#and would rather slice my hands to shreds than fuck up an art piece

[amyisherenowitsokay]

What is your favorite thing about each of your fanfics?

This is such a hard question omg. I don't think I've ever been asked anything like this, damn. Got me pondering n' shit.

I think, even of the fics that are not my favorite, the thing I always like is writing the romance. The action is fun, creating new lore is fun, writing OC's or developing side-characters is fun, etc., but I have never written a fic that wasn't a build up to and/or explicitly a romance. I love romance.

Even when I was a cynical teenager dangling boys on strings, determined to never take a relationship seriously, I loved the oncept of romance.

My current relationship has surpassed 6 years now, and I love him so dearly that his characteristics even show up in some of my fics, whether I mean them to or not. I consume a lot of media, but my absolute favorite thing to see and experience within it is love.

I love the slow burn of misunderstandings and peril that is Dead Weight. I love the found family of What We Become and Paradorx. I love the "I don't have much, but I know I have you" of Re:MHNY. The "you were destined for me" of That Thing on Your Wrist.

Thank you for this ask anon, it's got me in a very thoughtful, very sentimental mood now. I'm going to go text something unbearably mushy to my boyfriend. <3

[divine-mistake]

'till death blooms us art

Summary: You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

Characters: Sam Wilson/Plus-sized Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), strong language, Hanahaki AU, angst with a happy ending, weight insecurity, allusions to eating disorders, talk about death, blood, past domestic abuse and trauma, gun violence, original male character, book quotes, anxiety

Word Count: 12796

A/N: Thank you for reading! This fic won the vote during my 500 follower celebration and it's finally out now! This story has a lot of meaning for me, due to it being a bit of a metaphor for disorderly eating. I know that will make some people uncomfortable, but as someone who has struggled for a long time, I want to talk more openly about this kind of thing. Anyway, thanks so much for sticking with me and I hope you enjoy!

main masterlist | AO3 | playlist by @tripleyeeet

—STUBBORN WEEDS—

They are everywhere—covering the space of the sitting room like an overgrown garden made of glass and paint, canvas and pages torn from old waterlogged books, stained mugs filled with decaying brushes. Wanda walks through your room like it’s a maze, her fingers trailing over the air but never touching the art. She’s pretending she’s in a museum, or a gallery, or something fancier than what you could ever appear in, but a twinge of something akin to warmth stabs through your heart at the thought.

“These are incredible,” she says, not looking at you. “How do you do it?”

With a shrug, you bend down and pick up one of the canvasses from the floor, holding it out to look at it.

“I don’t know,” you lie.

White space in the shape of flowers, uneven and missing petals here and there, is outlined in streaks of paint that go every direction, in every different shade, hard edges and soft, blurred lines and covering the entirety of the canvas except for those spaces where flowers once sat, pinned to the medium.

“They are beautiful,” Wanda says.

Your nail sneaks under one of the dried chunks of acrylic and you chip it—a fleck of ultramarine blue falls from the painting.

When you turn, Wanda studies a different piece in careful hands. It’s a glass case, trimmed with shitty, shaky lines of gold you painted on a whim. But inside, between the thick panes, dried flowers painted over are encased in eternity, arranged to match their exact placements on the canvas where your brushes stroked life onto them, around them, through them. Two perfect pieces that once belonged together, separated like an act of Adam against his God.

Maybe they were meant to be together, but no one will ever know their story.

“They’re amateur,” you tell her, laughing. “I’m not much of an artist. It’s just for fun.”

She smiles at you, placing the glass piece down. “You have a talent.”

Wanda takes another turn about the room, another circuit, another spin. She looks at every piece in such focus, taking in every single detail, fingers stretching and curling as if she wants to caress the dried flowers, the dried paint, and feel their meaning. You wonder what she would say if she could read their minds—the art you’ve made. Would your pieces tell her the true meaning behind their existence? Or maybe they would laugh, or cry, or howl in pain.

But Wanda only stares, at the paintings and at you, a small smile on her face like she knows something you don’t. Like she’s keeping a secret. Is she keeping the secrets that the flowers have whispered to her when you weren’t looking?

“What inspired them?” she asks, the very tip of her nail tracing a different glass box filled with dyed petals reconstructed into a larger artificial flower, protected by its own display.

You wring your hands together. “I like flowers.”

She laughs. “That’s obvious. But what makes them special enough to paint? To—To make such lovely art out of?”

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you place the small canvas you’d been holding back on the side table, crossing the room to your bookshelf. Your fingertip finds the spine of a hardcover book you’re too familiar with, pulling it out and into your awaiting hands. Sheets of paper, a little bent and crooked, stick out of the pages.

You crack it open, the dulling white petals of a daisy pressed flat between the crackling spine fluttering from between the black inked words, then fall to the floor at your feet.

“The Devil’s hand directs our every move,” you read. “The things we loathed become the things we love.”

Wanda stares at you as you fiddle with the book, tracing the words of the cover.

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” you say. “The Flowers of Evil.”

Gently and without word, she bows at your feet and picks up the drying daisy, cradling it in her pale hands, but you don’t have the strength to take it from her.

(“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I had to run some errands this morning, y’know how it is, so I’m out of the Tower right now. I was just wondering if you needed anything while I was out. Anything—really, anything at all. Even breakfast, or maybe a latte? Just a little pick-me-up. Well, give me a call back if you need anything. If not, I’ll be back soon. See ya.”)

—BETTER TOGETHER—

“Steven Grant,” you say his name like a curse, shaking your head. “This is why you spend three hours a day in the gym.”

Too busy shoving the first bite of his first hoagie into his mouth, Steve doesn’t reply. You roll your eyes, but the smile on your lips gives you away. When he’s finally swallowed, wiping crumbs from his mouth, he looks a little indignant.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“Well, you would be if you didn’t have that serum running through you.”

He frowns, brows furrowed, a little confusion on his face. “I thought it was because I work out three hours a day. And I’ll have you know—”

“—you work out six hours a day between your morning runs and training, I know, I know. I’ve heard it all before Steve.” You groan at the thought. “It’s like it’s your job.”

“It is my job. Saving the world and all that.”

“Okay, you really need to let America know that it’s giving you a complex, ‘cause if I hear one more thing about you saving the world, I think I’m going to scream.”

He shrugs, taking another gigantic bite out of his sandwich. Scraps of shredded lettuce fall out from between the buns and litter his plate. You pick at your own, pulling uneven pieces of sliced onion and stray pickles from the hoagie, content to sit and stare at it instead of eating.

Food is good. You brush the grainy crumbs of bread from your fingers. Food is good, but you just aren’t hungry. And you don’t work out three hours a day. Maybe you should start. Your body feels like a balloon with all your insides threatening to come up in a retch and choke you. Food is good. Food is good. You just have to pick up the sandwich and eat it.

Fingers shaking, you take the sub in your hand and stare at the corner where you mean to take the first bite.

“You good?”

Steve, still chewing, looks at you with concern clear in his crystal blues and it makes you put your food back down on the plate. Instead, you busy yourself with another sip of your water, nodding at him.

“Yeah. We can’t all be Steve Rogers, demolishing two hoagies in less than two seconds, y’know.” You throw in a snort, trying to sound nonchalant. “Wipe your mouth, Captain. You’ve got mayo on your cheek.”

He doesn’t, but him grabbing a napkin to embarrassedly wipe a nonexistent condiment from his face gives you enough time to pick your sandwich back up and contemplate taking the first bite. You’ve just gotta start with the first bite and the rest will go down.

But you aren’t hungry. How can you be hungry when you’re already so full? Stuffed, even. There isn’t room in your insides. All your organs are bursting. It’s so painful sometimes, the expanding of your skin to accommodate. Waves of sickness roll through you, spreading. Your stomach is stretched, bloated, filled with all the swallowed—

“What are you doin’ to my girl, huh Steve?”

The sound of his voice alone makes the ache inside of you dissipate, the nausea escapes from your throat, the anxiety twitching through your hands steadies. Your head perks up, shoulders rolling back as your entire body relaxes, and you look behind you.

And there, dressed in a tight blue polo and a pair of pants clinging to his legs like they were made for him, the very angel who blessed you, the devil who cursed you, the god of the fucking sun and everything it could ever touch, stands before you with a smile saved just for you.

Sam Wilson.

His dark eyes are piercing, like he’s trying to peel back the layers of your skin to see underneath, as he shoves his hands in his pockets and grins with all his teeth.

“Hey honey,” he says—simply and easily and not serious. Never serious.

Your lungs burn. Your mouth feels too dry to answer him.

“Oh, your girl?” Steve asks him, brows a little too furrowed to be joking. “When did she become your girl?”

Sam shrugs, walking toward the empty seat next to you, placing his hand on the back of your chair so dangerously close to your body that it makes you pull in a deep breath. His thumb could brush against the fabric of your shirt, run along the seam of your spine. And, goddamn, it should be illegal for him to look so casual and so unbothered while still looking that handsome.

Like this, you can smell the spice in his cologne, a powerful mix of something you’re sure is designed to drive you crazy.

He looks down at you, still hovering over where you sit, and throws a wink your way that brings heat to the surface of your cheeks.

“Aw, she’s always been my girl, ain’t that right? Tell him, darlin’.”

You stare at Sam for one second too long, breaking away to gaze down at your uneaten sandwich again. With every flutter that Sam sends down your stomach, the heaviness inside it seems to fade away. Your fullness is replaced by a familiar hunger—the rawness of your throat waning as a burning itch takes over. A cough is threatening to bubble up. You choke it back, smiling instead.

“He’s right, Stevie,” you say all bright and cheery again.

Steve meets your eyes with a stony gaze, unreadable, his blue eyes looking gray in the light. Beside you, Sam throws himself down in one of the chairs and pulls up to the table, hand still sitting on the back of your seat. His knees are spread a little wide, thigh resting against yours.

It’s so innocent but your brain thinks it’s so intimate. A lie. A lie.

In the end, Steve relaxes back, his eyebrows lifting as he watches the scene unfold in front of him. He tosses one of the sticky plastic menus toward Sam, nodding at it.

“Order up, man,” Steve says, his tone more neutral than you think you’ve ever heard it in regards to Sam. “But I’m not paying for yours. You’re on your own.”

At that, Sam laughs, full and robust with his face up to the ceiling. He rocks back in his chair, shaking his head, and he looks so beautiful even in the shitty sub shop that Steve drags you to for lunch every other week that it makes you ache and your lungs contract in an attempt to cough.

You swallow it back again, trying to even out your breathing. The itch in your throat is so bad that you almost pick up your sandwich to eat again, but your hand passes it up to take another few sips of your water. It’s cool, clear, refreshing—but it can’t make the tickle of the cough go away.

“So,” Sam starts once he’s finished ordering his own hoagie, “how’s that apartment hunting going? Found anything good yet?”

A frown forms, heavy, on your lips. You pick off a flaking piece of bread from your sandwich, watching it turn to crumbs underneath your fingers.

“It’s going,” you say, but anyone who ever responds to a question of how’s it going with it’s going is absolutely lying and it is absolutely not going—and maybe Sam knows that, or maybe Steve does, or hell, maybe they both do but it makes you look weak to admit that things aren’t going so well out loud.

And you—you can’t admit the truth, so it’s just better to lie about it.

You don’t want to leave the Tower.

“It’s going, huh?” Sam asks, his tone proving that he can see right through you. “You need help looking at some places or something?”

“Well—”

“You know,” he barrels through your words as if they are nothing, “I think I actually know a realtor around here. Maybe he can get you some leads on rentals or something. I could make some calls for you, honey.”

It’s not supposed to—Sam only means well, he always does, always trying to do so much for people—but it hurts to hear. Because you don’t hear him saying that he’s trying to help you out. You hear him saying he doesn’t want you around the Tower anymore.

Because, well, why would he want you there?

To him, you’re just an outsider. A girl who doesn’t belong. Someone who daydreams and doodles flowers on every surface as soon as she thinks of him. And you always think of him.

Before you can think about it, your hand flies to your mouth reflexively to hold back a cough. Instantly, Sam’s leaning closer and that damned hand of his falls soft against your back.

“You okay?”

There’s barely a moment for you to nod, signaling that you’re fine, before Steve’s got on his game face, all hard lines and furrowed brows and thin lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Sam’s attention. “She’s allowed to stay as long as she wants, alright? The Tower is her home now, too. So there isn’t a rush for her to find a place unless she wants to leave.”

The passion and care in Steve’s voice is strong, almost so overpowering it’s oppressive, and something rises up from within you and threatens to send salty tears careening down your cheeks if you don’t blink them away.

Sam raises his hands in front of him dramatically. “Okay, okay, I get it. I wasn’t trying to run her off or anything, just wanted to lend a hand if I could. Damn, Steve.”

Something changes at the table, then. It’s like a fog, thick and cloying, falls over the three of you and keeps you lethargic—so much so that the only words spoken in the next few awkward minutes are Sam’s thanks when the waiter brings his sandwich by.

You still haven’t even touched yours, and you hope it seems like you’re just waiting for Sam to get his, because Steve’s tearing into his second and by the looks of the mustard dripping down his fingers messily, he’ll be done any minute now.

But as you prop your head up on the table, leaning on your elbow boredly, Sam nudges his leg into yours to grab your attention. When you turn to look at him, he’s got that grin again, all pearly and white with the little crooked gap you think you could stare at forever as long as it meant he was smiling and laughing and happy.

“You gonna eat, girl?” Sam picks his sub up in his hand and gestures at you to do the same. God, he makes you dizzy just by talking. The butterflies in your belly are fighting tooth and nail against your organs, trying to take up all the space, but they aren’t really butterflies. The soft monsters in your stomach leave a taste on your tongue you can’t explain.

“Oh.” You mimic his movement and then Sam toasts his hoagie against yours with a chuckle.

“First bite,” he says, and there’s no thought in your head or balloon in your stomach and no bloated skin to make you second guess yourself.

