#bank I see you harassing some guy owning a corner store

[fellhellion]

Something something the spot’s goofy antics distract from how dangerous his own entitlement and resentment is

[shaekingshitup]

Grindin

A/N: EEEPP. This is my first attempt at a reader insert. Reader is always gonna be black. I missed a many of days. Here is the day 3 prompt because I liked this idea! Kind of based off my favorite coffee shop. Maybe I’ll do more for this lil story? 💁🏿 The chime for the door is literally from this song here. 

Summary: Reader goes back home to open a coffee shop and meets a man that stirs some things in her. 

“I love the concept,” you commented, “ I know we were only interested in black and blue originally. But can you do a mock up with gold lettering as well?”

“YAS! THAT! I like THAT! exclaimed Ray

“Already done,” Lulu noted and pulled out a secondary growler mock up from behind the print that you were assessing.

“You know me so well,” you smiled.

“Yeah, your ass is kinda predictable” she smiled back which earned her a tongue out.

This was your first meeting of the month and so far everything was going great. You loved that you could live out your dreams with the two people you trusted more than anyone in the world. Lulu had been by your side since you both realized you were the only two Spelman freshmen who were both from Cali in your class.  By your second semester y’all were so inseparable that everyone thought you were sisters. And by year 2 you were already living together. Thank God y’all had separate interests which kept your friendship and now your business in a healthy and ever growing state. You were engrossed in the world of science. You had been a bio major who often volunteered at the local greenhouse. That helped you establish your small but busy coffee shop a year and a half ago. Lulu was a graphic artist whom also was in charge of all Grindin social media and the unofficial pastry taste tester. Ray had come along when the ladies were rooming together off campus. He was a community college to 4- year transplant at Clark Atlanta but the boy was born and raised in Macon, Georgia and he’d never let you forget it. It was evident that once he met the girls at a mixer in his first week, the friendship was a wrap. That spawned regular visits back to his parents’ homes on the weekends and even some holidays spent in the south. After graduation, the bond never broke. You and Lulu returned to Cali with Ray in tow so that he could use his business degree to help birth Grindin.

You glanced over to Sherell. The Brewista Lead for the morning shift. You knew that Sherell had been strugglin to keep up a healthy sleeping schedule with finals right around the corner and the nerves of her impending graduation from Lincoln. She was a sweet girl and you couldn’t stand to see her bare any more stress. You were so caught up in your thoughts about Sherell that you had missed the very clear topic change amongst your friends.

“Okay, but that nigga’s arms? They biggg. You know what that mean!” sad Ray pointedly at Lulu

“HA” she cackled, “ that don’t mean nothin’. My guy has really soft eyes and you know Y/N loves a guy who is easy on the eyes,” Lu quips

“Bitch, you see the caterpillar above those eyes? We don’t nee her birthin the next Helga Pataki in these streets”

“Ugh” you groaned as you rubbed your temple. “I don’t know how many times we have to have to do this but I do not under any circumstances want you two meddling in my love life,”

“But” they chorused.

“BUT NOTHING! Every human with an assumed penis and who looks like they got more than $150 in the bank becomes a contestant for your little game of ‘Win a Date with Y/N’! I run a coffee shop! Not a dating service. I’m done explaining shit to y’all. Stop harassing my customers and let my ass worry about who I am with! I mean that shit.”

“I told you we should have started addin females to the list,” whispers Ray as you walk over to the counter.

“Raymond Johnson the IV and Eyeluta Nicole Hathaway, if I hear one more word from either of y’all you both gone be banned from any pastries for the rest  of the month” you spat feeling like the unofficial mother of your group yet again. You took a deep breath and continued toward the counter. 

“Sherell, how’s it going?” you asked a you approached the register.

She sighed heavily.

“You know what? You need a break. Go in the back and relax your eyes a bit. I’ll man the front”

“Oh no. It’s really-“

You cut her off. “Get back there and relax a little. I think I know how to run a register,” you winked.

You were on the register and Antwon was pouring at the bar. You two were in a good rhythm. It was either bustling or there was one customer to tend to today. There didn’t seem to be any in between this morning. 

GRINDIN rang out as the next patron entered.

“Welcome!” Antwon called out as you were assessing the stock supply up in the floor.

When you turned around you were met with... Well, you weren’t quite sure how to describe him. Fine was an understatement. Standing six feet tall was a milk chocolate wonder with a physique that his dark turtleneck and three piece suit couldn’t hide.

Keep it professional y/n

Before you could even get a breath out he growled “Y’all really got Clipse playin every time the damn door open?” He said this with his eyes glued to his screen as if looking up was such a difficult feat to conquer at 7:32 a.m.

“Yeah. It’s a signature touch,” you responded to the stranger. At your voice, he looked up and offered a smirk that probably made most women collapse at first sight. You still hadn’t made up your mind though.

“I’m feelin it.”

“Is this your first time here? I’m more than welcome to answer any questions you have about the menu or the store in general” you offered.

“Nah. I’ve been in a time or two before. Never seen you before,” he very openly eyed you up and down, “I normally let my assistant handle this shit though, you know Miss… “

“Y/N. Well, since you’ve been here before then you’re familiar with our unique take on the menu.” you supplied.

“Yeah, y’all rotate teas and coffees quarterly. You seem to keep a few staples- which I ‘preciate and y’all got some corny ass names for these drinks too.”

You bristled a bit at that last part. “There’s nothing wrong with a little creativity.”

“Never said there was, Y/N” At this point you couldn’t tell if you wanted to serve this man or show him the door. You chose the professional route.

“So, what does your assistant normally bring you Mr…?” you trailed off

“Just Erik is fine. My favorite is the single origin. Black.  It’s always the best way to start my day.”

“Mine too.” you smiled. Maybe he isn’t so bad after all

“If you’re into the single origin and you love that bold, black, taste something similar with just a little more sweetness is Brew Thang.”

He chuckled. “See what I be saying about these names? How you expect a grown ass man to order a drink called ‘Brew Thang’?”

“It’s good. Once you have a taste, you won’t have a hard time getting it to roll of your tongue.” you sassed.

Oh fuck . I didn’t mean it like that. I gotta keep this professional. I don’t need a bad review from this guy.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Oh really? Then lemme get a taste,” he said licking his lips. Your eyes widened slightly but he caught it. 

“Size?” you asked looking down at the tablet screen. 

“Large” he said with a bld and dark stare, “How much I owe you?”

“This one will be on the house. I want to make sure you’re satisfied.”

OH MY GAWD GIRL? WHO ARE YOU? WHAT IS COMING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH. PLEASE LEAD WITH YOUR HEAD AND LESS OF THE PUSSY

“Antwon, let’s switch. I’ll take the bar. You take the register!” You yelled out and quckly you two transitioned so that he could help the growing line of customer and you could bang out the drinks. Erik followed as you moved to the bar where he watched you work your magic. Once you were done pouring his drink you gave it to him. You got started not the next orders not the board but made sure to keep an eye on him as he took the first sip.  

“Fuck ma. This shit good” It was your turn to smirk. 

“That’s what I was trying to tell you. So now you’re hooked on the Brew Thang?”

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely satisfied.” You failed to hide your giggle as you called out that Ricky’s order was ready. Erik stuck around for a little after that inquiring about other menu items that you told him not be too quick to judge based on their names. The initial tension had dissolved and you two were in a comfortable rhythm of commenting on both the menu and the changes you’d seen in Oakland during the last few years. Thankfully there wasn’t a rush at the moment and it was fine for your to be off to the side of the bar answering any questions he could put forth. He was attentive to your passion regarding the menu and all that went into the shop as a whole.

“Hol up. You ain’t a barista. This is yo shit?”

“I prefer Brewista and yes. I do co-own this shop with my best friend Ray and we have a great Graphic Artist, Lulu, on deck too” The more he learned about you. The more he wanted to know.

“Okay Miss Entrepreneur. I see you. Damn, does that mean that you tha one that come up with these corny ass names then?”

