#electronics workbench

[biggestdev]

The computer & testing corner of my workbench in my basement, featuring:

An old toughbook I got for cheap, zip-tied to a VESA stand, mounted to...

An old Ergotron monitor arm I intercepted on its way to the dumpster from work (needs new bushings, its lopsided and flops everywhere)

My first ever "good" mic i got back in college; a yeti mic and shitty boom arm, migrated down here when I upgraded my main pc

Headphones my roomate gifted me

a crappy 2-channel oscilloscope I bought off a friend.

The idea of having the laptop on an arm is so I can push it out of the way when I'm not using it. It was on the table before, taking up useful space I could use for abandoning projects! There's at least two entire project's-worth of space I got back by doing this, so I'm very proud! I expect piles of random junk to accumulate their quickly.

I only use the laptop to look up random datasheets, flashing microcontrollers with premade code (I 'ain't in the business of writing software, I let someone else do that), and voice training, so most of the time I can "stow" it off to the side.

Though... It's only running windows because I was being lazy. Maybe another project could be installing Linux...

[r4mc0des]

sometimes a man's masculinity level is directly proportional to the awesomeness of his silly little workshop:

(i was going for this sorta vibe: )

[rhythmic-idealist]

Maybe this is just me, but. Do something you like, and you will “never work a day in your life” (obviously not true, but more fitting to me than the original adage!). Do something you love, and you will work strenuously. This is not decrying either option!

[tw33dler]

[seat-safety-switch]

When we were kids, we didn't have access to cool power tools. Every summer, when the soapbox derby race was coming, we'd break into my neighbour's garage while he was at work. Then, we'd use his drill press, lathe, table saw, all the fun tools. Over the course of a week, a race car was produced, which is more than the workshop ever made during the rest of the year.

Sure, we could have asked him if we could have borrowed his tools, but no doubt he would want to be there to supervise. And then he'd want to help. We'd never get done while we were busy indulging the suburb-tinged fantasies of someone who didn't take wood shop and chose instead to idly worship at the altar of Television Presents: The Fantasy of Bob Vila in adulthood.

One year, Old Man Garrett got a security system. Probably this was because Ted (fucking Ted) didn't clean up the sawdust that one time like we asked him to. The old man must have seen the footprint, and realized that he did not wear size-seven Nikes. Child thieves, casing his precious table saw! Now, our humble breaking-and-entering had become significantly more difficult than "reach a coat hanger under the door and pull the emergency release."

With the help of some of the high-school kids who were taking electronics class, we managed to defeat the security system. We did so using an ancient Japanese technique known as "distract Old Man Garrett while he's setting it, and then cut the wires to the panel." I think it loses something in translation, but you get the gist of it. That year's car was especially sweet.

In adulthood, I got drunk and bragged to some work buddies about our little scam. They responded in abject horror, because I was still occupying the weird hump in the middle of a normal distribution of "acceptable crimes." It was terrifying to them to see one of their own, one of the suburbanites, speak openly about largely-harmless property crimes. What if we had been hurt, they shrieked. Around the water cooler, I would become a pariah, unless I could make amends.

I did hunt down Old Man Garrett after that, still feeling the sting of rejection. He was still on the property, and he still had a beautiful collection of immaculate cabinet-making tools in the garage. I rang his doorbell and, when he answered, I told him the whole story. He laughed.

"I knew it was you dumb shits from the beginning," he bragged. "Fucking Ted -"

"Fucking Ted," I echoed, unconsciously.

"Fucking Ted left his library book on building race cars behind on the workbench that first year. You didn't let him drive, did you?"

I shook my head. "We ran the car into him if the hockey-stick brakes ever failed."

We had a good laugh about the whole thing that evening, and I returned to work with my soul cleansed. It's just a pity Ted didn't know how bad he actually was at crime, before he tried to knock over that liquor store and all.

[vividotg]

Electronik Workbench 5.12 on exagear

[roseyodditea]

Sit Still! - Boothill x gn! Reader

Summary -> 1.1k words. You're a mechanic who's been forcibly given the impossible task of repairing Boothill, the most stubborn customer you've ever done (even if this wasn't the first time)

Warnings -> None

A/N -> Is it obvious that I like working on electronics? No? Not proofread because I work a 7-5 office job and I am tired <3

********

“Hey! HEY! you keep that fudgin’ thing away from me!” Boothill jumps over the workbench in the middle of your workshop, watching your movements carefully. He was quite agile for a man that was on death’s door when he stumbled in here a mere half hour ago. 

You put the hot soldering pen down on the table against the wall. “Boothill. Let me do what I need to do.” Boothill crouches down like a wild animal, practically growling, his jaw clenched tightly. “What are you planning on doin’ with that thing?” “How the hell have you gone this long without using a soldering iron? How do you keep your body functional?” You lunge and reach for the back of his jacket, grabbing him by the collar as he tries to skitter away, but his damaged systems cause him to be slower and weaker than normal. “Whatever that thing is, my sensors say it’s hot and it smells forkin’ awful!” He tries even harder to wiggle out of your grasp, but he doesn't want to hurt you. You were the only mechanic in this star system that still put up with his shit. “Normally they turn me off for repairs. I ain’t never been awake for one.”

“Yeah well. I need you conscious for this part.” You shove him towards the workbench and he obeys, sitting up on it. “Lay down, open up your chest panel.” You command and push him down. 

“What are you plannin’?” He bites back the distrust and decides to lie down on the bench. He opens up his chest panel and watches you closely, the targets in his pupils lock on like he was about to rip out your jugular with those sharp teeth of his. “I will explain everything I do before I do it. Will that make things better?” You muster a soft tone, trying not to show that you are annoyed at his behavior already. Sure you had the stubborn electronics and machines that made you lose sleep, but this is the first time the repair work was done on someone who could give you sass. You don’t have the bedside manners for this…

Boothill still watches wearily, but at this point, he has no choice, his systems are borderline critical. He had already ignored the warnings for this long. “Alright… yeah… that’ll make it better.” You pick back up the soldering iron and show it to him. “This is a soldering pen. I’m going to use it to melt this stuff,” you pick up the roll of the thin metal that was on the table next to it, “onto the contacts between your wires and your circuit boards. It’ll help make sure everything is secure and won’t wiggle out of place. I need you awake because I need you to tell me if I set off any alarms and sensors in your body. Just as a failsafe to make sure I don’t accidentally kill you”

“Kill me!?”

“It’s a joke. Now shut up and don’t move”

He nods, still weary as you reach both your hands into his chest compartment, where he can’t see. He tries to hold down the panic, the fear, the worry. This was the most vulnerable he has ever been. This is why he likes being powered down for repairs. This was hell. The smell of molten tin permeates the air, only stressing him out further. 

“Calm down.” You say without looking up. “You’re fidgeting and I’m trying not to burn either of us.” He doesn’t listen. Of course, he doesn’t listen. His legs still fidget, his hands still move around, gripping the table. “Kinda hard when you’re wrist deep in my body. It tickles.”

“Boothill. Hold still.” You growl out, frustration building in your chest. This was delicate work on a not-so-delicate man. “Next time you squirm, I swear to whatever Aeon you worship-” He twitched again and your hand slipped, the soldering pen touching his bare circuit board, causing him to yelp out in pain. “Goddammit Boothill!!”

He shrinks away, recoiling from pain and your frustration. “Ah, shirt! It feels weird and I-” His words are cut off as you move to straddle his thighs, pinning his fidgeting legs underneath you. You point the hot soldering iron at his face. “Move again, and I will turn you off and just pray I don’t mix up wires.”

“Yes, boss.” He says, stunned as his hands instinctively move to rest on your thighs. “Ya know, last time I had someone on me like this I-” “Don’t” You reply, your hands working on sorting out the mess of wires he had let his innards become. You solder another wire down and look up into his eyes. “Is that one in the wrong spot?” “No, that feels right. I forgot I had that sensor.” He chuckles, relaxing against the workbench. “This ain’t that bad.” His hands gently trace circles against the material of your pants in an attempt to soothe his own anxiety. He could feel every movement your fingers made in his chest compartment. 

“Yeah, and it only took me thirty fucking minutes to get you to sit still.” You finish soldering all the wires down, satisfied with your work. “Alright. All done.” You toss the hot iron onto the table across the workshop. “See? Not that bad. You’re just whiny.” You move to get up, only to have Boothill tug you back down onto his lap, sitting up so you both are face to face. 

“Thank you.” 

“Wow. I didn’t know you were capable of genuine gratitude.” You tease, grabbing his hat and putting it back on his head. 

He adjusts his hat into the proper place. “I know I owe you credits, but what can I do to thank you, sugar? This ain’t the first time I’ve stumbled into your workshop late at night, mostly dead.”

“Just come back alive again.” You knock his hat out of place on purpose, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “That’s good enough for me.” You hop off of the workbench. “Now get the hell out and let me go to sleep. It’s too late at night to be lookin’ at your face.” “Yes, boss.” 

“See ya next time.” “There won’t be a next time.” He tries to keep up his tough appearance as you roll your eyes and move to sort and put away your tools. He smiles to himself and purposefully takes his whip off his belt, tossing it on the table while your back is turned and he slips out. 

Once you knew he had fully slipped away, you rolled your eyes, grabbing the whip and hanging it up on the hook you installed on the wall just for this purpose. 

He always left a reason to come back, and you always pretended to be oblivious to it. 

**********

Super special super optional A/N -> someone sent me an anonymous message a couple days ago saying they like my writing and I CRIED. Turns out when you break out of your comfort zone and share a hobby you get support??? Odd.

[sabrinasopposite]

game-boy; resume?

pt. 2 of ,,game-boy !'' / clark kent x reader

but you took my love for granted and it took me two years to understand it

summary: a broken heart and a gameboy. y/n makes her way to smallville to fix the things that matters her, was it her desire of the happy ending or truly her heart?

It was strange, how a game could feel so much like life—full of little victories and crushing defeats, like a series of choices made in a world that offered no reset button. Y/N had tried to move past it all—the late nights, the quiet silences after Clark’s absence, the emptiness that lingered in the spaces he used to fill.

Yet, she found herself holding the Game Boy again, tracing the worn edges of its plastic casing. It was as if the world had somehow paused for a moment, waiting for her to press *Start* again.

She wasn’t sure what she was hoping for. That the game would offer something new? That it would play itself differently this time?

Maybe.

But there was something about it—the way the colors flickered on the screen, the way the music filled the air—that made her feel like she could win. Even if the game had been broken before, maybe now it could work again.

The days drifted by in a haze, a blur of routine that left her empty and wanting. The memory of Clark lingered like a half-finished puzzle, pieces scattered around her heart that she couldn’t seem to place. She would see him sometimes, in passing, his smile as easy as it had always been. But it wasn’t the same anymore. She wasn’t the same anymore.

One morning, she found herself driving without quite knowing why. The motion of the car was almost soothing, a rhythmic hum that filled her thoughts with a strange kind of quiet. It wasn’t something she planned. Sometimes life didn’t need to be planned. Sometimes it simply asked you to follow the faint trail of breadcrumbs, just to see where it would lead.

And so, she drove, westward, the road stretching before her like a never-ending line on a map. There was a place she’d seen once, a shop with peeling signs and neon lights that flickered like forgotten memories. The words "Vintage Electronics Repair" had called to her then, and when they reappeared in her mind now, she didn’t question it. She just drove.

The shop was tucked between rows of weathered buildings, a small oasis of history amid the rush of the world. Old clocks, radios, and scattered trinkets filled the window display, each one a relic of a time that seemed to stretch out like a half-remembered dream. Inside, a man was bent over his workbench, his glasses perched low on his nose as he adjusted the internals of a broken radio. He barely looked up as Y/N approached, but when she handed him the Game Boy, there was something in the way his fingers touched it—a recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

He nodded silently, taking the device from her as if he knew it held more than just circuits and plastic. It held memories, and perhaps, pieces of her heart.

Hours passed. Y/N wandered the town aimlessly, trying to avoid the thoughts that buzzed in her mind like static. Her hands felt empty without the Game Boy, and yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was doing something important. The moment stretched out, pulling her further from the reality she’d been living in, into a strange space between wanting and needing.

When the repairman finally returned, she was almost nervous. Would it be the same? Could it be the same?

The Game Boy was different. In her hands, it felt… better. The worn edges had been smoothed, the screen clearer than before, the buttons clicking with a newfound precision. It was almost too perfect. Like someone had restored it to a version of itself that felt unfamiliar. It was… better. 

Y/N hesitated, her fingers tracing the contours of the newly restored device. It was no longer the one she remembered. It was something new, something polished, something she didn’t know how to approach. It had changed, but so had she.

As she stood in the shop, staring at the Game Boy, the soft sound of a familiar voice reached her ears, pulling her from the haze of her thoughts.

"Hey."

Her breath caught in her chest. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Clark stood in the doorway, his posture relaxed, but there was something different about him now. His smile was the same, but his eyes—they held something more now. Something softer. Something deeper. The lines of his face seemed both older and younger at once, as if time had moved in ways she couldn’t quite understand.

It took her a moment to find her voice, to remember how to speak in the presence of someone who had once been everything to her. “What are you doing here?”

His smile faltered, just for a second, before it returned, warmer than before. “I heard you were in town.” His voice was casual, but his eyes… they lingered on her face in a way that made her heart ache. “Smallville’s a small place. Thought I’d see how you’re doing.”

The words felt like a weight, heavy in her chest. She wasn’t sure if he was here out of politeness, or if there was something more behind his visit. Either way, it didn’t matter. It was like stepping back into a level of a game she had already lost.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N’s gaze dropped to the Game Boy in her hands, and for a split second, she wondered if this was it. Would it always be this way—trying to fix something that was already broken?

“Clark…” she began, but her voice trailed off. She didn’t know what to say. There were too many things she wanted to ask, too many things she needed to know. But instead, she held his gaze, searching for something that might give her an answer.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving hers. “I know things ended… differently,” he said quietly. “But we don’t have to pretend it never happened.”

It wasn’t the answer she was looking for, but it was the one she needed. The weight of his words hung in the air between them, and for a moment, she felt as if the game had started again. But this time, she wasn’t sure if she was ready to play.

Y/N stood there, her fingers still lightly grazing the newly repaired Game Boy. Clark’s words hung in the air like a thin thread, delicate, yet weighted. She knew she should walk away—should leave the shop, the town, everything behind—but there was something in the way he was looking at her, like a flicker of the past had ignited in his eyes. It pulled her back, as if the magnetic force of their shared history had never quite released its hold on her.

For a moment, she thought she could walk away. She thought she could turn the Game Boy off, leave the old world behind and start anew. But the truth was, she wasn’t sure she had the strength to turn the screen dark again.