You follow Sam, sinking your teeth into the bread of your sandwich, and its flavor explodes over your tongue just enough to take away all the bitter, floral, fragrant taste of the daisies that are building up in your stomach, their petals choking you out, downy fluttering things inside you.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I was coming to see if you wanted to grab a bite with me for lunch, maybe at that little Italian place you like to go to around the corner? Or maybe sushi or something? Been a while since I got to go out for lunch, so I thought I’d ask, but I guess you’re busy right now. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Enjoy your lunch.”)

—NEW BEGINNINGS—

You’ve got to call him. You have to. You have no choice anymore.

Danny is on the other side of the locked door, his fist pounding on the wood and threatening to cave it in from the repeated force. The sound is louder than it should be, really, echoing off the tile of the bathroom you’ve barricaded yourself inside. He’s shouting above the sound.

“You fucking bitch. I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna fucking kill you. You lied to me? What else are you lying about, huh? You fucking whore. I took you in, I gave you a home, I gave you everything. Fucking fat slut—how many other guys are you sleeping with, huh?”

None, you had answered earlier when he was questioning you in your shared bedroom, his fist tight around your soft arm and squeezing so hard it made you want to scream. None.

But that wasn’t the answer Danny was looking for. And, well, once he threw you onto the ground and stomped to the dresser, clothes strewn around the room as he furiously ripped through it until he found the shiny black firearm you didn’t know he had, you were gone.

But there was only one place to go and that was the bathroom.

Now, trapped inside, you know you have no choice. You have to call him—the man from the coffee shop you’ve been going to regularly for a few months. The man who noticed the bruises Danny always left on you after a rough night. The man who pressed and pried and tried to do anything to get you to open up to him even as you refused over and over again. The man who put his number in your phone because he wanted you to call him if you ever needed him, not because he was a hero, but because he was worried about you.

You press the number two on speed dial. The phone rings.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“Steve?” Your voice is nothing but a sob. “Steve, you were right.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, but you hear the rustle of clothes and a jingle of keys on the other side beyond the static, a sound that makes you almost cry with relief or hope or maybe just stress.

“Hold on,” he tells you. “FRIDAY is pulling up your address. I’ll be there as quick as I can. Are you safe?”

“Bathroom,” you’re able to mumble out from behind the waterfall of tears rushing down your face. “He’s locked out but—but I’m scared.”

“I’m on my way. He’s not going to hurt you. I promise you.”

And then Steve hangs up, and you wish he hadn’t because now you’re left all alone with just a flimsy wooden door, painted fucking white so the blood will show up real pretty when Danny kills you, between you and your boyfriend.

Well, ex-boyfriend if you get out of here alive.

“Four fucking years!” he shouts from outside. “I gave you four fucking years of my life, you stupid bitch. I put up with your dumb fat ass for four years and this is what you do? Is this love? Do you think this is love?”

You figure anything is love as long as it doesn’t look like this. The ring of bruises around your upper arm from Danny’s grasp is already turning black and blue, a sight that makes you flinch.

Honestly, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours. All the cash you were stashing should’ve been hidden better. You knew better. A shoebox up on the top shelf of the closet? Amateur. You should’ve cut a section out of one of your prized books or something. Danny never fucking reads. He probably doesn’t know how. He would’ve never found all the money if you’d stashed it there.

“Six thousand dollars!” he roars, punching the center of the door. The wood bends slightly. “How long’ve you been fucking stealing from me, huh? Fucking bitch. Stupid fucking bitch.”

And then it happens.

Danny’s fist breaks through the first layer of the door with a curse of pain falling from his lips. Then, a laugh. He’s laughing.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

He punches the door again and then his hand is through, wood splinters shattering and flying toward you, and with a scream you shield your face with your arms and duck down. You’re sitting beside the bathtub, squished against the toilet, and you scoot back as far as you can trying to wedge yourself to safety.

But there is no safety here. Danny’s bloodied fingers find the doorknob and unlock it with a click, and it’s over. It’s over. It’s fucking over.

With a kick, the door comes flying open and you’re screaming again at the top of your lungs, throat tearing itself raw. Danny’s broad frame possesses the entire room as he shoulders his way inside, his lips pulled back to show all of his teeth in a feral grin, the overhead lights catching the shine of the sleek gun he’s carrying.

You can’t even look at him. All you can do is stare at his back in the bathroom mirror hanging over the counter, your mind completely devoid of thought.

“Fuckin’ dead,” Danny says, and you don’t see him aim the gun at you. You stare in the mirror, right in the mirror and memorize the pattern of the plaid jacket he’s wearing, how the colored stripes form new colors, how the fabric all blends. It’s a pretty shirt. You bought it for him two Christmasses ago. He looks good in it.

You are going to die.

Then, suddenly, you can’t see the plaid anymore. Instead it’s a gray shirt on a much bigger body blocking out the mirror, and when you turn your head to look, Steve’s there.

Steve’s here.

He’s got Danny in a chokehold, grappling for the pistol in your boyfriend’s hand. Ex-boyfriend. Despite Steve being completely unarmed—he’s Captain America for christ’s sake, a goddamn super soldier, he doesn’t need a fucking weapon—he easily brings Danny down to his knees and onto the floor, kicking the gun away from their bodies and out of the bathroom completely.

“Fucking whore,” Danny manages to spit out, the sound strangled as Steve’s arm buckles over his neck. “You’re fucking him too, huh? I’m gonna kill you.”

“Shut up,” Steve grits through his clenched teeth, pulling Danny toward the destroyed door. “You’re done.”

They disappear from the bathroom in a tangle and thrashing of limbs. Danny curses the whole way down the stairs, struggling to break out of Steve’s grasp you presume. He’s a fighter—that’s what he always said. Dog meets dog eats dog world, he would tell you. You can’t ever trust anyone.

And, well, he certainly proved his beliefs. You had the bruises to show for it. The scars as evidence.

Sitting alone in your wrecked bathroom, still sprawled out on the tile, you stare down at your hands. The lines run deep in your palms, fingers stubby and chubby and not at all feminine. Too small to grab Danny the way he always grabbed you. Too soft with fat to deliver a good punch.

You don’t know how much time passes before a much larger hand enters your vision, slowly, like approaching a kicked mutt on the street, and when you don’t flinch, Steve lays his fingers across your palms. Apprehensively, you grab onto his hand, and he squeezes back.

Looking up, he’s crouched in front of you, the beginnings of a bruise forming on his left temple. With your free hand, you reach out and let your fingers brush over it, but Steve just smiles at you.

“Let’s go,” he murmurs.

“Where?”

“Anywhere but here,” he says, gently tugging on your hand. You hold onto him a little tighter and let him help you up off the ground, his arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady your shaky legs.

“I don’t have anywhere else to go,” you say. “The money I saved…”

You don’t even know what happened to it. For all you know, Danny burned the cash. Or stashed it somewhere else.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Steve says in a soft voice. “I’m taking you back to the Tower. The police are dealing with Danny right now. Can you help me pack some clothes for you?”

And so you sat on the bed among your wrecked bedroom as Steve picked through the messy drawers that had been pulled from their dresser, some articles of clothing crumpled on the floor where Danny flung them in his mad search for your secret money stash. And the gun. You almost forgot about the gun.

Steve helps you pack, his face only a little pinker than normal when you’re shoving your intimates into the black duffle bag he fished out of his car, and then he’s helping you slip on your sneakers and guiding you out of your house.

You don’t say goodbye to it, though. That house. Even after four years, you don’t call it home. In a lot of ways, you’re happy to watch it disappear from Steve’s rearview mirror, hoping you’ll never be back.

“They’re going to love you there,” he says quietly in the silence of the car, both hands tight around the steering wheel. He glances over at you, then back at the road. “You’ll fit right in. You’ll be safe. Right at home.”

But you think Steve is a bit of an optimist. Homes, you think, are for people who are loved.

(“Hey honey, just me here. Look, I remembered you saying something about how you wanted those, what were they called, the fairy lights for your room? The ones that look like Christmas lights? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You’re too short to do it yourself, girl, you know that. Anyway, give me a call if you want to, or just come down to my room and get me, anytime. I’ll be waiting. Talk soon, honey.”)

—KEEPING SECRETS—

Wanda hums a tune under her breath. “I just can’t wait to get out of this place! It’s been too long. Mission after mission after bloody mission.” She sighs and starts to apply a thick coat of mascara, eyes wide as she stares in the mirror.

“Agreed,” Natasha says from somewhere behind you. The sound of her bare feet on the bathroom tile is the only warning you have before she sidles up beside you, gracefully lifting herself up onto the counter and sweeping various cosmetics aside to make room.

You’re still undressed, standing in your panties and an old t-shirt with a stretched out neck, just finishing up your eyeshadow when Nat taps a black bottle on the marble top near your fingers.

“Want me to do your eyeliner?” she asks.

A few months ago, you would have seen it as an insult—a beautiful, dangerous woman telling you in less words that your makeup looked like shit. Now you know it’s an expression of Natasha’s unending love for you. A willing act of service. A small thing she can do for you.

“Yes please.”

Natasha motions you forward, between her legs, and when she takes your face in her hand you close your eyes.

“Pretty colors,” she says, probably about your eyeshadow.

“Thanks,” you reply, and then you feel the cool wetness of liquid liner right on your lash line as she begins to paint a wing on your lid. “You always look pretty.”

“So do you.” She blows softly on your left eye. “It’s like you never need makeup, I swear. Are you even wearing foundation?”

A smile works its way onto your face. “Nope.”

From beside you, Wanda giggles.

“Slut. You’re so perfect it makes me want to scream sometimes,” Natasha says, tongue clicking her teeth as she finishes off your right eye.

All the breath seems to leave you in that moment. Like someone punched you straight in your gut, your bones like the gel shock-absorbing layer protecting your organs. Your eyes want nothing more than to shoot open, but Nat is blowing cool air over the newly formed wing and you force yourself to relax so you don’t mess everything up.

“I’m not perfect,” you tell her. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Don’t deflect.” You hear her cap the eye liner and set it down on the counter, then her palms engulf your cheeks. Slowly, you let your eyes open, blinking gently.

She’s staring at you, eyes narrowed.

“Just because I’m beautiful doesn’t mean you’re not beautiful,” she says, simply, as if it’s just easy for her to not compare herself to anyone else. “If you’re perfect, you’re perfect. Doesn’t matter if I’m perfect, too. And that Wanda is perfect. Or that anyone is perfect.”

Natasha takes your chin in her fingers and grabs a tube of lipstick—the one she and Wanda always tell you to wear because it looks so damn good on you.

“Your beauty and your worth doesn’t come from other people.” She runs the silken rouge over your lips. “It comes from who you are, not comparisons to other people.”

And, god, you want to scream at her. You want to shout and tell her that she isn’t allowed to say that to you when she looks the way she does—slim and picturesque and every human being’s wet dream. She doesn’t get to say that you shouldn’t compare yourself, with your heavy chest and your wide hips and all your soft pockets of skin, to someone like her. To someone like Wanda. To anyone else that doesn’t need liposuction with a side of diet pills, please.

You can’t be perfect, because if you were perfect, if you were enough, you wouldn’t be dying in agony every night over someone that doesn’t look twice at your too-large stomach and your too-large thighs.

They’re just trying to make you feel better, but all it does is make you feel worse.

“Look,” you say when she’s done with your lipstick, “I get what—”

In a split second, your chest is wracked with hard coughs, lungs struggling for air. It’s choking you, your own insides, and you’re hacking and wheezing and grasping at the bathroom counter and Natasha’s hands are on your shoulders and Wanda is slapping your back in hope that it will help and someone, somewhere, is saying the word heimlich and you can taste it on your tongue like old wallpaper from the 70s, floral and disgusting and toxic and ugly.

You throw your arm over your mouth, smearing your lipstick. It doesn’t help. Natasha is looking at you, eyes wild. You’re coughing and coughing and you think you taste blood underneath the overwhelming velvet on your tongue.

They’re saying your name. Shredded petals are between your teeth.

And then you break, pushing past them to the toilet, skidding on your knees until you’re doubled over and retching. It’s all burning acid and fresh flowers. Rot and fester and earth and greenery. A pair of cool hands—Wanda’s, you think—rest upon your forehead and move your hair away from your face.

Vomit and daisies leak from your mouth until your stomach is done contracting and your insides are empty. All that’s left is your sputtering coughs that taste caustic and beautiful.

It’s getting bad.

When you finally pull away from the toilet, slumped back and wiping your mouth, the toilet is full of an explosion of crisp white and bright yellow, tinged with the faint pink of blood. Wanda is glancing back and forth between you and the unflushed toilet, horror stitched on her face.

Before Natasha approaches, a glass of tap water in hand, you lean over and flush the petals down the drain. The look you shoot Wanda is pleading, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

Everything on the inside hurts, burning like a pit of snakes in your belly, hissing and spitting venom and biting into you like they mean to kill you. Perhaps the daisies have grown fangs. Your lungs feel chewed.

Nat places the glass in your shaking hands, her fingers holding your own as if she knows you can’t do it yourself. She helps raise the glass to your soiled lips and you gulp the water down like it’ll flood the valley unfolding in you.

“Who is it?” she asks, her voice calm but her eyes uneasy. You nearly choke, a hand pressing against the middle of your chest as if you need to feel your lungs as they work to assure yourself of your own survival.

“What?” you barely eke out, throat thick and scratchy. One of Wanda’s hands strokes down your back and she doesn’t speak, only shakes her head.

“Who is it?” Natasha repeats.

You look away.

“God.” Wanda sniffles behind you. “How could we not have realized?”

“Because it doesn’t happen,” Nat says, shifting from crouching in front of you to sitting on her knees on the floor, a hand resting on your thigh. “I’ve never known a single person—until now, I guess—who had it. I thought it wasn’t real.”

“They tell it like a fairytale in Sokovia,” Wanda says, her words just as watery as her eyes. “A story you lull children to sleep with! But I should have seen it. We should have seen it.”