You scowled playfully. “You keep talkin on my name and you gone catch these hands. I’m a professional. But I grew up on these streets. I can throw blows Erik,”

“My bad baby girl. I respect your grind.”

“Okay. So who really is the corny one here?”

“Whatever,” he smiled. A genuine smile with teeth and this made you want to melt right there. “Anyways, speaking of Brew Thangs, you got  a ni-“

His phone rang and he glanced down cursing. He put up his index finger and gestured that he just need one moment. You nodded your consent.

“What up T?”

In that time that he took his call, you looked up and saw that you had a line out the door. Sherrell came back out to the floor and your two were in a great rhythm getting through the 16 drink orders that had come up. When you looked up again, Erik was no where to be found. Now that the shop was stable you let Sherell do her thang and went into the back to re-convene with Lu & Ray.

“Y/N we need to get you an award for best employer. You really be out here goin the extra mile for your staff,” Lu said. You lifted the corner of your mouth in a weak attempt at a smile.

“Uh uh. Hoe what’s wrong?” Ray said noting your dejected spirt.

“Now? Now you listen to me?!” you yelled. “ALLL the time, I tell yo asses not to intervene in my love life and the one time it may have actually been beneficial y’all were no where to be seen!”

“I know she didn’t” Ray said.

“Yeah. She did” Lu, retorted. “I’m gonna ignore your funky attitude because I can see you’re going through something sis. What’s the deal?”

“I was talking to this guy. This man. And y’all he was so charming and sexy as hell and he wasn’t afraid to talk about shit that matters and I just turned away to make some drinks and he disappeared! I really thought he was gonna make a move. Or at the very least that you two would move in on him and make me sit through another awkward date. But nooooooo, you two finally decided to respect my wishes for once and now Imma die alone!” you monologued.

“You done?” Lu asked.

“Yes” you pouted.

“Aww come here baby,” Ray said with his arms outstretched, “I’m sure he’ll be back.” He hugged your frame tightly and rubbed some circles into your back. “Especially if you turned around when you were in front of him, cuz BABY GOT BACK!!” He yelled.

You and Lu laughed as he started smackin your ass and shakin his own. Soon enough you were all in the back twerkin like it was the first night y’all meet all over again. Hopefully he’d be back.

I’m sorry I forgot who to tag! Soooo if you got tagged and didn’t wanna be I’m sorry. The inverse is the same 😁

@twistedcharismaaa @raysunshine78

@ghostfacekill-monger @yoursoulstea 

@shewrites02 @sarcastic-sunshines

@thadelightfulone

[bloodandcream]

Title: Snowed-In

Pairing: Megstiel

Rating: Explicit

Wordcount: 2,875

-

“Goddamit.”

Meg slows down to even less than the legal speed limit, her shitty Geo slipping all over the street and she can barely see more than a few feet ahead of her car. Thick, white snow whips around the car, wind buffeting her and it’s not helping the whole staying in her lane thing. Fuck, she can’t even see the lane lines anymore.

She should have just left work early, even if meant getting a write-up for her shitty attendance.

Braving through the snow storm as she slows to around ten miles an hour, Meg starts to gradually feel fear that this all a very bad idea and she should get off the road. But there’s nowhere to get off to, and she’s not really keen on freezing to death in her p.o.s. car. Steadily, carefully, she inches forward until a bright sunshine logo is almost dead at her left side.

The gas-pump island lights of a Gas’N’Sip are like a lighthouse beacon, and Meg’s not sure if she’s actually pulling into the place or just bumping up over the curb, but she gets close to the front door and doesn’t care if she’s parked in a spot or not because there are no other cars here.

Shit, not even an employee’s car. But the whole place is lit up, maybe they park in the back.

Meg wrestles her door against the wind, and the snow is up past her ankles when she gets out. Trudging to the door, she’s relieved when it opens, but still grumpy because it’s a shitty fucking situation.

There’s no one in the small convenience store. Maybe they high-tailed it out of there when the storm came and forgot to lock up. Pulling out her cellphone, Meg checks and of course there’s no reception. She’s in the middle of fuckall nowhere on a country road between the industrial complex where she works and her apartment, stuck in a gas station store, and no-one’s here. Well, hey, hopefully they at least have the beer stocked, might be a fun night.

As she’s heading down an aisle, snagging a pack of beef jerky on the way to the coolers, a door to the back swings open. The shelves are shoulder-height, and everything in the tiny store is within sight. An employee wearing his blue vest comes in with a heavy box, setting it down on the counter, pulling jars of peanuts out.

“Hey,” Meg calls.

He jumps, knocking a jar to ground noisily but at least it doesn’t break.

“Uh. Hello. Can I help you find something?”

Meg makes her way back up the aisle towards the counters, “Yeah, my shitty car can’t get through this storm and I’ve got no cell reception, what about you?”

Squinting, he looks outside like he’s not sure if she actually has a car, like maybe she just popped into existence here like a witch. He pulls a phone out of his pocket, an honest to god flip phone, and checks it with a frown.

“No, I have no reception.”

“Do you guys have a landline or something?” Meg asks.

“Yes. Who are you going to call?”

“I don’t know,” Meg throws her hands up, “A tow guy or something?”

He walks to the glass doors, looking out at the storm.

“This storm has gotten very bad.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Who would even come out here?”

Groaning, Meg leans against the counter. She hadn’t thought of that. “I don’t know, I’m sure someone can make it through the storm, my car’s just a piece of shit. Hey, what do you drive?”

“I walk here.”

“Great, I’m going to get some food.”

Meg picks up a pack of Combos to go with her jerky, gets a Steel Reserve from the cooler, and pays the cashier with her credit car. At least he’s cute to look at, hair neatly combed to the side, wide blue eyes avoiding looking at her, and Meg can think of a few things to do to pass the storm.

-

He’s fucking stocking the shelves. In the middle of the storm, with a stranded, bored woman who keeps leaning over near him so her shirt falls open a bit.

And he’s stocking the shelves.

“This place open twenty-four-seven?”

“Yes,” he replies.

“When do you usually get off?”

“Five a.m.”

“Do the plow trucks usually come by then?”

“I’m not sure, I’m new here.”

“Great.”

Meg’s hopped up on the counter, and although he’s complained a few times, it’s the best seat in the house to watch him as he works. The jeans he’s got on look fucking great on his ass.

-

“Come on, Steve, I’m bored.”

Everything in the store is organized into tidy lines, the shelves full, and Meg’s flipped through a few of the cheap gossip magazines, and he’s still trying to avoid her by keeping busy.

There’s something fascinating about the full cigarette shelves, apparently. Steve keeps his back to her, shoulders tense.

“My name isn’t Steve.”

“That’s what your name patch says.”

Meg rolls her eyes, picking up a snickers from the front candy display, bracing her elbows on the counter so her tits practically fall out of her shirt as she eats with obscene suggestion.

“It’s someone else’s vest, I haven’t been here long enough to get my own.”

Meg ‘hms’, reaching out to snag the corner of the blue vest and tug not-Steve closer to her, licking sticky chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

“So, what’s your name?”

He squints at her, lips pursing. “Have you paid for that?”

-

Several hours in, the lights flicker and the power goes out.

“Shit.”

Castiel groans.

About all that she’s gotten out of this guy was his name. Meg hasn’t given up, but she has found a deck of cards among the wealth of goods in the shitty store that’s twenty square foot and not enough space to even pace in without making Castiel nervous so that he disappears into the back. So she’s playing solitaire on the counter, hips pushed back, watching him out of the corner of her eyes.

He straightens and looks up to the ceiling lights as they flicker off, as if it might just be an offending bulb and not the entire goddam store that’s just gone dark.

“Well, that’s fun.” Meg says.

The last time she looked through the glass front doors, the snow has managed to bank up about three foot high, and the inside of the glass has started to frost over. Without power, there’s no heat. And it’s dark enough Meg can’t see her own hand in front of her face.

“I think we have flashlights,” Castiel says.

Meg hears him run into something, it sounds like he’s knocked a display case over.