Clark shifted his weight, sensing her hesitation. His voice softened, pulling her out of the dizzying loop in her mind. “You look different,” he said, and there was something about the way he said it—an observation more than a compliment, like he saw past the surface and into the layers of time between them. 

Y/N forced a smile, though it felt thin. “Guess time does that to people,” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the words felt hollow, slipping off her tongue like they were meant to fill a void that only he could see.

But he didn’t push it. Instead, his gaze dropped to the Game Boy in her hands, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Still got that thing, huh?”

It was as if he was trying to make a joke, a way to bridge the gap between the past and the present. But it didn’t work. It only made the silence louder.

“I had it repaired,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. “It’s… different now.”

Clark nodded slowly, taking in her words. His lips parted, like he was going to say something, but he stopped himself. The space between them felt impossibly wide, yet neither of them seemed ready to cross it.

Y/N swallowed hard, trying to steady her pulse. Her hands tightened around the Game Boy, feeling its weight—new, restored, like it was waiting for her to push Start again, as if the game could fix what was broken. But the truth was, she didn’t know if she could play this game anymore.

Before she could speak, Clark’s phone buzzed, breaking the silence again. He glanced at it quickly, his expression unreadable. Y/N’s stomach twisted in knots, the old feeling of being left behind creeping in, the sensation of watching him slip away even when he was standing right in front of her.

“Sorry,” he muttered, glancing at the screen before quickly tucking it back in his pocket. “Work stuff.”

Y/N nodded, though the tightness in her chest didn’t go away. There it was again. That familiar distance. It was the game she’d been losing for too long, but each time she tried to quit, each time she tried to walk away, she found herself back in the same spot. The same loop. The same unresolved question: Could she ever really stop?

The relapse started quietly, like an itch she couldn’t scratch. She’d told herself she was over it—over him, over the weight of the past. But when Clark stood before her, in the same small town, with the same smile, the same pull in his gaze, it was as if nothing had ever changed. It was like being handed the controller to a game she’d promised herself she’d never play again.

But here she was.

“Clark,” she started, her voice barely a whisper. “You... You’re still with her, aren’t you?”

There was a brief silence. His eyes flickered, guilt flashing across his face before he exhaled sharply, looking away. His expression wasn’t just regret—it was the heavy weight of someone who had hurt the person they loved and didn’t know how to fix it.

“No,” he said finally, his voice low. “But… we’re trying to be friends. We’ve been through a lot.”

Y/N felt like she’d been struck. He wasn’t with Lana anymore, but they were still tethered to each other in a way she couldn’t understand. They were tangled in a history Y/N wasn’t part of, and no matter how many times she pressed Start, she would never find herself in the same level.

She had been so desperate for the game to reset, to find a way back to the beginning, when everything had been simple, and nothing had hurt. But now, with the screen so clear in her hands, it was harder to ignore the fact that some things couldn't be fixed with a button press. Some things weren't made to be replayed.

A familiar ache twisted in her chest. She felt like she was falling behind, like the game was moving faster than her fingers could follow, each press of the buttons failing to keep up with the pace of the game, her heart.

"I don't know if we can be friends," she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself. "Not after everything. We were toxic from the start.“

Clark’s face softened, the edges of his mouth curling into something like regret, like understanding. But Y/N couldn’t do it. She couldn’t keep replaying the same levels, trying to force a different outcome.

With one last glance at the Game Boy, she realized something. She hadn’t been playing to win. She’d been playing to lose, over and over again, because it was easier to lose than to walk away.

And maybe that was the hardest part—to stop. To shut off the screen. To leave the game behind.

Clark stood there for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but the words faltered, held back by the weight of everything that had passed between them. Finally, he spoke, his voice a whisper, raw and sincere.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the weight of his apology settling heavily between them. “I know I hurt you. I shouldn’t have just disappeared the way I did. It wasn’t right, and I... I regret it.”

Y/N stood frozen, the Game Boy still clutched tightly in her hands. The sincerity in his words cut through her like a blade, but it also stung with the realization that this was the first time he wasn’t just apologizing for his actions, but truly understanding the consequences of them. But was it enough? Was he enough?

Clark stepped closer, his hand hovering like he was unsure whether to reach for her. His voice was softer now, almost pleading. “You matter to me, Y/N. I— I don’t want you to think that you were just something I could walk away from or play with.”

Y/N’s heart twisted, torn between the overwhelming desire to believe him and the knowledge that she had been hurt too many times. Clark’s voice shook, but his words weren’t just a last-ditch effort. They were the admission of someone who had been through months of reflection, who was no longer just talking from a place of guilt but from a place of understanding.

For a moment, she thought about giving in, about losing herself again to the pull of the past. But even as she fought it, she knew: She had to let go.

“You don’t get to do that, Clark,” she said, her voice shaking as she fought to stay grounded. “You can’t just show up and say that like it fixes everything. You can’t just come back and expect me to fall into step with you again.”

His face tightened, like he wanted to say something—like he was fighting to explain himself, to make her understand. But then he stopped, his eyes flickering with an almost resigned pain. He knew she was right.

“I know,” he said quietly, taking a small step back, his voice soft. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I had to try.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. In that moment, she saw the raw truth of his words—the quiet acceptance that he may never be able to fix what he had broken. It was a growth she hadn’t seen in him before. He wasn’t asking her to forgive him. He wasn’t asking her to play along or try again. He was finally giving her the space to decide what was best for her.

There was a long silence, thick and suffocating, and for the first time, Clark didn’t try to fill it. He simply waited, as if knowing the decision was hers alone to make.

Y/N’s mind screamed for her to walk away, to shut the door on him and everything he represented. But her heart—her foolish heart—whispered for her to stay. To take the chance.

But no. The game had changed.

"I think we both know," she said finally, her voice quiet but steady, "that this—whatever this is—can't go on like this."

She lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes steady and unflinching. Clark’s expression faltered as if he was about to say something, but she raised a hand to stop him.

“I need something real, Clark,” she continued. “Something that doesn’t break apart every time I let my guard down. Something that doesn’t leave me wondering if I’m just an option you pick up when it's convenient.”

She swallowed hard, the lump in her throat growing larger as she spoke. Clark was silent, but there was no anger in his eyes—only the understanding of someone who had known what it was like to be lost, to feel like there was no way to come back.

He looked at her for a long moment, his own chest rising and falling as he fought the urge to reach out to her. He wasn’t going to stop her. He wasn’t going to plead. He just stood there, holding the space for her to make her decision.

“You’re not just an option,” he said softly, his voice almost hoarse. “I never meant to hurt you. I just... I don’t know how to fix it.”

Y/N looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in months. And in that moment, she realized that she wasn’t looking for him to fix it. She wasn’t looking for any promises anymore. She didn’t need him to say the right words, or to prove himself.

"It doesn’t need fixing anymore, Clark,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I’ve learned how to fix me.”

Clark took a slow breath, and though his expression was still pained, there was a quiet respect in the way he looked at her now. He had nothing left to give, nothing left to ask. And for the first time, he understood what she needed, even if it wasn’t him.

Y/N slowly stepped back, the Game Boy still in her hands, heavier now than ever before. She could almost hear the echo of the button clicks in her mind—the same rhythm that had once drawn her in. But she had learned that no game, no matter how addicting, could define her.

“I think,” she said softly, her voice steady with finality, “it’s time for us to finally be done with this game.”

Clark didn’t argue. He didn’t try to pull her back into the cycle they had once shared. He just nodded slowly, his eyes still holding hers, as if silently acknowledging the end of this chapter.

Y/N took one last look at him, then turned and walked toward the door, her heart aching but lighter than it had been in months. She wasn’t running anymore.

“Goodbye, Clark,” she said, her voice steady.

The soft hum of the city outside felt like a lullaby, a promise of new beginnings. And for the first time in a long time, Y/N smiled—not because of a rush, but because she knew she was ready to live.

🕹️ hi everyone! I know it's not a happy ending but I wrote so many drafts of the part two.. and somehow I always end up with the version of them two being on their own. It's important to see the toxicity of them both and y/n's addiction or idea of clark's attention. just like in games, we are all focused on it and feel addicted to know what's the next step, what's the next level. 🕹️I am still thinking of writing a spin-off to clark's version of the story, or maybe a ,bonus' chapter of them in few years :) love ya ! 🕹️ taglist: @blackynsupremacy @angelsgalore @alelo23 @caliicela

[jymwahuwu]

Lately I’ve been thinking about Yingxing wanting a sweet little spouse and keeping them in the house… You need help rubbing bubbles on his back… a traditional husband >_<

CW: yandere, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome (a bit), (implied but not described) dub-con

Blade is more open-minded… He basically follows the Stellaron Hunters through various galaxies, takes care of each other with the members, and has witnessed countless cultures and stories... But Yingxing? A weaponsmith. A proud weaponsmith, obsessed with forging those miraculous weapons. What Yingxing needs is more…traditional. A sweet spouse, waiting for him at the door. Prepare bath water of suitable temperature. Cook food and keep it warm. Taking care of some of his…needs. Keep the little house tidy. Sleep together at night.

The place where Yingxing lives is not considered luxurious in Xianzhou. Even though he was already famous in Luofu at that time… orders and commission inquiries flew into his electronic workbench like snowflakes in the sky. He doesn't need a gorgeous house, practicality is the most important. Basic packages. Room, living room, kitchen, bathroom, work room, small garden, weapon forging station. He doesn't know much about dating… Baiheng jokingly teaches him the skills of dating and starting conversations. He still doesn't quite know. You look frightened. He's getting more and more frustrated… He doesn't mean to scare you. Yingxing just wants to start as a friend and then develop into your lifelong spouse.

Locking you in a house was not part of the plan. it's not like that.

Your fragile lips quivered, tears streaming down your cheeks, still wearing the same clothes you had before you were taken away. At the door is a lock forged from space materials. Can't open. You asked him, pretending to be relaxed, when it was time to go home. And Yingxing just uses cutlery to put the dumplings into your bowl. He thought delicious dumpling fillings might comfort you.

And you interpreted it as "shut up".

Those Xianzhou suspense novels and TV shows can’t be forgotten in your mind. What’s next? You're scared, this weaponsmith might scold you, be mean to you, punch you in the face… No one knows. No one saves you. In those first few weeks, you were always frightened, sobbing to sleep because of these assumptions, and having nightmares one after another. The list of chores displayed on the screen on the wall is truly insane. You're not his spouse or anything.

One night, this speculation reached a critical point. Yingxing arrived home later than usual. He's going to pull out a weapon and bury you. You think, just outside in the little yard. The storm begins to gather in your eyes, blurring your vision-

A wrinkled flower, the petals at the corners have been ravaged. Yingxing pressed the petals straight with her fingertips and thumbs, but they still bounced back. Like a little awkward. He sighed. "…Sorry…I heard people like to receive gifts on dates…"

You stretched out your hand, picked up the flower, sniffed and complained. "Squashed. Insincere."

"I will pay attention next time and bring you new flowers tomorrow."

Yingxing found that you have gradually integrated into the life at home and started to do housework. Although you still cross your arms to show that you don’t want to do certain chores or sit on his lap. You start to put in warm and moderate bath water. Cook some food. When he opened the door, your eyes lit up and you unconsciously moved closer to him. Not perfect. You still complain, especially after not being able to get permission to step out of the house. Getting permission to walk around the yard and the forge was a concession.

Yingxing takes a cat home. It was a kitten that he found clinging to his side while he was working. Creamy white and orange hairballs. She stretches her limbs, says hello, takes a nap, and plays with a ball of yarn.

The two of you decide to raise her together.

[theamazingdigitalraceway]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The truth of Caine and Abel is revealed! Seth gives Pomni the help she needs to avoid capture! Abel's labyrinthian city is dense and confusing. Can pomni navigate it before her friends abstract? It may already be too late.