A new abundance of petals tickle the back of your throat.

“All that art,” Natasha hisses, but she isn’t looking at you. She’s glaring down at her lap.

“All the daisies,” Wanda cries. Her head drops against your shoulder. You feel the wetness of her tears.

“It’s okay,” you tell them, but your voice is too small. “It’s okay,” you say, louder this time, tasting the flowers like they are the blood of your bitten tongue.

“Who is it?” Natasha asks again, a begging in her voice you don’t think you’ve ever heard before.

“It’s okay,” you say again.

And with this, Nat’s face changes from one of concern to something of realization—like she’s been struck with a thought she never considered, like she’s seen the future.

“It’s him.” Her jaw is slack, staring at you even as Wanda looks at her with confusion etched on her visage. “You have to tell him.”

“No,” you say simply.

“This is bad,” Nat snaps, as if you don’t know it already. “This is getting bad. You need to tell him or you’re—you’re going to die.”

A laugh breaks through the bathroom, echoing. “How can I tell him? How could I ever tell him that I love him when the simple fucking fact that these flowers are growing—rooting—in my goddamn lungs is proof that he doesn’t love me the way that I love him?”

You lean back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling.

“Sam Wilson doesn’t love me the way I love him,” you whisper.

The tips of Natasha’s fingers catch the tears you don’t feel streaking down your cheeks like the screaming of shooting stars, hot and bright and dying.

“It’s sort of beautiful, don’t you think?” Your nails dig into the fat flesh of your thighs, trying to puncture skin. “To make art of your own death. To make something lovely out of something so tragic.”

You can’t swallow it back this time. A cough wracks through you, jostling your bones, and you fold yourself in half as soft white petals emerge from your esophagus and choke you. You grind them against the backs of your teeth with your tongue, trying to mash them into nonexistence, but it’s not enough. You retch another wave of daisies into your awaiting hands.

Wanda calls your name and it sounds broken.

“Death like this,” you rasp, catching your breath, “is the most beautiful way to go.”

Your finger drags over one of the downy petals, a bead of blood catching on your skin and smearing across it like a brushstroke of paint, ruining it.

“Death like this is the only way I want to go.”

(“Hey beautiful, it’s me again. I heard you were going out with the girls tonight—I hope you have fun. I just wanted you to know that if you need a ride back home, or you get into trouble and need a hero, or anything, really, I’m just a phone call away. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I’ll be up if you need anything, at least ‘till you get home. Have fun, girl.”)

—INNOCENCE—

You’re beginning to ask yourself if the mirror lies.

It doesn’t. You know that. You’ve been trying to find the lies in it for years at this point, pinching and pulling at all the places you find are thicker than the women you see on TV, the women you see floating around the Tower, the women you’ve seen on the arms of Sam Wilson. Chubby hands caress down your soft belly, poking and prodding the skin you wish you could make disappear. The mirror never lies.

But you wish it did when you stare at yourself and all you see are the bruises beneath your eyes, the hollows in your cheeks, the drained look in your gaze. The longer you stand there, the less you recognize yourself.

You aren’t hungry anymore. You never get hungry—the flowers filling up all the space in your stomach, coughed up from your lungs and swallowed back in pieces. Perfume is what your mouth tastes like now. Perfume and iron. The vomiting hasn’t stopped since the night your secret was revealed to Natasha and Wanda.

And you’ve never looked better.

That’s the part you hate. The part where when you look in the mirror and you can see the places where those daisies have shaved you thinner. It almost makes you laugh. People say you pack on the pounds when you find love. Maybe they should try having toxic flowers take root inside of them and slowly steal their lifeforce while they watch the person they love never love them back.

It’s a slow process, this death. You wonder which will kill you first—the starvation or the suffocation.

The walk down to the gala is as equally exciting as it is dreadful. You’ve never been to a Tony Stark gala before and you’re eager to dance the night away with your friends. But you’re also exhausted.

Oh well. The makeup helps you look less like a corpse and more like a dancing queen. The dress, which you’re sure someone paid far too much money for, is part of the solution. It’s all flowy and gorgeous as if you are a Greek goddess meant to be worshipped and highlights your figure while hiding all the imperfections the mirror seemed to find.

And when you finally enter the room, classical music playing from the live band and people laughing loudly and champagne twirling about the floor for people to take, the first thing you see is him.

Grin taking up his entire face, lighting up the entire ballroom, dressed beautifully in a navy suit that makes him look utterly dashing, is Sam Wilson.

He’s surrounded by people—women who are better dressed than you are—so with a shaky breath and a pain in your lungs, you quickly turn on your heel and head toward the next familiar face.

“Woah there, doll, where you hurryin’ off to?” Bucky, hair neatly pulled back and wearing a black suit, grabs you by your waist.

“Nowhere,” you blurt. “The bar. I just got here.”

He raises a thick brow at you, a silent question, but when you choose not to answer he shrugs.

“Well I can’t refuse to escort a pretty lady, can I?” With a charming smile, he holds his elbow out to you and gestures for you to grab on. You slip your hand around his arm and grasp him tightly, shooting him a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

But as the two of you start dodging through the crowd of excited party-goers, on your way to the bar in the back, Bucky stops short and gets a look on his face that you’re not quite sure you can describe as mischievous, but it’s close enough to make you frown.

“Y’know what,” he says, glancing over at you with that boyish grin, “I think we should take a spin on the dance floor instead.”

“Oh no,” you tell him, eyes wide. “I can’t dance—”

He snorts. “I’ve seen you dance around the kitchen, doll.”

“I can’t dance in front of all these people.”

“Can’t is a word for losers.” Bucky closes his hand over yours, locking you to his elbow. “Don’t wanna be a loser like Stevie, do ya? Oh Buck, I can’t stop fighting, gotta teach ‘em a lesson. Oh Buck, I can’t rinse out my cereal bowl, I gotta go for a run.”

It makes you laugh, maybe a little too loud, but it eases you just enough for Bucky to pull you into the menagerie of dancing couples, and then he’s moving your hand from his arm and onto his shoulder and clasping your other in his fingers.

“There we go.” His eyes shine like the ocean sparkles under the Tower lights.

Bucky has something magic in him, you decide, after two songs of him swinging you along the floor. He has something magic that makes everything so easy, which is something so admirable after all he’s been through. He has you laughing and smiling and spinning across the room with so little effort you forget all your worries in an instant.

“See?” Bucky dips you in his arms, making you squeal with glee, collecting the stares of the people peppered around the room. “Knew you could dance, doll.”

Panting, you rest a hand on his chest, still giggling. “Only ‘cause you’re so good.”

“Song’s over, Buck,” a new, familiar voice cuts in. When you look up, Steve is standing there, eyes crinkling with his own smile. “I can’t wait for another.”

At that, Bucky rolls his eyes with such drama it has you laughing yet again.

“See? I told you. It’s all can’t this, can’t thatwith Stevie. But fine.” Bucky guides you by the waist over to Steve, passing your hand over, and then gives you one last grin with all his teeth. “I had fun, doll. Thanks for dancin’ with me.”

“Anytime,” you tell him, and then Steve’s adjusting your grip on him. The song changes from the upbeat tune Bucky was twirling you to down to a slower classical piece.

“You doing okay, sweetheart?” Steve asks, his eyes roaming over your face.

“Yeah,” you hum. “Bucky and I had a lot of fun.”

Steve’s grip at your waist tightens a little. “No, I mean in general. Are you doing alright?”

There’s worry there—in the wrinkles on his brow, the blue skies of his eyes, the curve of his lips. You know he’s staring at you and seeing everything the mirror told you. All the gaunt places. The hollow, haunted look you’re parading around. The weight you’ve been steadily losing. You know he sees it.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, and you wonder yet again if the mirror ever lies. You know you do.

Steve sways you gently, more carefully than Bucky had. Steve dances with you like you’re made of something fragile. You still don’t understand why. You don’t know why he ever looked at you and saw something important, someone to protect. Maybe it’s just how he was born to be.

“You can tell me anything,” he says, so seriously that your heart breaks a little.

You move your hand from his shoulder and up to cradle his cheek, smiling.

“I know, Steve. I know.”

And if he pulls you into him, crushes you against his chest, and holds you like that for the rest of the song, no one mentions it. Steve lets you rest your head on his shoulder and, not for the first time, you think this must be how it feels to have a family.

But then the lights in the ballroom brighten a little and a spark finds its way into the music, changing into something jazzy and fun, and someone slaps Steve on the shoulder.

“Alright Rogers, she’s ours now.”

There, dressed like she could kill a man with her heels alone, Natasha has her arms crossed over her black satin gown. Beside her, in a red, flowy dress, Wanda has her hands on Nat’s shoulders, giggling from all the bubbly you’re sure she’s consumed.

Steve pulls away from you with a chuckle, holding his hands up in surrender.

“Alright, alright—she’s all yours, ladies.”

With that, Natasha pounces on you, and the three of you start to shimmy the night away together.

You lose count of the songs you spend dancing with them, sweaty and out of breath and having the time of your life, before you wave them off and step out onto the outside patio where hardly anyone is loitering. You pass up a couple sitting on a bench, cuddled up in the cool air of New York, and leave a man smoking a cigarette to himself.

Instead, you find a lonely bench far away enough from the gala that you can hardly hear anything but the bass strings resounding through the building. There, you sit, and turn your head up to the stars you can’t really see anymore.

“You okay, girl?”

Startled, you whirl around to face the object of your affections, standing behind you with his hands shoved casually in his pockets. He isn’t wearing his usual smile. Just staring.

And then you taste dirt. Freshly upturned soil coated in congealing blood. You cough into your hands and hear him approach, laying a warm palm on your back as you choke the daisies down and down and down, swallowing as many as you can, the pungent taste still ripe in your mouth.

“Honey,” he calls out all smooth and sharp like whiskey. “Honey, are you okay?”

You lick the blood from your lips. Sam crouches before you, gathering your cold hands in his, looking up at you with such a fucking expression that you want to kiss him so solidly he can taste the vines growing up your throat. You want his tongue to taste the soil of your suffering—the flowers of your own doom.

“I’m worried about you,” Sam says, his dark eyes searching your face for something.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, just as you’ve been telling everyone.

“You’re not looking so good these days,” he murmurs, and you recoil.

“Wow.” The hurt in your voice is so palpable it makes you cringe. “Thanks, Samuel.”

You move to get up from the bench, heart twisting, but Sam grabs your arms and cages you there.

“I didn’t mean it like that, darlin’, you know better than that.” He gives your arms—too soft too wide too fleshy too—a squeeze of reassurance. “You’re not painting much anymore either. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

Sam holds your gaze until it’s too much and you have to break away.

“C’mon, girl. Are you even sleeping?” Sam shakes you a little. “Eating?”

The flowers of evil root in your chest. See, you know how this book ends. You don’t need to read the last page to find out. It’s just as Baudelaire wrote, you know: “My heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.”

Your organs have been replaced by daisies. Sam Wilson won’t love you—not tonight, not tomorrow, and not in time.

So you shrug, forcing your lips to curl into what you think might be a smile.

“I can’t paint. I’ve got too many flowers to press,” you tell him. Sam’s visage morphs into confusion, and he shakes his head slightly. He doesn’t understand. He won’t understand.

You take his arms from your body, holding his hands for a split second, long enough to steal their warmth and imagine what it would be like to hold them every single day, and then you pick yourself up off the bench and give him a wave.

“See you inside, Sam.”

And you leave him there, confusion still frozen on his face, the gritty blood ripping shreds in your damaged throat as you swallow it again and again and again in an attempt not to taste it anymore.

(“Hey, uh, it’s Sam. I was just calling to, uh, y’know, remind you about the gala. You have a date yet? I didn't ask anyone. I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. Try not to kill me with your good looks tonight, you hear? Save a dance for me, baby.”)

—THE SUN AND ALL ITS STARS—

Dishware rattles into your room, signaling Nat’s arrival. By the time you gather the energy to sit up in bed, she’s already entering, a tray of food in her hands and an icy look on her face.

“Breakfast in bed,” she says monotonously.

You shift and pull your duvet up as she fits the tray over your lap. There’s not much—a sweating glass of cold water beside an amber glass of apple juice, two slices of buttered toast, and some melon she cut up.

“Thanks,” you say, voice strained and weak.

Natasha doesn’t leave, but you wish she would. She seats herself on the edge of your bed, staring you down as you sip on your water. You purse your lips in frustration, but pick up the fork and begin to poke at the fruit.

“Eat,” she says.

“I’m trying,” you grumble back. “Stop staring at me.”

Natasha throws her hands up on the air. “Well if I don’t watch you, you’ll just sit here and waste away,” she snaps. “You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, hell, you aren’t even coming out of your room anymore. You go to work, you come home, you don’t talk to any of us. Steve says—”

“Steve doesn’t know anything!” you shout, interrupting her. As soon as you do, her eyes narrow into slits and you shut your mouth, gulping. That wasn’t what you wanted to do.

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Steve says you’re still looking for a place.” It’s eerie how calm she keeps her tone. “Leaving isn’t going to stop them, you know.”

Even now, not doing anything but staring at the food in your lap, you can taste them like a funeral home, saccharinely floral, covering the smell of death.

“I can’t stay here,” you say.

“You’re dying,” Natasha stresses. “Please. Please, I am begging, krasavitsa. I’ve not begged for much in this life. But I am begging you to please, please tell him. Tell him or consider the other option.”

Two options in the scale, tipping weights. To die or to have the roots of true love carved out of your lungs, peeled away from where they wrap around your heart.

You stab your fork into the tender flesh of the melon. It gives way so easily, letting the tines puncture it. Natasha stares at you, her gaze heavy. Your fingers fumble with the fork and it falls, clattering, to the tray of dishes.

The blood is too hard to swallow anymore—it builds up in your mouth and stains your teeth red, the petals colored pink when they fall from your lips.

“Okay,” you whisper. Maybe you don’t even say it aloud.