Patting her hand around the impulse-buy section of the front counter, Meg finds a lighter and flicks it on. She doesn’t see the blue vest over Cas’ broad shoulders anywhere, and as she rounds a corner she finds him wrestling with a pile of potato chips.

“Lighter, that’s, a good idea too.”

“Flashlights are better, but we’ve got to find them first.”

The small bic flame is only good to see a few feet, dimly, but at least it’s not pitch black. Castiel pushes himself up and leads around the corner of an aisle, finding emergency supplies and ripping into a flashlight package.

“Don’t you guys have like, an emergency kit in the break-room or something?” Meg asks.

Blinking, Castiel looks up at her, ruined packaging in his hand.

“I… hadn’t thought of that.”

The flashlight comes with it’s own batteries, probably the cheap ones that’ll run out in a few hours, but he gets it turned on and Meg let’s the little bic flicker out.

“I’ll pay for this.” Castiel nods dutifully, and the two of them retreat to the break-room.

-

Meg’s not really sure what the insulative properties of paper towels are - or how long the air will last in a break-room that’s kind of just a glorified closet - it’s not like they’ve got a complete seal, but she’s bored and it’s almost fun to pretend they're in a survival movie or something. So they search the break-room, which she can cross in four steps. There’s a small folding table with two plastic folding chairs, and along the far wall is a line of counters that have a sink, mini fridge, and microwave.

They don’t find any extra flashlights, or candles, or basic emergency shit.

At least Meg brought her pack of cards back with her, and had the good forethought to snag a six pack too.

Settling down at the table, flashlight propped up like a lantern with it’s beam pointed towards the ceiling, Meg pops a beer and starts shuffling cards.

Cas is reviewing all the employee posters tacked to the wall, about safety and labor laws and sexual harassment. Like that’ll give him the answers what to do when he’s snowed in and the power’s out.

“Hey, come play some cards with me.”

Meg’s thinking strip poker.

“I’m still on the clock.” Castiel deadpans.

“Don’t you have like, an electronic time clock you swipe a badge in or something?”

He turns towards her, perplexed. “Yes?”

“Well if it’s electric, then it’s not working ‘cause the electricity is off, so you’re not on the clock.”

Sighing, he takes a seat across from her.

“You know how to play poker?” Meg asks.

“Yes.”

“Great, let’s play strip poker.”

“I thought the point of barricading ourselves in here was to conserve heat, and now you want to take your clothes off?”

“We can generate some body heat, baby.”

Meg smiles at him, and yeah, this is a lot more fun than she expected getting stranded to be.

“I,” his pretty eyes dart to the side, and he’s sitting rigidly in his chair, “I don’t know anything about you.”

Dealing out a hand for poker, Meg hums, “Let’s see, my favorite color is purple, my favorite food is pizza, and my favorite animal is snakes.”

She twists the cap off a beer and slides it over. It’s mildly surprising when Castiel drinks, draining half of it in one long gulp.

“Uh. My favorite food is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, my favorite animal is guinea pigs, and I like all of the colors.”

“P.B. and J. huh? What kind of jelly?”

He smiles softly, and Meg must be getting somewhere because he can actually look her in the eyes now, and tells her, “Marmalade is one of my favorites, but I do like a little variety.”

-

Meg let him have the first few hands, taking off her jacket, her shoes, then her shirt. She was always one to lead by example. He’d removed his vest first, neatly folding it and setting it on the counter that was within arms reach in the tiny break-room. The flashlight made everything look eerie, sharper, the lines of his face and set of his eyes cast in weird angled shadows. He was still hot as fuck and Meg would be happy just to get his shirt off.

They played cards, and finished the beer, talked more about jam - apparently Cas like to make his by hand, when he had the supplies to. Bits of jewelry were discarded, they had a heated discussion about whether socks counted individually or as a pair, and the strangled noise that Cas made when Meg finally took off her bra was priceless.

She won another hand, and all he had left were the plain, white boxers he wore. He was nervous and tense, fingers fidgeting with the waistband. Meg stood and rounded the table, still wearing jeans - but she didn’t have any underwear on beneath, so she had to save those for last.

“You want some help with that?” She all but purred.

Bracing a hand on his shoulder, Meg leaned over him, messy hair tumbling over her shoulders and she watched as his eyes flicked down, up, down, up, to the side

“I, uh, I don’t usually, I don’t do this sort of thing.”

Sliding a leg across his lap, settling down on hard thighs, Meg smiled at him, curled her hands over his shoulders and brushed her thumbs in circles along the tense muscles.

“Are you gay?”

“No,” Castiel shook his head.

“Are you in a relationship?”

“No.”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

Nodding vigorously, wide eyed, he settled his hands on her hips. “Yes, please.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Meg leaned closer, kissing him gently, trying to handle him like a spooked animal. Little at a time, draw him out.

Softly, she kissed him, hands sliding down the warm skin of his bare arms. Pulling back after a moment, Meg licked her lips and rocked her hips in his lap, waiting for him to make the next move. Kiss her back. Undo her jeans.

She didn’t expect for him to slide his hands under her ass, haul her up and lay her flat on the table as he surged up over her, cards scattering to the ground and flashlight knocked over. Spreading his hands around her hips, he stroked up, grip firm and sure as he dipped, kissed across her chest, closed his mouth around a nipple. Shoving forward, he spread her legs wide and Meg locked her heels behind his back as he ground against her, hard and suddenly rough, needy.

It left her head spinning, the swift one-eighty he pulled.

“Knew you had it in you, champ,” Meg gasped.

Squeezing one breast with the wide spread of his hand, he bit her nipple and tugged. Meg arched off the table, crying out surprised, and really turned on.

Cas pushed up on one hand, the other still kneading her breast, calloused fingertips circling the bud of a nipple.

“I want your phone number after this.”

Meg blinked, the stupefied one now. “Huh?”

“I want to see you again.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Cas practically ripped her jeans off, getting them unbuttoned then dragging them down her thighs, the rolling beam of the flashlight shifting over the angles of his body, skin flushed, dark trail of hair  down to his boxers and the way they tented out was very promising.

Divested of her pants, Meg braced the balls of her feet on the edge of the wobbly, cheap table and spread her legs wide. If she were the praying type, she’d send one up that the table wouldn’t collapse underneath them.

Cas stared at her, biting his lip. It was flattering and all, but a girl had more needs than a museum piece.

“Get those off.” She told him.

Nodding, Cas pushed his boxers down, dick springing up against his belly and yeah, she definitely wanted his number. One time was not going to be enough.

“Condoms?” Cas asked.

“Shit, take the flashlight and grab some from the store.”

“I, that would be strange.”

“And fucking in the break-room isn’t?”

“Noted.”

Left in the darkness, Meg arched off the table and swept more cards from beneath her. Cas was back quickly, handing her the flashlight and Meg pointed it at his dick to watch him roll on the condom. She was going to be thinking about those hands for a while. Stretching her legs out, Meg squeezed them around his waist and pulled him closer, reaching up for him. Cas circled an arm under her back, hefted her up as he pushed inside and jack-hammered his hips, the table screeching over the floor as it juddered back.

Dropping the flashlight on the table, Meg gripped onto his arms, dragged her nails up to his shoulder, scratching down his back as he curled over her and buried his face between her tits. He bit and sucked and scraped the stubbled line of his jaw over sensitive skin and it left her swinging between soft pleasure and an edge of pain. It made her toes curl, pussy squeezing around his dick. Meg held on, yielded to the shove of his hips, the sharpness of his mouth, the heat of his skin, overwhelmed in the best way.

-

They shoved a few paper towels under the crack of the door afterward, curled up sticky-sweat skin to the linoleum floor, clothes draped over them in a pile. Meg wasn’t much of a cuddler, but with the heat off, yeah, the whole sharing body heat thing was completely practical.

Cas went all soft again, holding her lightly, combing his fingers through her hair and trailing them down the furrow of her spine.

“I want to take you out for a date.” He announced.

“Mm? We can just… fuck.”

“Do you like museums?”

“Not really.”

“What about movies.”

“I guess.”

“There’s an art expo in the park in two weeks.”

