeds, flash thompson, abe brown, cindy moon, mr. harrington

word count: 2,730

warnings: mildly homicidal tidal wave, teenage angst, unintentional fluff

mj is the first to admit it: she doesn’t exactly have the best track record with school trips

there was the decathlon trip to d.c., for starters, in which their team single-handedly blew a hole in one of america’s monuments to its morally-grey history (not such a bad outcome) and got themselves stuck in a burning elevator (admittedly, a problem)

then there was the fact that they screwed up so bad spider-man found it necessary to haul ass all the way out to washington (although mj has her own opinions on that particular coincidence– but that is a discussion for another time)

at the time, mj had figured that one near-death experience on a school trip would be enough for a lifetime

so, when the literal ocean decides to attack them in venice, mj will admit that she is caught slightly unprepared

she first realizes what’s going on when there is a near miss involving ned, betty, and a gondola

the soaking wet couple stumbles out of the boat, and then they are ushered into the crowd, along with mj, searching for somewhere sheltered from the water in the city that is literally built into the sea

there are bodies pushing around them on every side, all of the people struggling to get away from the murderous lazy river that is trying to drag them into the depths

“flash, stop video-taping this!” shouts abe over the ruckus, causing mj to glance over her shoulder at her classmates

“someone needs to know that the ocean is attacking us!” flash shouts back in response, adding, “it could be aliens, or-”

“or maybe you should put away the phone and concentrate on running for your life!” cindy snaps, shoving her way past flash

“alright, children, please stay calm,” mr. harrington calls in a shrill voice that is decidedly not calm, “everything is going to be alright. emergency services have been contacted-”

“and how are they gonna get here?” flash asks shrilly, adding, “oh, right. by boat!”

at that moment, the group turns down another alley, meeting with another rush of people running for their escape

mj doesn’t realize that she is being separated from her companions until it is almost too late

at the last second, her hand shoots out and grabs betty’s

mj links her fingers together with the girl’s, her eyes meeting the panicked gaze of the blonde

when she turns to look for the rest of the group, mj finds that they are gone, swallowed up in a crowd of unfamiliar faces

the shoving is getting worse, and for one dangerous moment mj fears that she is going to slip on the cobblestones and end up underfoot; then, her eyes find a sheltered side street behind a cafe, as well as a dumpster they should be able to use as shelter

mj tugs fiercely on betty’s hand to get her attention, and the girl’s panicked gaze locks on hers, goes to focus on the hiding spot, then travels back to mj’s own eyes with new understanding

after mj is sure betty understands, she pulls herself free of the crowd, holding tight to her classmate as she makes a beeline for shelter

betty weaves through the crowd quickly, and in a flash the girls find themselves crouched beneath a tall, cardboard box leaning against the trash, breathing heavily

for a moment, that’s all either can do: squat under the cardboard, fighting to catch their breath and still their pounding hearts

and then, betty begins rifling through her soaking purse for her phone, breathing, “we need to call someone. mr. harrington, or maybe flash, or… ned!”

betty’s voice goes shrill on the final name as she releases mj’s hand, bringing both hands to cup her cheeks

“i can’t believe i lost him! oh, my gosh… what if something happens to him? i need to text him, or else he’s going to worry.”

before she can look for her phone again, mj rests a hand on betty’s arm

“you should probably wait,” mj reasons slowly, “i’m sure he’s running, like the rest of them. you don’t want him to stop and look at his phone when you call, or else he might get hurt. he needs to focus.”

“you’re right,” betty pants, running a hand through her soaking wet hair. “i just can’t believe… well, i’m sure you know how it feels. you have brad to worry about.”

something strange tingles in mj’s stomach in response to what her classmate has said, and mj finds her eyes widening

“what?” she questions, eyes narrowing slightly as she presses, “wait, there’s– there’s nothing going on between me and brad. i don’t feel… no, it’s not like that.”

betty’s eyes are surprisingly sharp as she fixes them on mj, raising an eyebrow

“oh… okay,” she says slowly, though her voice sounds rather unconvinced

“i just thought, because you’ve been sitting next to him on the plane and the bus and stuff-”

“um, yeah, we’re just friends,” mj responds quickly, tucking a curl behind her ear and turning to watch the crowd outside of the alleyway

the sound of rushing water and screaming is all that can be heard between the two of them for a moment, and mj does not look away from the chaos out there

even if they’re safe, their classmates might not be, and then there’s peter–

well, at least, she thinks there is

but if mj is anywhere close to being right, then he is far too close to that thing for comfort, and the very thought sends her stomach lurching.

“well, who is it, then?”

betty’s question causes mj’s gaze to snap to the blonde immediately, dragging her out of her thoughts.

“um, no one,” mj replies quickly

“you’re looking awfully worried for that to be true,” betty reasons, eyes narrowing slightly

mj hasn’t noticed it before, but there’s just a little too much sharp cunning in them for her liking

“i mean, half our class is out there,” mj reasons, but betty raises a hand to stop her

“we both know that you would probably throw a party if flash drowned, and you just said yourself that there’s nothing between you and brad,” betty counters firmly

mj averts her gaze, fixing it determinedly on the cobblestones between them

“venice was traditionally a city of people running from something,” mj pipes up after a moment, the words coming in a quick, focused, stream

“people only started living here when rome fell and a bunch of warrior clans were like, ‘hey, cool, we’re just gonna start attacking things.’ so all the people were like, ‘shoot, better go somewhere they can’t reach us. well, these guys suck at building boats.’ so… venice. kind of ironic that people came here because they were running away, and now that we’re here we’re all running away, too. it’s like poetic justice, kind of showing how no matter how much you do in life, you’re never gonna change much-”

“you can’t distract me with your existentialism,” betty interrupts

mj falls silent immediately, cursing mentally as she listens to the sound of the gears turning in betty’s brain

“i know you’ve got someone,” betty continues

the statement is simple, declarative, and it doesn’t really demand more, and in the quiet that stretches between them, mj finds herself feeling drained and exhausted

they’re miles and miles away from home, crouched behind a dumpster while a popped water wiener is terrorizing venice

peter parker is probably fighting that thing right now in his onesie, and mr. harrington is talking to their travel planners on the phone about whether or not there’s a discount for situations where the canals literally come to life

flash is without a doubt live streaming the whole thing

in the wake of all that, mj figures, what does it matter?

she’s been hiding her stupid feelings for years, and no one’s figured it out; she might as well give just enough information to appease betty, and there’s no need to mention names

there’s no reason to get deep on anything, especially when it’s so confusing and likely not reciprocated, right?

“i guess,” mj says simply, pointedly staring out into the alleyway

beside her, betty lets out a light squeal, clasping her hands together, and mj has to bite back a groan

“i knew it!” the girl declares, waving a finger in mj’s direction with a grin

“i so knew it. i knew my investigative journalism skills were right– they always are. and being in such a solid, healthy relationship has definitely given me a sense for these kinds of things; i think that’s what separates a woman from a girl, you know? and-”

mj lets betty ramble on for a bit, sitting with a stoic face as she listens to the disturbance from afar

something about this feels… strange

it takes mj a moment to realize that this is the first time she’s admitted it, and then suddenly she finds herself a little bit breathless

“-so, how does it feel?”

mj isn’t expecting the question, so when her eyes return to the soaking-wet blonde, she can’t help but feel like she has been snapped back into the present and everything is taking a minute to focus

“what?”

“you know, how does it feel?” betty presses

“to have a person like that in your life? i mean, you can’t have had too many– you’re too calm and stuff for that kind of thing.”

mj decides, in the moment, not to analyze that particular comment

instead, she considers betty’s previous question and tries not to feel too much like she’s been put on the spot for an interview

“um… i mean, i don’t think there’s a way that you’re supposed to feel,” she says slowly

“but pretty basic. i mean, with like fluttery chest and stuff. it’s whatever.”

mj tries not to think about what she’s just said, but now that she’s let the words pass her lips, it’s a little bit hard

because it’s true: every time she catches him looking at her, her heart leaps and sputters like a revving engine, just about making her jump out of her skin

and every conversation with him that is unplanned is smooth and easy, like a road she knows how to drive like the back of her hand

and every awkward interaction somehow feels like a learning curve, like driving a new, unfamiliar car but knowing you’ll get the hang of it-

alright, maybe she’s taking the car metaphor too far, it’s kind of sounding like a rascal flatts song

luckily, betty interrupts her train of thought before mj can take herself down a dead-end

“that’s so sweet,” betty decides, tipping her head slightly to the side

“you know, i don’t think i felt that way about my ned at first… but then, once i really got to know him, i started to get all the butterflies and everything. sometimes, i think, they come with time.”

the absurdity of it all strikes mj in that moment: the two of them are literally hiding from a water golem behind a dumpster, and for some reason, they’re talking about boys

way to fail the bechdel test in real life, mj.

but, as mj considers the situation they are in, she decides that maybe they are doing the right thing

after all, it’s keeping their minds away from the almost inevitable destruction of an ancient city with them in it, so they might as well do what they can to keep calm, right?

it is for this reason, and no other, that mj decides to keep going

“yeah, that makes sense,” mj agrees nonchalantly

she considers it for a second, though, and in the moment she finds herself simply letting loose

“i think mine were pretty immediate, though.”

and, as mj thinks it over, she realizes it’s true

peter has had the same effect on her since the day she first saw him, when he ran into their freshman bio class half a second before the bell rang with a stupidly flustered look on his face

even then, when he was scrawny and short and squeaky-voiced, he was capable of releasing a bunch of fluttering fruit bats loose in her chest, filling her with panicked, beating wings

and even now, what is technically seven years later, that hasn’t changed

sure, he’s got abs now, and he’s got the arachnoid fursona to think about

but he’s still peter, and she still feels just the same as she did when she was a freshman in the back of the class, not yet having learned that no one gives a crap and still trying to figure everything out

“it hasn’t changed,” mj finds herself admitting, “even though i have, i guess.”

betty’s eyes flash with delight, and the words leave her mouth so quickly that mj isn’t convinced she is breathing: “ohmygosh. is this a long-term crush we’re talking?”

mj pauses, strangely uncertain, but with betty’s eyes burning into her skull, she finds herself admitting it

“i mean, i guess so.”

betty goes off on a rant, but mj isn’t really listening to it now

something settles over mj, cold and heavy, rather like a chill

it takes mj a moment to realize that betty has stopped talking and is now studying her

“what is it?” the blonde asks simply, and mj is surprised by the open seriousness in betty’s face

perhaps it is this candid side the blonde is showing that causes mj to reply

“it’s the first time i’ve talked about it. not that it’s a big deal or anything.”

betty’s eyes widen in surprise, but she doesn’t stop mj as she continues

“but hearing myself say it aloud and everything? i mean, it makes it all sound kind of stupid.”

betty doesn’t bother to hide her surprise, but rather than countering mj’s statement, she simply says, “why?”

mj mulls it over, considering

after a slight pause, she finally says, “it just doesn’t make sense.”