“Okay?” Natasha asks. You nod your head, not looking at her.

“I’ll tell him.”

It takes you hours, it feels like, to gather the courage. With all the energy you have left in your bones, muscles only satiated a little by Natasha’s breakfast, you drag yourself out of bed and to your bookshelf. It’s memorized, the place where your book sits, and you pull it out with a gentle tug of your finger.

The Flowers of Evil, its pages nearly chock-full of pressed daisies that have ejected themselves from your body, eager to find the man you love and spill all your desires to him. You thumb through it, gaze flitting over all the damn flowers that have dried in this damn book, and you close your eyes in order not to cry this time.

You press the book tight to your chest, feeling the desperate beating of your heart echo through it, and you head to Sam’s room.

The walk is long and lonely—the Tower feels empty. Devoid of people. You’re a little glad because you’re sure that anyone could see the sickness painted on your body, the illness from inside you that’s staining your outsides. It’s not anyone’s fault but your own, really. The flowers are too beautiful to supplant.

And now, you’re in front of his door, a fist raised to knock, a loud buzzing in your head that keeps saying no, no, no. But your heart, traitorous thing still hammering away in your chest, it just keeps saying yes, yes, yes, finally.

Sam Wilson doesn’t love you.

But do you have any other choice except to take a garden spade to your lungs and dig them out of your chest cavity, to destroy your ribcage and break through the mulch that makes up your nervous system? Is the only option left to die at the hands of Sam or to wither away until your decomposition will feed the very things that killed you off?

You shudder a breath and knock on the door. And you wait. And wait. And wait.

He doesn’t come. He isn’t there. He doesn’t love you.

The tears come suddenly—unexpectedly. They are hot and stricken and fast. They drip off your chin and careen down your neck and dampen the collar of your shirt and your hands are trembling, grasping your book too tightly, to even begin to wipe them away.

You don’t know why you’re crying. You already know this. Sam Wilson could never love you the way that you love him. Sam Wilson is perfection, you know. He possesses the strength of gods, he radiates love, he’s passionate about every fucking thing he does. He’s beautiful. He’s everything and you are nothing when standing next to him, but you love him. You love him.

Sam Wilson doesn’t fucking love you.

“Well,” you laugh to yourself, “I can either die a fool or live a life without you.”

I can either die in love or live my life not knowing what it feels like to be in love with you.

Something tickles your tongue. You reach between your lips and pluck it from your mouth, letting it sit upon the center of your palm. Blood drips down your arm like a river, violent and sooth.

The daisy covers your entire hand, white petals tinged with pink reaching toward your fingers. The center, all yellow florets seeming to seek out warmth, are so bright and full and so big—these are too big, they could choke anyone, anyone, they are choking you.

And like them—god, just like them, just like these daisies that grow from your lungs and destroy you from inside out—you are heliotropic. Everywhere you go, you’re focused on the sun, looking for the sun, stretching toward the sun.

You need the sun.

So you crumble the daisy in your hand, fist tight, blood still easing from between your fingers. You back away from his door, then turn and break away to head back to your room in silence.

You’d rather die loving him than never getting to see the sun ever again.

(“Hey girl, it’s me. Just calling to let you know that Steve and I got called for a mission. It looks like an emergency, wheels up in ten and all that. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. To Steve, I mean. Just in case. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness.”)

—FAREWELLS—

It happens faster than you think it will. You swear you have weeks, or a month at least. You swear you have time.

Four days later, your knees buckle and slam into the wooden floor beneath you, stomach contorting and contracting, balloon finally bursting. Someone is shouting your name from the common room, something is knocked over, scrambling. You barely hear it over the sound of your own vomiting.

On your hands and knees, you stare down at the lump of flowers you couldn’t swallow back. They’re coated in a mixture of soil and blood and stomach acid, but the sweet perfume scent breaks through the rest and makes you retch again. It smells so sweet. So sickly sweet. Dead people and churches.

Did churches always smell so much like blood?

There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s pulling your hair from your face. Someone is saying something—something—something you can’t make out over the blood rushing between your ears.

You’re dying. This is it.

You collapse upon the ground, rolling onto your side, arm thrown over your mouth as if that will stop the flowers from pouring out of your body. And when you blink, trying to see through the dizziness, it’s him again.

The god of the fucking sun, your sun, mouth moving frantically as he says things you can’t hear and the little gap in his teeth that makes you feel at home when he smiles at you and his eyes, oh, Sam Wilson has eyes that set you on fire and burn you alive and you’d be happy to die like this, you’re so happy you get to die like this, so thankful that the daisies chose you, so thankful you chose him.

You were right. Death is so beautiful like this.

“It might be too late.”

Helen Cho’s heels clack on the tile of the medbay’s room as she shoos the nurse out with a wave of her hands, shaking her head. He shoots to his feet, fingers already curled into fists, and he shoves them in the pockets of his jacket to hide them.

“Too late?” It’s impossible for him to keep his voice low. “How can it be too late? What even—What’s wrong with her?”

She frowns at Sam, folding her hands together in front of her.

“It’s… rare,” she says. “Some of us didn’t think it was real, to be frank with you.”

His brow furrows. “What is it?”

“A disease caused by unrequited love,” Helen says plainly, staring straight at him. “Typically, the patient finds themselves in what is regarded to be true love, but the feelings are not returned, so they build up. It’s theorized that the stress of that creates the problem.”

Sam swallows and it tastes like vomit. “Unrequited love?”

She ignores him, continuing, “The part that is normally so hard to believe is that flowers begin to grow inside the patient, the roots puncturing their lungs and creating masses that eventually will suffocate their host.”

It’s a bag of bricks to his stomach. A super soldier punch to the gut. A bomb blown up in his face. Sam doubles over, clutching his middle, trying to breathe again. He can’t breathe at all. The flowers. The flowers.

“It seems she was swallowing them in an attempt to save herself,” Helen explains. “It’s what kept her alive much longer than she should have been. But now, I don’t know. It may be too late to save her. If she’d just said something earlier, than the surgery might have been able to stop it, but—”

“Surgery?” Sam asks, still gasping for breath. “What surgery?”

“You can extract the roots,” she tells him, glancing at the sleeping woman in the sickbed. “It’s a difficult procedure but it would have saved her. But, from the very little research we have on it, removing the roots also removes the feelings entirely. The love that the patient has disappears. They aren’t able to ever feel anything for that person ever again.”

He falls back into the plastic chair, his limbs numb. Or, at least that’s what he wants to do. But Sam doesn’t. He steadies himself, crosses his arms over his chest, plants himself so firmly there in the hospital room that he doesn’t think an earthquake can move him, and looks at her.

She’s sleeping, but she doesn’t look at peace. Her eyes, lovely things, are sunken in and it makes him so mad. Her collarbones have shadows beneath them and he feels fury wracking his own bones. And how long has it been since he’s seen her smile?

“Do the surgery,” he demands.

“You know I can’t do that without her consent,” Helen says, sighing.

“Then I’ll wait until she wakes up and get her consent,” he seethes through a locked jaw.

Helen’s face doesn’t change. “She might not wake up.”

“She will.”

Sam doesn’t get it. He understands—in a way—but he doesn’t really get it. He knows why she wouldn’t want to get a surgery like that. But he loves—he loves just as fiercely as she does, and that’s why he understands. Why he knows.

So why did the flowers pick her? Why would they pick her and not him?

Helen glances down at her feet, says nothing, and turns to exit the room. He’s left there in the silence, with the crowing of the machine keeping her alive to punctuate all his thoughts. If there is one thing he hates in the world, it’s feeling helpless.

He lowers himself in the plastic seat, leans his head back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

“You’ll wake up,” he says to her, but he can’t look at her.

Or maybe he’ll wake up and it’ll all be a dream.

There’s a soft rapping of knuckles on the door, and it opens slowly and quietly, and Sam has to lock his fingers around the arms of his chair to keep from jumping up and sending a right hook right at Steve’s face.

“How’s she doing?” Steve has the audacity to ask, has the audacity to look worried, has the audacity to pull up another plastic seat next to Sam.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he mutters under his breath, spite burning his tongue.

Steve glares at him. “Yeah, that’s why I asked. What’s your problem?”

“My problem is you, Rogers.” Now, Sam can’t help but stand, towering over the super soldier. He immediately grabs Steve’s arm and hauls him out of his chair, through the door, and out into the hallway. Steve stumbles, a hand on the wall, and Sam’s nostrils flare.

“How could you do this to her?”

“Me?” Steve sounds genuinely taken aback, but Sam doesn’t buy it. “What are you talking about? Helen told me—”

“I thought you loved her, too!”

He really did. That’s why Steve brought her to the Tower, didn’t he? That’s why they go out for lunch every other week and why Sam never gets a chance to take her out himself. Why he always makes sure to say goodbye to her before a mission, like he doesn’t want to leave her behind. He really thought Steve loved her too. If he had thought for one second that Steve didn’t love her...

“What?” Steve’s jaw slackens. “Not like that! She doesn’t—She’s not in love with me, Sam!”

He pants, unable to catch the breath that’s leaving him like a slow leak.

“Then who the hell is she in love with?”

Steve stares at him, a look that Sam can’t recognize, can’t name, in his eyes. Steve stares at him and smooths his hand down his beard, shaking his head.

“She’s in love with you,” he says, and Sam chokes.

Because all the pretty things in his world lead back to her and man, if she loved him, it would all be so perfect that he would never want to leave it. He would never want to say goodbye. He’d ask god and anyone else who would listen to grant him a deathless life so he could look at her forever, with no end in sight, because he would. He would. Sam would love her forever.

“No,” he says, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. “That can’t be true.”

“It’s true,” Steve says.

“That’s impossible.” He backs up, against the wall, holding his head in his hands and staring at the floor. “It’s impossible.”

“It’s true,” Steve repeats, staring past Sam and through the window of the medbay’s room to look at her, lying so still in her bed. “I know it is.”

“Steve, I’m in love with her,” Sam confesses, an ache in his chest. “It can’t be me. I’m in love with her. I’m so fucking in love with her.”

A heavy hand clasps his shoulder, and when Sam looks up, his breathing unsteady, Steve has a look of regret smeared all over his face.

“But does she know that?”

And, for the first time in years, Sam cries.

(“It’s me. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”)

—SINCERITY—

Sam Wilson thinks she’s starlight.

When she first arrives she’s a collection of stars and their ashes, explosions and deaths, supernovas and black holes and earthbound meteorites.

What he means by that is she’s covered in bruises but she’s so beautiful, and he wants to gather her in his arms and tell her it’s going to be okay.

Steve introduces her, and Sam tries to bite his tongue, but all his words pour out of him anyway as she holds out a hand to him and he takes it, soft and trembling, and he knows she’s special somehow. She’s special.

“You’re the prettiest thing I think I’ve ever seen,” he says, and he means it, but she ducks her head and tries to hide the little smile on her face.

Sam Wilson thinks the world of you. But even when the bruises fade, you’re still left with all the land and the water and the galaxies hidden in your eyes when he catches your gaze, and he looks at you and he swears that you’re reaching into his chest and taking his heart in your small hands and squeezing him dry. You have realms inside of you, he’s sure, all the worlds and all their wonders. But you—you look at Steve like that sometimes, and then Sam is just grateful that you even let him breathe in your general atmosphere.

He can fly, sure, but he certainly isn’t an astronaut, so this is about the closest he can get to you.

(“Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. This number is not available. At the tone, please record your message.”)

—TRUE LOVE—

The first thing you see is the ceiling, hazy and sleep-filtered, but it looks just like the ceiling in that bathroom, back in Danny’s apartment, back when you thought the pain of love was bone crushing, before you knew the pain of love was slow suffocation.

It makes you stutter back to life and that sends you into a coughing fit. You can still taste them—the daisies. They taste like the rawness of sunlight.

Hand pressed against your chest, your eyes dart around the room, trying to catch your bearings. There’s an IV in your arm, the bed railings are plastic, Sam is sitting in the corner, the lights are dimmed.

Sam Wilson is sitting in the corner.

You gasp, looking at him, and he’s staring right back at you, a familiar book in his hands.

Sam Wilson is sitting beside your bed, holding The Flowers of Evil, and the look on his face is far from happy to see you. It’s not anger. And it’s not sadness. It just… is. And Sam is never “just” anything.

Even if he thinks that sometimes, like the times when he calls you and says, “It’s just me,” as if he isn’t something special, so important you can’t live without him in your life.

Well, you can’t live with him, either.

After a solid minute, Sam looks down at the book between his dark hands, and he begins to sift through the pages. He stops sometimes, lingers on the sheets of dried daisies that have been pressed, their color leaking onto the text only slightly. But then he moves forward, searching for something. You don’t know what.

“How long have you been here?” you ask, throat sore when you speak.

“How long have you been in love with me?”

Your teeth gnash together, bite into your bottom lip, worry a sore there as he doesn’t look at you. He just keeps flipping through the book as if he didn’t just thrust a dagger straight through your heart, as if it isn’t beating so fast and hard like it’s trying to stay alive. You feel like you can’t breathe and you don’t know if it’s the flowers crawling out of your lungs and trying to get to him or if it’s the fact that he knows.

You can’t answer him.

Sam stops on a page, his finger trailing over the script, and then he begins to read.

“And yet

to wine, to opium even, I prefer

the elixir of your lips on which love flaunts itself;

and in the wasteland of desire

your eyes afford the wells to slake my thirst.”

“Les Fleurs du Mal,” he says, shutting the book with a thump and striking his palm with it. “Baudelaire sure had a lot to say, didn’t he?”

Your mouth is suddenly so dry. There’s a pink pitcher of water next to the bed, just like a hospital would have, and you reach weakly for it. Sam grabs it immediately, pouring you a cup, and passing it gently to you. You gulp what you can down through the straw, hardly breathing.

When you finally feel like you aren’t going to cough your lungs up into your hands again, Sam takes the cup back from you, and embarrassment is a cold shiver down your spine.