“Look, you don’t have to wine and dine me.”

“But I want to.”

Sighing as though put out, Meg pinched the soft give of Cas’ waist. “You’re a gentleman, huh?”

“Not as much as I’d like to think, apparently.”

“Just the right amount,” Meg said quietly, shifting closer, tucking her head into the crook of his shoulder. Maybe, just a pinch of gentleman wouldn’t be so bad, if she got his wild side too.

[shirtlesssammy]

Nightshifter: The Mandroid Recap

Then:

Police Department briefly considers hiring much better qualified fan artist, but then says “fuck it.”

(And shapeshifters are a thing!)

Breaking News:

Outside the City Bank in Milwaukee, WI, reporters standby as they watch a tense standoff between local police and unknown suspects.

Oh, snap. Dean Bean, what have you gotten yourself into now?

One Day Ago:

Our criminally minded Dean Bean is busy flirting (and interviewing) with a jewelry store clerk while Sam interviews another jewelry employee about a recent heist. A former employee was caught in the act of stealing merchandise. A security guard died while trying to stop her. She later killed herself. Frannie, the clerk Dean interviews, lets him know that she wouldn’t mind being interviewed in private sometime.

Dean has to think long and hard before deciding that, yep, that’s a great idea, and asks for her number.

The boys head out. Sam fills Dean in on a bank in Milwaukee getting robbed, much like the jewelry store. They reach the home of, Ronald Reznick, a security guard at the bank heist.

Ronald invites them in when they agree to hear his story of the events. Ronald instantly jumps into Fox Mulder levels of conspiracy shenanigans.

The person that Ronald let into the bank that night wasn’t who he said he was. “It had his face, but it wasn’t his face.” It’s a mandroid! Sam is skeptical, but Dean wonders about Ronald’s surety. So, Ronald pops in a copy of the security tape he keeps for backup, and shows the brothers the man with the laser eyes! Sam and Dean realize they’re dealing with a shapeshifter.

So, Sam puts on his best FBI face and tells Mr. Reznick that he’s wrong, the laser eyes is just a camera flair, and mandroids don’t exist. Dean is sympathetic, but to protect him, it has to be done. Sam gets the video surveillance before they head back to their own motel room, complete with a conspiracy board of their own. Dean is so soft towards Ronald, and wonders how Sam can impersonate an FBI agent so well. Sam makes it clear that it’s best the Ronald stay in the dark --and stay alive.

They track the shapeshifter’s underground path and discover another bank. They head out, in their best security guard service jumpers. They set up camp in the security camera room, and watch for the shapeshifter’s glowing eyes. Just as they’re losing hope, they find their monster --and Ronald Reznick.

While Ronald holds everyone at the bank hostage, Dean and Sam try to calm him down ---with little luck. He doesn’t trust them, wonders if they’re Men in Black, and makes a point to say he doesn’t like Sam. Dean tells Ronald that they believe him. And goddamnit, it’s been so long since I’ve seen this episode, but it’s a classic for a reason. This whole exchange between Dean and Ronald is so good. Ronald is so earnest in his beliefs -and he isn’t *really* wrong that something’s out there. And Dean knows exactly what to tell him to make him feel justified. Ronald agrees to take Dean to find the bank manager/shapeshifter, everyone else has to go in the vault. They don’t find the shapeshifter, just what’s left of him. “It’s so weird. Robot skin is so lifelike,” Ronald marvels. Dean lays down some truth, and locates a silver letter opener.

Meanwhile, the cops are on the case. They cut the power to the bank. Dean and Ronald are heading back to the vault when Ronald thanks Dean for helping him realize that he’s not crazy --mandroid theory aside.

Meanwhile, Sam is harassed by a fellow hostage inquiring about Dean while wearing one of his classic early season Ugly Shirts. The vault opens to reveal Dean, who lets more people into the vault--and lets Sam out. While Dean fills Sam in on the whereabouts of the shapeshifter, Sam reminds Dean that he’s wanted by the police, and the problem of escaping this situation. Dean wants to patrol the rest of the bank for others, while Sam watches Ron. Sam sees no hope for their captor, but Dean’s developed a soft spot for Ron.

Dean stalks the hallways while Sam cracks the vault door open to give the hostages air. A landline phone rings and Ron picks up the receiver and begins chatting cheerily to the cops. (He’s probably about a second away from telling them all about shapeshifter/mandroids.) Sam, aghast at Ron's stupidity, yells at him to hang up. In the vault, the guard starts having a heart attack so Sam calls back the SWAT team leader and asks for a paramedic.

Dean, meanwhile, finds a loose ceiling tile, jimmies it open, and a body falls through. Dean IDs the body as one of the hostages in the vault and heads back to Sam.

And here's when everything goes to (even more) shit.

Sam helps the guard and the shifter out of the vault, ostensibly to get the guard outside for medical attention. Sam takes the guard away while Dean tries to attack the shifter. Alas for Dean, the shifter gets the jump on him and runs off into the shadowed bank corridors. Ron, attempting to be helpful, ever so slowly trains his rifle on the retreating shifter. Unfortunately, Ron steps into view of the window and a sniper takes him out with one clean shot to the back.

The guard abandoned, Sam runs off into the depths of the bank after the shifter, scaring up sundry bank customers and employees as he goes.

Dean has a sorrowful moment with dead Ron, and tells him that he did a good job tracking the shifter. Then he escorts the guard to the doorway and sends him outside to get medical attention. He surveys the scene outside like a soldier, cataloging the swarming mess of cops, SWAT, reporters, and more. “We are so screwed,” he says, escaping back into the bank and relocking the door.

Sam finds the shifter's skin again in one of the stairwells and calls Dean with the update: the shifter’s in new a new form already. Dean starts to round up all the hostages while Sam continues his search of the back hallways.

Outside, the cops in charge find themselves supplanted by the FBI, led by Agent Victor Henriksen. They call in to the bank and Dean picks up the phone this time. Instead of being able to bluff for more time, Agent Henriksen identifies Dean by name. “It’s become my job to know about you, Dean. I’ve been looking for you for weeks now. I know about the murder in St. Louis, I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your dad. Ex-marine, raised his kids on the road, cheap motels, backwood cabins. Real paramilitary survivalist type. I just can’t get a handle on what type of whacko he was. White supremacist, Timmy McVeigh...to-may-to, to-mah-to.”

“You got no right talking about my dad like that.” Dean tells him angrily, “He was a hero.” (Oh, Dean Bean. Terrible father, dedicated hunter. To-may-to, to-mah-to.)

(Side note: Jensen Ackles is so, so good in this phone conversation scene. Vulnerable, scared, and full of false bravado. UGH. JENSEN.)

Dean and Sam continue to search for the shifter when Sam finds a spot of blood in front of a door. When he opens it, the body of a bank teller falls out, her throat slit. They head back to the vault and ask bank teller Sherri to come with them. Sherri’s no dummy and asks to stay in the vault, thank you very much. Sam flashes his silver letter opener and Sherri heads out of the vault with them.

Sam and Dean bring her to the teller’s body when Sherri reacts...oddly. She completely flips out, starts screaming, and then passes out. The Winchesters look between the body and unconscious Sherri in confusion.

But hey, it’s cool. An unconscious shifter is easier to kill, right? Dean gets ready to stab her in the chest when Sam stops him. The dead body is actually breathing! Dead Sherri, a.k.a. the shifter, jumps up and starts fighting Dean while Sam gets the real Sherri away from the fight.

Meanwhile SWAT has moved into the bank. It’s a game of cat and mouse and cat now, with Dean and Sam hunting the shifter while SWAT hunts for them. The real Sherri escapes with a couple SWAT guys and will definitely have zero trauma or questions about her apparent evil twin.

Dean gets accosted by the shifter who continues to fight like a complete badass. He grabs her arm and skin peels away. (Shudder)

Finally, Dean overcomes the shifter and manages to stab her with the letter opener. She dies at last. So, problem one solved. He hears SWAT moving through the hallway nearby and crouches over the shifter’s body as one SWAT member enters the room, cornering him. (Future knowledge alert: it’s Sam! He took out a couple of SWAT guys earlier in the hallway.)