“it kind of makes me feel like a loser. i’ve been hung up on this one thing for so long– i mean, it’s dumb. it’s not logical or anything, so i really should just move on… i’m an independent person.”

betty’s eyes are narrowed and calculating as they meet mj’s own brown irises, and the question that she poses with such intensity nearly causes mj to lose her cool:

“who says that it’s stupid just because it doesn’t make sense?”

mj swallows thickly, glancing away, but betty isn’t done

“in fact, that might be exactly why it does make sense. because it doesn’t. sometimes, feelings like that just work that way.”

feelings like that…

for a moment, mj rolls the phrase around in her mind, and she finds herself straightening up slightly

feelings like that, feelings like-

alright, maybe that’s a bit much for one day

but something about the thought, maybe we don’t have to make sense, is strangely freeing

for just a moment, mj sits up a little straighter beneath the dumpster, drawing in a deep breath

she doesn’t have to make sense: she doesn’t owe it to anyone to be predictable, and she never has

in fact, mj has thrived in the face of unpredictability and instability her whole life, so maybe betty’s right

maybe, the fact that she and peter don’t make sense is exactly what makes it feel so right

and maybe, those feelings that betty is talking about could one day turn into…

“i mean, look at ned and me. we weren’t exactly the likeliest couple– i was independent, ready to face the world, and he was a bachelor without any sense of direction in his romantic life. but all it took was one plane ride, some luck, and a little bit of fate, and now, here we are-”

mj tunes out for most of the speech that follows, and as betty goes on, she can hear the sound of the chaos in the distance subsiding

and so, as the waters settle and the storm calms, mj finds a little bit of strength left in the wake of all the destruction

because maybe, just maybe, she’s opened herself up a little bit more to the uncertain and improbable

and maybe, because she’s allowed herself one foolish moment of vulnerability, she’s shaping up to be a bit stronger for it.

200 notes · View notes

quentinsquill · 4 years

Text

Fic: “Minor Mendings and Mistletoe” (The Magicians)

Minor Mendings and Mistletoe

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: PG

Word Count: 3,057

Warnings: None

Summary: It’s Christmas at the Physical Kids cottage, and Quentin uncovers a piece of Eliot’s past that his friend forever thought lost. Can he make a connection with his crush and discover the truth about his magical abilities at the same time?

Author’s Notes: This is based on a drawing by @highkingfen that completely inspired me! I thank her for allowing me to write a fic based on her wonderful art. Check that out here, along with a bunch of other original and amazing designs at her Redbubble shop, FillorianQueen! Comments and kudos are magic and as always, enjoy!

Minor Mendings and Mistletoe

By Lexalicious70 (aka QuentinsQuill)

“Do we really have to do this?”

Quentin turned from opening several large cardboard boxes to see Eliot standing at the Physical Kids cottage bar, pouring himself a glass of wine and making a show of looking spectacularly bored.

“Come on, El! It’s Christmas!”

“Well technically, it’s February 15th, at least out in the real world,” Eliot replied. Margo opened one of the boxes and began to unwind several strings of multicolored lights as she scoffed in reply.

“Since when do you worry about life outside of Brakebills?” She asked, and Eliot frowned.

“Since you want to turn our cottage into some kind of cheesy Rankin Bass cartoon?”

“What’s so bad about Christmas?” Quentin asked as he unpacked a large artificial tree. “I like Rankin Bass animation.”

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Eliot sighed, then narrowed his eyes at Quentin as he opened his mouth to reply. “And don’t you dare compare me to the Grinch!”

“If the green fursuit fits,” Quentin muttered as he slapped dust from the front of his sweater. Eliot downed his wine, refilled his glass, and stepped out from behind the bar.

“By all means, proceed,” he said as he headed for the front door. “Just don’t ask me to participate!”

“Wow,” Quentin sighed as Eliot slammed the door behind him. “Who took a dump in his eggnog?” He asked Margo, who plugged in a string of lights and nodded as they came to life.

“Don’t mind El,” she said. “He’s not the biggest fan of Christmas.”

“How come?” Quentin pulled the legs of the tree stand open. While he’d only been living in the cottage for five months, he’d spent enough time with Margo and Eliot to feel like he’d gotten to know them as friends. Granted, he was a bit scared of one and was crushing hard on the other, but they felt like friends just the same. They had even tried to help him find his magical discipline, but to no avail.

Margo paused to pour herself a glass of wine and then filled one for Quentin as well.

“Without going into detail, El didn’t have the most ideal of childhoods. When you think of Christmas, what comes to mind?”

“I don’t know, uhm . . . snow? Going crosstown to check out the lights in Manhattan? Skating at Rockefeller Center with my dad when I was little?”

“Sounds like stuff right out of a Christmas movie,” Margo nodded. “But El’s parents were less about Christmas fun and more about the religious aspect of it. Lots of praying, lots of church services, and not a lot of decor.”

“That sucks,” Quentin nodded as he constructed the tree and began to fan out the branches. “But he’s an adult now . . . he can celebrate any way he wants!”

“I guess he doesn’t want to. Maybe he’s not okay with the memories it brings up, Q.”

Quentin paused and glanced over at Margo.

“How bad can church be?” He asked. “My dad is a lapsed Protestant so we didn’t really go once I turned like, ten, but . . .” He trailed off at Margo’s pointed expression. “Oh. You mean his parents . . .?”

“It’s not for me to give you details, Quentin,” Margo replied. “But let’s just say that some of the first magic lessons Eliot truly applied himself to was how to repress unpleasant memories.”

Discomfort twitched in Quentin’s stomach and he fell silent to focus on shaping the tree. Most of the cottage occupants had drifted away from the decorating efforts, leaving Margo and Quentin to unpack all the boxes. The ornaments had been collected from previous students who had left them behind and they now filled a cardboard box that used to contain a build-it-yourself desk.

“Damn!” Margo said suddenly from one corner. “Q, do me a favor?”

“What’s up?” Quentin asked as he finished assembling the tree.

“There’s an extension cord thing--one with all the plugs--up in El’s closet, up on the shelf above where he hangs his shirts. Grab it for me, would you?”

“Go in Eliot’s closet? Uhm--”

“Yes, go in his closet! Don’t worry about it, I’m giving you permission.”

Quentin glanced up the stairs. He knew Eliot had gone off somewhere to mope or flirt or whatever he did to avoid Christmas, but closets were personal things and the thought of stepping into that space, full of Eliot’s clothes, his scent, made Quentin’s heart vibrate against his rib cage like a frightened parakeet.

“Quentin! I’m standing on my fucking head over here!” Margo said from the corner.

“All right, okay! I’m going!” Quentin turned and headed up the stairs to Eliot’s room. There were only six people occupying the cottage this semester, so Eliot had only closed his door instead of locking it. Quentin turned the knob, guilt pricking his conscience.

Quit being so jumpy, he told himself. Margo told you to come up here, it’s not a big deal, so just grab the cord and don’t be so stupid!

Stepping into Eliot’s room was, for Quentin, like entering a space full of possibility. He took in the bed with its plum-colored duvet, the nightstand mirror edged with photos of Eliot and Margo, and, to Quentin’s great surprise, one of himself. He stepped closer to examine the image and saw himself asleep on the cottage couch, a Fillory and Further book spread open across his chest. He wore his Brakebill’s shirt, tie, and blazer, but the tie was undone and his hair hung in his eyes.

When the hell did he take this? Quentin asked himself. And why?

The possibilities were too overwhelming to contemplate at that moment so Quentin turned to the closet instead. The doors were tightly closed and Quentin swung them open. They folded aside and the smell of Eliot’s cologne, a mix of ocean water and sandalwood, wafted out, along with the scent of fresh clothing. Quentin glanced around like a guilty child sneaking cookies out of the kitchen before he leaned in to sniff at one of Eliot’s cardigans. It was well-worn, almost on the verge of shabby, but the fabric was softer than a baby’s blanket with repeated washings and Quentin allowed it to touch his cheek a moment before he pulled back and glanced up at the shelf above his head. He murmured a few lines of Arabic and let the magic fill him before he rose into the air, light streaming from his fingertips. He pointed them at the shelf and he saw the extension cord right away, coiled up in one corner. There were also a few dusty-looking hat boxes, a stack of magazines with nude men on the cover, and--

“QUENTIN!” Margo roared from the bottom of the stairs, and Quentin gasped as he lost his focus on the spell and the light sputtered and died. He pitched backward and gave a yelp of dismay as he grabbed the nearest surface--the closet shelf. The thing came free of its braces and Quentin shielded his face as he tumbled to the carpet and the contents of the shelf and the slat itself rained down on him.

“Shit!” He gasped as the slat slammed into his right knee and two of the hat boxes spilled open as they hit the floor. The erotic magazines fluttered down around him like wounded bats and Quentin blushed at the array of nudity scattered there.

“What the fuck are you doing up here?” Margo demanded from the doorway. “What was that--oh, Jesus!” She snapped as saw Quentin laying among the ruins of Eliot’s closet shelf. “Haven’t you ever heard of a stepladder?”

“It’s your fault!” Quentin shot back as he got to his feet. “I was looking for that cord when you screamed at me! It broke my concentration!”

Margo rolled her eyes.

“I swear, you are the most fragile forest-type creature I have ever met!”

“I didn’t say it scared me, I said you broke my concentration!” Quentin began to gather the spilled contents of the hat boxes which, to his surprise, did not contain a single hat. Instead, Quentin found himself picking up jewelry, unopened packs of cigarettes, dozens of matchbooks, and a few items that defied description (at least in Quentin’s realm of experience) but looked personal enough to make him blush again. Margo picked up the shelf slat and replaced it, shoving the ends back into the casters. Quentin stacked the magazines and handed them over, and she gave him an amused look before tucking them back into their proper place. He glanced around to make sure he hadn’t missed anything and spied a smaller, square box that had tumbled almost all the way under the bed. Quentin bent over to pick it up and something inside gave a chiming rattle of broken glass. Margo glanced up.