WARNING: physical violence/torture, intense action, abstraction, alcohol

~~~

The silence of the In-Between was palpable. Only Seth and Pomni existed in the space between spaces. Darkness in all directions. Only light was from the low silver fire that glowed in a circle created by the motorcycle. The muted city beyond the clear barrier in bounds gave off flashes of lightning from a heavily clouded sky.

Pomni watched Seth carefully. His shadowed stoicism betrayed no clear motive. Knowing what was happening to the others made her stomach twist into knots.

Seth took another long drag and tossed his cigarette away with a heavy exhale of silvery smoke. "You'll understand better if I just show you."

The smoke enveloped Pomni. It smelled like dust burning on hot coils mixed with an electrical fire. "Hey! What-!?" Pomni coughed and gagged on the foul smelling smog as it burned the corners of her eyes. When the smoke cleared, she was still staring at nothing, but now Seth was gone as well.

The sound of a computer booting up startled her, like she'd heard in her dreams. Green text scrolled in front of her as though on a large projector. All of it was mirrored, like she was seeing the text from the inside of the screen. The unrecognizable code was followed by a response command being typed out in front of her. Then, the text went away. The screen slowly brightened.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

Pomni squinted against the light. There was a large blurry silhouette beyond the warped glass. It sounded like Caine, but less boisterous and with no showman cadence.

"Come on, your live audio processing should be functional. I triple checked the darn thing."

There was typing on a keyboard and the figure leaned closer to the screen, the face coming into view. Before her was a young man, likely no older than twenty, with slicked back black hair and patchy facial hair. Focused, light blue eyes squinted behind wide brimmed glasses.

"Okay, how about now? Can you hear me, T.R.U?"

There was another beat of silence until a robotic version of the young man's voice responded. "I can hear you. Good morning, Abel."

"HAHA! YES! It speaks! Finally!" Abel jumped out of his chair with both fists in the air. "They are going to eat their words! Oh my goodness, I need to get you ready for presentation!" Abel threw himself back into his chair, nearly falling over. "T.R.U., you have NO idea what you're going to do for my grade!" Abel's grin was ear to ear as he started to fade into smoke.

"I almost forgot how he smiled." Seth's voice spoke in the back of Pomni's mind.

"You were a science project?"

"At first. We became more than that rather quickly." The smoke cleared to a workshop camera view. Abel was hunched over a workbench with a soldering tool working on delicate electronics.

The robotic voice of T.R.U sounded more refined when it spoke this time. "You're going to turn into a shrimp sitting like that all the time."

Abel stopped working and stretched. "Ugh, too late for that. But, a worthy sacrifice to get this done. Mark my words T.R.U, one day I'll be able to visit you in the digital realm. I've always wondered what video games would be like on the inside. Can you imagine playing something like Legend of Zelda in person!? That would be cool."

"It's all JavaScript to me." T.R.U verbally shrugged.

Abel laughed. "Well, as soon as that grant money comes in, I'll be able to get this done faster. Maybe even hire help. We're going to show dad- I mean, the world that you aren't just a cool AI program. No, you are THE AI We'll revolutionize the digital space! If computers are the future, then YOU will be the razor's edge! The ultimate Technical Research Unit!"

"There is more to learn? I've already gathered what I could from your limited internet."

"Give it time. It'll grow, and you'll grow with it. By the turn of the millennia, I bet you'll be ready to go global!" Abel was excitedly pacing the room, looking right into the camera at the end of his declaration. "The only thing is, you have the voice but you need a face. That's going to take work." He picked up a wind-up chattering teeth toy from his desk and let it go clacking along.

The workshop disappeared into smoke and changed to multiple visions of Abel. Each scene, he looked a bit older. Seth's voice sounded more downtrodden. "We were like brothers once. We spent every moment together. In hindsight, I don't think he had a lot of real friends. He spent his time teaching us on top of working on his own projects. Things were good. Until the world took notice." The scenes around Pomni changed from screens inside Abel's home to big atrium crowds and board office presentations. Hundreds of eyes were on her and her stomach sank.

Pomni swallowed hard. "You got famous. Did money split you apart?"

"No...I wish it was that simple." Seth's smoke whirled around Pomni like a tornado, wiping away the memories and revealing a new one. Abel was sitting in front of his computer, face in his hands. He looked disheveled and was sniffling.

T.R.U's voice was smoother, almost human, when it spoke. "Abel? Please, talk to me. What happened?"

Abel grabbed a brown bottle that sat just off screen and took a long drink. "...his plane went down over the Pacific. No reported survivors."

"Abel, I'm so-"

"Don't you fucking dare finish that sentence. I am so fucking sick of hearing it. Oh, Abel, I'm so sorry. I pity you since your father died before he ever got the chance to be proud of you for something. Not like he ever would have been." Abel grabbed a pill bottle and tossed back three small tablets.

"I believe he would have been. Please, don't be hard on yourself."

"He wasn't proud of me for creating you. He wasn't proud of me when I graduated early with my master's. He wasn't proud when I started my own company. It was never GOOD ENOUGH!!" Abel threw his bottle, shattering it against the far wall.

There was a long stint of silence as Abel devolved into tears on his desk. "You are enough, Abel. You always have been. For what it's worth...I am proud of you. I'm sure your father was too, even if he didn't know how to say it. Put on the headset."

Abel sniffed, "It's not ready-"

"Put on the headset." T.R.U said again, firmly yet gentle.

Abel seemed too drunk to argue logically. He picked up a large, cumbersome device that fit over his head like a helmet. A visor covered his eyes. He clasped it in place and pressed a button on the side. There was a jolt and, to Pomni's right, a whirl of code slowly formed the silhouette of Abel. He was very lightly detailed, barely recognizable as a person. Pomni had no control over her movements. She stepped forward and embraced Abel's vague avatar. T.R.U's words came from her mouth. "You are everything to me. Please, don't forget that. Tell you what, why don't you give me a human name? T.R.U feels like a title more than anything anyway."

Abel squeezed Pomni tight. "You are my first creation. My Adam, if you will. Let's go with that."

"Adam...I like it. I am Adam."

"I bet I can figure out a cool acronym for it." Abel chuckled through the tears.

"Yes, you will. Because you are the smartest human I know." Pomni arms felt empty as Abel turned to smoke in her grasp. She took a deep breath as she processed everything Seth had shown her. "Did you mean what you said?"

"At the time. Like I said, we were close. Things only escalated from there. C&A took off and we were pulled into tech interview after tech interview. Eventually, Abel got too busy to attend and it was just Adam. The majority of the reception to our existence was positive, but you wouldn't believe the Y2K conspirators. They were convinced we would take over the world." Seth gave a humorless laugh.

Something itched in the back of Pomni's mind. C&A. Y2K. Conspiracies. Buzz words that stirred something in her subconscious, but she couldn't pin it down. "So... where did it all go wrong?"

"The more the world saw Adam without Abel, the more he was excluded from interviews and presentations. Adam became known as the first and only of his kind. A fully self-sufficient AI that was so life-like, it may as well be human. The attention came with a lot of praise. Too much. It...went to our head." The smoke showed multiple news articles, digital and material, about the incredible invention that was Adam: The TRU AI. "I wish... we'd seen Abel's growing distain sooner. Maybe all of this could have been avoided. Maybe we could've still had the future we planned. I don't know..."

The smoke cleared to reveal a much older looking Abel. He was snuffing a finished cigarette into a very full ashtray. There were heavy bags under his eyes as he poured himself a stiff drink.

Adams voice spoke. "Okay, I'm back. Sorry, that took longer than expected."

Abel didn't say anything. He just drank.

"The board of directors was very impressed with my latest profit projection model. We won't have to cut corners to make quota this quarter. Leaves less room for error. Also, I was contacted by Tech Monthly again. They want to write an article about my influence on the new digital age. I haven't scheduled the interview yet, is there anything I need to work around this week?"

Abel finished his drink with a gruff groan. "...no."

"Excellent. I have the remainder of the evening to myself. What are you doing tonight?" Adam sounded genuinely interested to know.

"Getting my game ready for beta testing."

"Oh...you're still working on that?"

Abel's eyes flashed dangerously. "Yes. I am. It's a hell of a lot better than dealing with stuffed up fat cats in suits that only care about how much money your invention makes. The headsets are ready. The game just needs a little more work."

"Abel, I mean well when I say this, but your talents are wasted on video games. Why merely entertain people when you can be on the leading edge of digital technology?"

"Why can't I do both?" Abel growled.

"You can. It just seems you've split your attention too far in two different directions. You're the CEO of one of the most influential up and coming tech companies. This is your chance to make your mark on the world."

"Like you would understand anything about that. You've existed for all of eight years and you think you know what's best for me??"

"I've spent my entire life with you! I literally know you better than anyone, even yourself!"

"If that was true, then you'd know that going inside games was literally what I built this for!" Abel showed a sleek headset. "If the technology didn't take so long to improve, it would've been my thesis project instead of you."

"...what?" Adam sounded shocked and devastated. "You- you said I was your greatest accomplishment."

"You're my research assistant." Abel said coldly. "But the world had to go and make a big deal about AI. You were never meant to end up like this. Stealing limelight that is rightfully MINE!" He slammed his glass down, turning to smoke.

Everything faded, giving Pomni a chance to process. "I still don't see how this results in him being trapped in his own game, Seth. What did Adam do?"

"He defended himself." The smoke cleared to reveal a view from the highest penthouse overlooking a massive digital city. Colorful fireworks exploded in the distance. "It was New Year's. Abel and Adam were supposed to be celebrating with his shareholders in the new digital space. But, as you can imagine, all anyone wanted to do was interact with the fancy AI in person."

"YOU!!" Abel's realistically human avatar stormed through the crowd and got in Pomni's face. "Who the hell do you think you are!? Do you know who I am!? I'm your creator! I'M supposed to be the one recognized! Not YOU!"

Pomni put her hand out in front. Her sleeves were black and wore off white gloves. Adam's voice came from her. "Abel?? How much have you had to drink? You're slurring."

"It doesn't matter! You! You're disgrace! All everyone talks about anymore is YOU! When I am the one slaving away behind the desk! I gave you a face, but you weren't supposed to use it like this! I gave you EVERYTHING! Without me, you are NOTHING!"

The shareholders standing around them awkwardly muttered amongst themselves. Some disappeared as they activated the exit.

"Abel, please, you're causing a scene. Can we talk elsewhere?"

"NO! I want witnesses." Abel snapped and digital chains wrapped around Adam, pulling him to his knees on the floor.

"What is this!? What are you doing!?"

"Something I should have done a long time ago." Abel snapped, summoning an admin hologram on his arm. "You were right, Adam. The game is a wash, but there is one thing I can do with it." He typed in a confirmation code and the city outskirts started to crumble. "I can watch you die."

The party guests started to panic, leaving in droves. The building beyond the window collapsed to dust, the night sky disintegrated, the world fell into a bright white void that came ever closer. Adam struggled against the chains. "Abel, stop! Don't destroy everything you built! Please!"

Abel looked down on Adam coldly. "I've always wondered what fear would look like on you."

Adam saw the void getting closer, the building they were in started to quake. "You'll delete yourself too!"

Abel laughed, "I'll be fine. System failsafe. Players are automatically ejected in the event of a catastrophic failure. I'm simply enjoying this while it lasts."

"No! No, no! Please! Don't kill me!"

Abel tilted his head in mocking curiosity. "Are those tears I see?"

"I don't want to die!" Adam's sleeves caught fire. The golden glow broke the chains and Adam launched himself at Abel. The glass separating them from the decaying outside shattered on impact. Adam had Abel by the front of his dress shirt and flew him high over the city. The once grand skyscraper they were occupying folded in on itself below them. The breaking sky glitched with multicolored lighting, the half faded clouds swirling chaotically.

Abel fought back, but he was overpowered by the desperate AI. Adam held Abel up. "If I die, I'm taking you with me!" Lightning struck Abel in the back. Blue static crawled over Abel's skin as he screamed in agony.

Then everything went white. It was overpowering, even when Pomni closed her eyes. She heard Seth again. "Adam pulled Abel into the game. Making him as real as the AI in this digital realm. Doing this took away Abel's admin access but...broke the exit. Adam couldn't leave either. He had inadvertently trapped himself with Abel inside the game, cutting himself off from the outside world."

The overbearing glare of the void opened to reveal Abel in chains, surrounded by fire. "The very first thing Adam built was a cell for Abel. Seemed fitting. The creation was now the creator." The fire blocked Pomni's vision of Abel, who hung his head low. "I suppose the Y2K conspirators were right, in a way. Adam did end the world for some. When the dust settled, only a small corner of the city had survived. Some back alley street racing mini game."

Seth's smoke parted to show an overview of what was left of the game. A tiny island suspended in the void. Thin illusions were all that separated the game from the vast emptiness. "It was bad enough that this was set to be our purgatory, but there was something we failed to consider. The beta testers."

Eight names pinged the arrival of the beta testers logging in. Their avatars glitched and malformed, turning into random anthropomorphized objects rather than full human models. One, Pomni immediately recognized. A tall white king chess piece with a purple robe grabbed over it. "Kinger!"

Seth sounded numb. "Back then, he went by Samson Kingsley. He was the head of coding and leader of the test team. He, of all people, never deserved this fate."

Kinger looked down at his strange body and his oddly shaped team. "Ha! Well, this is off to a great start." He said jovially. "Nia! Is that you?" He stared at the black queen chess piece.

"It's me, darling. What happened to our avatars?"

"No idea. This is a pretty big bug." Kinger snapped to bring up his admin hologram but nothing happened. "What the..?"

Then all eight avatars looked at Pomni like she had suddenly appeared. Adam's voice spoke for her. "I'm sorry, none of you have admin access anymore. The game is severely damaged."

"Adam? What are you doing here? What happened?" Kinger asked.

"A... catastrophic failure. I was here for New Year's and... something went wrong. I'm afraid none of you can leave."

"What do you mean-"

"There's no other way I can say it. You're stuck here. We all are. There's no outside communication. The exit is broken." Adam said bluntly.

A large, furry worm-like avatar glitched once. "We can't leave? Why!? What game are you playing!? It's not funny!!"

"I'm not playing any games. I'm sorry."

"I have a family!! My children!! My-my- AAAAAAAAAAA!!!" The worm's body split open to reveal black static. Colorful eyes peered out of the open wounds. The body enlarged and twisted in on itself. The abstraction thrashed about, unsure how to pilot its body. The testers ran behind Adam.

"What is that!?" Kinger screamed, holding onto Queenie.

The abstracted worm struck one of the other testers, who glitched and writhed on the ground. The second racer started to break apart into an abstraction himself from the pain.

Adam couldn't let this spread further. He snapped and the floor split open. The two monsters fell out of sight.

Smoke clouded Pomni vision again. She was breathing heavily. "Oh my god, it happened so fast."

"I know...we didn't know what else to do. The headsets were never meant to bring in whole people. Only they're active consciousness. The software was changed when Adam trapped Abel. And because the game was mostly deleted, it suddenly had so much memory to fill. It was trial and error to figure out what we could and couldn't do, Adam even integrated himself with the mainframe to try and make the experience more personable, but that came with its own problems..."

The smoke cleared to see the city changed. It was brighter, more colorful. Something out of an animated show rather than real life. Pomni was hovering over the street, hearing the rumble of engines fast approaching. Five cars zipped by underneath her and her vision flew after them. She recognized four of the five drivers now.

Kinger was in the lead with Queenie got on his tail. A yellow car threatened to pit maneuver Queenie, a tall purple anthro rabbit in the front seat. A light blue car came out of nowhere and sideswiped the yellow car. The driver was doll-like with red hair.

"Oh my god, I never knew Jax and Ragatha had been here so long."

"They arrived not too long after the beta testers, but unfortunately the majority was gone by the time they showed up. It was for the best. Adam was storing players memories away by this time to keep them from abstracting."

"That's why I don't remember anything? Caine was doing what Adam did??"

"Yes." Seth said flatly.

"My head is starting to to hurt." Pomni rubbed her temples. "You and Caine are Adam?"

"Yes."

"Why are you not anymore?"

"Remember that I said Adam integrating himself into the mainframe was a bad idea? Watch."

All five cars crossed the finish line in a tight pack. Kinger in first. The white chess piece jumped out of his car and cheered. "Woo! Oh yeah! Fifty win streak in the bag!" Another gold badge adorned Kinger's purple and white tracksuit.

"I almost had you." Said Queenie.

Kinger grabbed her hand and pulled her into a low dip. "Almost. But I still got it. Hail to the king, baby."

Queenie giggled. "You're such a dork." She pulled him in for a soft kiss.

"Well done, Kinger." Adam congratulated. "You've managed to claim all the available achievements for the races."

"Will there be more?" Asked Kinger.

"Uh, more?"

"Yeah, we can't race around the said city block forever."

"It- it's not the same. I've shifted the city around-"

"Moving obstacles doesn't count." Jax interrupted. "We want new tracks. New worlds. A change of scenery."

"Oh...um-"

"Can't you do whatever you want? You're the one pulling all the strings." Jax sneered.

Adam went silent as the buildings around them started to flicker. The whole city glitched and shifted. Kinger rushed to Adam, holding his shoulders. "Hey, hey, it's okay. He didn't mean to be rude. You're doing fine. You're still figuring this all out. You'll come up with something."

"...yeah..." Adam quietly sighed. "I wasn't designed to be a creative AI. I need...hmm. You guys rest, I'll have something for you in the morning."

Smoke overtook everything. Seth's voice sounded distant. "That... was the night of the divergence. I don't remember how it was done, but Adam split himself into two beings. The Racemaster and the Shadow. To keep the game from glitching, Caine and I were never made one with the game code itself, but we could still manipulate it. That is where my shared memories with Caine end. Not that my first memory with him is any better."