Cut to Agent Henriksen stalking the hallways as SWAT clears them one by one. We overhear two SWAT guys marveling over finding the shifter’s body. “I’m telling you, man. I just walked her out of the bank. She must have a twin sister or something.” (Somebody direct me to fan fiction where it’s just Sherri processing shit and trying to research her nonexistent twin sister. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me about our dark family secret?” “Tell you what?” “Stop lying, mom!” etcetera...)

 Anyway, SWAT opens up a small room and finds two mostly naked SWAT members tied up and unconscious on the floor. Cut to two men in black tactical gear walking up the stairs of a parking garage. They head to the Impala, which is parked in a parking garage, and peel off their helmets and masks.

“We are so screwed,” Dean says while Renegade by Styx plays over the scene.

Natasha: GOD DAMN IT THIS FINAL SCENE. It’s so good. It’s one of my all-time favorite scenes from the entire series run. It’s such an excellent use of music - the perfect balance of desperation and badass.

 I Never Knew I Had an Evil Quote:

 A mandroid?

I like him. He says “okey dokey”.

We're not working for the mandroid!

I know about Sam, too. Bonnie to your Clyde.

Crazy's in there. And I just hung up on it.  

You see, he’s got the laser eyes.

Robot skin is so lifelike.

[promptistrashqueen]

A Royal Commission (6)

This fic references irl shit too, so imagine hollywood/pop culture still exists in Eos?

I started this late today and you guys sent me asks like “Please more” as if I could ever not write more of this… as if my love for @fleetstreetfatality would let me. Also she’s not feeling well so please, bury her in love <3

Loqi’s voice breaks Prompto’s concentration as he finishes touching up some tiny leaves on a young woman’s tattoo, luckily he’s used to it so nothing happens, but it’s still annoying.

“Hey, you’re big client’s back.”

Prompto huffs a sigh, because these days it seems like everyone wants him to work on large pieces so that means nothing to him. He tosses a thumbs up over his shoulder and goes back to finishing up his work, trying not to be too impatient for the store to close.

When he’s done he reminds her how to care for the work and hands her a card in case she needs anything as well as a sheet about touch ups and other things she needs to know. She’s nice enough but Prompto really doesn’t even remember her name and he’s grateful when she doesn’t try to flirt with him or anything, it’s been happening a lot.

When he’s alone again Loqi sticks his head back in, “Seriously, I’m sending them back, the lobby’s getting crowded with people gawking and he looks like a twat out there, surrounded by them.”

Prompto blinks and then he feels his breath rush out of him because oh. That big client. Damn Loqi for not just saying it was Noctis and letting the Prince be harassed instead.

“Seriously? Next time just send him back right away...big client...he’s Noctis ya ass!”

Loqi rolls his eyes but doesn’t leave just yet, leaning against the opening and toying with the curtain that’s still mostly pulled shut.

“He can’t already be back for more after yesterday...Prompto, you’re not, seeing this dude are you?”

Prompto sighs and puts on his best “fuck-you” smile, “Does it matter? You and I ended a while ago and I am an adult.”

Loqi flips him off, “You know why I asked, the Lucian Prince? If he ever finds out where you come from, do you think he’ll want anything to do with you then? It would ruin you, us, everything.”

He doesn’t wait for Prompto’s reply before shoving away and calling back, “I’ll send him.”

Taking deep breaths, Prompto grips the edge of his drafting table hard. He hates to admit the truth in Loqi’s words and curses himself again for letting himself hope, for agreeing to the lunch dates and dinner with Noctis. He squeezes his eyes closed and sighs, “fuck”

“Fuck what? Man, you alright?”

He shoots up and turns, plastering on a smile that does turn more genuine when he see’s Noctis. He can’t help it, the Prince just makes him feel good.

“Yeah, just been a long day, you know?”

Noctis nods and his expression says that he knows all about long days, “Yeah….you like Italian?”

Leave it to Noctis to skip the platitudes. Prompto appreciates his ability to leave things alone though, especially now.

“Love it. As long as I can get something with white sauce? Stomach’s a little bitch otherwise.”

Noctis’ lips quirk at the corner and he nods, “Isn’t white sauce a normal Italian thing? If not, Ignis has been feeding me something weird my whole life?”

Prompto slaps his shoulder, because he knows that tone of voice, that “duh they have it” one that makes him bite back a smile.

“Sasshole.”

“You like it.”

True. He’s so screwed. Prompto looks around his space and decided, screw it, it’s picked up enough he doesn’t have to be methodical every night as long as the hazardous stuff is taken care of.

“The other’s can close tonight, I’ve got a date with noodles….and you I guess.”

He smiles and holds out a hand, Noctis’ expression softens and he takes it, lacing their fingers together and bumping shoulders with Prompto as the artist leads him out.

He cringes a little, the entry is still full of people and they all immediately turn their attention to both Noctis and himself and he curses Maddy again. It only takes a split second before someone gasps, “Ohmygod are they holding hands?”

Fortunately there seem to be some pretty alright people in the crowd because someone replies, “You don’t hold hands with your artist? What kind of trust is that?”

The first camera shutter is followed by a lot of hand waving from a few people and Prompto realizes, grateful, they’re trying to block opportunities to take photos. Noctis pushes him a little and he navigates the cram of bodies to the door, yelling loudly back to Charlie and Loqi, “Good luck! See you tomorrow!”

He vaguely hears Charlie laughing and swearing from Loqi that makes him hope none of the crowd were easily offended.

They’re free and the evening is pretty, the city lights creating the usual halo as they reach for the wall. Prompto finds himself pausing to look at the distant hazy barrier, only slightly visible, it reminds him of how much he doesn’t belong here, with a Prince. Noctis’ fingers tighten around his and he tears his gaze away, offering a reassuring dip of his head to the Prince’s concerned expression.

He’s learning quickly, Noctis isn’t great with words, but that suits Prompto fine. He’s a chatterbox most the time but he’s never been good with deep stuff really. He squeezes Noctis’ hand in thanks and watches the way his shoulders relax.

“The Italian soda’s at Giacamo’s are choice. You have to get one.”

Prompto almost stops again, eyes widening. After Mama Claire’s he’d assumed Noctis would be taking him someplace similar, blue collar and relaxed, where he would fit in.

“Giacamo’s is black tie!”

Noctis shrugs, giving him a look, “I’m the Prince. Rules don’t apply on this one.”

Prompto gawks at him as they come to a stop next to a car, “Okay, but dude! I’m a pleb and a tattoo artist, they’ll probably assume I’m trying to rob them!”

Noctis opens the car door, “Oh no, a robber, I guess you’ll get sent to trial and spend the next ten to fifteen years in jail. If only you knew a charming Prince to help you!”

Prompto just sticks his tongue out. He makes a small surprised noise when Noctis ducks down quickly and swallows the appendage, pressing their lips together and letting his own tongue drag over Prompto’s, playing with the stud in it.

Prompto’s eyes slip closed and he melts a little, fuck Noctis is a good kisser. He leans into the touches, pulling back just enough to tug Noctis’ lower lip and tilt his head before kissing him again.

Noctis steps back, Prompto leaning forward in an instinctual chase, “You keep kissing me like that, we’re going to miss dinner.”

Noctis seems surprised at himself as the words come, like they were a thought that’s escape, it’s a feeling Prompto understands because he can’t seem to stop himself from answering, “Maybe I’m not so hungry.”

They stare at each other and Noctis takes a step forward, like he’s going to give in. Before he can reach him though Prompto actually sees the car he’s sitting in.

“Holy Shit!”

“What?” Noctis’ face pinches and the heat turns to confusion and it’s really pretty cute but Prompto’s too busy being blown away for that.

“Am I touching...did you put me in a fucking Aston Martin?”

Noctis blinks and then he starts to laugh, despite the way Prompto is frowning at him with large, shocked eyes.

“Dude, Prince remember? I don’t like it either, but I mentioned a date and Gladiolus refused to give me the keys to anything else!”