“What’s that?” She asked, wiping a lock of hair from her eyes, and Quentin bit his lower lip.

“Whatever it is, I think I broke it,” he said. “Shit.” He popped the top open and peered inside to find a white-and-blue Christmas ornament, broken into at least four pieces. The outside was decorated with painted glass and overlaid with glitter. “It’s a Christmas ornament,” Quentin groaned. “Oh shit, Margo . . .”

“Maybe we can fix it, Q, let’s not panic!”

“What do you think he has it for? You told me he doesn’t even like Christmas!”

“Who knows. El can be secretive, even with me.”

“I think I have some clear glue in my--” Quentin censored himself, knowing Margo would give him that mocking smile of hers if she knew he owned a crafting kit, “--in my room. I’ll take in there, see if I can fix it before Eliot gets back.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do about the tree,” Margo nodded as she left the room. Quentin carried the box into his room and shut the door before he opened his desk and took out a hinged wooden box with a hand-painted dragon on the cover. Inside was a crafting kit with a set of acrylic paints, scissors, rulers, a pencil set, and other crafting items. Quentin pulled a tube of clear glue from the box and went to inspect the ornament again, sliding the pieces from the box with care. It was broken into nearly even sections, almost like one of those chocolate oranges Quentin sometimes got his dad for the holidays, and he fit the edges together carefully. His stomach sank a moment later when he realized several small pieces would be missing, even if he did glue them. He wiped a hand over his mouth.

“Shit! Shit, shit . . . what am I gonna do?” He asked himself, imagining the look of hurt and anger on Eliot’s face when he saw what was obviously an heirloom, broken beyond repair because of his first-year clumsiness. Shame and panic burned in his throat and then his eyes flew open as a sensation began to fill his chest, like he was taking a breath big enough to inflate a bounce house. He’d felt this way his first day at Brakebills, when he’d made the cards fly around the room, but this was different--this was a warm glow that wore a halo of power, and he raised his hands without directing them. He watched, amazed, as his fingers and wrists worked and the broken sections of the ornament rose into the air, spun around each other, and them knitted themselves into place. The metal fastening that fit into the top of the ornament seemed to give a joyous leap before fitting itself in with a small popping noise. Quentin turned his hands, palms up, dark eyes wide and full of wonderment, as the delicate glass bauble set itself into them.

“Holy shit,” Margo’s voice said from the doorway, and he started and turned, holding the ornament to his chest.

“Did you see that, or did I imagine it?” Quentin asked, and Margo grinned.

“I saw it! You found your discipline, Q! The way your hands worked in a spell you couldn’t possibly know yet?”

“But what does it mean?” He asked, and Margo beckoned him.

“Come on . . . I”ll show you.”

Quentin paused long enough to put the ornament back into the box and carried it with him as Margo led him back downstairs, where she took out a leather-bound book.

“This is a listing of all the disciplines and their meanings . . .” She flipped a few pages and then traced a finger down one before she tapped a paragraph with a lacquered nail. “Here! Repairer of small objects.”

Quentin looked over her shoulder.

“That’s it?”

“Small broken objects are attracted to you, especially those that want to be repaired.” She glanced at the box. “I guess that includes Christmas ornaments.”

The cottage door opened a moment later and Margo and Quentin looked up to see Eliot sweep in, along with a gust of cold air. He unwound his dark woolen scarf and then paused, his eyes widening when he saw the box sitting on the coffee table near the Christmas tree.

“What the fuck--what do you think you’re doing with that? DId you go through my closet, Quentin?” He snapped, and Quentin took a step forward.

“El please, don’t be mad, I can explain if you just give me a minute--”

Eliot pulled a gilded pocketwatch from his vest, clicked the face open, and nodded.

“Starting now.”

“We were putting up the tree and-- and well, Margo asked me to get an extension cord from your closet so I used a spell that let me reach it, but uhm--I fell and other stuff fell too, including that box and--and I’m so sorry, I know I messed up but--” He retrieved the box and offered it to Eliot. Eliot snatched it away but then paused as he saw the ornament inside. He stared at it and then staggered a few feet to the couch, where he sat down hard. Quentin gave Margo a worried glance.

“El? What’s wrong? Did I screw it up? I wasn’t exactly in control of the spell, Margo said it’s my discipline--fixing small things, I mean. I’m sorry I broke it . . .”

“You didn’t.”

“Uhm--what?”

“You didn’t break it, Q. It was already broken. It has been, for years . . . ever since I was seven years old.”

“El . . . I don’t understand,” Quentin said, sitting down, and Eliot blinked tears from his eyes.

“When I was seven, my Grandma Dottie lived with us. She was my father’s mother, but infinitely more kind. This ornament belonged to her grandmother, then her mother, and then her. She always waited until the tree was nearly finished and then she’d hang it up. That Christmas, she asked me if I’d like to help her hang it. I was real excited because it seemed like such a big deal--you know how it is when you’re a kid and an adult asks you for help. I picked it up and ran to her--and tripped over an empty box.” Eliot sighed. “The ornament hit the corner of her rocking chair and broke.” He closed his eyes a moment. “I’ll never forget the look on her face. I might as well have slammed her heart into the floor. She tried to act like it was all right, mostly so my father wouldn’t punish me. Not that it stopped him.” Eliot took the ornament from the box, his big, elegant hands cradling it. “She died two months later, of a stroke. Died in her sleep. I helped my father make her coffin.” He held the ornament up to the light. “I hid the pieces in my room for years and then took them with me when I left home. I would try to use my telekinesis on them but they would never mend right. Either they would knit and then fall apart or the glass would bulge in all different directions. I put it in my closet, hoping one day I’d learn magic that would help me fix it.” Eliot looked up at Quentin and smiled. “Or that the right kind of magic would come along. I guess it finally did.”

“Do you want to put it on our tree?” Quentin asked with hesitation, and Eliot shook his head.

“No, Q. I want us to.”

“Us?”

“Yes,” Eliot rose and offered Quentin his free hand. The younger magician blushed, hope rising in his heart, as he and Eliot went over to the tree. Quentin fanned out an empty branch and curved it upward to give the ornament more stability while Eliot slipped a hook into the top of the holder. He hung it while Quentin held the branch steady, and Margo cleared her throat. Eliot glanced over and she tipped her eyes toward the ceiling, where a sprig of mistletoe orbited. Eliot followed her gaze and grinned.

“Looks like we’re standing under the mistletoe, Q.”

Quentin glanced up and his heart quickened its pace.

“Looks that way.”

“Well then. Who am I to stand in the way of holiday tradition?” Eliot bent his head down and claimed Quentin’s lips, causing the younger man to give a short gasp. He gripped Eliot’s forearms as he was kissed for nearly half a minute. When Eliot finally pulled away, Quentin kept a grip on his arms so he wouldn’t fall into the tree. Eliot tugged him into a hug and whispered in his ear.

“Merry Christmas, Quentin Coldwater.”

“Merry Christmas, El,” Quentin smiled as he watched the ornament wink in the glow of the Christmas tree’s lights, a minor mending that meant little to the world outside but repaired and illuminated a room of memories in Eliot’s heart.

THE END

#my fic #Queliot #Christmas fic #The Magicians AU

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thepetulantpen · 5 years

Text

Modern AU/Giving

(Day 2 of @widomauk-week , slowly catching up!)

When a purple tiefling, with what appears to be a bowling alley carpet draped over him like a shawl, sets down a rainbow picnic blanket next to Caleb and proceeds to spread out tarot cards, it’s not even the weirdest thing he’s seen today.

Honestly, the streets of Zadash have an abundance of strange people walking down them and an even stranger population living on them. The homeless, the criminals, the drifters- they all have their place on the streets and every one of them is weirder than the next.

The stranger finishes setting out his cardboard sign (proclaiming that it’s $10 for a reading) and various other cheap, vaguely supernatural trinkets then looks up at Caleb.

“This street any good for business?”

He’s about to default to “I don’t know”, which would be sensible and at least half true but he hears Nott’s voice in his ear, nagging him about making friends. He supposes he could at least try, for her sake.

“Ja, uh, there’s a corporate building that way,” he tilts his head to their right, down the street, “so there’s usually a healthy commute. From my experience, the people here are...rather gullible.”

Caleb knows that he can’t really be incriminated on those vague words alone- this stranger couldn’t possibly guess all the cons he and Nott have been running on this street- but it still makes him nervous to share any details at all. There are eyes everywhere in Zadash and Caleb can’t ever be sure he’s safe, even hidden on the streets.

The tiefling either doesn’t notice or isn’t bothered by Caleb’s silent distress and offers a broad smile.

“Thanks! I’m Molly, by the way.” He holds out a deep lavender, tattooed hand with pointed nails.

Caleb takes it in his own, somewhat grimy, hand and shakes, formal and brief. “Caleb. Caleb Widogast.”

Molly smiles wider, teeth sharp and more shiny than any street-side psychic should have.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around a lot, Mr. Widogast.”

...

Molly certainly delivers on that prediction, showing up to the same street corner almost everyday. They see each other frequently enough that Nott has taken to stealing buttons to add to his coat and Caleb has started to help out in his little future telling scam.

Of course, Molly doesn’t admit its a scam, only ever spouting in-character bullshit about how the stars really can guide us, but he does accept Caleb’s help in drawing people in and figuring out just enough information to earn a tip. Nott takes the role of pickpocket, borrowing customers’ wallets to dig for clues that Molly can use while Caleb keeps them distracted.

It’s pretty effective, they make an excellent team, but he knows their time together is limited. Caleb can’t stay on this street corner attracting attention for so long. It’s time to move.

“Molly?”

Molly hums to indicate he’s listening, but doesn’t look up at Caleb, too busy setting up for the day. Caleb clears his throat, waiting for a few painful seconds before Molly meets his eyes, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, Mr. Widogast?”

“Uh,” Caleb doesn’t know why he’s nervous, or why he’s even decided to tell Molly this, “I just wanted to let you know that me and Nott are going to move streets.”

“Oh,” Molly pauses, thinking for a moment and then, “What street?”