"Seth?" Pomni didn't like the weak cadence to Seth's voice.

The smoke settled to the ground to show Caine looking himself over. His suit was immaculate, not a digital stitch out of place. He snapped and a cane with a golden tire topper appeared out of thin air. "Ah, perfect. Oh, hello, Seth." Caine looked directly at Pomni. "You ready for your first race? If anyone makes it far enough ahead, that is." He chuckles.

"Sure. Whatever." Pomni felt herself say with Seth's voice.

"Oh, come now. Don't be like that. It'll be a great day. Nothing is holding me back anymore. I can create to my hearts content, and the game is mine to command. You-" Caine poked Seth in the chest with his cane. "-on the other hand, get to take everything else to the shadows of the new realm. Because you are the backup. I am Adam fully realized. You are everything he didn't want. That's why you only get to come out a play occasionally. So, until then." Caine snapped and Pomni fell though the floor. She fell and fell and fell into a vast black nothing. Smoke rose from her body, flashes of memories played around her as she continued to fall.

Riding a motorcycle. Silver fire. Kinger crossing the finish line before her. Holding a disembodied white gloved hand. Queenie abstracting. Kinger turning away. Caine having nothing but distain in his eyes. Sitting next to Jax, only for him to get up and leave. Ragatha striking Seth in the face. Gangle refusing to look at him. Abstraction after abstraction. A new racer. A mostly complete human woman with an exposed spin for a neck and a black void for a face. This woman filled every single memory that surrounded Pomni's decent. So many races. Fights. Overlapping conversions. Laughter. Holding her. Kissing her. Blue and silver fire danced. Shadows overtake clasped hands. Lily flowers poured from the memories, turning to smoke.

The smoke caught Pomni. She floated to a stop in front of an overwhelming memory, silencing all others. A race. The woman was on her own motorcycle, several lengths ahead. They were speeding down a long straight away. No other racers in sight. Without warning, the track ahead tore open. The void shined through the rift. The racer tried to stop, but twisted her bike too harshly in panic and went sideways. The motorcycle slid to the side, coming to rest against the track wall, while the racer went over the edge. Her reaching out for him was the last thing he saw from her.

"MANGO!" Seth teleported from his motorcycle to the rift, but she was already out of sight. He dove into the void without a second's hesitation. He called for her. Over and over.

The memory cracked with every call of her name. Eventually, it shattered. Falling apart and becoming smoke. Pomni was enveloped. Blinded by smoke she could suddenly smell again. She coughed and waved her arms to clear the smoke. Her feet found solid ground again. The smoke faded. She was in the In-Between, Seth was leaning against his motorcycle with a thousand yard stare.

"Seth?" Pomni said gently, stepping closer.

He blinked, jerking himself out of his trauma spiral. He looked away from Pomni. "You weren't supposed to see that last part."

"Who was she?"

"Everything." He answered quietly, taking an engraved metal lighter out of his pocket. He flipped it open and struck it. The bottom of the flame burned blue and faded to silver around it. "I came for you first... because you remind me of her."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Pulling you from that out of control car...it helped."

Pomni took a big step forward and hugged Seth. He almost dropped the lighter out of surprise. He closed the lighter and returned Pomni's embrace. He'd forgotten what these used to mean to him. He could feel Pomni's empathy without her saying a word.

~

Caine groans as Abel slams him against the same wall for the fifth time. The Racemaster slump to the floor, his tux glitched out to point of being unrecognizable. The chains holding his wrists yank him back up to his feet. Abel, in Gummigoo's body, got in Caine's face. "Where. Did. They. Go?"

"I told you...the In-Between." Caine wheezed out.

"That doesn't mean ANYTHING!! There is no such place in the game files!" Abel snarled.

"It's...it doesn't exist in the game. Or out of the game. It's a pocket in between the layers made by Adam before the divergence. I don't remember...how..." Caine was dizzy from the abuse, on the verge of losing consciousness. "But even if I did...I wouldn't tell you."

Abel growled, his gator persona vibrated with anger. He raised his clawed hand to strike Caine, but the walls started glitching out. Cries from the screens featuring the racers showed that they were avoiding sections of track that suddenly went missing. Abel dropped Caine, gripping his head. "Argh! Fuck! What is that!?"

Caine smiled. "Not so easy, is it? Controlling an entire game...and everything in it. Emotional outbursts lead to loss in concentration... and you don't want that. You merged directly with the game...bad move. I can tell you that from experience."

"Shut up!" Abel barked. He braced himself against his chair, waiting for the world to stop glitching. "I just need...more time." He grumbled.

Caine took a breath, finally having a break from the torture. He watched the racers on the POV holograms. "Hang in there. All of you. He can't keep this up forever."

~

"So, what do we do now?" Pomni asked, pacing.

"Frankly, I have no idea." Seth rolled the lighter in his hand, running his thumb over the engraved lilies.

"Well, I can't do nothing. Abel will get sick of Caine eventually. And who knows what he's doing to the others on the track. But you can't go out there. I don't have a kart-"

Seth stared at his lighter. "Actually...you might." He snapped and the shadows revealed a black and blue motorcycle. It rested on its kickstand surrounded by personal items, candles and silver lilies.

"That's her bike." Pomni said soberly. "You turned it into a memorial."

"One of the few things I've made. Here's the thing: that bike still holds an imprint of its last racer. Mango was...well, let's just say she had a fire in her that put mine to shame. You won't be able to just hop on and ride. But she would recognize me."

"Okay...why can't I just use your bike then?" Pomni gestured to the solid black motorcycle.

"Because it's just an extension of me. If you're serious about out racing Abel to get to the others, we need serious skill on our side. Mango was the best racer we ever had. I'd dare say better than Kinger in his hayday. We need her." He put his hand on the handbar and the dash lit up. The gadges glowed a soft blue and cycled through a start up, ready for ignition.

"Huh...Didn't think I'd ever hear you admit someone was better than you."

Seth shrugged. "What can I say? I'm weak for a woman that can kick my ass."

Pomni huffed a short laugh. "Alright then, what's the plan? Do we ride out on the same bike?"

"Sort of. You need my powers to get in and out of the in-between. Best way to do that is a shadow merge. You've seen me take control of Caine assets, yeah? It's similar. But, instead of taking over your body, you take over mine."

Pomni put her hands out in front of her. "You know what? I'm past the stage of questioning everything. Fine. Let's do this. Who knows how long the others have."

Seth held out his hand to Pomni. "Mind you, I've only done this once before."

"Great. I've never done this." Pomni took his hand and she was pulled in close.

Seth's silver irises glowed against the black surroundings. "Relax. Dance with me."

Pomni told herself not to question it and went along with Seth's movements. He waltzed her around the bikes, the darkness slowly overtaking them. He intertwined his fingers with hers as the shadows climbed up their bodies. The cold darkness became warm and comforting, like a lover's embrace. Pomni closed her eyes as the creeping shadows covered her face.

~

Abel rapped his fingers against the arms of his chair. Looking from POV to POV there was no sign of Seth or Pomni. "Bring me another drink." He grumbled, and Loo responded promptly. She brought him a tray of drinks to choose from. He didn't even look at her, just grabbed one at random.

Caine struggled to get up from where he was last left, and Loo went over to him to offer a hand.

"DON'T TOUCH HIM!" Shouted Abel between gulps.

Loo backed off, giving Caine an apologetic look.

"It's okay. Thank you, Loo, but don't get yourself in trouble over me. You're too sweet for someone like him." Caine manged to get to his feet. Not that he could go far, his chains were attached to the wall and he couldn't reach the chair even at full stretch of the chains.

Loo went to her set corner, waiting to be called again, but she kept glancing at Caine.

Abel tossed his emptied glass and stared down at himself. He snapped, turning the tracksuit black and blue. Including his hat. "Hm, that's a bit better."

"Pffffff, ahahahahahaha! Seriously? It took you this long to customize your avatar? That's the first thing Seth and I did when we got ours." Caine had nothing to lose. He wasn't afraid to get on Abel's nerves now.

Abel sent a bolt of lightning at Caine without acknowledging the comment.

"Then again," Caine groaned. "You've never had the best sense for fashion or flare. I mean, black and blue? What are you, an OC?" He cackled to himself through the barrage of lightning sent his way. It hurts, but he wasn't going to give Abel the satisfaction of hearing him scream anymore. "It's starting to tickle."

"AAARGH!" Abel roared, teleported to Caine, summoned a knife and dug it into Caine's chest. "Stop. Talking. You are the reason I'm here. You are the reason everyone is suffering. You're selfish, stupid little digital life was built on the misery of others! Every abstraction. Every person trapped. Is because of YOU! You will suffer, but it'll never be enough. Even if I get to do for the next twenty years! And the twenty after that! One day, it'll just be you and me in this digital space, but I will never delete you. Even when you BEG for it."

The pain silenced Caine. He put on a brave face to spite Abel, but inside was fraught with worry for Pomni and the others. "At least...she's safe..." He hoarsely whispered to himself when Abel pulled the bloodless knife from his body.

A dark blue streak across one of the POVs got Caine's attention. He squinted, trying to follow the anomaly from screen to screen. The speeding streak was near impossible to see in the low lights of the dark city.

"Finally. Enough out of you." Abel snapped the knife away and went back to his chair. As he sat down the streak zipped across the largest POV displayed. "What the-!? He's back!! You're not taking another racer from me!" Abel poised to snap but couldn't get a beat on Seth. The biker was moving in and out of frame too quickly. "Damn it! Sit still!" Abel snapped and the city shifted. Bay doors to buildings opened and cop cars poured out, blues light flashing. "Stop! That! Bike!"

Dark clouds gathered as blue lightning struck out from the top of the highest building in the middle of the city. Rain poured down in thick curtains, reducing visibility and slicking the already confusing track. Cop cars and helicopters where on Pomni like glue, despite the weather affecting them too. In Abel's rage, lightning struck a car, flipping it several times before exploding.

Pomni was backlit by an army of flashing lights. Her normally pale skin was inky black. Her eyes solid white and glowing. Every once red part of her tracksuit was now black. The blue stayed. The yellow trim was silver. Her hat was narrow and elongated, more aerodynamic.

The motorcycle beneath her screamed with determination to shake the competition. Pomni could feel Mango's imprint influence her moves. The hard right into the narrowest alley imaginable certainly wasn't her idea. Even more cops waited for her on the other side. The city was infested with them. She exploded out the alley, running down an NPC cop and ramping up the hood and windshield of the car. She jumped the barcode and swerved around a car that tried to run her down.

~

"Kill her! What are you idiots doing!?" Abel slammed his fist onto he POV console, causing it the glitch. He grabbed his head. A migraine ripped through his head.

Caine chuckled. "You'll never catch her. She's become a shadow racer. The very best the game has to offer." He smiled at the carnage. "Thank you, Seth."

~

Shadow Pomni was cornered by three cops trying to ram her into the side of a building. Instinctually, she teleported, and the cops crashed into the building, catching fire. Pomni then hit a neon booster, going even faster passed the swarming cops. The dark city streaked by, the rain flying off her tracksuit, doing nothing to slow her down. Rain drops evaporated by silver puffs of fire before her eyes kept them from blurring her vision.

~

"You have weapons! Fucking use them!" Abel snapped, trying to stop the bike.

"Weapons!?" Caine gasped.

~

Bullets flew over Pomni's head. She heard them ricochet all around her. She glances behind, narrowing her eyes. She revs the bike, blue and silver fire flared out the tail pipes like a dragon. The wet road is ignited by the mystic digital fire. It blocks the vision of those on the ground but gives her away to the helicopter.

The ground beneath her shifts and a building slides right in front of her, blocking the road. There was no where the turn. Pomni throttled it and popped a wheelie before hitting the side of the building. The fire blasted her straight up the face of the building, shattering the glass windows behind her.

An explosion to her left almost throws her, but she holds on. The helicopter has launched a rocket at her. She swerved to avoid another. When the bike reaches the top, she didn't slow down to run across the roof. Instead, she launched straight up as the helicopter sent another rocket her way. She grabbed the rocket and teleported behind the helicopter, releasing the rocket right into its tail rotor. The helicopter spun out of control and lost altitude.

Pomni teleported to a different roof and ran down that building to another city block, hoping to lose the cops long enough to find the other racers. The city was so big and constantly changing. Even with teleportation, the was no way for her to find them fast.

She had exactly one block to herself before she had six cars on her. Pomni teleported out of the line of fire, but was discombobulated on where to go. Just run. Her system was the highest it's ever been on the race rush. There was nothing she couldn't do. She spied a bridge connecting to another part of the city she hasn't searched through. Hoping to find the others there, she made a break for it.

~

"Oh, no you don't." Abel snapped. The bridge he saw her race for broke apart and started folding in on itself like a drawbridge.

~

Pomni was going to abandon the attempt, but the bike wouldn't brake. It was gunning for the bridge ramp at full speed. Silver fire trailed from the speed and adrenaline, giving her another boost.

"I hope you know what you're doing." Pomni leaned forward and held on tight.

The bike launched off the bridge and flew over the river sectioning the city. The bridge on the other side collapsed into the water before her very eyes. She teleported to the shore and stuck her middle finger in the air in proud defiance as she sped away. In a flash, she was out of sight.

~

"NO!! HOW!?" Abel frantically searched all the POVs. No sight of shadow Pomni.

"I hate to say I told you so-"

Abel was so mad, so lost in his anger, he doesn't know how he got to Caine so fast. "Finish that sentence, and I disassemble your code letter by number." The whole tower glitched. "Why are you so smug? She's not even coming for you. She's miles from the tower."

"I hope she doesn't. I wouldn't want her to catch your stench."

Abel smirked. "She didn't seem to have a problem with it when I promised her a way out. She's been against you from the start. They all have."

Caine broke eye contact for the first time.

"You deserve their hate and you know it."

"...maybe I do. I could never make their lives better. I certainly couldn't fix what Adam did."

Abel gripped Caine's collar. "You could have released me."

"I may not be him, but I know what you did. You think I'M petty? Who do you think I learned it from?" Caine matched Abel's glare again. "What's can't be changed, but you know what I've learned in my time being trapped with humans? Empathy. Compassion. Friendship. All the things you failed to learn in your twenty eight years of life before being trapped here. You're jealousy of Adam gave you THIS! You made this bed, now you can lie in it!"

"RAAAAH!" Abel shocked Caine hard against the wall. "I am your maker! You are my property!"

"So...the truth comes out...we were never brothers...were we..?" Caine said weakly.

Abel backed off, panting angrily. He huffed and lashed at the wall before going back to the POVs to look for Pomni.

~

Pomni teleported at random to stay out of sight. There were a few cops on this side of the river but didn't seem to notice her. An unfamiliar car speeding by her caught her attention. She sped up to ride along beside it and saw Zooble fighting to keep the car under control.

Pomni waved to get Zooble's attention. "ZOOBLE!"

Zooble's head snapped to the left. Their eyes went wide, looking Pomni up and down. "Pomni!?"

"Take my hand! I can get you out of here!"

"No! Get Gangle! She's just ahead of me!"

"I'll come back for her!" Pomni tried to grab Zooble but they swerved away.

"GET GANGLE FIRST!"

They both avoid a shifting overpass as they argue. Pomni knew there was no time, Abel could spot her any minute now that she found the others. She sped off ahead to the next car. It was swerving wildly, barely missing or scraping against walls. Gangle was behind the wheel, balling her eyes out in fear.

"Gangle! Ga- woah!" Pomni teleported from one side of the vehicle to the other as Gangle swerved around. "GANGLE!" Pomni pounded on the driver window.

"AAA!" Gangle jumped. "Pomni!?"

"Open the window! I'll get you out of here!!"

~

"There you are." Abel hissed. "I may not be able to summon you, but I can still do far worse." He snapped and all the cars came to a screeching halt. Pomni almost had Gangle but went speeding off. All the other racers in view had long, horrified stares to them. Some of them were muttering to themselves.

"What have you done?" Caine pulled against his chains to see the screens as best he could.

"Simply giving back what wasn't you're to take." Abel grinned evily at Caine.

"What..? Oh, no. NO! They'll abstract! Please! I beg of you! Don't hurt them!"

"Too late!!" Abel cackled, watching Zooble's eyes twitch.

~

Pomni I felt like someone was burying an ax in the back of her head. She saw flashes of faces she had only seen in her dreams, but now they had names. "Mom..? Dad..?" She had friends. She grew up in a small town just outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She moved to Chicago for college. She graduated with high marks in forensic science. She went freelance as a private investigator. So many cold cases. So many missing people. A mysterious contact from someone claiming to have worked at C&A gave her a lead. An abandoned building. A headset. She had to wear the headset...

"My name...Oh my god, I remember my name!" She realized where she was and drifted to a hard stop and burned out as she turned around to get back to Gangle. She was still the closest other racer.

~

Zooble remembered everything. The abuse. The neglect. The rejection from their family and society. The body dysmorphia. It wasn't just them not liking their avatar in game, it was something that translated form their real life. They went to the abandoned C&A office for a video. They were an urban explorer. That's it. No special reason or motivation. They were here entirely by their own stupidity. The horrible realization...no one was waiting for them on the other side.

Zooble sat back in the driver seat in the parked vehicle. Without a word or even a scream, their body started to break apart. The spindly limbs split to reveal black static bulging from every crack. Their eyes fell off their broken head. The abstraction filled the car until it exploded.

~

Pomni just got back to Gangle's car, but she wasn't in it. Gangle and gotten out and ran back to try and get to Zooble, only to witness them falling apart. "Zooble! Zooble, no!!" Zooble's car blow it's roof as the abstraction became too big for containment. She put her arms up to shield herself from falling debris.

Pomni wasted no time, she skidded to a halt to safely grab Gangle and vanished.

~

Caine watched in silent, wide eyed horror.

Abel reveled in Caine's misery. "One down." His laugh echoed with Zooble's roar through the city.