Prompto just nods, “Uh-huh, blame him. You just wanted to give me heart attack. The car, Giacamo’s? What’s next, a diamond necklace?”

Noctis looks sudden sheepish and shifts a little, rubbing the back of his neck, “Er-actually….”

Prompto’s face is trying to do things he’s not familiar with and he opens his mouth but can’t find the words. Fortunately Noctis starts to laugh again, shoulders shaking, “No! But you should’ve seen the face you just made!”

Prompto briefly wonders what the penalty for strangling a member of the royal family is, but Noctis’ bright eyed laughter is too infectious for him to stay upset and he laughs along until Noctis is buckled in beside him, pulling smoothly into traffic.

The restaurant looks exactly like the photos of it and Prompto swallows the nerves he feels as he looks at the building, but Noctis is calm beside him as they pull up. He gets out and has a word with the valet, the fucking valet. Prompto tells himself it’s either get out with Noct or have a really bizarre drive with a valet and opens his door.

He can’t afford this, is the next thing he thinks that’s not just whoa. They’ve been greeted without any question to their dress, and seated in a private booth without having to see more than a glimpse of the elegant people dining in other parts of the business. Prompto’s pretty sure the waiter-or maitre’d or whatever has shoes worth more than his entire life, except the shop of course.

“Uh, I’ll get the uh..is there any way to get just water and a leaf of lettuce because that still might break the bank here.”

Noctis glares at him over the top of the menu Prompto is using to try and hide his embarrassment over not being able to pay.

“Yes, I choose an insanely expensive restaurant so you could pay. Who do you think I am, a Kardashian?”

Prompto snorts at that but his anxiety eases some, “Fine. You keep spending money on me and I’m going to feel terrible charging for your tattoo.”

Noctis shrugs, “I model it for your little pleb shop and we call it even?”

“Aaaand I’ve changed my mind. Double charged.”

They lapse into silence as Prompto looks over the menu, trying not to cringe a little. Not that the prices are even listed, that’s how he knew. “So, uh, how did you end up doing it? The shop and everything?”

Settling on what he wants, and firmly not thinking about the cost, Prompto sets the menus down, fiddling with his bracelets thoughtfully.

“I...I guess I didn’t really fall into it, but that’s what it feels like? I got really into photography when I was younger, my early memories are pretty vague and I guess I wanted to create new ones I wouldn’t forget so easy? I dunno dude, I just eventually started drawing from my photos and after a field trip to see some surrealist art at school...I fell in love? Putting it on my skin seemed like the next step, holding on to memories you know, and they saw my sketches and we started talking and before I knew it I had my own gun. Charlie and Loqi and I were all shop mice around the same time and when old Lima retired we decided to start our own place. So I guess, I never found anything else to do?”

Noctis listens carefully and Prompto hopes he doesn’t pick up on the small lie, because he remembers his childhood with a clarity he wishes on no one.

“That’s...really cool.”

Prompto grins at him, “Yeah, not as cool as being a Prince or whatever but..eh.”

Noctis rolls his eyes but his smile falls a little, “Sure. At least you got to choose.”

They both get quiet, but then Prompto bumps Noctis’ foot with his own and reaches to take his hand, offering him support.

“Oh! There’s a new arcade bar that opened like, two blocks from my house and…”

They fall into a conversation about games and drinking as their food comes and before either of them are really aware of it their sitting, full as they could manage on good food and sucking on after dinner mints.

Prompto’s relaxed and it’s nice and probably pretty good because he didn’t even try to look at the bill..he really doesn’t want to know and Noctis didn’t even blink.

They stand and Noctis takes his hand again, going back the way they came with a togo bag hanging from his free wrist.

The valet is already waiting for them and Prompto tries to look cool as he gets back into the ridiculously expensive car after a meal at a ridiculously expensive restaurant where he was exempted from the dress code.

Noctis laughs, he must be making a face, and leans across the center to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll take you home, give me your address.”

Prompto shakes his head, “Not after that you won’t. Can’t have you seeing my shack. Besides I’ve got to walk off some of the noodles. The shop is fine.”

Noctis huffs at him but shrugs, “Alright, but by the fourth date I expect to be able to drive you home.”

“Four? My glass of wine wasn’t aired long enough and you’re expecting two more dates?”

He’s flicked for that one and chuckles a little to himself before closing his eyes contently, enjoying Noctis’ presence as he drives him back.

When he opens them again Noctis’ seat is empty and he turns his head to find the Prince leaning into his space through his open door.

“Sleepy?”

“Mmmm” Prompto feels like he’s not fallen asleep but he must have. Noctis’ eyes are soft and the curve of his lips gentle as he leans in, pressing their foreheads together and cupping Prompto’s cheek.

He kisses him slowly, their lips just touching as he breaths in and then slowly moulding together as Noctis uses his hand to tilt Prompto’s chin. It’s one of the best kisse Prompto thinks he’s ever had, all warmth and affection and the promise of another meeting.

Noctis slowly pulls away, hand lingering on Prompto’s cheek as he does before he allows Prompto to get out of the car.

“See you soon blondie.”

Prompto smiles at that, “You too charmless.”

[flowerfan2]

Winds of Change - Ch. 4

Stucky, 46k total, A03. Post CACW.  This fic is fully written, and will post several times a week. Read from the beginning here.

Bucky’s still got some healing to do after the doctors in Wakanda rouse him from sleep and make sure there are no more deadly triggers lurking in his brain.  He decides it should happen where he can have some peace and quiet, as well as a little distance from Steve’s overwhelming presence.  When he sees an ad for a “Winter Caretaker” he takes the job, but it turns out to be not so peaceful after all.

Or, how Bucky realized that while he still needs to heal, it wouldn’t be such a bad thing for him and Steve to do it together.

Chapter 4

Bucky sleeps like a log for the rest of the night, waking up long past his normally appointed time. When he blinks an eye open, both Mittens and Miss Kitty are staring at him, settled in matching cat loaf positions on the bed, their front feet neatly tucked under their chests.  

“Keeping an eye on me?” he mutters, reaching out to scritch Mittens under the chin.  “Or just hungry?”

He pads down to the kitchen to refill their bowls, and then leans heavily against the counter, replaying the events of the night before.  To his surprise, he’s not freaking out about it anymore.  Talking to Steve wasn’t just fine, in the sense that it didn’t make anything worse; it was objectively positive.

Would talking to Steve all along have made these past few months better?  Did his whole stupid plan really just wind up interfering with his precious recovery?  (And will he forever refer to it in his mind as his <i>“precious recovery,”</i>  in italics and with maximum irony, thanks to one Natasha Romanov?)

Bucky finishes his daily chores and decides to go for a run.  Outside on the front porch he nearly trips over a package, addressed only to “Barnes” and with no return address.  It’s a six-pack of some fancy craft beer, with a handwritten note that says “I’m a selfish asshole too. Sorry.  Natasha.”

Bucky smirks, puts the beer into the refrigerator and then heads back outside.  He doesn’t see any evidence of Natasha’s visits, either yesterday or today, but that’s not particularly surprising.  She could still be hiding out somewhere watching him, and he’d probably only have about a fifty-fifty chance of spotting her.  He looks around, gives a nod and a salute to the general vicinity of the front yard, and then jogs off down the cliff top path.

He’s halfway through his route, turning to head back towards the house, when he sees a flash of fiery red hair and then Natasha is matching his stride alongside him.  She’s dressed in appropriate gear, including running shoes and a black zippered jacket with hot pink trim, and Bucky wonders how the hell she knew he’d go running this morning.

 They run along in silence for a few minutes.  Bucky’s not sure what the appropriate protocol is for this, so he just waits. He figures she’ll fill him in eventually.

 Finally she speaks up. “Arm doesn’t weigh you down much?”

 He stares at her in mock offense.  “Really? That’s your opener?”

 She rolls her eyes. “I’m curious.”

 “It’s lighter than it was – vibranium.  And obviously it didn’t get in my way before, either.”

 “You must have mad core strength.”