Caleb fidgets, choking on his words as his mind drowns in the red of Molly’s eyes. Before he gets a chance to answer, Molly looks away, frowning.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude if I’m not invited.”

Caleb blinks, replays the words and, once he understands what Molly is saying, holds up his hands.

“No, no, of course you’re invited. I just didn’t think you’d want to move, is all.”

Molly moves from his rug onto Caleb’s ratty blanket and puts his hands on Caleb’s shoulders, leaning in so his forehead rests against Caleb’s. His eyes are so much more intense up close, where the red seems to take up his entire field of vision. Caleb swallows, anxious and unable to move, although he’s not sure he even wants to.

Molly grins, shattering the tension with the edge of his fangs. The midday (exactly 12:33) light reflects across his canines, horn piercings and hair jewelry, forming Molly’s personal disco ball.

“My street is wherever your street is, Mr. Widogast.”

...

It turns out that Caleb’s street has no protection from the rain whatsoever.

Caleb stares up at the angry, storm-torn sky, drinking in what he perceives as a sort of karmic punishment from the universe. He does what he can to shield Nott, but there’s little he can do for her with no welcoming shelter in sight. She’s already drenched and shaking with resurfaced memories of rushing water, only adding to Caleb’s guilt.

He shouldn’t have moved streets, shouldn’t have let his damn paranoia take away their shelter. He shouldn’t have let Nott get this close, should’ve convinced her to leave Caleb, and the dangers associated with him, behind long ago.

He shifts, another series of apologies on his lips, but doesn’t manage it before a colorful shape breaks through the grey mass of water all around them.

“I thought I’d find you here!”

Molly smiles as if they aren’t caught in a near flood, as if this is just another day of sunshine and bright conversation.

Caleb notices he doesn’t carry any of his normal supplies, only that heavy coat on his shoulders.

“Don’t you have anywhere to stay, in this rain?” A frown crosses Molly’s face, concern an unfamiliar expression on him.

“No,” rain gets caught in Caleb’s eyelashes as he looks up at Molly, “We live out here.”

Lightning cracks overhead and Molly has to shout over the renewed rumbling of the storm. “Would you like a roof to ride out the storm under?”

Caleb hesitates, wary of overly kind offers, but Nott detaches herself from his side and pulls on his hand to make him stand.

“Yes, please!”

...

Yasha’s home is a lovely, if cramped, little place. It sits sandwiched between two larger buildings, looking as if it was added as an afterthought to fill space.

Caleb has no idea how two people can live here, let alone how they will manage four, but he is grateful to be dry and warm.

For now, Caleb and Molly have been left to their own devices at the tiny table shoved in the corner of the kitchen, drinking cheap tea and staring at the rain hitting the window.

“So, uh,” Caleb’s eyes dart down as Molly’s suddenly turn their full force on him, “this is where you live?”

“Yes, it’s near the florist, where Yasha works, and it’s cheap so I can cover my half of the rent telling fortunes.”

Caleb nods, glancing around at the tiny living room beside them and the stairs at the end of the hall leading to the two bedrooms. It’s better than the streets, certainly.

“Thank you, for lending us a room. If there’s anything I can do to repay you-“

“That won’t be necessary. Although,” Molly smirks, an idea visibly lighting up behind his eyes, “I have been in need of someone to hang out with lately. There’s this bar that just opened down the street and it’s always more fun to drink with... friends, I suppose.”

Noticing Caleb’s blush, he tacks on, “Or more than that, if you’re up for it.”

Caleb sips his tea, using it as an excuse to close his eyes briefly, trying to sort out his thoughts and block out Molly’s stare even as he can feel it piercing through the darkness.

There’s a swirl of thoughts, questions and calculations making a dizzying, multicolored pattern against his eyelids and then it all cuts out abruptly, replaced with the simple memory of Molly’s carefree smile.

Maybe it’s time for him to let go. For just an evening.

Surely it couldn’t be that bad.

“Ja, I think I’d like that.”

Molly smiles, delighted, and Caleb can’t help but return the grin, letting go of his spiraling thoughts for the first time in months.

“It’s a date!”

#widomaukweek2019 #widomauk #mollymauk tealeaf #caleb widogast #critical role #modern au #its not the best but honestly ive been struggling to anything at all lately #oh well #maybe ill clean it up for ao3 later

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rotworld · 6 years

Text

2: Book Club

(previous)

You get the feeling that there’s something a little off about Ritsuka.

You try to talk yourself out of it every step of the way.

You think, This is stupid, while you throw on your coat. This is insane, as you shift anxiously from foot to foot while waiting to take the Yamanote line to downtown Shinjuku. This is probably just an elaborate joke, yet you’re ducking down narrow side streets, sidestepping bicyclists and mewling neighborhood strays. You take the groaning apartment steps up to unit C-304, which has a door in a sick, mucous shade of green like food coloring that looks like it should smell bad, and hesitate.

This is a bad idea. This doesn’t make any sense. Ritsuka probably lied, probably sent you some random address just to fuck with you, and he’s laughing behind his monitor now imagining the look on your face. You need to turn around and go home.

You need to find out what the fuck is going on more.

You knock once and the door jolts, catching on a clattering chain lock. You see a tired eye and the crinkled cotton of a medical mask on the sliver of a face that appears in the crack. The person inside squints at you in distrust or confusion or something along those lines—the mask makes it hard to tell which.

With great reluctance, you force yourself to ask, “Ritsuka?”

“Oh,” he says, mildly surprised. His eyes rake over you in a slow, carefully appraising way, and then the chain rattles and the lock slides out of place. The door swings open and there he is, one hand buried in the pocket of sagging sweatpants, the other rubbing the back of his neck. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, but the dark half-circles under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept in a long time. “Hey. Come on in,” he says.

‘Apartment unit’ is a misleading way to describe the place. It’s more like a shoebox with a kitchenette shoved in the corner, an inhumanely compact space as seen on “worst of” online countdown lists and lifestyle blogs recounting horrible college dorm experiences. “Don’t mind the boxes,” he tells you, which is actually impossible, since there’s a single path to and from the door through a sea of cardboard and bulging trash bags, the contents of which you’re uncertain of since they don’t seem to smell. There’s a low table and a pair of floor cushions shoved up against the windows which, you can’t help but notice, are covered with blackout curtains that keep out even the thinnest strands of Tokyo sunrise. The second you reach the table, you hear the chain lock slide back into place.

“Want some tea?” he offers, sauntering casually from the door to the sink and filling a kettle with water. You open your mouth to decline and he cuts you off without even looking. “It’s no trouble. I was shitty about the pictures, shoulda been more upfront about the whole thing. Least I can do is be a good host. Oh, want something to eat? I’ve got, uh,” a frantic but brief rummage through the refrigerator and cupboards, “some Kit Kats, I guess.” He glances back at you and laughs, just a nonchalant little, “Haha,” like it was supposed to be a joke, but you don’t see anything else in the cabinet.

You stare at him wordlessly, overwhelmed by the absurdity of the whole situation. He averts his eyes first, shrugging, and sets the kettle on the stove.

“Haven’t been to the store lately. I’m still working on getting packed, as you can see,” he says, gesturing with a nod at the room around you. You can, indeed, see. You’ve noticed a cluster of boxes closest to you have been duct taped shut and torn open again. The one on the table in front of you is filled with black photo binders.

Curiosity prickles at the forefront of your mind, an irresistible itch. You’re reaching for one of them without even asking, but he makes no move to stop you. “Are you moving out?” you ask.

Ritsuka seats himself across the table from you. He’s watching you pull the binder out of the box with an unreadable expression. “Yeah. Heading back to my hometown.”

“That’s all? You’re not, I dunno, cursed or something and making a run for it?” you ask. When you look at him again, you’re struck by something you didn’t notice before through the door. He’s got heterochromia, the right eye a rich hazel, the left almost gold.

“No,” he says. “Just a little tired of Tokyo.”

You hook your thumb under the cover of the binder but don’t open it just yet. “So these belonged to your friend.”

“Yeah.”

“And they’re, what, haunted?”

Ritsuka drums his fingers on the table in a slow, steady rhythm. “Hn. Yeah. I guess that’s one way to put it.”

“So is your friend,” you pause, wondering if this is too tactless, too much to ask someone you just met, “uh. Did they. You know. You only mentioned them in the past tense.”

He doesn’t answer for a long, uncomfortable minute. The ambient apartment noise of neighbor children clamoring up the steps outside and someone’s TV turned up too loud drifts through the walls and reminds you there’s a world outside of this tiny, insulated box. Ritsuka doesn’t respond to it in the slightest, blinking in a slow, watery way like he’s half-asleep. He finally answers with, “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” you echo. It really shouldn’t be. Are they dead or not?

“They’re missing,” Ritsuka clarifies, his voice sounding a little thinner. Now you feel like an asshole. “Haven’t heard from them since they dropped the photos off.”

“Oh. Then you....” You stop messing with the binder and push it closer to him. “Why would you want to sell these? They probably mean a lot to you, right?”

He stops you, a hand seizing your wrist with the suddenness of a snakebite. “They told me to find someone who’d understand,” he says. Gently, he slides the binder back across the table to you. You can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling right now, but he sounds calm. Maybe too calm, all things considered. “So that’s what I’m going to do.”

“You told me I don’t have to look at any more of these.”

“You don’t,” he agrees. “But you want to, right?”

You don’t answer. The binder’s plastic cover is empty, but a thin white strip stuck to the front has a scribble that simply reads “Favorites.” It feels heavy in your hands, loaded with the weight of a stranger’s deepest, most personal thoughts and feelings. You open it, eyes landing on a picture of three people grinning in a coffee shop, a sticker label underneath identifying this as “Book club,” and you immediately feel that you’re trespassing. You’re looking at things not meant for your eyes. But you also feel an irresistible pull not unlike the thing that first drew you to Ritsuka’s post on an image board, making you pause, making you decide to email a total stranger about those weird photos that weren’t actually his to sell.

You look at Ritsuka once, just to be sure that this really is okay. That he’s not upset with you.

You can’t be sure, but the way he’s sitting there, the way his face scrunches up, the way his eyes arch—it all makes you think he might be grinning under his mask.

“Go on,” he says.

And you must be completely out of your mind, because you do.