He sits back down beside you, looking straight at you. “Do you want to get the surgery?”

Your lips part to speak, but he interrupts.

“Be honest.”

Chewing your lip, you take a deep breath. “No. And I never planned on it, either.” From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten.

“Why not?”

“Because what is a life without the fucking sun, Sam?” The words are spat from your mouth. “A life spent not loving you—not knowing you, not feeling you anymore—it wasn’t worth it. Because I love you, Samuel Wilson. I have loved you since the day I met you and you told me—told me I was pretty for some goddamn reason. And I’ve loved you every day since. I love everything about you and there is not a single iteration of life that I would want to live if it meant not loving you.”

This time, nothing tastes like blood. It’s all just daisies, like they’re populating your mouth, changing the way your tongue works, turning to paste in your teeth. It’s so strong that it hurts. Like you’re eating paper valentines and crying too many tears as you say goodbye to a body in a casket.

But it’s beautiful and lovely and gorgeous because you swear that, somewhere beneath it, you can taste what you think love might taste like.

Sam doesn’t speak and it hurts, but it tosses your book down on the side table and reaches into his pocket and it still hurts. He pulls out his phone. You swallow down the rising earth in your chest.

He pulls out his phone—no, it’s your phone. He turns the screen toward you and punches in your password. You furrow your brows. When did he learn your password? But it doesn’t matter, really, because he just swipes to your call log and pulls up your voicemails. And then he begins to play them.

“Hey there darlin’, it’s just me. I couldn’t find you anywhere—where you at? I thought we could go pick some up and I’ll hang ‘em up. You need me and I’ll be there, ‘kay honey? I, uh, I wanted to ask this girl, but uh, I ended up waiting too long and I’m a little late so… I’ll see you there, honey. I wanted to catch you before we gotta go, in case you wanted to say goodbye. I need to tell you something. Even if it will hurt, even if it will destroy—destroy what we have, I don’t know. I’ll catch you later, darlin’. Have fun, girl. Save a dance for me, baby. Take care of yourself while I’m gone, sweetness. But I need to tell you, baby. I need to.”

The sobs fall from the broken seal of your lips, loud and crashing, like a waterfall. Your hand, shaking and weak, comes up to try to cover your mouth, but Sam lunges forward and catches your wrist in gentle fingers.

He’s looking at you like you’re everything—and you know, you know now that you are—to him.

“You’ve been saying that this whole time?” you ask, a laugh bubbling up from your lungs. No flowers retch up your throat.

Sam smiles, lips pulling back to reveal that gap in his front teeth.

“You haven’t been listening, baby girl. I’ve been tryin’ to tell you I love you for months.”

He rests his forehead upon yours, and as close as he is, all you can smell now is the spice of his cologne. Nothing smells floral.

“I never would have thought,” you whisper. “I was sure—so sure—that you didn’t love me. I thought because of the flowers, I thought that meant for sure that you didn’t love me. I mean, why would you? Why would you ever love someone like me?”

“Honey,” he says, so softly, “you’re starlight.”

Tears flood your cheeks and Sam cups your face in his large hands, wiping them away with gentle thumbs.

Sam Wilson is sunlight. You never considered that you could be starlight.

“Why wouldn’t I love you, darlin’? You’re so good, so gorgeous, so perfect.” He laughs and it makes you laugh too, but it comes out like a sob. Your heart feels lighter. “But you’ve never considered yourself worthy of love before, have you?”

“I’m sorry,” you cry. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

He hushes you, soothes you, smooths his palms over the planes of your face and over your hair,

“You don’t have to be sorry, baby. It’s okay. You’re okay.” He presses a warm kiss to your forehead and the memory of every single time he’s kissed your forehead like this flashes through your mind, an electric current, and you wonder how you never saw it before now.

“I love you,” you say, and this time, your lungs don’t feel as though they will burst from the pressure, the roots, the vines twined around them. You don’t feel choked by petals. You don’t taste blood in the back of your mouth.

“I know,” he says, “and if you let me, I will spend the rest of my days with you convincing you that you are worthy of love, honey. Because I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you.”

When he presses his lips to yours, he doesn’t taste like flowers. Not like the daisies that wrote your death sentence. He tastes like golden pools of sunlight, warm and wanting. This is your heliotropism. You are a magnet for him, Sam Wilson, god of the fucking sun.

And maybe he’s phototropic, always drawn to you, moving toward your starlight.

(“Hey, it’s me. Sorry I missed your call! I’m on my way home now, and guess what? I have a surprise for you. It’s a bit ironic, but I think you’ll like it. What do you think of the name Daisy for a baby girl?”)

[victoria-daydreams]

Lost in the Stars - Part III

Part II

AN: So, I’m back. With all of the pictures coming out for season 2 of The Mandalorian and now the trailer, my inspiration has sort of returned for this story.

Summary: When Sarela Reyes accepted a bounty to find some missing child it should have been a simple job. What she got instead was a chance meeting with a certain Mandalorian, and her world was never the same.

Sarela strolled down the road with a small sweet cake cupped in her hand that always seemed to melt in her mouth with its butteriness and sugariness. She took a small bite of her treat smiling a bit as she did. It was the simple pleasures in life she looked forward to. Her boots rhythmically hit against the dirt street as she popped the last bit of the cake into her mouth.

Opening the door to her home, the familiar smell of lavender rushed to her nose to help cover for the scent of mothballs that never seemed to go away. She turned on a light nearest to the door, flipping her hood off as the door closed and locked behind her. Even in the dimly lit room, Sarela was able to observe the entire room of her apartment. It was was an open space, revealing the kitchen and living room which were in front of a small single pane window to the back of the apartment. The furniture she owned was minimal, but it was placed meticulously around the apartment.

She definitely had a keen eye for detail.

"Master Sarela!" a LEP unit hummed from another room of the apartment and in a hurry, the servant droid LEP-370C dashed into the living room and almost tripped over its feet in its haste.

Sarela chuckled at her droid's clumsiness, she won the droid in a card game. She may have or may not have cheated in said card game, but the only thing that mattered was that Sarela won in the end.

"370-C you always know how to make an entrance," she commented, pulling her scarf off.

Sarela hung her scarf on the back of a kitchen chair before grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the kitchen tap. She moved back over to her living her room, plopping down on the sofa in the middle of her home Sarela let out a sigh of relief.

"It is so good to be home," she breathed, dropping her head back onto the sofa as she settled into her seat. "You would not believe the day I've had 370-C," she added, relaxing deeper into the cushions.

An airy laugh escaped Sarela's lips, she couldn't believe her luck today. She ran into a Mandalorian, who fortunately wasn't after her and after meeting the mysterious Mandalorian for some reason she asked said Mandalorian to help her with her bounty. She must have had too much brandy. Still, Sarela couldn't recall the last time she seen a Mandalorian, it was probably during when she served. Even though she fought against them in the past, the Mandalorian's in general always fascinated her for their beautiful contradictions. They were blood thirsty warriors, but yet they killed for honor and glory.

Shaking her head, she snapped out her reverie, "370-C," she called. "Prepare my things for tomorrow, I have a bounty to find," she added, waving the droid away.

"Yes, Master Sarela,"

370-C wandered out of the room once more, but not without almost tripping over itself once again. Sarela sniggered slightly before drinking deeply from her glass and standing up, walking over to her kitchen sink.

"370-C, did I get any messages today?" she asked, placing the cup down. "From...well, you know who," she hinted.

"No, Master Sarela," 370-C responded. "I didn't see any messages from her,"

"Figures," she breathed, leaving the kitchen and making her way to her bedroom.

Her footfalls soundless on the blue carpet that coated the apartment floor as she entered the small bedroom. Sarela had tried to give the space a touch of comfort there was a dresser, a closet, and of course a bed. A small desk rested in the corner of the room along with two pairs of boots in a tidy line against the wall. Although the bedroom was not heavily furnished, there was a cozy quality to it.

Sarela plopped down on her bed and reached for the holoprojector that rested on her nightstand. Pressing a few buttons, a holographic image appeared showing six individuals all smiling widely. One person immediately caught Sarela's eyes, it was a female Mirialan, the "her" that 370-C was referring to.

Anesa Parsa was her name, the first person to show her an act of kindness on Nar Shaddaa. The first person Sarela came across with a shred of decency on that crime ridden moon. Most importantly, one of Sarela's first friends after she left Intelligence. It was all a matter of happenstance really, they met each other where Sarela meets most of the people she comes into contact with, a cantina.

Sitting by herself in a cantina called The Fallen Star on the moon Nar Shaddaa, a bored frown lined Sarela's forehead. She looked around at the crowd getting their fill of drinks, food, and fun, trying to recall why she was in this cantina the first place. Oh, that's right. Hal. Taking a sip of her Tatooine Sunburn, her brown orbs flickered around the room in search of her so called 'partner'.

"Hey baby, what do you say me and you blow this joint and go have some fun?" a drunken man waltzed up to her, sloshing around his drink as he leaned in.

"I would say that you should think harder before approaching someone like me," Sarela replied dryly, rolling her eyes.

"Now come on honey, you may be pretty, but with that attitude it's a wonder you ever get fucked, but it's your lucky day, I'm not picky,"

Sarela froze as she went to lift the glass to her lips, her eyes narrowed dangerously. This idiot had the audacity to actually spew such crude language towards her. He would've been a dead man walking, but Sarela thought he was too pathetic of a man to even waste a blaster bolt on. Tossing back the rest of her drink, Sarela didn't even say anything as she raised her blaster and set it to stun before shooting him.

The patrons stopped for a moment to stare, "Don't worry he's not dead," she announced lazily, and that was good enough for everyone as they quickly went back to whatever they were doing. Casually, Sarela returned her blaster to the holster on her thigh and flipped a credit to the barman. "Sorry for the mess," she apologized, as the barman refilled her drink.

"You actually did me a favor kid," he remarked, a smirk on his face as he signaled for some people two drag the man out of the cantina.

"Rough day?" a female voice asked beside her, sliding onto to the stool next to her.

Sarela didn't bother turning her head to look at stranger, "Unless you want to end up like the man who's being dragged out here then I suggest you leave me alone," she drawled, lifting her drink to her lips.

"You're right, I don't want to end up like him, but I need to talk to you," the woman replied. "It's important," she added, causing Sarela to finally look at her.

Sarela's eyes met the violet irises of the yellow-green skinned woman next to her. Below the woman's eyes were her species native tattoos, small black diamond shaped tattoos that formed a chevron pointing upwards. Her raven colored hair spilled over her shoulders framing her angular face.

"You don't even know me," Sarela stated, exhaling deeply. "What could possibly be so important?" she questioned, massaging her temple.

"But I know of you," the woman countered. "Anesa Parsa," she introduced, sticking her hand out.

"Reyes," Sarela responded, lowering her gaze to Anesa's outstretched hand.

Seeing that Sarela was making no move to reciprocate her gesture, Anesa slowly pulled her hand back.

"Just Reyes?" Anesa questioned, lifting her brow.

"Since you are a literal stranger to me, yes, just Reyes," Sarela retorted. "Only my friends get to know my first name, which isn't many," she finished, before drinking from her cup.

"I could easily change that," Anesa beamed.

"I'd really rather you not," Sarela replied, a sigh escaping her lips. "But I have a feeling you won't leave me alone until you say your piece," she continued, moving her head from side to side. "So, speak," she ordered softly.

"I'm going to get right to it, my crew could really, really use someone like you and your skills," Anesa began. "We've had a bad string of luck lately from botched jobs to members of the crew leaving,"

A laugh bubbled from her lips, "And what? You think I can change of that, just by myself?" Sarela asked skeptically. "I just wave my hand and say 'I bid you good fortune and luck'," she chuckled, amused at the thought.

"Well...not like that, not completely," Anesa answered unsurely, and Sarela let out a scoff. "Listen, I've heard stories about you, people say you're pretty good. Do you know how hard it is to earn a reputation like that on this moon in less than a year?"

Sarela's time with Intelligence had left her with numerous skills that were useful to the mercenary work she did now. Like, the art of hand to hand combat, how to handle a blaster better than any other, slicing, piloting, demolitions, escape and evasion, wilderness survival, espionage, assassination, smuggling (or their view of it), the history of the galaxy, and many other things.

Sarela believed, no, knew, with the skill set she had she would seem more refined than the average bounty hunter in the eyes of future employers. And it was an assumption that proved to be true, in a place like Nar Shaddaa clients had grown accustomed to jobs being done sloppily, it was a rough way of living on the moon after all. But in some sense it had suited her, Sarela could easily make herself standout from the rest, and that she did.

"I work better alone, sorry," Sarela said, with a slight shrug.

"Is that why you're partnered with the most unreliable man on Nar Shaddaa?" Anesa retorted. "Come on, Hal's beneath you in all aspects," she pointed out.

Working with a man like Hal wasn't by choice, he was just as Anesa described him, 'the most unreliable man on Nar Shaddaa'. Hal was unorganized, scatterbrained, and most importantly always late. Everything about him seemed to annoy Sarela which made this "partnership" unbearable. Even with jobs drying up Sarela was considering not taking the job at all.

"You're not wrong there," Sarela agreed, nodding her head. "But desperate times call for desperate measures," she breathed, a grimace on her face.

"See! You would be a much better fit to my crew!" she grinned.

"Didn't you just tell me your crew was falling on hard times?" Sarela reminded, lifting a brow.

"Well yes, but with someone like you on our side, our reputation will be restored as one of the best mercenary groups,"

"This proposition seems to benefit you more than it does me," Sarela pointed out.

"The jobs we get pay much better than the typical ones you receive," Anesa explained, and Sarela lifted another skeptical brow. "55,000 credits, that is what we earned on our last successful job," Anesa said, in a hushed whisper and Sarela let out a hum now seemingly interested.

"This crew of yours, I assume you're the captain then?" Sarela asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Umm...not exactly..." she trailed off, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

Sarela nearly choked on her drink, "Pardon?" she asked, leaning forward.