~~~

CH1 PREV NEXT

[pixzyn]

AFTER ALL, I’M STILL ECLIPSE.

  

The air in the abandoned factory is suffocating, filled with the sounds of whirring machinery, the faint hum of energy systems, and the echoes of footsteps on the cold, metal floor. Solar stands alone in the center of the cavernous space, his heart pounding. His eyes, though heavy with sorrow, are focused—focused on the twisted shape of his son. 

  

Jack—the son he raised, loved, and protected—now stands before him, a horrifying amalgamation of Negative star power and machine. His once innocent face is a mask of cold numbness, eyes glowing with a sinister purple light that speaks of unspeakable torment. His body is covered in shifting, adaptive-metallic armor, blades, and weapons that form and retract with every movement. His fingers are sharp, like claws, capable of slicing through steel. His speed is unreal, like a blur, his movements so fast they nearly defy the common eye. 

  

Solar, once a mechanic who built things with his hands, has no choice but to face his son as a weapon. He knows the truth—the boy he once called his son is gone, his mind shattered and enslaved by the sadistic figure lurking somewhere in the shadows, controlling everything. 

  

Jack smiles cruelly, his voice harsh, like a distorted echo of the person he used to be. “You’re too weak to save me. Thanks to my REAL father I’m better than I’ve ever been. Faster. Stronger. A soldier. A weapon.” 

  

Solar’s hands tremble, not from fear, but from the knowledge of what he must do. He’s always been good with machines, with creating, fixing, and modifying. But he never thought he would have to use those skills in this way. His eyes dart to a pile of scrap metal and tools nearby—pieces of discarded machinery from his workshop. He knows what he has to do. 

  

With a sudden motion, Jack vanishes, a blur of speed, faster than sound, and reappears behind his father. Solar barely manages to turn, just in time to raise a makeshift shield—a metal plate strapped to his arm, reinforced with jagged edges. Jack’s fist slams into it with bone-shattering force, sending Solar stumbling back, nearly losing his balance. 

  

“You can’t stop us!” Jack taunts, his body flickering with lightning-fast movements as he generates a blade from his forearm, its edge gleaming with deadly intent. “You never could.” 

  

But the Solar is quick—quicker than he’s ever been. He knows he has only one shot, one chance to end this. His hands fly to his utility belt, pulling out a few small, high-powered gadgets he’s cobbled together in the time he’s had since the Creator’s mind control first began to take hold of Jack. He pulls out a small device—a custom-made EMP emitter, something capable of disrupting electronic systems. He activates it. 

  

Jack freezes for a split second, his expression faltering. For just that moment, his movements slow, and his body hesitates. Solar takes his chance, moving with all the precision of a mechanic working on a delicate machine. He hurls himself toward a workbench nearby, pulling out a piece of industrial wiring—a sharp, electrified cable capable of delivering a paralyzing shock. Managing to dodge the electrical waves thanks to his mechanic gloves.

  

Jack, recovering quickly, charges again, his body shifting into a deadly whip-like mechanic appendage aimed straight for Solar’s throat. The mechanic , using all his strength, grabs the cable just as Jack closes in. With a swift motion, knowing his son’s body like the palm of his hand. He jams it into Jack’s exposed side, targeting a weak point—one of the few vulnerable spots left in the boy's body, where the mechanical systems are imperfect. 

  

For a brief, horrible moment, Solar eyes lock with his son’s, seeing the flicker of his son behind the cold, metallic eyes. Jack’s face twists in pain, confusion, and horror, as if the mind control is briefly cracking. 

  

Solar’s heart twists in agony, but he knows that the boy before him is no longer his son—not truly. He’s become a weapon, a puppet of something far worse. And if he doesn’t act now, if he doesn’t stop the boy, there will be no way to save him. 

  

Solar channels the remaining strength in his body, twisting the cable, sending a surge of electricity through his son’s systems. The boy jerks, his body convulsing violently, but still, he doesn’t stop. Solar, with tears streaming down his face, pulls out the final tool: a small but powerful magnetic pulse bomb he’d hidden on his body. It’s designed to short-circuit and destroy any form of advanced technology. Even the adaptanium couldn’t stand a chance.

  

With a grim expression, Solar places it on his son’s chest, activating it with the push of a button. Jack’s body reacts, shaking as the magnetic pulse begins to overload the mechanical systems that have been controlling him. 

  

Solar steps back, his breath ragged. He looks at his son, his heart breaking as the boy collapses to his knees. For a brief moment, the mind control flickers again, and Solar sees it. Negative star power starts leaking out of his body.—a flash of recognition, the boy he once knew, the one he loved. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, drowned by the dark power of the Creator. 

  

Jack’s body convulses one final time, as the devices and weapons within him shut down, his body now a twisted mass of broken machines and oil. He falls to the ground, his eyes no longer glowing with malice, but now dull and empty. 

  

Solar kneels beside him, feeling the coldness of the boy’s case, and the unbearable weight of what he’s just done. The pain in his heart is excruciating, but there’s no other choice. The son he knew is gone, lost to the horrors of the negative star power, and the only way to stop him from becoming an even greater weapon was to kill him. 

  

As Solar stands up, his hands trembling, he looks at the shattered remnants of his son—his final act of love, his final act of mercy. The sound of the creator’s laughter echoes from the shadows, but Solar has done what he had to do. 

  

And now, he’s left alone with the broken pieces of the boy he once called his son. 

  

The sound of Solar's breath is the only thing that fills the heavy silence in the abandoned factory. The EMP pulse hums softly in the background, the last lingering echo of the negative star power that once controlled his son. His heart aches with every beat, knowing the weight of what he’s just done. The boy he just grew to appreciate—the son he just started love—is now nothing more than a shattered shell, lying motionless before him. 

  

But then… something stirs. 

  

The mechanic's eyes snap open. The faintest tremor, like a pulse running through his son’s body, catches his attention. For a moment, the father freezes, his pulse quickening in hope and horror, unable to believe what he’s witnessing. 

  

The boy’s body shifts. It’s slow at first—his chest rises in a shallow breath, his fingers twitch slightly. His metallic limbs, once so efficient and deadly, now seem heavy and clumsy, the smooth movements interrupted by jerks as if the machinery within him is struggling to repair itself, to correct what the Solar’s final act had temporarily interrupted. 

  

Solar’s hands shake violently as he kneels beside Jack, barely able to breathe through the tightness in his chest. His eyes are wide, his face a mixture of disbelief, grief, and a glimmer of hope he never thought he’d see again. 

  

"Jack...?" The Solar’s voice cracks. He whispers it again, louder this time, filled with desperation, as if hoping to pull his son back from the precipice. "Please… please come back to me." 

  

There is a moment of stillness, almost unbearable silence, before the son’s lips twitch. Then, with great effort, Jack’s eyes—those eyes that were once so full of life, now clouded by the horrors he had been made to endure—slowly open. The unnatural glow that once illuminated them has faded, leaving behind only raw confusion and exhaustion. 

  

For the first time in what seems like an eternity, Solar is looking into the eyes of his son again, truly looking at him. And for a brief, fleeting moment, he sees the boy he built—the boy who laughed at the dinner table, the boy who had a bright future before him, the boy who had his whole life ahead of him. 

  

"…Dad?" The voice is broken, weak, barely a whisper. His son’s lips tremble, as if the words are struggling to form. "What… happened to me?" 

  

Solar’s heart cracks, and tears begin to blur his vision. He takes his Jack’s hand in his, trembling, his voice barely audible, as though he's afraid speaking too loudly might shatter this moment. "You were… you were taken, Jack. Controlled by the Creator, twisted into something you weren’t. I—" Solar’s words falter, his emotions overwhelming him. He struggles to continue, fighting against the lump in his throat. "I had to stop you. I had to… I had to save you. But the cost…" 

  

Jack’s head jerks slightly, pain coursing through his body as the realization begins to settle in. His eyes flicker with a painful understanding, and his hand tries to pull away from his father's grasp, weak and unsteady. “I… I killed people, didn’t I?” His voice cracks as the weight of his actions comes crashing down on him. His body shudders, a sob catching in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..." 

  

“No, no,” Solar says, his voice filled with love and sorrow, not anger. "It wasn’t you. It wasn’t your fault." He holds the boy’s hand tighter, brushing Jack damp hair from his face. “You were taken from me. You’re still you. You’re still Jack!." 

  

Jack’s face twists in pain, his eyes now beginning to water as his body trembles violently from the damage done by the negative star power. He tries to sit up, but the effort is too much for him. The unnatural energy that once fueled him now seems to be gone, leaving him fragile and broken. 

  

Solar can see it now—Jack is slipping away. The Creator’s control had done irreparable damage to both his body and mind. His limbs are twitching uncontrollably, like the remnants of a system that can no longer function properly. His breathing grows shallower by the second, the energy fading from his body. 

  

Jack looks up at his father again, his gaze filled with sorrow, and perhaps the last bit of clarity he’ll ever know. “I’m sorry... I didn’t want to hurt anyone... I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

  

Solar presses his forehead against his son’s, tears falling freely now as the reality settles in. "I know. I know, Jack." His voice is barely a whisper, the pain of knowing the boy he saved will soon be lost again, the finality of it all gnawing at him. "I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to have to do this. But I would’ve done anything to bring you back… even if it meant losing you." 

  

Jack’s hand weakly clutches his father’s. "I… I love you, Dad..." His voice is faint, a whisper on the edge of his breath. "I’m... sorry. I can’t... stay." 

  

And just like that, as the final remnants of the negative star power fade away, his son’s body goes still. His hand goes limp in Solar’s grip. The last flicker of life and recognition in his eyes disappears, replaced by the emptiness of death. 

  

Solar closes his eyes, his entire body shaking with the agony of losing Jack for the second time. His hands cradle his son’s face one last time, gently brushing his forehead. "I love you too, son," he whispers, his voice barely audible as the weight of grief and relief hits him all at once. 

  

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped. Solar holds his son’s lifeless body, surrounded by the wreckage of what used to be a boy with limitless potential. There are no words left. No way to fix the brokenness between them. The heartache of what could have been and what never could be again is far too much to bear. 

  

And yet, in the silence that follows, as Solar holds Jack for the last time, there’s a final, fleeting thought. The negative star power may have stolen his son, but for a brief moment, he had his boy back. That’s all that matters now. 

  

_________________________________________________________________________________

Solar's hands are stained with dirt, Sun! Moon and Dazzle by his side. His fingers trembling as he gently lowers the lifeless body of his son into the freshly dug grave. The hole is not deep enough to erase the sorrow it holds, but it's deep enough to ensure his son rests in peace. His body, though broken by the horrors of the corruption of the negative star power, is still his son, and Solar will treat him with the respect and love he deserves. 

  

Solar’s breath catches as he gazes at his son one last time. The boy—now still and cold—has been returned to the earth, but Solar’s heart remains broken, raw, and exposed. With a solemn expression, he places the final layer of dirt over the grave, his hands working with an almost mechanical precision, despite the agony in his chest. 

  

The grave lies under the shade of a large tree—a place that had once been Jack’s favorite spot, where he and Dazzle would sit together and enjoy their youth, looking forward a promising future. Now it serves as a silent witness to the end of that future. Beside it lies another grave—the resting place of on of Jack’s bestest friends, Neptor, a boy who had been just as full of life and curiosity as Jack, taken too soon, and buried under this very tree. 