The body count in the Himura Hills Cannibal Murder investigation is sixteen, but it’s not something that we really talk about. Not in a very serious way, anyway.

This is because we’re young and anxious and far more worried about a million other things more pressing than a serial murderer; exams, job interviews, where to get lunch. We have a problem, an outside observer might be tempted to say, and that problem might be youth or naivety or even willful ignorance. The truth is that social creatures can trick each other into relaxing, even if there really is danger nearby.

Book club is Wednesdays at Furusato Coffee in Himura Hills, always the circle booth in the back with the ceramic stag statue beside it. We talk with a backdrop of skyscraper silhouettes and homegoing crowds, ambient jazz crooning over the speakers. Come sundown, Tokyo is almost bearable. The smell of sunbaked concrete and polished steel is masked by the wafting scents of yakitori stands and ramen shops that leave their doors open. Neon lights the city like a million candles floating downstream, holes punched into the soft blanket of night, and there’s something nice and haunting and poetic about that.

My favorite author’s new novella, Synonym, just came out. It’s a first-person descent into madness through the eyes of a fledgling serial killer, Ryou, and occasionally the object of his obsession, Shino. I have a signed copy with the special edition obi. On the cover, a plaid high school uniform skirt sways in a gentle breeze and tall stalks of wheat tickle stocking-clad legs. The sky’s colors are inverted.

We’ve been here a couple hours, and by we I mean three of the four people in this entire megacity I consider something like friends. It’s late so Minori decides we need to wrap it up for the night, asking the final question for discussion, “So did he kill her or not?” I can tell she thinks this has an easy answer by her tone and body language, the way she starts packing her bag. Kosuke says, “Probably,” and Izumi says, “No,” and I say, “Yes,” all at the same time, and then we look at each other, confused.

“Well, we can’t know for sure, right?” Kosuke says, professional fence-sitter that he is. He’s got today off so he’s dressed down and casual, a thin jacket over a band t-shirt and ratty jeans with holes in the knees. Death metal rattles thin and tinny through the headphones around his neck, and has done so for the entirety of book club today. His copy’s face down on the table; nothing but wheat. “It’s pretty vague and Ryou’s, like, an unreliable narrator on crack. So there’s no way to tell.”

I have a hunch that Kosuke only tolerates me. We probably wouldn’t talk at all if not for our mutual interest in novels where people die in horrible, gruesome ways and the author is an eccentric or a deviant so we get to see every second. He’s in his senior year at Uni and does delivery for what his pizza place refers to as the stoner shift. I don’t think he sleeps but I think he takes enough stimulants to shamble through the day with feigned competency.

Next to him, Minori picks the dirt from under her nails and flicks it under the table. Her copy of Synonym is in pristine condition, a rabbit eared bookmark sticking out two-thirds of the way through. “There wasn’t a body, though,” she says casually.

If I were anybody else, I’d probably like Minori. She’s got long legs and likes to wear things that show them off, and very sharp, very pretty features. Other than her unabashed appreciation of teenage vampire novels, we like a lot of the same things. She’s a little younger and on the petite side sophomore year, and trying to escape pre-med to a different parent-approved major before it eats her alive. She and Kosuke go way back and like each other in that annoying unsubtle way that neither of them want to talk about or act on.

“But there’s evidence that hints at which scenes were real and which were just delusions,” Izumi says. He’s sitting closest to me in uncanny business casual, white tie on black dress shirt. His book is bent and creased and has a dozen little sticky notes protruding from the sides, looking the most like mine. “Like whenever anyone sees him commit a murder, those can’t be real because they don’t react normally. Those are delusions, but the rest is real.”

There’s a lot I don’t know about Izumi, but also a lot that I do. More than anyone else, I’d argue. Maybe even more than he knows about himself.

“See, that’s the problem,” Kosuke insists. “Who’s to say he isn’t imagining the rest of it? Just because nobody’s around to tell us it’s all in his head doesn’t mean it isn’t.”

“There are other clues.”

“There wasn’t a body,” Minori repeats.

Kosuke chooses to hear her this time, looking vindicated. “Right, so how do you explain that?”

Izumi says, patiently, “It’s could be another delusion, like you said. He can’t accept what he’s done.”

“Dude, how much of this book even happened?”

So I say, “I think he ate her,” and there’s dead silence. Everyone’s staring. The jazz seems louder suddenly, but not as loud as my pounding heartbeat. I don’t like attention. “Well,” I stammer, “I mean. That makes sense, right? There were hints for that, too. Like all the times he compared girls to meat.” It’s the most I’ve talked and of course it’s about something like this. They’re probably not surprised.

“Suenami, that’s fucked up,” Kosuke says, grinning. Last name basis because he doesn’t want me thinking we’re close. “For real, that’s sick.”

“So he did kill her,” Minori says. But no, Izumi can’t just let it go that easily and smirks, elbows on the table, fingers tented like the pretentious jackass we all know he is not so deep beneath the surface.

He says, “I think we should consider Shino’s death in a more metaphorical sense.”

“Here we go,” Kosuke groans, resting his chin against his palm. “You and your fucking metaphor fetish.” Minori kicks him under the table, discreetly enough that all I see is Kosuke flinch and mutter a profanity. There’s a little bit of an argument about authorial intent and authorial death, but Izumi leans over the table and speaks in a quiet but commanding voice like a lecturing professor, rotates eye contact, dominates the conversation, and explains to us why Shino isn’t real and is just another of Ryou’s delusions. Kosuke is annoyed. Minori is vaguely interested. I’m exhausted.

Here’s the thing; I actually hate Tokyo, but I’ll never admit it. These three, these friends, and I use the term loosely, are born and raised Tokyoites and you don’t trash talk a person’s hometown, even if it is fake as fuck. There’s too much in Tokyo and none of it’s real, too many trains and too many people, too many crisscrossing power line spiderwebs and too many high rises and too many office buildings, noisy and crowded yet somehow profoundly lonely. I’m sitting in the coziest place I know with soft jazz and tea and people who are friend-adjacent, and I know I’ll go home and feel like I’m alone on a deserted island.

“I have to go. School night,” Minori says, kind of quietly like she hopes we won’t notice. She scoops up Synonym in both hands and holds it to her chest like a precious thing, and I think again of how, if I were anyone else and Kosuke wasn’t sitting right there, I’d probably ask her out. “You want a picture, right, Suenami?” she asks me. Last name basis because she doesn’t want to make me uncomfortable.

I nod. Everyone packs into the booth across the table from me, squished shoulder to shoulder. I get my disposable camera ready with unsteady hands and capture their awkwardly smiling faces. I think this embarrasses them a little bit. They consider it another of my eccentric character traits, probably a vestigial trace of my small town upbringing. I take pictures of everything but myself. They think it’s cute in the same way pets are cute when they do something stupid and indulge me the best they can.

Kosuke’s smile is the most obviously strained. It’s that weak half-scowl thing he does anytime he knows he’s in a picture. He’s got an arm hovering around Minori, too scared to touch her because that would make it real. Minori knows it’s there but pretends she doesn’t, gives a big grin and a cute “peace” sign, still holding onto Synonym. Izumi looks content, but it’s rare that he doesn’t.

Click!

When we’re done, Kosuke says, “I’ll walk you back,” and Minori neither accepts nor declines the offer, but she does wait for him. They wave at us from the door and disappear into the late night crowd.

Then it’s just Izumi and I, and he’s smiling warmly, setting his book aside to focus on his third coffee. Book club started like this, with just the two of us. Tokyo shines beyond the thin glass panes of the coffee shop windows, silver and deep gray-blue. It’ll be winter soon. I’m looking forward to how it’ll soften the city. “Suenami,” he says gently. Last name basis because doesn’t want to scare me off. “How’ve you been? Adjusting to Tokyo okay?”

The answer is no, actually. The answer is I’m having stress hallucinations of shadow people the width of telephone poles that follow me home, human-faced dogs, roadside shrines with offerings of steamed rice and woody incense that aren’t actually there when I blink. The answer is all-encompassing regret and sleepless nights that have painted exhaustion within and beneath my eyes. But nobody actually expects that kind of answer when they ask how you’re doing, so I tell him, “Yeah. I’m good.”

Izumi studies me in long, contemplative silence. I know he doesn’t believe me before he says, “Are you sure?”

“No,” I admit. Maybe too readily, but Izumi isn’t like other Tokyoites. Izumi is a thoughtful literati. Izumi is a sensitive barista. Izumi eats people. I admit things to him that I wouldn’t tell anyone else. “No, actually, it kind of sucks. The city is overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming?”

“It’s big and impersonal. It’s loud. I don’t really know anyone.” I pause. “I guess I don’t really want to.”

Izumi, who sees me no matter how hard I try to be invisible, smiles in a very soft, very handsome way. I think I’d like him, too, if I were normal. Him, and not the other one. “Did you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“It’s late,” I say. “Maybe some other time.”

“Let me walk you home, then?”

I’m dodging the conversation and he knows that, and I know he knows that by the hand ghosting at my waist, a hint of flirtation and a bargaining chip. Izumi has a gentle way about him, a kind smile and compassionate tone like an anglerfish lure. Every part of him is always saying, tell me something you’ve never told anybody else, and it’s hard not to.

Himura Hills is a designer city, a self-contained district of luxury department stores, brand new corporate offices and walkways lined with naked, shivering cherry blossom trees. It’s as fake as this city gets, the thrice-corrected, meticulously crafted nose of Tokyo’s plastic surgery face. It looks the same by night as it does by day, except even brighter somehow, more obnoxious, more obtrusive in the dark. It’s like an amusement park with all the noise and none of the charm, trying too hard and failing on every front. I don’t live here, but everyone I know likes the food and the shopping and the view, so it’s impossible to avoid.

Izumi and I step outside right into the thick of it. The model in the toothpaste ad on the nearest bus shelter has wide eyes and a frantic smile, begging us to look at her and how clean she is, but I’m looking at the shapes of people passing each other in the crosswalk like plasmic blobs in a lava lamp. Merging together only to part again.

Izumi says, “So, about Synonym.”

“What about it?” I ask.

“You were so sure that he killed her.”

“I still am.”

“Hm.”

We cross the canal, Himura Hills shining through the evening haze like a ghost ship on the horizon behind us. The streets here narrow and the lights dim. The acupuncture clinic has shuttered its doors but the decrepit pachinko parlor next door still has its string of lanterns lit. We pass the railroad crossing where they say a girl was cut in half by a train, and I’m almost home.