"You see, I'm just a member of the crew," Anesa explained slowly. "Oren is the captain. I'm recruiting you on Oren's behalf because he's too stubborn to see that we are in dire need of help,"

A chuckled escaped Sarela's lips, "You're kidding?" she said, before shaking her head. "You really had me sold there for a moment," she chuckled again.

"Please!" Anesa pleaded, gently gripping Sarela's wrist. "Yes, I should have been upfront, but listen you won't regret this. The crew that I'm apart is like no other, their certainly better than Hal," she assured, letting out a light laugh.

"You took on this personal quest of yours to recruit me, but what if your actual captain doesn't want me?" Sarela asked curiously.

"I'll convince him," Anesa said. "Just trust me on this,"

Sarela exhaled loudly, "Oh, what the hell, what do I have to lose. It beats working with Hal,"

And then, from that day onward Sarela had been a part of Oren Tanik's merry mercenary crew. But it was rocky start to the say least, within the first minute of Sarela meeting her would be captain, he angrily asked who she was and why the hell she was on his ship. Sarcastically, Sarela answered by congratulating him on welcoming his newest crew member thanks to the resident Mirialan aboard his ship. Unsurprisingly, Oren was livid that Anesa went behind his back and hired a crew member, but he was willingly to give Sarela a chance because as the old saying goes, desperate times calls for desperate measures.

While Sarela and Oren didn't see eye to eye with each other at first, the rest of the crew seemed to welcome their newest member with open arms. There was Thel Josto the Twi'lek, Elmin Aban the Duros, and the Togruta Lahani Suvan. Oren was the captain and pilot of his ship The Galaxy Horizon. Thel and Anesa worked as the ship's engineers. While Lahani, Elmin, and Sarela worked as hired was going great for Sarela, she couldn't remember the last time she had been that happy.

It was a tight-knit family, or at least that's what Sarela had thought.

But Sarela's happiness with her new found family would not last for long. As her last job with the crew would be ill-fated, of course at the time Sarela didn't know that, she had more pressing things on her mind. For it was during that time tensions were beginning to run high between her and Oren again. Sarela had been apart of the crew for a year at that point and as Anesa would constantly brag about it being the decision to ever to go behind Oren's back to recruit her. Because Sarela had in fact rebuilt the crew's name.

Now, it wasn't like the moment Sarela became apart of Oren's crew that all their problems vanished immediately. No, they're were still many bumps in the road as the crew had to get adjusted to having a sixth member aboard and her personality. So, for the first three months of being a member of the crew Sarela didn't see many successes with her fellow mercenaries, much to Oren's displeasure. That was until a nearly botched smuggling job transformed into a huge payout thanks to Sarela's quick thinking and from there, a string of successes that Sarela or the crew never thought was possible.

But Sarela's success came with a cost, she noticed that Oren was becoming cold towards her. At first she didn't understand why when they had become great friends, but after noticing the little things that the did crew when she was around she finally pieced it together. Whenever Oren was discussing with the crew a potential job they would always turn to Sarela for her opinion or guidance if it was a good idea.

Without realizing it Sarela had been undermining his authority slowly making it appear as though Oren was an incompetent captain. And it was clear that Oren was also sensing this shift in attitude from the crew as Sarela could feel his resentment for her grow each time the crew would be more inclined to follow her suggestion than Oren's.

Finally, the tension between Oren and Sarela finally boiled over on the night that Oren announced that he gotten job for the crew.

"You got us a job?" Lani asked, a frown lining her forehead. "What happened to making that decision as a group?" she questioned again.

"Yeah Oren," Anesa chiming in. "This is rather abrupt, even for you," she added, staring him curiously.

"It was job offer that I had to pounce on," Oren explained, waving his hand. "Sorry that we couldn't sit down and discuss it over tea," he added sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"Must be some hell of a job," Elmin commented dryly.

"Who offered you the job?" Sarela questioned, briefly looking away from her sniper rifle and at Oren. "And who's our target?" she asked again.

"Madame Rabor gave us the job," he answered, looking over at Sarela. "Our target...Gantu," he named, a grin appearing on his face as he rubbed his hands together.

Sarela's body froze as the whole ship went silent, she slowly lifted her eyes from the sniper rifle she was cleaning.

"I'm sorry, but did you say Gantu?" she asked, disbelief across her face. "As in the crime lord Gantu?" she asked again.

"Yes Sarela, the one and only,"

A million thoughts raced across Sarela's mind as she thought of every scenario that could happen to the crew if Gantu found out that he was their next target. And in each scenario that Sarela constructed in her head she only saw one outcome, death, a very slow, painful death.

"Oren, are you an idiot? Are you missing some screws in your head?" Sarela inquired, no trace of a smile on her face. "How could take a job like that without telling us!?" she inquired angrily.

Oren narrowed his eyes at her, "I'm sorry Sarela, but are you in charge of this crew or am I?" he asked, turning to face her fully.

"Oren," Anesa called. "Maybe Sarela's right," she suggested, rubbing the back of her neck. "Going after someone like Gantu...it's a bit risky," she pointed out, lifting one hand while lowering the other one.

"He's not a man to be trifled with," Thel contributed, a nervous look appearing on his face. "Those who cross him end up-" he didn't finish sentence, but slid his index finger across his throat.

"Are you guys really going to walk away from a job like this because of a reputation?" Oren asked, staring at his crew. "Do you know how much Madame Rabor has vowed to pay us? 90,000 credits! 90,000 credits to steal some crystal!"

Sarela abruptly stood up for her seat, "Oren, I'm not dying over some rock!" she exclaimed, pointing her finger down to the floor. "I-"

"No, you are going to listen to what I say!" Oren interrupted, pointing his finger at Sarela and she tilted her head downward, raising an eyebrow. "For far too long now you've been thinking you're the captain!"

"Well maybe I wouldn't have to if you'd stop making such terrible decisions!" Sarela snapped.

Oren went deathly still as an uncomfortable silence blanketed over the ship, the atmosphere was suffocatingly thick and tense. It was as if they were all inside balloon, all one had to do is take a needle and pop it to unleash the hostility that had been escalating between Oren and Sarela.

"Is that what you think?" Oren asked, his voice low and throat taut.

"Yeah, it is," Sarela responded, with a nod of her head.

"Heh," Oren chuckled, rubbing his chin. "You think you're some sort of savior, huh Sarela?" he questioned again, this time mockingly.

"Well,-" Anesa began, lifting her hands up.

"Shut up Anesa!" Oren snapped, glaring at the Mirialan.

"I never said that, but with your tendency to make rash decisions such as this one..." Sarela paused, folding her arms against her chest. "Have you ever stopped and considered that you're partly to blame for the troubles you had in the past?" she inquired, cocking her head slightly.

Oren's nostrils flared, "Get out! he ordered. "Go!" he hissed, pointing to the ship doors.

"Oren," Lahani called, standing up from her seat on a crate.

"No, I don't want to hear whatever excuse you're about to make for her!" Oren exclaimed, throwing his hand out to the side.

"Sarela is too valuable of a crew member to lose Oren!" Elmin argued back.

"Yeah, you shouldn't kick her out because she stated a harsh truth," Thel added meekly.

Anesa went to speak as well, but Sarela just lifted her hand, "No, guys, it's fine," she stated, letting her hand drop to her side. "If that is what the Captain wants then I'll do it, I'll leave," she said, her eyes meeting those of her crew mates. Sarela turned around and picked her sniper rifle up, turning around to face Oren again. "They say that Gantu likes to keep the heads of people who cross him, hopefully yours won't be the newest addition for his trophy case," she stated, before slinging her gun onto her shoulder and walking away to collect her things.

It should have ended there, at least that's what Sarela thought. She had moved back into the ratty apartment that she occupied before joining Oren's crew and began taking on solo work again. Two weeks had passed since Sarela had left the crew, but she still talked to Anesa whenever she could. That was until Anesa went completely radio silent one day, at first Sarela thought nothing of it, she shrugged it off as her being busy. The same night, Sarela tried calling her friend again but was once again met with no response.

A sinking feeling had began to set inside Sarela and she would soon find out why.

Two more days had passed since Sarela hadn't heard from Anesa or anybody from the crew. Worried as she was, Sarela knew that she couldn't put her life on hold for them, she had to make living herself.

Stepping off shuttle bus that just stopped in her district, Sarela walked back to where her home was on the third floor of an apartment building. She ascended the dark stairway pressing her fingers to the door latch so it slid open. Quietly whistling to herself, Sarela heard the hiss of the door closing behind her and then she heard a creak somewhere in the apartment.

Sarela's hand immediately went for her blaster, resting on it as her eyes scanned the room and the hallway to her left. The atmosphere in her home had become deathly still and an eerie silence swept over the cramped apartment. If someone was was the apartment with Sarela, they must've realized that she was onto them. Sarela resumed her whistling and silently removed her blaster from its holster, she'd hope that the noise would throw off the possible intruder. With her blaster aimed out in front of her, Sarela soundlessly moved from the front door to the entrance of the hallway only to abruptly stop whistling again on purpose.

And that was then she heard it again, a subtle creak and this time she heard breathing that wasn't her own. Sarela's fingers tightened around her blaster, someone was in here with her. They were in her home. She shifted herself into a better position, readying herself for an attack before stepping in place to give the allusion that she was walking down the hallway.

Suddenly, she could hear rapid movement from within her bedroom and the door was thrown open. Sarela quickly took cover behind the wall closest to her as a hail of blaster bolts whizzed past her head, destroying anything that was in her kitchen. When the firing stopped Sarela knew that this was her window of opportunity, whoever this was would have to wait for their weapons to cool down. With the smoke of from the blaster bolts, she stepped out from cover and repeatedly pulled the trigger on her blaster. The sound of a thud echoed in the apartment and Sarela paused keeping completely still.

But after hearing nothing for several seconds and the smoke clearing up she moved down the hall and looked at her would be assassin. He was human, that much was sure as she had shot him right in the heart. The other bolts she fired had wound hitting his gut and chest. Sarela kicked the gun out of his hand, but as she did so she noticed a winding tattoo on the man's arm. Squatting down, Sarela lifted the dead's man arm to inspect the tattoo more closely and her eyes widened once she recognized ink on the man's arm.

He was part of Gantu's crew.

She quickly dropped the man's arm as if had some sort of plague. An awful realization crossed Sarela's mind, the job that Oren had took had failed, the crew was dead. And now Gantu was after her. It was the only logical explanation that she could come up with for Gantu to come after her. Loud bangs against Sarela's front door made her jump and her head snapped in the direction of the door. Her heart began beating erratically in her chest as she slowly rose to her full height, keeping a tight grip on her blaster.

Carefully, Sarela quietly made her way back to the front door just as another string of thunderous knocks echoed about in the silent apartment. Once at the door Sarela readjusted her grip on her weapon and inhaled deeply.

"Sarela! Sarela, please answer!"

The tenseness in Sarela's body seemingly vanished once she heard the voice on the other side of her door. She knew that voice. It was Anesa's. Without a moment's notice Sarela opened her door to be greeted with the sight of a badly bruised and bloody Anesa, almost instantly she nearly collapsed to the ground but Sarela was able to catch her in time and bring her into the apartment.

"Maker! Anesa, you look awful! What happened?" Sarela questioned, scanning over her friend's appearance.

Anesa tightly gripped Sarela's forearm, her fingernails digging into her skin, "We were betrayed!" Anesa hissed, a crazed look in her eyes.

"Wha-" Sarela began.

"He sold us out!" Anesa spat, cutting Sarela off.

"Who?" Sarela asked, shaking her head still bewildered as to what was happening.

"Thel,"

It was there in Sarela's apartment as she patched up Anesa that she learned of Thel's betrayal. From what Anesa told her it was clear was that the crew had been a set up. The heist hadn't even taken place when Anesa found the Galaxy Horizon ransacked with all types equipment strewn about, but the grimmest discovery was seeing a trail of blood that led down the cargo door.

Human blood.

Anesa panicked, as one would, for she didn't know what happened to her Captain or the rest of the crew for that matter. That's when Anesa was struck hard from behind on the head, causing her to crumple to the ground. She felt her consciousness slipping away from her, but not before she heard Thel's voice talking with Gantu henchmen. And it became clear to Anesa who was at fault for what happened to Oren and now her. From what she'd heard, Thel had made a deal with Gantu to spare his life in exchange for the crew's. Lahani and Elmin never stood a chance, they were going to be blindsided in the worst way.

The slimey twi'lek was so scared of Gantu's wrath that he sacrificed his own friends to save his skin.

Anesa was lucky to escape with her life, the only way she was able to was by playing possum as one of Gantu's men carried her over his shoulder. They were taking her to Gantu's compound to do Maker knows what, but Anesa knew it would probably be the same fate as Oren's. So, as she dangled over the mercenary's shoulder, Anesa nimbly grab the man's vibrodagger and jab it into his back. He dropped her to the ground unceremoniously as he let out a howl pain, but there was no time to waste. Scrambling to her feet, Anesa yanked the dagger from the mercenary's back and with laser precision flung the dagger into the other mercenary's throat.

And this is why Sarela has been holed on this planet, all because of one rash decision and a cowardly betrayal.

Sarela briefly shut her eyes and exhaled before shutting the projector off, she and Anesa had managed to escape Gantu's claws, for how long she didn't know. That's why Sarela felt best they go their separate ways, better safe than sorry.

Sarela just hoped her new partnership would fair better than her previous one.

AN: There’s barely any mention of our favorite Mando, but I wanted to give some backstory to Sarela.

Part IV

[yadds]

Take My Pain

Tony comes back from the dead. He wishes he hadn’t. Peter helps.

.

Here, have some physical pain to go with the emotional variety I usually tend towards.

TW: graphic descriptions of pain, suicide attempt. Please read responsibly

__________________________________________

Three years after the final snap, Tony Stark suddenly appeared outside the Avengers compound, emaciated and feeling like every bone in his body had been shattered to pieces, every muscle shredded, every ligament ripped away. But he was alive.