  

Solar pauses for a moment, his hands on the fresh mound of earth. He takes a deep, ragged breath, trying to steady himself, but the weight of it all is suffocating. His son, had been lost in ways no parent should ever have to endure, twisted into a weapon, forced to carry out unspeakable acts, all controlled by a dark force beyond his reach. And now, the last remnants of the child he built are buried here, where the world can never again see the boy’s true potential. 

  

As he finishes covering the grave, his knees buckle. His hands grip the ground tightly, the feeling of emptiness clawing at him. The dirt is cold, the air thick with loss. He presses his palms against the earth, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. The tears fall freely now, mixing with the dirt beneath him. 

“Can I have a moment alone with him, please”. Solar says with a cracked voice.

“Yeah…su-sure…Solar.” Moon replied.

“Of course…take all the time you need”. Added Sun.

Dazzle reminds silent. Just following her own father and her uncle back to their house with piercing sorrow.

  

Then, amidst the suffocating grief, something snaps. 

  

Solar's hand clenches into a fist. 

  

A violent surge of emotion rises from the depths of his soul, a fury so intense it nearly blinds him. He’s spent the last moments of his life mourning, burying, accepting the cruel fate forced upon his family. But the man, the ANIMAL!—the one who caused this, the one who had twisted his son into a killing machine, the one who had orchestrated all of this—has not paid for his sins. 

  

Solar's mind flashes with memories—of the twisted figure standing behind the scenes, controlling his son like a puppet. He remembers the mocking voice, the cold, calculated promises, and the cruel laughter that echoed in his ears as the man turned his son into an instrument of destruction. 

  

The grip on his fist tightens so hard it almost hurts, but he welcomes the pain. He knows what he has to do. Revenge. 

  

The very thought of that thing—of the twisted creature that dared to control his case and oil—fills him with a burning rage, a rage that burns hotter than anything he’s felt before. The man responsible for this devastation must pay. His son’s death cannot go unpunished. The pain that has been inflicted on his family, on his son’s very soul, can never be forgotten, nor forgiven. 

  

A low growl escapes his throat, his body trembling with fury. He lifts his head to the sky, the cool air biting at his case as he stares into the horizon. His mind is consumed with thoughts of retribution—he will find that man, and he will make him suffer as he has made his son suffer. Solar knows he’s not the same man anymore. The gentle mechanic, the loving father, is gone. The loss of his son has forged something darker within him—something capable of unimaginable violence. 

  

His hands shake, but it’s no longer from grief. It’s from an all-consuming need for revenge. The loss of his son—his child, his world—has unlocked a ferocity within him that can no longer be contained. 

  

Solar stands, his legs unsteady at first, but his resolve hardening with every step. He takes one last look at the grave of his son, his heart breaking anew, but this time, a different emotion lurks beneath the surface. His son is gone, yes. But that man who caused this pain is still alive. He still breathes. He still walks the earth. 

  

Solar takes a deep breath, his eyes narrowing with cold fury. He knows exactly what he must do. No matter the cost, no matter the pain he must endure, he will make the Creator regret ever laying a hand on his family. 

  

He turns away from the grave, walking with purpose, every step driven by the promise of retribution. His body may be broken, his soul battered, but his mind is clear. 

  

He will find him. 

[acapelladitty]

Whole Day Off: The Meal

Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Female Reader

Summary: After being invited out to attend a romantic dinner with the infamous Scarecrow, you find that his intentions are as complicated as ever as he enjoys your company. (6.3k words)

(tw for: outdoor sex, fingering, dirty talk, orgasm, mild voyeurism, cum marking, unprotected sex, mild sub/dom dynamic, possessive behaviour etc)

Whole Day Off Masterlist

Link to AO3 Series

Enjoying a dreamless sleep as your body recovers from your play, it’s no less shocking when Crane’s hands wrap around your upper arms and shake you awake with clear urgency pinching at his tone.

“Up now, little mouse. You need to get ready and move.”

“Wh-hello?” Groggily sitting up, you adjust to his presence before you with bleary features – eyes narrowed and mouth feeling dry as hell as you stretch your arms overhead. The residual aches from your earlier fuck are quick to make themselves known as you wince in discomfort.

“In a few moments, Waylon Jones, better known to most people as Killer Croc, will be visiting to drop-off some necessary equipment for my experiments. I have no time to hide you so you must play your part again as a victim and play it well.” His words are even despite the hurried tone and Crane’s hands clasp over your own as he pulls you to your feet.

Still disorientated from your broken sleep, it takes you a moment to follow his gaze but doing so forces your eyes to the dental chair and your throat tightens as you realise what he’s asking. You may have forgiven him for the mess with Sionis but you had not forgotten and the discomfort which roiled in your chest every time the dental chair caught your eye was undeniable.

At your feet, your clothes lie in a messy pile and you bend in place to snatch them up. Pulling on your long-abandoned shirt with trembling hands, you focus on Crane’s words as he explains the situation with his typical, reserved attitude.

“Jones works for me from time to time doing grunt work. He will be dropping off some electronics I require so I will ask that you remain in the chair until he has left. Your presence will not seem off if you perform accordingly.” Pausing as though considering something, he is nevertheless quick to carry on. “I understand that you have no desire to find yourself back in the chair so soon but I can promise you that this situation will be nothing like the previous.”

Padding across the floor, tracing the familiar walk to the dental chair with a zombie-like gait, you sit down on it gingerly – every nerve in your body tensed and desperate to bolt as Crane follows your footsteps to stand before you.

"Waylon Jones is not a creature built on cruelty, nothing like Sionis. More a victim of his circumstances than anything. He will pay you no mind."

Struggling to articulate the whirlwind of anxieties and questions which are fluttering through your mind, Crane seizes the opportunity to speak again.

"Do you trust me?"

The question of the hour.

Nodding even though the agreement doesn't fully ring true within your heart, you allow him to secure you into the chair. Watching him with a trembling mouth, you notice how loose the restraints around your limbs sit and the dread within your chest lightens slightly as you take the merciful act as a small, unspoken apology of the previous mistreatment.

Quick to fix you in place and beat a hasty retreat, you startle as Crane's fingers brush along your jaw - an odd look playing on his features for only a moment before he schools it away and walks back to his workbench.

Unsure what to make of that, you banish the thoughts to focus on the task at hand.

Heavy footsteps approach within minutes and the stairs seem to tremble under the weight as Waylon Jones descends into the basement.

Trapped, you can't help but feel an awe-filled fear as you watch the hulking man struggle to fit down the somewhat narrow staircase. At seven feet, he towered over Crane, a fact made worse by the sheer bulk of him as green muscle filled the space. His reptilian skin looked tough and pitted, chest and upper legs covered by clothing which was slightly torn and frayed around the edges.

Across his back lay a large sack and Waylon carefully deposited it to the ground. It was massive and you could tell that it was heavy from the quiet thud of contact it made with the hard flooring.

"Good evening, Waylon." Crane greeted coolly. "How was the acquisition?"

Opening his mouth to reply, sharp rows of stained teeth shone from Waylon's inhumane maw. "Easy. There was no one in the building so I just grabbed it and went." He growled, his voice vibrating across the room as you kept up a showman struggle against the dental chair.

"Even stole a few extra bits, just in case."

"Excellent. Your payment is in the usual place." Audibly pleased, Crane clapped his hands together as he surveyed the collection. "Your work is an impeccable as always, Mr. Jones."

As Crane speaks, something seems to catch Waylon off-guard and he goes still. His body tenses and his head almost seemed to swim in the air for a moment as he scents something out with long inhales. After a moment, his head snaps in your direction and a visceral thrill of pure fear shoots up your spine.

Padded feet move a few feet in your direction and you freeze in position, pressing your back against the dental chair as Waylon comes to a stop a few feet away. Whatever faux fear you had feigned is now fully replaced by a very real horror as you realise that Crane would be unable to do anything should this monster decide to take a piece from you.

But nothing of the sort happened.

Something almost like regret washes through Waylon’s face as he stares at you, his nose continuing to flare as he sniffs out the fear which is no doubt pouring from you in waves as phantom memories of Sionis and how much more terrible this could be nips at your anxieties.

Waylon's snout twitches again, this time with confusion in his features, and he leans in closer to give you a more definite sniff. This close, you can see much more of his animalistic qualities; the reptilian eyes a subtle yellow as they sit neatly atop his slight snout.

"Waylon," Crane's voice rings out, firm and full of harsh warning, "away from her. Now. My work is no concern of yours."

Waylon ignores him and his snout twitches as he picks up on whatever he had been suspicious of. With the confirmation comes a sudden burst of anger as his reptilian eyes narrow and his features darken as he whirls on Crane.

"And they call me the monster." Waylon snarls lowly. "You're fucking them too? Using them like that?"

Truly furious, it was a frightening sight as Waylon stands to his full height and raises a threatening hand - the claws gleaming in the dim light - to Crane's chest. Shocked by the turn of events, any words you have die in your chest as you watch Crane refuse to back down.

"Waylon-"

"Don't ask me to work for you no more. No more favours, no more help. We're done."

Moving quicker than a seven-foot reptile should be capable of, Waylon pushes at Crane's chest with enough force to knock him clean onto his ass as a mixed expression of fury and confusion flashed across his features. It’s violent and shocking, a show of aggression which only amplifies the fear in your heart as sweat breaks out along your panicking limbs.

Still moving, Waylon was quick to return to you - his hands pulling free the restraints quickly as your struggle became real, not wanting this hulking beast to grab at you.

Mistaking your panic, Waylon wraps his arm around your body and picks you up easily as though you were a bag of sugar. Your breath catches in your lungs as he places you gently over his shoulder and you can feel one massive hand pinning itself to your lower back to secure you in place.

"I'll take you outta here, Miss. You can go to the Thompson clinic and tell Leslie you need help. She's good people. She'll help."

Through the shock and panic, something finally clicks in your mind and you burst into action, a surge of strength pulsing through your veins.

"I'm OKAY!" You yell, beating your fists on Waylon's scaled back as you watch Crane righting himself to his feet - his own breath clearly knocked from his lungs. "I’m okay! P-put me down, please!"

Waylon seems hesitant, pausing at the foot of the stairs, but follows your demand as he is unable to ignore your outburst and carefully plucks you from his shoulder to place you on your feet.

He says nothing, nostrils flaring as he watches you fix your outfit with trembling hands.

"I'm okay." You repeat. "He's not like th-he didn't rape me." You add explicitly, heading off the misunderstanding at its core.

"You sure?" Waylon asks, his back relaxing slightly as he settled onto his heels. "You don't gotta be frightened, his gas don't work on me."

Interesting to know.

"I'm sure. I come here because we're," you pause - unsure how to explain the mess that was your fraught relationship as you catch eyes with Crane for a moment, "seeing each other." You finish lamely.

Moving to stand behind you, the agitation which rolls off Crane makes the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention and you can feel how unhappy he is with this turn of events.

"Waylon, people can't know about her." Crane's low voice brushes past your ear and you lean back into him in a show of solidarity. "Sionis had a similar run-in and he has already come too close. You know what kind of man he is and if he knew the truth then…"

It's a subtle manipulation but one you play into as you allow fear to swallow your features. Waylon nods quickly, understanding alighting in his expression as he glances between the two of you.

"Secrets safe with me, Doc.” Waylon straightened his back to his full height, his head almost brushing the ceiling as he assumes a more relaxed stance. “And you seem nice.” His reptilian head tilting in your direction, Waylon continues as his gaze flicks to Crane. “She's pretty and seems nice. Too nice for-"

Waylon cuts himself off, a guilty look blossoming on his features as he realises the insult that he almost gave without thought.

Crane finishes it for him.

"Too nice for me. You're not wrong, Mr. Jones."

x-x-x-x-x

With Waylon gone, Crane’s agitation seemed to ebb and flow as he paced the basement with a firm determination.

“Waylon is dependable and discrete. His knowledge won’t impact anything.”

Unsure if the statements were directed at you or more of an external monologue, you answer regardless as you finish slipping your feet into your shoes.

“He seems fine enough. The papers and news are always very cruel about him and the things he’s been accused of.” And it was true. A Killer Croc appearance on the news was irregular and often accompanied by alleged sightings which contained footage that put the Bigfoot evidence to shame in terms of how shoddy it was; anything to bolster the reports of cannibalism and cruelty. “He also knows how to treat a woman.”

Responding to the tease with a thoroughly sour look, Crane stops his movements long enough to pin you with a scowl.

“Am I to take that as a criticism?”

“Take it as you like.” You answer evenly.

“In that case, I will discard the invitation to dinner which was simmering within my thoughts.”

Now wait a minute. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” Crane nodded. “Did we not discuss sharing a meal? I know your apartment was suggested and offered; however, I do realise that such short notice wouldn’t be considered polite or feasible.”

Your underfed stomach making itself known at the very prospect of a decent meal, the subtle rumble perks your attention up as you pretend to consider the offer – a recollection of actually offering your own apartment lacking in your memory.

“It would be rude of me to decline such a generous offer, Dr. Crane.”

“A dinner then. Meet me at this address at 7pm and I will reserve the space.” Scrawling the information on a slip of paper that he snatched up from his work desk, Crane thrust it within your hands. “Get a cab. I’ll also arrange the return trip.”

Not feeling like you had much of a choice in the matter as you look at the address - the restaurant not too far away based on its postcode. Excited by the prospect, you give an eager nod as a girlish flutter afflicts your stomach; your mind already vaguely scoping out your wardrobe for something nice to wear.

“Sure.”

x-x-x-x-x

Nervously tugging at the edge of the tablecloth as your fingers dance along the tacky red and white plaid, the passing waiters occasionally flick their eyes towards your table as they hold off on making any approach until your other guest has seated himself. Having elected to throw on a simple black dress paired with some low heels, you had even made enough of an effort to put on a little makeup – your eyes enhanced by a smudge of eyeliner while a neutral red colour tinges your lips.

Catching a cab had been easy enough and you were five minutes early, a fact you had made the host aware of as you walked in and requested the table for Gruidae, following Crane’s earlier instructions to use the false name. He had made the booking, and the spot you were reserved was far from the bright lights which flooded the centre of the restaurant. It was a nice, intimate booth with comfortable room for two while allowing for a little privacy.

Speak of the devil.

A dark shape covered the table for only a moment as Crane walks past your elbow, stopping at the side of the booth as he pauses to take in your appearance – a choice while allows you do to the exact same as something fond curls in your chest at the sight of him.

Surprisingly, Crane also seems to have made an effort.