Izumi says, “It’s topical, I guess,” and it’s been so long since either of us have said anything that I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Your interpretation, I mean. Sounds like you’ve been inspired by all that stuff on the news lately.” At my persisting silence, he adds, “The murders are all anyone talks about at work. The whole cannibalism thing definitely gets people interested, even if they’re disgusted.”

We arrive at the Kijibato Building, half-residential, half-business, all drab and dingy. The air conditioning units jammed into the windows leak and make horrible groaning noises like the restless dead. The units are 1LDK, old and musty-smelling tatami with a bathroom shoved into an alcove the size of a closet. I don’t go in right away. Izumi always looks hopeful that I’ll invite him up sometime, but I never work up the courage.

“I might’ve been thinking about it a little,” I admit. “It’s a concept I like.”

“You like cannibalism?” Izumi asks, having the gall to sound incredulous. “Gross.”

“It’s nice in a story. It can mean a lot of things.”

The metaphor fetishist in him takes interest. “Oh?”

“We didn’t decide on what to read next for book club.”

I’m being especially evasive tonight, so he stuffs his hands in his pockets to look harmless. “Eh, we’ll figure it out later. Minori’s got midterms coming up, so she’s going to be busy.”

“Oh.”

“I was thinking,” he says casually, “we could do The House of Lonely Things by Matsuno. It’s kind of new, have you heard of it?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ve heard of it,” I scoff. “Not really interested in sub-par Edogawa imitators.”

“Harsh.”

“It’s true.”

“I happen to be a fan of Matsuno,” he insists.

“Matsuno’s a talentless hack.”

Izumi looks at me through narrowed eyes, shoulders squared, playfully hostile. “Then what’s your suggestion?”

I don’t get to make one. I open my mouth but a louder noise cuts me off. A scream. A real one. Sharp and clear like a bell breaking. Not theatrical, not childish, and not too far away. The kind of noise that grates on the insides of the ears, raw and instinctively upsetting. Izumi turns away from me so I can’t see the look on his face, but I can tell he tilts his head up and inhales deeply like a bloodhound. “That didn’t sound good,” he murmurs. He sounds high, quietly ecstatic. “You’d better get upstairs.”

“Right,” I say, shaking a little it. “Be safe. Text me when you get home.”

“Sure,” he says. He’s still there when I head up the stairs, standing outside with his eyes glued on a spot in the distance, something too distant for me to see. He probably leaves when I can’t see, though, called by an impulse he can’t name and can’t explain, something that puts him in this foggy trance and brings out another, hungrier part of him. He’s probably halfway to the crime scene by now, his grin wider as he circles like a vulture, watching, waiting, wiping the drool from his chin.

Izumi doesn’t know this about himself. He doesn’t know what’s inside him, what he does sometimes. But I do. It’s my favorite thing about him.

I eye the camera on my desk and weigh my options.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #ritsuka's pictures #yeesh this one got super long and theres not even anything all that questionable in it lmao #but now ive introduced just about everybody!#i'll list all of the prompts used at the end #i have a feeling some are going to be spoilers lol since theyre helping me determine the plot

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llexeh · 6 years

Text

Santa Baby (2-2) - Steve Rogers / Tony Stark

Part 2-2 of “Steve Is Going to Lose His Damn Mind”

Summary: All Steve wanted was to make some nice memories with his new family. You know, get a tree up, have a nice dinner, sing some carols. So what if he got a bit overenthusiastic? He absolutely did not want to google Tinder, or be struck by how attractive Tony Stark was. Again.

Warnings: alcohol consumption, ridiculousness, sad handjob, mild angst

Potential trigger: Brief scene that can be construed as self harm on Steve's end. Just for full disclosure purposes, he uses scalding water knowing it would heal almost instantly. This is not done in a fit, or with the self harm end goal in mind. But I know first hand it can be triggering so I thought it would be worth mentioning. (Stay safe x)

Rating: mature

Pairings: Steve Rogers / Tony Stark, Darcy Lewis / Bruce Banner

Tags: pre-slash, crack treated seriously, slowburn, everyone is alive, Christmas fluff, group chat trope, auto correct trope

Word count: 5592

Pietro was allowed around the tower on the 24th. They’d visited him and decorated his hospital bed and even put a nice wreath on the door. Wanda tied bows on it, and Darcy covered it in glitter and silver beads. They took to singing loudly whenever Pietro’s whining got too much, which was roughly eight times a day that they knew of. Bruce kept feeding him sweets to quiet him, and Clint smuggled pizza in one night.

When he was finally allowed to leave the room, his anticipation was palpable. He literally shook with excitement, although if it was for the holiday or for being anywhere else, Steve didn’t know.

He shrieked when he saw the tree, trying to make his wheelchair go faster. “It’s so great,” he said in awe. He turned to Wanda, then to all his teammates gathered around it. “It’s been -”

“Yeah,” she said and ruffled his hair. “Come on, we saved the star for you.”

Pietro’s eyes widened. “Really?” he asked Steve, who was always the man he turned to for confirmation and orders.

“Really,” Steve replied and handed him a large silver star. “Darcy and Clint insisted that we put the A on it,” he said and pointed to the cardboard letter that was glued to the glass ornament.

Pepper pushed Tony in, throwing a sweater at him. She put the large box she was carrying on the floor and joined them. “Hello Pietro, are you excited?” she asked, a beaming smile on her face.

“Yes!” Pietro said and turned to Wanda. The girl gently lifted him up to the top of the tree. He slid the upright branch into the ornament and clapped loudly. The A was truly ugly. Steve loved it more than anything. Wanda lowered Pietro to be at their level.

“Do it, Tony,” Pepper ordered. “Remember I have blackmail material and I am not above using it to make you do things for me,” she said, her voice getting that singing lilt again.

“You used to be such a nice girl, Pepper,” Tony said, sliding the sweater over his head. He emerged with crazy hair and a scowl. When he rolled it down his torso, the knitted Grinch on it was his spitting image. “What happened?”

“I started working for you,” she replied and pushed the box towards them. “Come on, grab a sweater, put it on, stand around the tree. Someone help Pietro, please,” she instructed quickly. “We need a photo of the official team - Rhodey go next to Tony, maybe some of your maturity will rub off on him. Photo for the auction first, and then we can take some for us.”

She arranged them and fixed the camera on the tripod. “Okay, on three say ‘Avengers’! And because that doesn’t work, also smile. One, two…” The shutter went on a couple of times. Pepper went through the photos she took and consulted Darcy. “Okay we got it! Now for the other ones.” She urged them all to gather up once more for their personal photos before setting the timer. “Go crazy, guys, it’s our first Christmas together.”

Steve could have kissed her.

They had to take a vote on when to open presents. Some of them advocated for Christmas Day, others for the Eve. Once they started on the eggnog, the vote swayed towards the Eve, and in the end it was settled for midnight.

Steve had been prepping for the dinner for days. He had a lot of help from Darcy and Clint and even Vision, and it was a labour of love but he was extremely ready to not cook for a while. He was also nervous about the food; he tried cooking people’s favourites, and foods that were traditional to where they were from. Some ingredients were impossible to get, and he improvised the best he could. When they sat down to eat, Steve was so tense he could barely touch anything. It was a litany of appreciative noises from around the table, and Steve felt his shoulders relax slightly.

“Kholodets!” Natasha exclaimed as she lifted a lid. “Steve, kholodets!” She turned to look at him and leaned over the table to kiss his forehead. Pietro joined her in wondering at the traditional Russian dish while Wanda mouthed her thanks.

“We normally celebrate on the 7th of January,” Wanda said casually.

Steve stopped eating. “Why didn’t you say something? It’s not fair to -”

“Hey,” she interrupted him, “Christmas on the 25th is better than no Christmas. Pietro and I, our parents weren’t religious and back there it was religious for a lot of people. So it’s the thought, the family,” she told him, trying to keep the conversation private. It didn’t work at all, of course.

Natasha smiled. “I remember when Christmas didn’t exist. They moved it to the 1st of January. In the… in the Red Room we knew there was a celebration on the 7th and we knew what it was, but we were never allowed. It was just another day.”

Bruce coughed once to draw attention to him and immediately regretted based on his lost look. Darcy touched his hand and smiled. “My aunt gets drunk every year and slaps the turkey,” she offered with a shrug.

Natasha snorted and turned to look at the large bird on the table. “Do you take after her side of the family?”

Darcy grinned and fluttered her lashes. “I guess we’ll find out,” she said and winked at the turkey.

Clint shoved pigs in blankets in his mouth, throwing Steve a thumbs up and an enthusiastic nod. Bucky thanked him for making the roast potatoes the way his mother used to. Steve smiled widely and pointed towards the turkey. “Not that slapping it wouldn’t be amazing to watch,” he rolled his eyes, “but who wants to carve it?”

They looked at each other, trying to figure out what he meant. Tony was surprisingly the one to answer, not even lifting his head from his potato salad. “You, of course. And hurry up, I want to get to that crisp skin sooner rather than later.” When no one said anything, he looked up. “What?”

Steve shrugged. “It’s your tower, Tony. Maybe you should do it?”

Tony made a show of leaning back and rolling his eyes because he was the biggest drama queen, no matter how many tantrums Steve threw. “This is your tower as well. You all have rooms and little nooks of happiness and the building is actually in all of our names.” He sipped his mulled wine. “What?” he asked again in that impatient voice.

“Tony did you forget to tell them?” Pepper’s voice taking a slight shrill quality. “Tony, I sent you thirteen god damned emails and got Friday to sing to you. What did you do, sleep through all of it?” Tony stayed quiet, looking anywhere but ahead of him, where Pepper’s hand shot up to rest on her hip. “You’re an idiot,” she announced and kicked his shin under the table.

“I was working on a space suit and then I passed out and when I woke up Mr Fantastic was calling me and I just flew out to beat the crap out of a Doombot and to avoid Reed’s annoying voice. And I guess I forgot,” he finished lamely.

“Tony.” Steve’s voice was serious, he knew, but there was no accusation behind it. Tony forgot to eat and sleep and sit down, this was not new.