“Miracle Return!” and “Tony Stark, Back from the Dead!” and “Second Chance for a Charmed Life!” the tabloids touted. It felt less like the proclaimed blessing and more like an eternal punishment.

Pain medications didn’t work on him anymore. Neither did alcohol. The pain was constantly off the charts, enough to over stress the heart of a normal human. He should be dead all over again just from the intensity of the pain, which never abated.

He spent three months drifting in and out of awareness because, of course, the sedatives didn’t work either. Every moment of consciousness was hell, full of screaming, sobs, and delirium.

It took six months and four attempts to just end it all before he was successful. He’d broken a nearby glass when he’d jolted back to consciousness, arms flailing, searching for an anchor as he thrashed in an ocean of agony. He’d seized a large, particularly jagged shard that had landed perfectly on the bed right next to him, quickly and firmly drawing it across his own throat. He felt his first moment of blessed relief as he watched the crimson downpour flood down his torso and across the bed to drip heavily onto the floor. It didn’t take long before his fingers went numb and the glass fell to the ground.

Oh, God. This numbness, this was heaven. It spread, slow and steady, moving upward from his extremities. He felt the shadow of gentle release settle over him, the pain ebbing away. Finally.

He had half a second of lucidity to feel sorry for the nurses and doctors racing around the room, shouting orders and trying desperately to find something that would work on him. And...was that...Pepper? Oh, he wished she wasn’t here to see this.

But that concern quickly faded away as well as his eyelids fluttered then closed.

.

Silence. Serene, clean darkness. He was suspended in a cool lake, a soothing balm to his scorched, broken body.

He closed his eyes and smiled.

.

It felt like only a moment, as fleeting as the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Then he was thrust back into the flames of hellfire.

‘No. Nonononono. Please, God! I’ll do anything! Anything!’

Tears streamed down his face but none of his pleas could be voiced. He’d probably sliced through his vocal cords.

Well, at least it was quiet now.

.

The pain was maybe receding, infinitesimally. He wasn’t sure how much of it was the actual absence of pain and how much of it was his apparently enhanced body adapting to a new normal. He also didn’t care.

The next time he was aware enough to understand what was going on through the haze of pain, the wizard was there.  What was his name?  Weird? Not his favorite person, but it was about fucking time.

“Stark. Can you hear me?” he was asking. By the expression on his face, he’d probably already asked more than once.

What was he expected to do here? Blink once for yes, twice for no? Hello, he couldn’t talk. He shakily raised his left hand, middle finger extended.

Gandalf had the expression of exasperation down to an art form, he was sure. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he muttered.

There was a smothered huff of laughter that came from behind...Strange, that was his name. Tony’s eyes slowly dragged further to the left and his heart stuttered.

Peter. “Kid,” he tried to say, but nothing came out, damn it. Peter seemed to get the gist though and stepped forward with a strained smile.

“Hey, Mr. Stark. Long time, no see, huh?”

Holy shit. He’d been aware that the original snap had been reversed, vaguely remembered seeing Peter on the battlefield. But seeing him again, now, whole, and here - Tony desperately wanted to get out of this damn bed, wrap him up in his arms and never fucking let go ever again. The most he could actually manage was to lift his hand just a few inches higher, fingers extended.

Peter grasped his hand in both of his, grip gentle but strong and secure. “We think we might have found something that can help you.”

At the skeptical lift of Tony’s eyebrows, Peter grinned. “Just leave it to Dr. Strange. I promise he’s more Glinda the Good Witch than he is Wicked Witch of the West.”

Bless this boy and his understanding of Tony’s sense of humor.

The bout of excruciation surged over him suddenly, a phantom hand around his throat as his back bowed off the bed, muscles seizing as he choked for air.

Peter’s hand clamped tighter, a bastion of stability in this tidal wave of agony. He had a hazy vision of Peter and the wizard arguing fervently before Peter shouted, “I know, just fucking do it already!”

And then it stopped. Tony laid motionless, in a daze. His body didn’t know how to react to the abrupt absence of pain, convulsing as it continued to pump obscene amounts of adrenaline and endorphins. His sobs began anew as he finally began to process the release. He didn’t care what the cost was; this bliss was worth anything. They could have all his tech, his money, his fucking free will. Everything.

It felt like an eternity before he was able to do so much as move his head. His gaze found Strange and he took in his grim expression and tight jaw with some trepidation. Why was he not jumping for joy, or at least smiling? It worked! Tony would be kissing his feet if he could.

He followed Strange’s grimace to the spot to his left. He couldn’t contain the full-body jolt as his world shattered.

Peter was hunched in the chair at his bedside as his body quaked and spasmed, blood streaming from his nose, his ears, his mouth.

And he was still diligently holding Tony’s hand.

He took it back. This wasn’t worth it at all. He would rather suffer through that torment for a thousand years than allow Peter to feel it for a single second.

His eyes darted frantically as he turned his heavy head back to face Strange, infuriated with his body’s continued inability to respond to his commands. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you? Fix this! Why are you just standing there, you sadistic piece of shit?’ he screamed silently, throat working uselessly. God, fuck his past self for taking even that capability away.

Strange wasn’t stupid though - he knew what Tony wanted. “I can’t,” he bit out. “Peter knew this would probably happen. It was his idea.”

‘Does it look like I fucking care who’s idea it was? Give it back!’ Tony gestured at himself weakly, hoping his face was at least expressing how livid he was.

“I can’t,” Strange reiterated, sounding just as frustrated. “Not without a massive amount of energy that I don’t have access to at the moment.”

Tony had never quite so ardently wished that looks could kill before this particular instant.

“We-” Strange broke off abruptly, clearing his throat as he rubbed wearily at his eyes. “We’re doing what we can, Stark. The hope is that medication will continue to work for Peter so that he can get the relief that you never could. He metabolizes significantly faster than the average human, but we’ve conducted testing for the past several weeks to develop proper dosing rates and have planned accordingly.”

Sure enough, he noticed now that the nurses and doctors weren’t just doing their normal background bustling but were attending to Peter, administering injections and IV medication bags.

Please, please, please let this work, he prayed, to any and every deity that could possibly exist.

The next few minutes were an endless loop of anxiety, where he felt at the brink of insanity. Tony was sure that this would be what would finally do him in. Because this was unfathomably worse than the months of physical anguish that had failed to do so.

Finally, the convulsions started to recede, Peter’s muscles unclenching and leaving his body to slump lifelessly in his chair.

Tony’s breaths came faster and faster as he stared at Peter’s body, remaining completely motionless, chest no longer heaving for breath. No longer doing anything at all.

Tony couldn’t breathe at all now, throat closing and lungs ablaze. No. Not Peter. He couldn’t-

There. Maybe- yes, again. A gentle rise and fall.

Tony gasped helplessly as his own breathing resumed. He heard a similar heavy exhalation from Strange’s direction.

“His vitals look okay, all things considered,” Strange reported as Tony watched a nurse carefully clean the blood off Peter’s face, neck, arms. Tony wished he could personally burn the blood soaked clothes.

‘Now what?’ Tony mouthed.

“Now we figure out what’s causing the pain and how to get rid of it,” Strange replied.

‘Um, excuse me, what? There was no plan to fix this? And you just let Peter do this anyway?’ While it may have gotten him in trouble in the past when he respected pretty much no one and everyone knew it, it was finally in his favor that Tony had a very expressive face.

“As I said, it was Peter’s idea. We were just supposed to be here today to work out logistics for when we were ready. But he was adamant that the risk was worth the possibility of the medication working for him and allowing you to finally be able to heal. He was pretty sure that his body was comparable to whatever yours has become, that he’d be able to withstand it like you have, in the event that it would be necessary,” Strange explained.

Tony shut his eyes tight. That stupid kid.

“I think I’m on the right track, but it’ll actually help a lot to finally be able to study your body and figure out what the hell happened.”

Fine. Study away. Slice him open and dig around inside if you have to. Just figure out how to fix Peter.

Tony looked back at Peter, eyes catching on his own hand, which had fallen out of Peter’s grasp finally when he’d officially lost consciousness. The fingers were all misshapen, bent at odd angles. He couldn’t decide if he was surprised or not that he wasn’t registering any pain from his crushed hand.

When he noticed them readying Peter to be moved, he tried to reach out, mouth opening to protest before clicking shut again in frustration.

“Wait,” Strange called out. “Bring him back in here when you’ve gotten him cleaned up.”

Thank you. Maybe Dumbledore wasn’t so bad after all.

“It’ll be useful to have both subjects nearby for testing,” Strange added.

Or maybe he was still just as obnoxious as Tony had originally thought.

“Of course, sir,” one of the nurses intoned. “We’ll bring in another bed.”

Tony shook his head and pointed at the spot next to him in his own bed. It was a king size, for God’s sake.

Strange shook his own head. “No.”

Tony glared back reproachfully, crossing his arms over his chest.

Strange rolled his eyes. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said with a smirk.

Hardy har har. Let’s make jokes about the mute man. Tony knew that he’d be developing something groundbreaking in the way of communication before the week was up. After he slept for five days straight probably.

Because if that’s what it took, he would talk with Strange about it. He knew what it felt like to be isolated in that never ending loop of agony and he would make sure that Peter knew he wasn’t alone.

Tony had once turned back time to save this kid. He sure as hell wasn’t going to lose him again.

__________________________________________

So, is there a limit to the number of metaphors one can cram into a single 1500 word entry? Asking for a friend...🙄🙄

On another note - Yall. Wtf is wrong with me? This is so not my usual style. Because I’m completely incapable of short explanations, here’s the long version of how this started:

Me: you know what I’d like to write next? A fic where Tony comes back from the dead and he and Peter reunite and hang out a lot and are able to relate in a way that most people aren’t. It gradually progresses and Pepper watches them grow closer and realizes that eventually Peter is more important to him than she is anymore. And blah blah blah, angst angst angst, eventually the boys work it out and realize their feelings and get together. Yay! Okay, so let’s get started - how should Tony come back?

My brain: PAIN! SUFFERING! Everyone just wants to DIE!

Me: ...okay... sure. That can be interesting. Here’s a brief description of that. And now-

My brain: NO! More, more, MORE! You’re not selling it, you wuss! I will not help you move on until EVERYTHING IS THE WORST EVER!!

Me: I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry I’msorry. Is this enough now?

My brain: Almost, just a litttttle bit further.

Me: 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 this...this is all I can do

My brain: yesssssss. That’ll do for now. Now give it to Peter.

Me: ...Wut? That was never part of the plan.

My brain: don’t give a fuuuuuck. Is now. WHUMP!

So uh, anyway, that’s how that happened. I still want to write my original fic idea! I’m just not sure if it’ll be a continuation of this or a separate thing altogether. Who knows? I’m gonna snuggle my baby now and feel better from this completely unanticipated torture fest.

[translatisms]

《且试天下》Chapter 3.3 A Xuan Mountain Night Passes Sudden as a Dream

Mount Xuan seemed exceptionally quiet at night, but past a layer of darkened quiet, black shadows flitted through the dense forest, accompanied by the glance of light off their blades or a sudden flash of fire, mixed with the sound of suppressed speech and a muffled scream or two.

Overnight, a covered pavilion had appeared at the foot of Mount Xuan, and inside the pavilion there were three people: an elegant young man clothed all in black, who sat on a rather large chair, flanked by Zhong Li and Zhong Yuan, who waited on him.

Fengxi raised his head to check at the time. The moon was hanging in the centre of the sky.

“Zhong Li, take this message,” Fengxi commanded placidly.

“Yes, Young Master ,” Zhong Li replied with a bow, and then he walked from the pavilion, and soon, with a wave of an arm, he had gone. Halfway up the sky there was a flash of light, but it was soon extinguished.

Not long after, four points of light flashed against the sky. They were all flickers that dimmed quickly, but anyone who was paying close attention could see them clearly.

Fengxi waited until these four points of light dimmed, raised his teacup, uncovered the cap, and lowered his head to breathe in the fragrance of the tea. He took a shallow sip, and the nodded and said, “There is a proper amount of tea leaves, and the brewing time was just right. The fragrance is light and clean, its flavour is bitter, but the aftertaste is sweet, it’s neither too heavy nor too tart. This is what you call good tea.”

“Young Master, Miss Fengxi is still on the mountain,” Zhong Yuan said suddenly.

“Based on that woman’s abilities, she’ll make it down the mountain just fine.” Fengxi didn’t seem to care. He extended the hand holding the teacup, and Zhong Yuan immediately took it from him.

“If she can’t make it out...then she isn’t worthy of being the Bai Fengxi who can claim to be equal to me!”  Fengxi raised his head to look up at the sparsely lit sky. A few stars were strangely and suddenly bright.

On the north face of Mount Xuan, a few torches were glimmering.

Valiants from every walk of life, after a day and half a night of searching the mountain, were now both hungry and tired, each and every one drenched in soggy clothing, their faces tired.

“Damn it, where the fuck is this Yan Yingzhou really hiding?” someone cursed angrily.

“That’s right. We’ve been searching all day without anything to eat or drink, it’s all that damn Yan Yingzhou’s fault!” someone parroted.

“And that Bai Fengxi! If it weren’t for her, we would have gotten the Xuanzun Seal long ago!” someone said resentfully.

“Exactly! That stinking shrew, who told her to stick her nose in other people’s business? If she lands in my hands someday, I’ll cut her up into eighteen segments. Only then will my hate be eased!” someone said, gnashing their teeth.

“He-daxia, the way I see it, why don’t we go down the mountain for now? It’s already dark, and it seems like we won’t find anything. Wouldn’t it be better to raise our spirits and tomorrow, bring enough rations?” some people asked.

“That sounds reasonable,” someone else said. “Once we leave, we can get people to stand guard at the mouth of the mountain, so that as soon as Yan Yingzhou leaves, we will naturally catch him.”