 And no one much cared about how much it hurt, Bucky thought, but he pushes that memory away for now. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of bad at apologies?”

 “I brought beer,” she says with a shrug. ��“And I meant what I said.  Just maybe said it the wrong way.”

 Whatever.  Bucky speeds up, but Natasha does too, and they’re almost back at the house so it’s not as if he can lose her.

 When they get to the front porch, Natasha doubles over, hands on her knees, and pants.  “Dick move, Barnes.”

 “I didn’t ask you to come running with me.”

 She straightens up, still breathing hard.  “I needed to talk to you.”

 “I get it – don’t hurt Steve, he’s America’s special snowflake, you’ll kill me with my own arm, blah blah blah.”

 Natasha’s eyes light up. “Could your own arm kill you?  Did T’Challa check for booby traps?  Maybe we should have Tony-”

 “It’s an entirely new arm. No remote access – can’t be hacked.”

 She looks only fractionally less interested.  “But were there booby traps in the old one?”

 “No.”  He sighs.  “Could we maybe take this inside?  I need a drink.”

 “See?  Beer was a good idea.”

 “It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

 A few minutes later, Natasha’s sitting at his kitchen island peeling a clementine, while Bucky drinks down a second glass of water.  

 “So, I’m here because we want your help.”

 Bucky tilts his head. “Define ‘we.’”

 “Coulson approved it.”

 “Does Steve know?”

 “What do you think?”

 “I think if Steve wanted my help, he’d be here talking to me, not you.”

 She doesn’t deny it. Bucky’s not sure he wants to know why Steve isn’t involved, whether it’s because he thinks Bucky isn’t ready, or is trying not to pressure him.  Or some other even more painful reason.

 Natasha stands up and walks around the room, checking sightlines out the windows.  “I wanted to run it by you first.  See what you thought.”

 Still a non-answer. Natasha’s interesting, Bucky thinks. Brash and confident, and clearly badass in a fight, but still human inside.  He knows a little about her history with the Russians, that she’s no stranger to being used.  He’s sure she knows his entire history as well, yet she’s just treating him like a person.  Like a potential teammate.  

 “Tell me what you have in mind, and I’ll let you know.”

 Natasha pulls her phone out of her pocket, and taps a few times, then holds it out to Bucky.  “Have you seen this man on the island?”

 The photo shows a burly Caucasian man with a heavy brow and a scowl.

 “I’m not sure.”

 Natasha gives him an unimpressed look.

 “Give me a second.” Bucky closes his eyes, lets his mind scroll back over the past weeks.  A flicker of recognition, and then, he has it.

 “I think he’s been at Skipper’s.  Doesn’t sit and eat, though, just comes in, talks to one of the waiters, and goes through to the back.”

 “How many times?”

 “Two or three, maybe.”

 “Do you know the dates?”

 “Not off the top of my head, but I can probably figure it out.”  He can confirm when he was at Skipper’s from his bank records, at least. “But first you need to tell me what’s going on.”

 He sees Natasha waver.

 “Look, I’ll help if I can,” he says, surprising himself as he realizes how much his interest is piqued. Maybe he’s had enough of the quiet life after all.  “But I need more information.”

 He can see Natasha hesitating, and it makes him feel small.  “You said Coulson approved it – approved me.”

 “He did.”

 “Then what’s the problem? Don’t you trust me?” he says tightly, trying not to show how much the thought stings.  “Of course you don’t, why would I think you would?”

 “No,” Natasha says calmly, “I do trust you, actually.  Steve trusts you, so I trust you.  But…” She sighs.  “Steve is going to be really pissed.”

 Bucky huffs out a laugh, some of the tension draining out of him.  “Oh?  Not so concerned with Steve’s best interests anymore, are you?”

 Natasha smirks at him. “I didn’t say you getting involved isn’t in Steve’s best interests.  I’m pretty sure neither of you idiots know what’s best for you.  I just said he’d be pissed.”

 **********

Bucky sets up his laptop on the dining room table next to his plate and tabs through the files Natasha sent him.  There’s not much to look at.  A German company has been buying some property on the island, and bidding for the right to build wind turbines off the coast.  The company is only a year or so old, and hasn’t actually built anything yet. Based on some very tenuous evidence, Coulson thinks they might have ties to Hydra.  The man Bucky saw in Skipper’s might be involved.

 There’s nothing to indicate any present danger to inhabitants of the island, or anywhere else. No dastardly plan to blow people up, no kidnapping threat, no mind control device.  Why are the Avengers even involved?

 Bucky takes a bite of his sandwich, passes a few tiny pieces of turkey to Mittens, and texts Natasha.

 Doesn’t seem like Armageddon is approaching.

 She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.  You never know with these guys.

 Why send America’s best and studliest? he asks.  Seems like using Thor’s hammer to squash a mosquito.

 Everyone needs some R&R once in a while.

 He thinks back to his first conversation with Natasha, the barely hidden pain in her voice when she described Steve as “heartbroken and sad.”  How protective she is of him.  

 Is Steve okay?

 Ask him yourself.

 And there’s the rub, Bucky thinks to himself that night, another day having passed without him talking with Steve about the myriad of things he really should be talking with him about.  He didn’t call me either, a voice that sounds disturbingly like his eleven-year old self rings in his ears.  He asked if he could, and I said yes, but he didn’t call.

 Bucky doesn’t really think it’s fair to put this on Steve, however, not when he’s honest with himself. Steve is the one who’s most upset about their coincidental meeting, he’s the one feeling the guilt about disrupting Bucky’s peaceful retreat.  He’s also made it clear to Bucky that he’d like to talk to him.  The fact that Steve didn’t call today doesn’t mean anything, except maybe that Steve’s still feeling guilty.  

 That night he dreams about Steve, but it’s not a nightmare – at least not in the traditional sense.  It’s fairly simple – he and Steve sitting next to each other, outside in the city on a hot summer night.  Steve’s kicking his feet, running his mouth off about some jerk harassing a woman at the corner store, and what he would have done to him if the guy hadn’t backed off.  Steve’s hair is shining bright in the moonlight, and Bucky is thoroughly, completely happy.

 When Bucky wakes up, he struggles to hang on to the way he felt – content.  Safe.  He’s pretty sure it’s not just a dream – it’s a memory.

 **********

You’re in, Natasha texts him, and sends him a link to a secure site where he reads more highly confidential information about Seawater Wind, the German power company, and Luka Dashkov, the supposed Hydra agent.

 Dashkov has been back and forth to various European countries for years, and Bucky wonders why, if he’s such a big deal, Bucky hasn’t run into him before.  Of course, it’s entirely possible that he did and just doesn’t remember him, but he’s read his own SHIELD files line for line, and the name never came up.

 Dashkov is off-island at the moment, but Natasha thinks he’ll be back by the end of the week.  She wants Bucky to keep going to Skipper’s, just as he’s been doing, but to keep an eye out for Dashkov and see what he can find out.

 Frankly, it’s as easy as assignments come, and once again Bucky wonders why they don’t have some junior agent kicking his heels here in preppy winter wonderland instead of two of the country’s most powerful assets.  Surely Captain America and the Black Widow could be of more use somewhere else.  But he doesn’t question Natasha further on the subject.  Whatever the explanation, he’ll play his part, if only to be in the loop if things go south. If Steve isn’t at his best, he could be in more danger than this run-of-the-mill mission seems to present.

 After going through the files he checks his emails, and smiles when he sees one from Nora.  She apparently likes corresponding with Bucky, and has taken to sending him gossip-filled messages every two or three days. He gets the feeling she’s homesick, so he decides to do something nice for her.  (He is not, absolutely not, putting off talking to Steve.  He’s just doing the job he was hired to do.)

 Bucky wanders around the house for a little while with a can of cat treats, trying to entice all three cats out of their hiding places.  Mittens is easy – she’s up on his lap in a heartbeat, purring and rubbing her face against his metal hand.  He snaps a few pictures of her, then sets off to find the others.