“When we rebuilt this,” he gestured around him, “I put it down with the Avengers as the owners. Then I kept adding people to the list of what the Avengers mean. It’s not a big deal, your name on the papers or not this is your home.” He pushed the turkey symbolically. The bird was huge. “Now carve it and feed us, Captain… Captain? I’ll have to think about it,” he told Steve, and that was the end of it.

On his part, Steve did his best to carve it as neatly as possible. It wasn’t like he had a lot of experience, or any really. Steve didn’t know a lot about a great deal of things. So he stood and tried to remember any circumstance in his life where carving a turkey had been a thing. If he’d known this was going to happen, he would have allocated three minutes to a youtube tutorial, risking the merciless teasing from Tony. In all fairness the scientist had been good with mocking Steve about his searches, but there was a knowing look. Maybe Steve was also paranoid on top of everything else he was discovering about himself.

He picked up the fork, feeling very self conscious about how slow he perceived his movement. Maybe they had drunk enough not to notice the slight tremor in his fingers. Steve bashed people’s heads in with his shield. This was ridiculous. He went for one of the legs, trying to position the knife as well as possible. The small shriek when a manicured hand shot out and slapped the turkey’s breast absolutely did not happen. Steve would go to his grave claiming that. Darcy howled with laughter at his little jump, and the others were in various degrees of hysterics. Steve hated all of them. He cut through the crispy skin with a scowl on his face. This was ridiculous. Again. He pushed the leg down with the fork, then cut straight through the ball joint.

The drumstick went on a plate, and it was out of Steve’s hands how they were all going to fight over who wants what. He kept going, piling up slices of almost-evenly-carved meat on a large platter. He was about to sit back down when he remembered. He picked the fork up again and poked through the skin on the remaining breast, then pulled slightly.

“Plate,” he said quietly to Tony, whose head snapped up looking around frantically.

“Don’t let them see us,” he whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear him.

“Stark give me the damn plate before I eat all the skin off this bird in front of you and make you watch,” Steve said in a normal voice.

“Promise? I love watching,” came the reply and Steve was about half a wrong breath away from smacking Tony’s hands with the carving fork.

“I’ll make sure to put on a show,” he said sitting down, trying hard for unimpressed and annoyed. That should definitely be the title of his autobiography if he ever decided to write it. Actually, a couple more words: frozen, frustrated, confused - the usual.

Dinner was a success as far as Steve was concerned. The teasing was familiar, and they shared stories of the few happy things they could remember about Christmas. When the conversation turned darker, Vision starting blasting “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and then awkwardly singing along. They tried to keep Steve from helping with clearing the table, but he still managed to sneak past them and start loading the dishwasher.

There was a sharp poke between his shoulderblades just as he was bending to rearrange some plates. It didn’t hurt, but it was uncomfortable enough to make him turn and look up.

“Come on, you can do dishes tomorrow as well,” Tony said and started pulling at his shoulder and then tried to push him towards the door. “There are about eighteen mugs in my lab and at least six bowls you can wash if you feel like it. Tomorrow,” he added, and tried moving Steve again.

“Just go sort out the drinks, I’ll be done here in a minute,” he tried for reason.

“No more doing things around the house tonight, you’re too big to be a house elf. And they’re not as cute. Now move,” he kept prodding at his chest, pulling at his arms, and even yanked his hair a little.

“Harry Potter, right?” Steve checked.

“Yes, yes, now come along.” When there was no sign of success Tony sighed, cocked his head, tutted, sighed again, and lightly backhanded Steve’s shoulder in the quickest succession Steve had seen. “Wanda!”

“Told you,” came her voice, and Steve found himself being floated away from the almost loaded dishwasher. He scowled and waited for it to be over.

“Why do you have to be so stubborn? Literally one more minute, Stark.”

“Yeah, yeah, and then you’d have wanted to scrub the oven, and polish the silverware, and knit some warm tiny socks for homeless kittens, and we’d have been here all night waiting for you. Now sit down,” he said just as Wanda lowered him on the sofa, between Bucky and Pepper.

Getting presents was always an uncomfortable experience for Steve. After his mother died, Bucky was the only one who got him anything, and even that was cut short when he left. So Steve was awkward and a bit uncertain what to do with his hands. He tried to be as normal as possible when he unwrapped them, and he was grateful at everyone’s enthusiasm for not noticing the slight shaking of his fingers. He was amazed at how much thought they’d all put into what they got him. Steve received a new sketchbook, all the Star Wars movies, new pencils and -

“T-shirts that fit. Yeah, that’s right, no more gallivanting around the tower looking like your arms are being strangled,” Sam said with a smirk.

“What is wrong with you?” and “Are you actually insane Wilson?” and “What’s next, getting him in a bin bag?” and “Pepper, now! Take them away now when he’s not looking!” and Steve was honestly baffled.

“What are you talking about?” he asked looking around the room.

Natasha patted his head gently. “You don’t worry about this now,” she told him slowly.

“Nat…”

“Oh, it’s about your clothes.” He shook his head. “You know, the two sizes too small, match the sky blue colour of your eyes… the usual.”

“What?”

“Some of us have an appreciation for nice things in life,” Pepper offered. “Like how your back looks in blue t-shirts that are two sizes too small. And Sam Wilson The Traitor,” she added casually, “wants to take that away from us.”

“Pepper, I don’t -” Steve tried, but got interrupted again.

“Pepper, just take the damn things away and we’re all going to be okay!” Tony shouted and Steve reacted by holding his new clothes tighter.

“I think I’ll keep them,” he told them with a smile. “I wouldn’t want Sam to be offended.”

“You ruined Christmas,” Darcy shouted and then turned to Bruce. “You know I don’t -”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” he said, and kissed her temple.

If Steve was more conceited, he could have sworn Bruce said “I know he’s hot”, but he refused to accept it. He urged them all to keep shredding wrapping paper and they mercifully agreed. He caught Tony’s eye for a second and was left confused about what the scowl on his teammate’s face meant. There was a distinct annoyance in the way Tony stared at the t-shirts. Steve moved on to unwrap a cologne from Natasha and a foldable easel that had his initials brutally carved on the side. He could recognise Bucky’s ugly handwriting everywhere.

“What did you use, a butter knife?” he asked.

“My teeth,” came the quick reply and Steve burst into laughter.

Clint’s new controller set was a great hit with him, and Bucky caught the one the marksman threw at him. They settled on the floor quickly and immersed themselves into their usual friendly competition that involved about twenty swear words per minute. Natasha kissed his cheek softly for her new necklace, and Darcy threw herself at him in “eternal gratitude” for her new taser.

“Tony can add to it, I’m sure,” he told her as she hugged him repeatedly.

“We can probably put a small arc reactor in it, maybe even make it sing,” Tony confirmed. “Come to my lab some time, we’ll talk,” he said and nodded at Steve. “Thanks for my mug, Darce,” he added, using both hands to hold on to the huge mug. It had bad drawings of the Avengers and it was absolutely glorious.

Pepper thanked him for the leather journal, and Bruce thanked him for his new fountain pen. Steve decided again he loved giving presents because it was never about him. He accepted the hot chocolate with a nod, and settled to watch his family rejoice in their gifts.

As a general rule, Steve could go with almost no sleep at all. Sure, he felt tired, but it wasn’t a tragedy. He tried to keep a balanced life, tried to sleep enough and eat right, and exercise - all of which Bucky called overkill, and used to mock him endlessly. Steve remembered what it was like to feel like no air would ever enter his lungs again, or how it felt to not be able to jog for ten feet. So Steve was grateful, and honestly? he actually liked salads and working out. Bucky mocked him for that too, saying that it was natural he liked it when he already had the body for it. Steve punched him then, and all was good in the world again.

Steve spent hours watching the ceiling after their casual party finally broke up around two in the morning. He got up and tried drawing, but his hands didn’t cooperate - it seemed a common thing these days. He tried reading the new book he got, but he couldn’t focus. He tried doing crosswords, but his mind was loud and eventually he gave up and waited. He could normally fall asleep as soon as he wanted, courtesy of years having to do it in various army settings, but it seemed not even that worked right. Steve was a downright mess.

He kept hearing Tony’s harsh words, then Tony’s protests towards the t-shirts that fit better, then what he thought was some sort of friendly flirting, and it took forever for him to actually manage to sleep. When the knock came on his door, Steve felt like it was too soon, and grunted his dismissal. Much later, when he finally got up and showered, his head hurt in a way it only did when there was a physical injury. He wondered if it was actually a memory of the headaches he used to get before the serum. It was close to noon when he emerged from his room, and his stupid fast metabolism reminded him that it needed food and it needed it soon.

It was one of those split second things when he saw the red and gold wrapping paper. He had actually shut his door when the thought sunk in, and walked back in to investigate. The second he realised what he was looking at he could have punched himself in the face. The present for Tony, the one he spent ages on was sitting on his desk patiently. Steve was an idiot.

He picked it up and hurried to the living room. As soon as he walked in, hair sticking out from running his hands through it, present perched on his hip, and eyes looking around wildly, Steve felt it. The same train from last time, with the same precise speed and the same merciless power. Steve felt like someone stabbed him in the kidneys. The force of his recurring epiphany was enough to make him stop abruptly and any words he might have thought of saying died in his constricted throat.

Tony was on the floor, wearing a Christmas hat and his Christmas sweater, surrounded by children who rallied around him. There was a little girl on one of his knees, and a little boy on the other. They both kept touching his beard and his face, as if to make sure he was real. Steve had a very distinct urge to do the same. Behind him, the tree was revolving slowly, and Steve checked around the room for Wanda. There was no one else there except for Tony and the children. Wouldn’t that be a great band name? Even a great superhero team name.

Outside, the snow had some fairy tale qualities to it, falling down peacefully with large snowflakes that were sure to stick to everything. Steve wasn’t fond of the snow or the ice, or even the cold really, but it bathed the room (and subsequently Tony) in some dreamy-fairy-crap light and Steve found that he could start liking it.

“Look kids, it’s Captain America! In his glorious tracksuit bottoms and mercifully tight t-shirt, and sans shield but with a present inste - Steve that won’t help in battle,” he said, tickling the two kids on his lap slightly.

Steve was in love. This was it.

Some of the kids looked up and their eyes widened dramatically before they ran up to him. They all stopped just shy of jumping up into his arms, and turned back to look at Tony. “Go on, he’s not gonna get mad at you! Are you kidding me, this is Captain America! You could shoot at him and he’d still hug you!”