The person being called He-daxia was He Xun of the Tianxun Protection Service, which had many branches throughout the Eastern Realm. They were extremely powerful, and he himself was a martial expert who had without really vying for the position, taken over as the leader of this group.

Seeing the look on everyone’s faces, all heavy with unbearable weariness, and longing himself for a hot meal and warm blankets, He Xun nodded his head in agreement and said, “We could do that. We’ll go down the mountain for tonight, and come back tomorrow. I doubt that Yan Yingzhou could escape.”

So it was that the group of people started walking down the mountain.

Going down the mountain is always easier and faster than climbing up it, and this group of people was made up of people who practiced martial arts. They were agile and nimble, and coupled with the allure of fine wine and good food at the foot of the mountain, it quickened their pace so that they reached the base of the mountain quickly. Before them, they could already see distant lights; they had almost returned to civilisation.

But the more the walked, the more they realised they could not keep walking. Back and forth and back and forth––they could only walk in circles, and the distant lanterns remained just as distant, though they seemed so close at hand.

“What devilry is this? Why are we walking in circles?” someone blurted.

“It can’t be ghosts, can it?” someone shouted in terror.

As soon as this was said, everyone seemed to feel as if the night was colder and darker, almost as if there were countless shadows rushing towards them. A gust of wind blew out the torchest, plunging them into total darkness.

“Shit! Ghosts!” someone hollered.

“Heavens, there are ghosts! Help, help!”

“Don’t touch me, go away!”

“Help! Help…”

“Get away! You ghosts, I’ll cut you to pieces!”

“Oh, a ghost has killed someone!”

In a moment, these people who normally claimed themselves to be heroes fled one by one like rats, hacking in terror at the shadows of ghosts.

In the darkness, only the sparse light of the hanging moon and stars were watching as the heroes turned on each other, the pungent red of blood coloured the dirt underfoot as the wreckage of limbs began to pile up. At last, the screams of fright and anger subsided, and the northern base of Mount Xuan returned to silence.

A mile off, there were a few lamps which were casting a dim light into the darkness, almost as if they were waiting for a traveller to return in the night.

---

Fengxi woke in a burst of pain. Opening her eyes, she discovered she was in a cave, lit weakly by the light of a torch.

Lowering her head, she found that her left hand had been sliced open, and Yan Yingzhou’s left hand was wrapped tightly around her own, and he was currently using his internal energies to draw the poison out. The blood that dripped onto the ground was purple.

“Don’t!” Fengxi cried, but she discovered her voice was thinner than that of a cat’s. She wanted to stop him, but could not budge. What manner of poison was this, to be so powerful?

At last, Yan Yingzhou stopped trying to draw the poison out. He took from her lapels a Buddha’s Heart Pill and crushed it into fine powder, scattering it across the cut on her hand. Then he tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve and bandaged her wound with it.

As he was doing this, Fengxi borrowed the soft light of the torch to see clearly his and and hers. The poison in her own hand had dissipated considerably, yet his entire left arm had become tinged in a purple colour. Suddenly, fear enveloped her.

She thought back: she’d clearly swallowed two of those pills, which were reputed to be an antidote to countless poisons, yet why was the poison still coursing through her body? An awful thought flashed through her mind, and she shivered, though she wasn’t cold.

“What poison is this?” she asked hoarsely.

“Withering creeper,” Yan Yingzhou said, all tranquility.

Withering creeper? That was one of the most toxic poisons known to man! It was said that no antidote could remedy its effects!

“You...you…” Fengxi looked at that calm face, wanting so badly to slap him awake, but she was seized by a sudden heartache. Only after a long moment could she ask, “Are all the generals of the Huang Kingdom as stupid as you are? If they are, then I’m beginning to have my doubts about the veracity of its reputation! How can it hope to rule the world with someone like you in charge?”

“I don’t like owing people. You drew the poison out for me, and now I’m returning the favour. Then we’ll be even. In any case, I’m the reason you were poisoned.” Yang Yingzhou said this wanly.

He lowered his gaze toward the hand in his hand, slender and long, smooth and supple like jade. How enchanting it was! It was such a pair of hands that, waving a skein of white silk, could just as easily take life as they could save it. To be honest, a pair of hands such as these, a person such as she should be sitting, hidden behind a screen, a single orchid clutched in her grasp, lowering her head to softly breathe in its scent, smiling shallowly, brows lightly knit.

“How could there be someone like you? You knew that was a poison without an antidote, but you still drew the poison toward yourself; do you want to die so badly?” Fengxi sighed.

She suddenly thought of something else, something which caused her whole body to go cold, as if she’d been dropped in ice.

There were no more pills! There were only six pills in a bottle, and the last one had been applied to her hand. So he hadn’t even the opportunity to prolong his life.

“If you can hold on for a moment longer, then you must hold on; that way your chances of surviving will be greater.” Yan Yingzhou let go of her hand, raising his head to look at her. “Bai Fengxi oughtn't be so easy to kill!”

“And you? Do you rate your own life so cheaply?” Fengxi watched him closely. Beneath the firelight, his face held not a shred of emotion, but there was a current surging in his eyes.

Suddenly, Yan Yingzhou waved his hand, extinguishing the flame, and then he stood up and walked toward the mouth of the cave, observing. He walked back to Fengxi, moving her quickly toward the back of the cave, hiding her from sight.

“Are those assassins onto us? You…”

Fengxi’s voice broke off; her acupoints had been sealed by Yan Yingzhou.

A coarse palm slid across her cheek; it was a graze so fleeting it felt like a dragonfly flitting across the water, as if he was too afraid to touch her more deeply. He retreated quickly, gripping the hilt at his waist. Abruptly, he turned and walked toward the mouth of the cave.

Don’t go! Don’t go!

Sh was wailing in her heart that to leave was to meet death at the door.

As if he’d heard her scream, Yan Yingzhou paused to look back at her. Standing there, in that moment, he seemed to be undergoing some great battle with himself. Ultimately, he moved in front of her again.

Even in the darkness she could feel the intensity of his red-hot gaze on her. At long last, he lowered his head, whispering by her ear, “I will come back. In our next lives, I’ll come back to find you. In our next lives, I won’t die young. Fengxi, remember me!”

His lips pressed lightly down, at first grazing featherlike across her cheek before more firmly falling upon hers. He bit down, hard. Fengxi only felt a burst of pain on her lips, and then tasted iron on her tongue, mixed with salt. Last of all she saw a pair of bright eyes in the darkness. In those limpid eyes there were ripples of boundless regret.

Tears trickled downward.

Were they hers? Were they his? She didn’t know. She only knew that that dark silhouette finally walked toward the mouth of the cave, and she knew that the sound of blades rang from outside, only knew that perhaps they would never meet again...

[pisati]

I was pretty shell-shocked after my dad passed. I knew it was coming for 11 years. but the feeling of permanence didn’t hit me until I reached out and held his hand as he lay where he died; in his bed, cold and stiff. the hospice chaplain said some soothing words I can’t remember. I looked up and I remember a very slight, very deep panic hit me. it wasn’t supposed to be today. I didn’t get to say goodbye. did he know I loved him? where the fuck do you go from here?

we went back the next day to move everything out. my uncle came down from new york to help; my cousin had seen my post about it on facebook and told him, and he called my mom to tell her he was coming. she hadn’t even asked. we didn’t even know where to start. I told mom, just get it out. I know what I want to keep. if I can’t decide now I’ll keep it until I do. mom was clearing off the dining table he’s had for years. she asked me if it was okay to throw out some fortune cookies that had been sitting there amid the clutter. almost definitely from one of our dinners. I don’t know if he ordered from the chinese restaurant next door when I wasn’t there. I started crying almost immediately and shook my head. it really wasn’t okay.

this was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

I don’t know how we did it in one day. we got lucky to get some junk haulers to come that day (usually they’re booked out well in advance, but of course you can’t predict these things. it was september 26th, and we didn’t want to pay october rent). we loaded up my uncle’s truck and my mom’s car. unloaded furniture at my aunt’s house 15 minutes away. I was stone-faced the entire time. my mom and uncle made a drop-off without me at one point and I sat on the floor and looked at the empty space and cried again. I was just here. he was just here. I was just sitting with his doctor, wheeling him out of his last appointment in his wheelchair. he just joked with the security guy and the lady taking payments for the parking garage. we were just sitting in the bank together, putting my name on his account. I’d just brought him skittles in bed, because he wanted something with flavor. I had a long day, I wanted to get going home. I turned out the lights, left his classical piano radio playing. “love you, sweetie, goodnight”, from his bed. I said “goodnight, love you too”, and held my hand on the doorknob. I paused for a second before I opened it. I don’t know why. maybe somehow I just knew that would be the last time I’d see him alive. at one of his last appointments, I heard his doctor tell him she worried that 4 weeks without chemo would be too long. we tried one last round, but a week in he decided he’d had enough. he made it 5 weeks. and suddenly here I was. in an empty room.

I think we went back the day after that to finish up cleaning things and hand in the keys. we all went to a deli for lunch. I really wasn’t hungry, but I ordered pancakes anyway. safe enough. had to choke back tears once again as I sliced through them, because I realized that I always prep my pancakes the way dad taught me. I even remember him teaching me. butter in between so it melts with the heat, then cut into thirds lengthwise and crosswise. then syrup. I shoveled piece after piece into my mouth so I wouldn’t cry.

I don’t remember the next few days. I remember going to target at one point, not sure if I needed something or not. but I’d found a gift card dad had given me for my birthday the year before and it still had money on it. I wandered the store in a haze, not really looking at anything. I wanted to gift myself something that I would enjoy that reminded me of him; something I feel like he would have given me himself. I found a collection of necklaces and bracelets in the jewelry section; each one was held by a card that had a description of the symbolism. there were some tacky, cheesy ones, like love and faith and a lot of other bullshit you’d see tattooed on a white girl, probably. but the one that stood out to me was a delicate sterling silver necklace with a tiny v-shaped charm at the center, labeled gratitude. “everything comes to you in the right moment. be patient. be grateful.”

I had to go through all his stuff after I brought it home. mom doesn’t like a mess, and everything we’d brought home was sitting on the first floor, taking up almost the whole room. all dad’s paintings, his two computers, his art supplies and cleaning stuff and appliances. everything. he didn’t own much, though, so it was manageable for me. I brought what I thought was the most important stuff up to my room and I sat on the floor and sifted through it to organize it. I shredded a lot of old papers. I didn’t even know he kept all the divorce papers. all the attorney letters. old receipts. but I found important things too, that he and I never looked at together. his high school and college diplomas. his work from college on cancer research (the irony). his old glasses, even from childhood. family history records, dating back to the early 1800s in what is now croatia. so many pictures. letters from his mom, when she and grandpa lived in arizona. I never got to meet them, but I think I really would have liked my grandma. I think I got her smile. she was a gorgeous lady. and sounded so sweet. I found a christmas card from her, and she had written in “you are always in our thoughts, know that you are loved – mom + dad” and I burst into tears again. he’d even kept his baptism certificate, and the little milestone calendar they gave his mom at the hospital when he was born. december 28th, 1945. his little, tiny footprints in ink on the first page.

then I found his birth certificate.

it hit me like a truck. I could hold his birth certificate and his death certificate both in my hands. a whole life between two pieces of paper. and that’s all that’s left. that, the box of ashes at the foot of my bed, and a few storage bins of things, most of which I know he didn’t even care about. I could hear his voice in my head when I couldn’t decide on what to do with something of his: “it doesn’t matter to me, whatever you want to do, sweetie”. is that really it, then? suddenly you’re here, suddenly you’re not? and what is there to show for it?

but the more I think about it, the more I’m determined to say that can’t be it. maybe he was here for a tiny blip on the timeline that is human history. maybe we all are. maybe once his brother is gone and my brother is gone and my mom is gone and I’m gone, it might be like he never existed at all. he’ll be a name in an obituary, a co-author on one research paper that probably isn’t even useful anymore. so it is with everyone who has ever existed, whose faces I’ll never see, whose names I’ll never know. maybe on a grand scale, none of us are important. did he have a purpose here? do I? I know why I’m here. I’m here because my mother always wanted a blonde, blue-eyed little girl, and by 30 she felt her time was running out. she married the first one who’d agree to it, and she got her blonde, blue-eyed little girl. except that’s about all the expectations of hers that I met. she wanted the child in her dreams, she got me. I didn’t ask to be here. nobody did. we all end up here somehow, and we all die.

maybe there is no point. but my dad’s effect– all the words, actions, lessons he taught me– are still with me and always will be. they’re in the way I prep my pancakes. they’re in the way I drive; he was much more patient than my mom and had me from sitting nervous in a parking lot to cruising down the highway in 2 hours; she could barely get me on the road without yelling at me. he taught me the word empathy before I could even understand what it meant. I hope I never forget his laugh or his smile, but if I do, that’s okay, because I’ll know at least that I got to enjoy them at one point in my life. maybe cosmically speaking none of us matter. but my dad means so, so much to me. and maybe that’s what’s more important. mattering to the people that matter. who cares if some person in the distant future doesn’t know who I was? what I did? I’d rather have them know me now, rather than not being able to control the game of telephone that undoubtedly happens through time. how much do we really know about anyone we don’t know personally?

what was the reason my dad was here? who knows. but he still tried to enjoy the little things. he tried to make people laugh, with his weird sense of humor. I just saw on timehop today, 3 years ago, dad had probably called me. it snowed a lot that winter. “this is great packing snow. I asked about 20 people to have a snowball fight and they all refused”. the last few years he only ate sugar-free candies because he said the sugary ones made him kind of sick, but he kept 40-count boxes of fruit gummies at home. he’d take a few in his bag when he’d go places and hand them out to cashiers, bankers, waiters, his nurses and doctors. just to see them smile over something little. once I got a fortune in a fortune cookie from one of our dinners; it simply said “it tastes sweet”. I showed it to him, confused but still slightly amused by it. he said, “that’s life, sweetie. dolce vita.”

sweet life. he’d been depressed and suicidal for years. and yet.