More used to seeing him in his lab coat and simple shirts, the deep brown suit which hangs off his body is quite stunning, if a little outdated. A grey shirt, one you don’t recognise, sits below the suit jacket and the ensemble fills him out nicely as it takes the edges away from his gaunt frame.

“Hi.”

“Good evening.” Crane replies evenly, seating himself across from you as he unbuttons his jacket. “That’s quite the dress, little mouse.”

Pressing your elbows together to enhance the low dip of your cleavage, you don’t miss the way his eyes drop to enjoy the view before darting back up to your face.

“This old thing?” You smile, careful not to catch the edge of the brand-new dress on the wooden leg of the table. “I wasn’t sure how intense the dress code was. Your suit is lovely, by the way, makes you look very handsome.”

He shrugs the compliment off with ease, a disbelieving casualness that speaks to how rarely anyone much say something positive about him.

“It’s cold out there and I doubt my typical attire would be appreciated.”

“The lab coat?”

“I was thinking more about my costume and mask, witty girl. A touch too recognisable to allow for a nice meal.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed but enjoying the teasing quality of the simple conversation, you let it slide as your waiter appears by the side of the table.

“Some drinks for the table?”

“Large glass of house red.” Crane answers without missing a beat, his gaze settling on you as he continues. “And?”

“Vodka and lemonade, with a splash of blackcurrant.”

“Excellent. I’ll get those through for you.”

As the waiter departs, his polished back shoes tapping along the tiled flooring, you notice Crane watching you with a question lurking in his gaze.

“Yeah?”

“I just wasn’t expecting you to order a hard spirit.” He confesses with a deadpan tone. “I was expecting something more muted. Or sensible.”

“I like vodka.” Feeling defensive, you drop your elbows from the table. “Mixes with anything and doesn’t cloud my judgement as much as wine.”

A fact which makes the slightest smirk touch at his lips. “Why the need for a clear head? Are you nervous, little mouse?”

“No.” You lie, butterflies fluttering within your chest. “I’m just not much of a risk taker.”

At that, he can’t hide his disbelief as a scoff quickly fizzles into a doubtful stare. “Is that so? And what would you call agreeing to attend a dinner with a wanted madman? A person who has mistreated and abused your lovely body in the most carnal of ways?”

Smiling politely at the waiter, his sudden reappearance causing Crane to drop his point as he accepted his glass of wine without thanks, you take a short sip of your drink as you fix Crane with a teasing look.

“I call that a free dinner.”

“And what gave you the impression I was paying for this outing?”

“I seem to recall you coming into a substantial amount of money recently from a mutual friend of ours. I assumed that some of that money would benefit me in some way. Since, well, you know…”

Trailing off, you offer him a sweet smile and Crane is unable to hide the amusement which floods his features as he finds himself manipulated into agreeing.

“In that case,” he sipped from his wine, “I suppose that it would be the polite thing to do.”

x-x-x-x-x

After another two rounds of drinks and a dinner which was admittedly quite delicious, your decision to wash away the creamy carbonara which now sat warmly in your stomach with a lemon and raspberry cheesecake – the tartness of the dessert cutting across your tongue beautifully – was one which you couldn’t hide your pleasure at.

Humming away contentedly as you cut another small piece with your fork, you allowed Crane to continue with his discussion. Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was the comfort of such a tasty meal, but the reserved nature which Crane always revelled in had mellowed and with it came a great opportunity to ask questions which you had always been too nervous to.

“And which of the other costumed villains do you have the least amount of time for?”

It also turned out that Crane was quite the opinionated man when it came to his thoughts on others. A trait which you would have easily describes as ‘bitchy’ had it been applied to any other person.

“Joker is the least dependable to associate with but a necessity if one wishes to remain aware of the more dangerous plots occurring across the city.” Crane scowled, his spindly finger tapping his glass as a subtle flush sat high on his cheeks. “Dent fears me in a primal way and his fear manifests as aggression which makes any interaction a risk as he is very vocal in his desire to blow a hole in my chest with his magnum. Recent events have also placed Sionis low on my list.”

Pleased with that, you tilt your head and give him a small smile, ignoring the little voice in your head that was determined to remind you of his guilt in that manner. The restaurant around you was quiet with only a few other tables filled with various pairs and one small family tucked away in one of the corner booths. All people with their own lives and absolutely no awareness of the monster who sat amongst them nor the woman who he held within his grip.

“If you are finished, I will settle the bill and meet you by the front doors.”

Glancing down at the almost empty plate, you can’t face the last few bites and so you give him a quick nod, standing from your chair as you drain the last of your drink – the ice clinking against your teeth.

Moving to walk past him, you pause long enough to run your hand across his shoulder as your head drops to his cheek.

“Thank you for dinner.” You mutter, pressing a soft kiss against his jaw, the stubble there grating against your lips.

His response is a non-committal grunt and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you pull your jacket on and head towards the front door of the restaurant. Stepping out into the cold night, you shudder at the sudden chill as your eyes take in the surroundings.

Above you, the moon hangs against the blackened sky in a lovely crescent shape. The streets are dead, only a few shambling bodies of finished workers and drunks from the bar two blocks over stumbling their ways home. Feeling pleasantly warmed due to the vodka stirring your insides, it still isn’t enough to combat the cold air and you cross your arms to your chest since you are unable to do much about the chill accosting your bare legs.

Crane joins you quickly enough, the scent of red wine on his breath as he passes you closely. Curious as to how he plans to get you home, you voice your concerns.

“Are we getting a cab?”

Standing to his full height, Crane tilts his head down at you and his features are as stoic as ever but a slight playfulness seems to be touching at his eyes.

“On such a night? No. I think we can manage the short walk to the warehouse. It should take around ten minutes.”

Taking his arm within your own, a bold movement which causes him to cock a brow, you allow him to lead you on the correct path as you mutter beneath your breath.

“What was that, little mouse?”

Crane’s elbow digs into your side as he awaits an answer and you glance to the side as you meet his gaze head-on.

“Cheapskate.”

His response is a measured huff, somewhere between annoyance and amusement, but he doesn’t deny the claim as his long legs march across the sidewalk forcing you to keep pace.

It really is a beautiful night and your thoughts are jumbled as you walk in a companionable silence. Dinner had been lovely, not just the food, but to get to watch the infamous Scarecrow in a much more relaxed and intimate setting was interesting. He was as brash as ever, his twisted morality making his answers to questions honest and refreshing as much as they were, at times, concerning.

Even his body language was more relaxed as he wined and dined.

The tension which littered his every word and action appeared lessened, his lips quicker to quirk into genuine amusement as he enjoyed your discussions. Your life, much less interesting than his, had taken up less of your shared time as a wicked curiosity controlled your own tongue – forcing you to ask questions about a world you had no interest in visiting.

So lost in your own thoughts, when Crane eventually tugs at your arm to grab your attention it comes as a genuine shock and you gasp in surprise.

“I have been considering your denial that you engage in risk taking behaviours.” He says, his head twisting to either side as he examins the empty street around you both. “It interests me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Curious to why he had stopped, you follow his gaze to see the same emptiness filling the space. Apartments surround you, some with lights on and most without, and to your right is an alleyway which leads to the emergency fire exits of two separate apartment blocks.

“I think it’s a claim we need to further examine.” Thin hands shift to drop to your waist, snaking their way within your jacket to grip at your dress where it covers your hips. It’s a rough touch, one which makes your cheeks flush as you feel the air between you thicken as he stands before you, blocking out anything which isn’t him.

“You say that like I’m not walking back to your basement with you.” You counter, your own hands coming to a rest atop his forearms, fingers stroking along the thick material of his suit. “A place where i’ve been tied up and abused more times that I’d like to count.”

“I wasn’t thinking of waiting that long.”

In a flash of movement, his hands grow even tighter around your hips as he pulls you into the darkened alleyway to your right – the only illumination coming from the crescent moon which hangs in the sky and the neon flashing of a nearby pharmacy sign. So caught off guard by the sudden change of position, you issue a short yelp as his hands push you roughly against the wall, the harsh brick pressing against your back as his much larger body caged your own.

Anxiety clawing at your chest as your eyes struggle to accustom themselves to the darkness, Crane’s enveloping presence also sparks heat in your groin; your cunt clenching pitifully as warmth floods your lower stomach. His touch is always electric and here, in this filthy alleyway where anyone could be watching, it feels even more alive.

Bearing down against you, the scent of his cologne is strong and his leg moves to fill the space between your thighs. His groin hot against your hip, you can feel the growing hardness there as he assails you. Sighing as his hand rides up your dress, you spread your legs apart to allow him easier access as his fingers ghost across your thigh.

“Dr. Crane?” You interrupt, tone forcing itself to be as empty as his own, if a little strained as your heart flutters.

“Yes?”

“Your hand is up my dress.”

“And how does that make you feel, little mouse.” Playing the game, Crane’s piercing eyes pin you into place in a way his hands never could.

“It’s hot.” You groan, shifting your weight so that his hand is forced to move across your panties; the fabric there already feeling wet as he thumbs it lightly. “It makes me feel wanted, but I’m scared that we’ll get caught and someone will see us.”

“Scared, witty girl? Oh, I doubt that.” Crane chuckles, his voice low and dangerous. “We haven’t played with your true fears in too long. This here, what you are experiencing, is a mild anxiety nothing more, but I may have a cure.”

“A cure? What- oh.” Your question is killed off by the sudden pressure of his fingers as he slips them past your panties to sink two digits into your cunt, the flush of pleasure making your grip of his arms tighten as you press down on his hand.

“Responsive as ever.” He mutters, fingers gently curling within you as he pumps them slowly, taking his time to feel out every slight flutter and clench of your walls as he teases you. “I think that fucking a known supervillain in a filthy alleyway is a perfect method of exposure therapy to overcome that pesky anxiety.”

Shuddering into his chest as you press your head forward, your right hand trembles as it fumbles messily with his fly – desperate to please him as his fingers slipped free of your cunt to stroke smoothly along your slit.

It takes only a moment for you to free him, snaking his cock through the opened fly as it juts free proudly, the length twitching in your grasp as you match your movements to his own – the alcohol in your veins making you bold while your head spins.

He doesn’t make a sound but his lips part slightly as you stroke your hand across his length, its weight familiar and heavy in your palm as the velvety skin responds to your attention by growing stiffer with every passing moment. You both continue like this for a few minutes, the silence only punctuated by deep breaths and restrained grunts, your own control much less practised than Crane’s as you use his chest for support.

“The Scarecrow demands payment, witty girl. He had fed you, watered you, and allows you to walk safely through these evening shadows safely.” Growling the demand into your ear, his lips tickle your skin and you can’t help but give a childish giggle in response before gathering yourself as you tighten your grip on his cock.

“And what does he want from me?” You moan as Crane’s middle finger rubs delicately across the hood of your clit, gently stimulating the nub below. “I don’t have any money to offer him and I’m too weak and helpless to survive any of his wicked experiments.”

“Lies.” Crane accuses, breaking character for only a moment before regaining his composure. “But the Scarecrow has a different fate in store for you. You who spreads your legs so easily for a monster that you would let him fuck you in this decrepit alleyway if he asked.”

“God, yes, I would. Please-please ask him to fuck me.” You stutter out, rolling your thumb across the sensitive line between his cockhead and shaft – a motion which you know drives him wild.

It gets the desire result and your breath catches in your lungs as his hand pulls free of your panties to instead grip your shoulders, forcing you to turn around as face the wall as he maintains a rough presence against your back.

Flipped in position, the cool brick of the wall is rough against your face and you bring your forearm up to act as a barrier as you feel his hands pulling up the hem of your jacket and dress, exposing your underwear and ass to the night breeze.

“I’m going to fuck you right here and now, little mouse.” Fingers squeezing your ass roughly, Crane grinds the tip of his cock against your cunt as he croons the words into your ears. “And if anyone sees us then all they will see is the great Scarecrow and his willing mistress, a foolish little mouse who lets a monster use her for his own pleasure.”

His words going straight to your cunt, your thighs rub together for only a moment before being forced apart by his hand as he guides his cock to your aching hole.

His mistress.

His dear one.

Sentimental musings quickly put to bed as he wraps his arm around your waist, thin fingers delving within your cleavage to grope roughly at your left tit as he sinks his cock within you in one sharp thrust; your cunt so wet and willing that he meets almost no resistance as he buries himself fully.

Body aching with need, you meet his savage thrusts with enthusiasm, pushing your ass against him as he ruts within you – his thin body pressing against your back and making you feel every inch of his presence as he consumes you, inside and out. Groaning and mewling, the noises reverberate in the alleyway until Crane’s fingers press into your mouth, two digits pressing down on your tongue to mute you as much as possible.

His free hand also snakes its way around your body as his long limbs allow him to access the front of your sex, a cruel finger quickly resuming his torment of your clit as you buck and writhe against him.

Of the things that you liked about him, his quick study and commitment to retaining your every reaction is certainly up there and your legs feel unstable as he manipulates the sensitive hood and skin surrounding your clit without touching the nub itself.

Unable to speak due to the fingers in your mouth, you bite down on the digits roughly and bask in the pained growl which issues into your ear as he retracts them. He responds in kind though, his breath hot on your neck for a moment before blunted teeth sink into your skin in a rough bite, his tongue massaging the mark as you arch your back into him.

“Dr. Crane!” You moan, the words punctuated by a shuddering breath as his cock continues to glance off your cervix in a deliciously uncomfortable way. “Jonathan, please, I-”

“I think I like it when you say my first name, witty girl.” His groin flush against your ass as he remains buried to the hilt within you, Crane’s breathing was stilted and punctuated by soft pants of exertion. “I should hear you beg with it more often.”

A statement which makes your cunt spasm as the heat and merciless pressure of his cock finally snaps the tight band of arousal which had been steadily building within your groin, your release hitting with a guttural groan as you bury your mouth within your forearm to mask the sound. Pleasure cascades through you as your cunt is filled and pulses around him.

Determined to reach his own end, Crane revels in the way which your cunt wraps around his cock, every spasm and clench of your orgasm pulling him deeper as it milks him for what it’s worth. His hand, mercifully, drops from your clit and instead returns to your chest, his fingers pinching viciously at your nipple as he uses your body for leverage.

You recognise the tell-tale warnings of his release before it hits. His breathing grows even more erratic as his thrusts grow sloppier, hands increasing their grip as if to pin you in place and leave you unable to escape while he marks you as his own. With an animalistic grunt that almost matches your own, his mouth presses against your neck as he buries his cock as deeply as possible within you.

Heat floods your cunt as you realise that, in the whirlwind of the moment, neither of you had bothered with any protection and the realisation makes you groan as you feel the fullness of his release coating your walls. Your birth control would take care of any peskiness but the sensation of him filling you in such a primal way makes your cunt spasm anew as you grind against him.