 Miss Kitty is sleeping in Nora’s closet, almost completely hidden in a pile of clothes shoved against the wall.  Bucky had felt badly about going into Nora’s private spaces, but Nora had urged him to, if that’s what it took to find her reclusive pets.  The cat raises her head reluctantly when Bucky crouches down next to her with a treat in his hand.  She won’t take it from his fingers, but she stretches a little orange paw out when Bucky sets it down next to her.  The flash of his camera phone startles her, and she gives Bucky a look of betrayal before dashing out of the closet to god knows where.

 Finding the gray cat is more of a challenge.  Gracie doesn’t seem to have any set hiding places.  Bucky has wondered if she simply stays outdoors most of the time, but the few times he has seen her, she is clean and neat, never dusty from rolling in the dirt like Mittens gets when she goes outside.  But Bucky is good at this kind of thing, and today he finally finds her in the garage, sitting in the cardboard Amazon box Bucky has been meaning to put out for recycling.  She stretches her back and walks stiffly towards him when he holds out the treat, and even seems to pose as he takes a few pictures.  

 Bucky quickly composes a return email to Nora, attaches the best of the photos, and sends it off. Mission accomplished.

 If only everything in his life were this straightforward.

 Procrastination is not a new problem for Bucky.  It’s probably one of his most irritating traits, at least it used to be.  He’s a little different now, at least when it comes to certain matters – his security protocols, keeping safe, mission readiness. His brain won’t let him slack off even a little bit there.

 But emotional stuff… He wonders, again, if part of the reason he went into cryo in Wakanda was to put off trying to figure out how – if – he could be a part of Steve’s life again. He shakes his head.  Water under the bridge, right?

 Taking out his phone, he scrolls to Steve’s number, then chickens out and sends a text. <i>Wanna talk?</i>

 To his surprise, he gets a response from Natasha instead.

 Steve’s busy now – we just got more info from Coulson.  Want you to see it too – can you come here?

 Okay, maybe I’m not quite as ready for action as I thought, Bucky thinks a few minutes later, as he hauls himself up off the floor where he had been sitting with his spinning head between his knees.  There’s another text from Natasha.

 You still there? Just an info session, no action.

 Well, you could have told me that in the first place.  

 A few minutes later, Bucky is in the old station wagon, heading towards the address Natasha had sent him.  He feels a little naked, leaving for a mission without tac gear, or any weapons (the two knives he always has on his person hardly count), but Natasha had assured him that this was just a meeting.  After a few more texts, he had realized that the purpose of the meeting was probably for Coulson to talk to him, to make sure he is ready.  Good thing he didn’t see Bucky freak out on his kitchen floor.

 It takes about fifteen minutes to get to the safe house Natasha and Steve are using.  It’s towards the center of the island, in a wooded area that is probably very pretty during the summer.  Right now, with all the leaves off the trees, it just looks barren and brown like everywhere else.  

 As Bucky pulls into the driveway, a green pickup truck is pulling out.  It comes to a stop, window rolling down, and Bucky sees Steve in the driver’s seat.

 He rolls his own window down, and they just stare at each other for a long moment.  Bucky can hear music coming from inside the pick-up, and wonders what Steve listens to these days.  He’s guessing seventies rock from what he can hear, but he could be wrong.

 “Where’re you going?” Bucky finally asks, when his heart slides down out of his throat.

 “Coulson wants me in New York for a few days.”

 “Really?”

 Steve shrugs.  “Guess he figures you can take over for me here. I’m not very good at undercover work.” There’s a sparkle in his eye that tugs at Bucky’s heart.  “Ask Natasha.”

 Bucky can’t really focus on that now, over the insistent chant of “don’t go,” running through his head. Bucky is dying to say it, and Steve is waiting, his face so open and hopeful.  Predictably, Bucky doesn’t quite get it right.

 “You, um, won’t be gone long?”  

 “I hope not.”  

 There it is, his opening.

 “Good, yeah, me too,” Bucky manages.

 Smooth.  But Steve tilts his head, nods, and gives Bucky a tiny smile.  “See you soon.”

 Bucky rests his forehead on the steering wheel as Steve drives away.  This is ridiculous.  He’s not a teenager; he should be able to handle interactions with other people better than this.  He’d been doing just fine in Wakanda, and with the few people he’s talked to here.

 It’s just that Steve isn’t just other people.  He’s… Steve.

 **********

 The safe house is nondescript from the outside, similar to the other small homes around it, with a decent amount of woods on either side to provide some cover.  It’s two stories, with a small living room, kitchen, and office on the first floor, and two bedrooms upstairs where Steve and Natasha are staying.   Bucky isn’t particularly impressed with it until Natasha takes him downstairs, through a hidden door in the mudroom.

 The basement has been built out into a fully functioning command center.  There’s a main room with a large screen television on the wall, a table with computer monitors, and two black leather couches.  A kitchen with a dining room table and chairs is off to the side, and Natasha points out a hall that apparently leads to several bedrooms.  

 “But wait, there’s more,” Natasha says, grinning as she opens the door to another room.  It’s filled with weapons, and Bucky catches the smirk on Natasha’s face as he tries to stifle his excitement.  So what, he likes guns.  This can’t possibly come as a surprise to anyone.

 She humors him, pulling out a few of the more interesting options for Bucky to examine.  When Bucky questions why they need enough weaponry to take down a small city, she just shrugs.  “Never hurts to be prepared.”

 They move into the kitchen, where Natasha offers him a cappuccino, and laughs at his puzzled reaction.

 “Who set this place up, anyway?”  Bucky asks a few minutes later, sipping at the drink.  It’s delicious.

 “All the tech came from Tony.  And, well… all the kitchen stuff too.  And the sheets.  Apparently he simply can’t sleep unless they’re at least 1200 thread count Egyptian cotton.”

 “Does he really still fund the Avengers?  Isn’t that kind of weird, given the whole Sekovia Accords mess?”

 Natasha sighs. “You’re not wrong.  A lot of stuff has changed.  Coulson’s in charge now, for one.  Honestly, we shouldn’t really even call ourselves the Avengers anymore. But we all kind of like it.”

 “And you’ve got all that branding you’d have to revise.  That stuff’s expensive.”

 “You have no idea how much swag Tony made us,” Natasha agrees, smiling.  “Even got us color coordinated pajamas.  Thor wore them for a week straight.  Wait, I’ve got a picture…”  She’s swiping through a file on her phone when there’s a beep, and she looks up with a sigh.  “That’s Coulson Skyping us.  I’ll have to show you later.”

 They move into the main room and Natasha takes the call.  Bucky feels a little strange reporting for duty in his jeans and green cotton henley, and tries to at least sit up straight on the couch.  But Agent Coulson (in a suit and tie, looking exactly like he does in his official photos) doesn’t comment on it.

 Coulson has already received Bucky’s medical and psych records from Wakanda, so there’s no need to rehash those particular topics.  They talk a little bit about what Bucky’s been doing lately, what kind of physical shape he’s in, and what he’s interested in doing with the group.  That last question trips him up for a moment; despite the fact that he knows, logically, that he’s not going to receive an order from Coulson he can’t refuse, he still isn’t used to considering operations as something voluntary.

 Coulson waits patiently, face neutral, and Natasha is silent next to him.  “Whatever’s needed, sir,” Bucky says finally, hoping that’s good enough.

 Coulson’s perfect poker face wavers briefly.  “I’d rather you be a little more specific about what you have in mind, Sergeant. Why don’t you think about it for a few days, and we can talk again?”  He turns to include Natasha in his gaze.  “For now, Barnes is cleared for the current mission, level of involvement to be determined at your discretion.  Any questions, either of you?”

 They shake their heads, Natasha and Coulson exchange some more pleasantries, and the call is over. Bucky feels a strange sense of relief, and catches Natasha giving him a curious glance.

 “What, you thought he’d tell you we didn’t want your help?  Coulson probably has your trading cards framed on his desk.  You’re a decorated American solider, you know. A national hero.”

 The thought of people idolizing him – even the person that he was before – sits uncomfortably with Bucky. “That’s not who I really am.”

 Natasha holds his gaze evenly.  “Well, now’s your chance to show us.”