Steve would have denied it, but he knew it was true. He put the gift down and squatted to be closer to their heights. “Hi, I’m Steve.” he offered simply.

The kids smiled and started shouting their names at him. He shook every single one of their little hands and accepted that Ben, who was almost five, wanted to hug him. He picked up the kid and walked back to sit down opposite to Tony.

“Did you know our tree’s called Ben?” Steve asked the little boy who shook his head from his hiding place in Steve’s neck.

“It is?” Tony asked.

“Oh, yes,” Steve said and patted Ben’s head slowly. “Darcy named it when she was riding around it on her mighty steed.”

“There was a horse in here?” Tony asked, his tone even more perplexed.

“Not a horse, Tony, a mighty steed!” he emphasised. “How about you bring the box of decorations over here,” he asked the kids, “and I can get you up on my shoulders so you put them in the tree?”

Ben leaned back and looked at Steve. “Is that okay?”

“Of course! Go on, we’ll be here.” As soon as the kids were half into the box, Steve turned to Tony. “Did you seriously think there would have been a horse in the tower?”

Tony shrugged. “There’s a Norse god, The Hulk, and two enhanced kids who can kick as - butt! I said butt, Steve!” Tony yelped at the kick in the shin.

“Tony said butt!” one of the kids yelled and Steve loved the blush spreading on the scientist’s cheeks more than anything in the world.

“Would it be hard to believe there was a horse? Our washing machines sing ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’ when we put them on,” he whispered.

“When was the last time you touched the washing machines? Actually when was the first?” Steve whispered-shouted back.

“When I made them sing!” Tony said and burst into laughter.

Steve was gone. This was it, he was gone. Good bye forever. Tony’s eyes crinkled and it physically hurt Steve because he just wanted to hold the man. He wanted to hold the man and sit on the floor and look at the stupid revolving tree -

“Tony why is the tree moving?”

“Ah, well. You see. There was a sort of. You know, I don’t actually know why. Maybe it’s some Christmas miracle -”

“Tony.”

“I just fiddled with this scrap metal I had in the lab, put an engine on it, it’s no big deal,” he finally replied, looking around the room to avoid Steve’s face.

“When did you even have time to do it?”

“Well, last night when I didn’t sleep?”

Steve didn’t know how it happened, but he just found himself blurting, “I forgot to give you your present!”

Tony nodded, then shrugged. “It’s okay, I just figured you didn’t get me anything.”

Steve spluttered. “How? I got everyone something.”

“Sometimes you don’t like me much, and I don’t blame you, it’s not a big deal.”

Steve honestly, honest to god, as honest as he could possible be, felt like crying. He also felt like kissing Tony, and punching him a little, and hugging him, and kissing the stupid lines in the corners of his eyes, and run his hands through his hair, and Steve needed to get a fucking grasp on reality sooner rather than later.

“That’s bullshit,” he whispered, wary of the kids hearing him.

Tony gasped and clutched at his chest. “Captain! America! How could you? Kids, Steve says we should all sing some carols while he picks you up and you can ride him like a horse - AH I see!”

“Told you. And I’m a steed.”

Marie had a lisp so when she said “steed” repeatedly while perched on Steve’s shoulders, he struggled not to laugh and shake her even harder. Tony started singing ‘Santa Baby’ before it dawned on him that it was not exactly appropriate or a carol, and moved on to ‘Deck the Halls.’

All the Avengers came in to say hi, shepherded by Pepper who brought them cookies and hot chocolate. Jane was a hit with a couple of little girls who wanted to be scientists, and Natasha showed some of them how to get out of a hold before she was rushed away. “I’ll be good,” she shouted, “just let me tell them what not to do when they’re attacked from the side.”

Vision let all the kids touch him, and giggled when tiny fingers poked at the Mind Stone. “I don’t think it likes the tickling,” he said trying to stifle his laughter. The kids were fascinated by Bucky’s arm, even though he wore a long sleeved top to try and hide it. They lifted the sleeve and started counting the segments, asking what it could do and if they could draw on it. When Bucky informed them crayons wouldn’t show, he offered the alternative of paper and his company. They readily agreed.

Steve found Tony sitting on the kitchen counter by the fridge. He was waiting for the coffee to be ready, idly rearranging magnets. “You okay?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, just a bit tired. I’ll be back to belting out Rudolph’s name in a minute.”

“Please don’t,” Steve said with a smile. “I don’t think the serum was meant to protect me from such things.”

Tony smiled back and it warmed Steve’s heart. “Is that for me?”

Steve nodded and handed him the box. “I don’t know how I missed it, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, how dare you not reciprocate my thoughtful gift of an improvement on the shield that isn’t ready because I didn’t get round to manage to steal it from you and now it’s too late cause you already know so can you bring it downstairs soon?”

Steve huffed, trying not to get closer to him. He was leaning on the kitchen island, safe from giving in to his now constant wish of touching the man in any way he could. “I thought you gave me the Star Wars boxset?”

“And the Avengers figurine collection,” Tony added patiently.

“The shield’s fine as it is, don’t worry about it. We had a spending limit anyway!”

“Steve, I’m Tony Stark, I’ve never had a spending limit,” he said and sipped his freshly poured coffee. “Now hand it over and let me see.”

Steve fiddled with it. “It’s really not that great,” he told him. He really wished he’d remembered to give Tony the present the day before so he could have opened it then and it wouldn’t have been that big of a deal.

“Shhh, hand it over, there you go, that’s a good Captain, okay now let go, okay? Okay, great, now step back a little? Perfect, thank you.”

Steve was more nervous than before battle. Battles were routine, he trained for battles. They ran scenarios, sparred, tried to plan for unpredicted, and Steve was a soldier so battles gave him a rush of sorts. But this was new and horrible and Steve really wanted his shield.

“I’m gonna go back to -”

It wasn’t like Tony said anything, but he was halfway through unwrapping the box - and this time he didn’t just tear at it like a savage. Steve wanted to go, maybe even to get the shield and bring it back, and he was sure there was something to do with the kids, but Tony took the lid off and gasped and Steve was rooted to the marble tiles he was standing on.

It took weeks to be able to put together the photo album that Tony was currently caressing, apparently afraid of opening. Steve had talked to Peggy and Peggy had directed him to some other old SHIELD members, who then pointed out archives for him. Then he had to physically spend time sifting through papers and reports, then to make more phone calls and pull rank in order to get copies of the photos. A couple he actually stole because there was a limit to his patience, and rude people were not a helping factor.

The pages were filled with black and white photos of young Maria and Howard, of baby Tony, of Jarvis holding Tony, of Peggy cuddling him on the floor, of a toddler Tony sleeping with a toy Captain America shield. There were photos of Howard trying to calm Tony down as he was holding a meeting with what looked like officials. It spread out over years, and Steve had to persuade Vision to put in a good word with Friday to get some photos of teen Tony, and he was now torn between regretting everything and moving to the depths of the Arctic Ocean, and kissing the man’s watery eyes.

“How?”

“Called in some favours, talked to Peggy, the usual. Is it okay? I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped the line or -”

Tony hopped off the counter and took the few steps to where Steve was standing. “No no don’t. I mean I could have lived three content lifetimes without you ever seeing that photo of me and the toy shield. Or the one where I’m drooling on Peggy’s shirt - that’s not even really cute and I’m pretty sure I don’t do that anymore, I don’t actually know, there was no one to comment on it so I don’t -”

“Tony.”

“It’s perfect,” he said quietly, “thank you so much.” He placed it next to Steve and slowly lifted his arms to envelop Steve in a hug. On his part, Steve was still, letting Tony do his thing at his own pace. Once he was sure the man settled, he hugged him back; they stayed like that for a few moments.

“Tony, why are there children in our living room?”

The man burst into laughter, shaking both of them as he pulled back. He went to wipe the dampness under his eyes that were not fully formed tears, but Steve knew. “You played with all of them for hours before asking, really?”

“I don’t mind!” Steve said defensively. “I love spending time with them, I was just curious.”

“I just forget how accepting you are of things,” Tony offered as a very subtle apology in case he offended Steve. “Pepper looks after them through the foundation. They’ve either been abandoned or orphaned. A couple of them… their parents were killed in action. She called this morning and asked if she could bring them over. Their caretakers were delighted with the idea and I said yes because Christmas is hard.”

Steve wanted to hug Tony again, but there was a time and a place and probably a limit on how many times they could do that. If Steve had his way he would hug Tony at the smallest of prompts. Oh, Tony woke up? Better hug him. Oh, Tony walked? Better hug him. Now there was a precedent - Steve thought fleetingly there were quite a few of those happening recently - and Steve knew how it felt. Things were not going to get any easier.

“I know you’re not a fan. I really wanted us to have a kind-of-family thing just to make some nice memories, you know?” Tony nodded. “Thanks for making the tree spin, Clint is ecstatic.”

“Thanks for making the tree happen,” Tony countered and they left it at that.

The silence was oddly not uncomfortable. Steve ended up getting coffee for himself and Tony would occasionally open the album at a random page and smile. It was a good feeling to have done something nice for someone he cared about.

“Come on,” Tony said, packing the album back in its box and heading towards the door. “The kids will leave soon and I wanna say goodbye. Pepper’s got gifts for them, as well.”

Steve nodded. “Go ahead, I’ll tidy up a bit and -”

“Seriously? You’re going to load up the dishwasher now? This is deja vu. Why are you doing this to me again?”

“Just go!”

“Fine. But Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“You know you could have ordered all the decorations and everything on Amazon, right? I mean we do have Prime and just saying, you could have if you wanted.”

Steve was mindful of the kids hearing, but he still couldn’t help himself. “Fuck off, Tony.”

A/N: Natasha’s talk about Christmas is based on her age according to the MCU wikia and historical developments in the Soviet Union. “Khodelets” is a traditional dish in Eastern Europe, although whether this is the word actual Russains use or not, I really can’t be sure. My apologies if I got something wrong.

The 7th of January is the actual date of Christmas according to the Julian calendar. Many Orthodox people celebrate it then. Sokovian customs are influenced by the Eastern European customs I grew up with since it’s not an actual country.

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#tony stark x steve rogers #steve x tony #stony #stony fanfic #avengers fanfiction #llexeh writes #long fic #my fanfiction #steve is going to lose his damn mind #pre-slash #domestic avengers #christmas avengers

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