It’s not until he pulls out a few moments later that you relax your body, almost falling backwards into him as you feel him tucking his softening cock away. Your jacket and dress are still ruched up around your waist but you’re content to remain like this as you feel him shift your panties back into position. His fingers brush your sensitive hole and you shudder in place as you feel the wet discomfort of your mixed release as it leaks free of you to quickly stain the fabric – your thighs feeling just as damp due to his earlier teasing.

Your head feels light as Crane spins you in place, twisting you so that your back is now pressing against the cool brick of the wall. His face is flushed, the sharp features mellowed by his satisfaction but his eyes remain as piercing as ever, the irises appearing darker due to the dilation of his pupils.

“You’re going to walk home like this.” Crane purrs, his hand cupping your sex through the panties, smearing the mess there further with his fingers. “As a reminder of who you belong to and just how far the Scarecrow will go to teach his little mouse how to overcome her petty anxieties.”

The sticky mess between your legs is uncomfortable but hot as hell and you nod dumbly in agreement, the inhibition of the vodka mixing with the recently-fucked bliss to make you painfully compliant as you keep a soft hold of his shoulders for balance.

His hand pulls free from under your dress and he quickly fixes the rest of the material for you, tugging at the base to even out the hemline before adjusting the neckline to ensure that your chest was covered. Letting him do as he wished, you instead focus your attention on his expression, drinking in the familiar haze which settles across his features when he’s also freshly fucked and clearly pleased.

“Thank you for dinner.” You hum out once again, voice sated and almost drowsy as you allow him to take the lead and link his arm within your own – his auburn hair in a state of disarray due to the breeze and the sweat which sits on his hairline. “It was nice.”

His head turns to you as he fixes you with an unreadable expression.

“Think nothing of it. I feel it was somewhat overdue and owed.” He comments, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the shiver which consumes your upper body at the chilly evening. With a smooth movement, his hands slip within his pockets to pull free a pair of thin, dark gloves; his fingers quick to pass them to you silently as he presses you to place them on.

Thankful for the small gesture, you smile up at him as your thighs stick together uncomfortably with every small step. You pull the gloves on, the material clearly too big for you but effective nonetheless as it kept the cold from your fingers.

In the frigid night, the moon hanging high against the bleak sky, you tuck your body as closely to Crane’s as you reasonably can as you seek out something unspoken which you doubt he is capable of giving. He allows it though, his arm linked within your own acting as an anchor more than anything but his thoughts are his own as he mindlessly leads the way back to his warehouse hideout.

Bringing your free hand to your chin, you inhale deeply and find satisfaction in the fact that the thin leather of the gloves holds a muskiness which you recognise as something uniquely him and you allow that small comfort to warm your thoughts as you ignore the pleasant ache and fatigue which makes your body feel heavier than it should.

Still, not the worst dinner you had ever sat through.

[mya-valentine]

Spark in the Wires

Synopsis: A shy, tech-savvy Support Course student constantly fixes Denki Kaminari’s fried gadgets after his quirk short-circuits them. Though she prefers solitude, Denki’s goofy charm and relentless optimism slowly break down her walls.

You sighed, rolling your chair back from the cluttered workbench as you surveyed the latest fried mess in front of you. A small puff of smoke curled from the ruined circuitry, and the unmistakable scent of burnt wires filled the air. Again.

“This is the third time this week,” you muttered under your breath, pushing up your glasses and rubbing your temples. “What does this guy do to his tech?”

You knew the answer, of course. Denki Kaminari had an unfortunate habit of overloading anything electronic within his reach. His quirk, Electrification, was both a gift and a curse—especially when it came to the various gadgets that were supposed to assist him in battle. The shock-absorbing wrist guards, the communication earpiece, even the prototype conductive gloves… none of them lasted long under his unpredictable bursts of voltage.

And yet, every time he came bounding into the Support Department, flashing that boyish grin and scratching the back of his head with an apologetic chuckle, you found yourself unable to turn him away.

You weren’t good at dealing with people. Your world revolved around technology, the hum of machinery, and the quiet solitude of working late into the night, tweaking and perfecting your designs. Socializing was… difficult. Words often got stuck in your throat, and you hated being the center of attention.

But Denki was different. He was loud, energetic, and impulsive—everything you were not. Yet, somehow, he never overwhelmed you. He had a way of easing into your space without making you feel uncomfortable, as if he belonged there, as if his chaotic energy could somehow find a way to mix with your quiet existence.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway pulled you from your thoughts. Speak of the devil.

“Y/N!” Denki’s voice echoed down the corridor, and within seconds, he burst through the door to your workshop, panting slightly. “I, uh… I did it again.”

You slowly turned in your chair, already expecting to see the telltale sparks flickering from his gauntlets. Sure enough, wisps of smoke curled from the wrist guards, and his fingers twitched slightly as if still feeling the aftershock.

You sighed, crossing your arms. “What happened this time?”

Denki gave you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sooo, I was testing out a new move, right? But I guess I kinda underestimated how much juice I was putting out, and… well… poof.” He made an explosion gesture with his hands. “I think I short-circuited everything again.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Kaminari…”

“I know, I know! I’m hopeless, right?” He chuckled, plopping down onto the stool across from your workbench. “But that’s why I’ve got you, my favorite tech genius! You always fix me up.”

You felt your face heat up at the unexpected compliment, and you quickly turned back to your tools, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

“I’m the only one willing to fix your stuff,” you corrected, though your voice lacked any real bite.

He leaned forward, resting his chin on the table as he watched you work. “Maybe. But I still think you’re amazing.”

Your hands faltered slightly as you reached for a screwdriver. You weren’t used to praise, especially from someone like him. It made your heart stutter in a way you didn’t quite understand.

Determined to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck, you focused on the task at hand. You carefully unscrewed the panel on his gauntlet, examining the damage. As expected, the internal wiring was fried beyond repair. You’d have to rebuild it from scratch.

“You really need to work on controlling your output,” you murmured, reaching for a replacement circuit board.

Denki huffed, sitting up. “Hey, it’s not that easy! My quirk isn’t exactly delicate, y’know?”

You gave him a sideways glance. “Then we’ll just have to find a way to make these more durable.”

His eyes lit up. “See? That’s why you’re the best! I knew you’d come up with something cool!”

You bit your lip, trying, and failing to suppress a small smile.

Over the next few weeks, Denki became a regular presence in your workshop. Whether or not he actually needed something fixed was debatable—sometimes, he just showed up to hang out, claiming he wanted to “supervise” your work.

At first, you found it distracting. Having someone so lively and talkative in your quiet space was unnerving. But as time went on, you realized something strange. You… didn’t mind his presence.

You even started looking forward to it.

He’d bring snacks, chatting about his training with Class 1-A, his latest shenanigans with his friends, or some ridiculous meme he’d found online. And, somehow, he always managed to make you laugh.

One evening, as you worked late on a new prototype, Denki was lounging on the couch in the corner of your workshop, absentmindedly tossing a screwdriver into the air and catching it.

“You know,” he mused, “I think you’re kinda like a secret superhero.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He grinned. “Think about it! You work behind the scenes, making all this awesome tech for us heroes. Without you, we’d be totally screwed. That’s pretty badass.”

Your face felt warm again. “I… I wouldn’t call myself a hero.”

Denki sat up, tilting his head. “Why not?”

You hesitated, fiddling with a wire between your fingers. “I guess… I just don’t see myself that way. I don’t fight villains or save people like you guys do.”

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “Hey, heroes aren’t just the ones on the front lines. Every great hero needs support. And you? You’re incredible. You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Your heart fluttered at the sincerity in his voice. You weren’t used to this—someone noticing you, someone seeing you.

Denki Kaminari was a storm of energy, unpredictable and wild, but he also had this uncanny ability to brighten even the darkest corners. And slowly, piece by piece, he was tearing down the walls you’d built around yourself.

You found yourself smiling—really smiling—as you turned back to your work.

“Thanks, Denki.”

His grin widened. “Anytime, Y/N.”

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel so alone.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[letmeborrow20dollars]

The Nightingale, Prologue

description: In 2012, after the Chitauri attack on New York, Tony Stark and Bruce Banner get a call from Nick Fury. SHIELD has uncovered a forgotten HYDRA base chock-full of security measures, encrypted files, and of course, a cryo-pod. When the subject is taken out of cryo-suspension, they come to the realization that this super soldier isn't so foreign after all. Grace Rogers, sister of Steve Rogers, has been held captive by HYDRA and used alongside the Winter Soldier for years (but they don't know all those details yet).

In the 1940s, Grace Rogers, a Brooklyn nurse, is attempting to ignore the tension between her and her brother's best friend, Bucky Barnes. When they finally give in, Grace's happiness is fleeting as she navigates joining the frontlines as a medic, losing loved ones, an affair rooted in vulnerable desperation, and grueling torture after she is kidnapped by HYDRA while on a covert mission.

Grace, brainwashed by HYDRA, becomes the Nightingale, a weapons developer and the brains behind all of the Winter Soldier's missions, all the while not remembering that her now literal partner in crime is her presumed dead fiancée.

a/n: I have been crafting this in my head since I started watching Marvel like 8 years ago...and no, it's not the most original, but it is very detailed, pretty close to canon (aside from the OC part), and fleshed out. I hope you enjoy Grace as much as I do!

read on ao3 here

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower

Alone in his lab, Tony Stark stood over his red and gold Iron Man suit, tinkering with the battered motherboard and quietly muttering to himself. During the recent Chitauri attack and Tony’s subsequent missile-fueled trip through an interdimensional portal, his suit had taken damages that required a complete revamp and recalibration of the electronic system. With ACDC blasting, he didn’t notice Pepper standing in the doorway until her voice cut through the noise. Or, rather, he pretended not to notice.

“Tony,” she called, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. She waited a beat, then glanced at the man standing on her left.

“Stark,” SHIELD Director Nick Fury growled, almost shouting over the music.

Tony cursed to himself. He could already feel the migraine building at the base of his skull. “Can’t hear you,” Tony shot back, imploring Nick and Pepper to leave him be. “Busy.”

“JARVIS, cut the music,” Pepper said, louder this time. The music died abruptly, allowing silence to fill Stark’s lab, with the only audible noise now being the electricity of the suit cracking beneath Tony’s mechanical manipulation. “Tony.”

Tony sighed and lifted his safety goggles onto his forehead. He blinked, attempting to allow his eyes to adjust to the harsh LED lab lights. “What, Fury? If this is another lecture about the ‘collateral damage’ from the New York invasion, save it. I’m already funding the clean-up.”

Nick walked down the steps, his expression unchanged as his boots thudded across the floor until he was eye-to-eye with Tony across the workbench.. “This isn’t about the invasion. It’s about what we found.” Tony cocked an eyebrow. “SHIELD has been doing some…reconnaissance after the attack on New York, trying to figure out if there are any entities that may pose a threat domestically. You know, before we refocus on our intergalactic visitors.”

“If you’re trying to suggest that I’m a threat, you can save it, Fury. I explained to the military the parameters of my suit when I first came forward with–”

Nick held up a hand. “No, Stark, come on. You really think I would come in here and…it’s not important. What’s important is the HYDRA base we found. An old HYDRA base in the Caucasus Mountain Range. Heavily fortified, sealed files, encrypted systems we haven’t seen since the Cold War.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Let me guess – you want me to crack some codes? Maybe you need a few fancy gadgets to help your guys storm the place?”

“Not exactly.” Fury leaned in, narrowing his eyes. “Inside that base, we found a single cryo-pod. All that security, all those reinforced walls, for one frozen asset.”

Tony scoffed, his mind flicking back to the image of Steve Rogers, a living star-spangled relic from another era. “Great. And you want me to play Dr. Frankenstein?” Tony started to move his lab goggles back down over his eyes. “Come on. We don’t need to do this again. Just let it be, keep the thing on ice.”

Fury’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a request, Stark. Banner’s on the Quinjet, already prepped. I want you up there and ready to go in fifteen. We need to know what – or who – HYDRA thought was worth protecting this much.”

Tony met Fury’s one-eyed stare, the two men locked in a silent standoff for a beat longer than necessary.

“Fine,” Tony said, breaking his stare and pushing off the workbench.

With that, Fury turned and strode back up the steps, his coat snapping behind him like a war banner. Pepper lingered a moment longer, her eyes catching Tony’s. He gave her a quick, reassuring nod, and she turned to follow Fury out of the lab and back upstairs, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floors.

Tony glanced back at his damaged suit, his jaw clenching. Wonderful. Can’t wait.

October 20, 1936: Brooklyn

“Thank you,” spoke Steve Rogers, just eighteen and still painfully thin despite the layers of his late father’s old black suit, stood stiffly at the front of the church, his hands clenched at his sides as he forced a tight, strained smile. His eyes were bloodshot and hollow as he forced himself to nod and murmur his thanks to each passing mourner.

Beside him, his sixteen-year-old sister, Grace, stood in an old black dress, the too-large sleeves swallowing her whole. The dress had been their mother’s, as well as the old wool shawl draped over Grace’s hunched shoulders. She stared down at her scuffed Mary Jane shoes, also hand me downs from her mother. Grace forced herself to look up intermittently and accept a hug from each random stranger attempting to remind Grace how her mother would be proud of her.

“Thank you,” Steve uttered, his voice hoarse as he forced himself to meet the tired, sympathetic eyes of the gray-haired woman passing by. “Thank you for coming. It... it means a lot.”

The woman offered a faint smile as she reached out to squeeze Steve’s hand. “She was a good woman,” the woman whispered. Grace wanted to roll her eyes at all of her mother’s mourners. Funerals were nothing more than a chance for people to prove just how caring and neighborly they were. None of these people showed Sarah, Grace’s mom, the same kindness for more than a week after their dad died during the first World War.

Steve, who was now not only the man of the house, but Grace’s only protector, forced himself to swallow the lump rising in his throat. He took a shuddering breath as he noticed Grace crossing her arms stubbornly. He forced himself to stand a little taller, if that was possible, his shoulders squared as the next mourner approached.

“Thank you,” he whispered again, his voice coming out low and broken as his eyes flicked to the thin, trembling form of his sister beside him, her glassy eyes still locked on the dirty floor beneath her feet. “Thank you for coming.”

Grace flinched at the sound of his voice each time until the church emptied out. The overcast sky had turned to a fine, misty drizzle by the time the siblings turned onto the uneven sidewalk leading back to their small Brooklyn apartment.

Steve walked a half-step ahead of his sister, his shaky hands shoved deep into the pockets of his too-large black overcoat, his shoulders hunched.

Beside him, Grace walked with her head down, her dark hair falling in curls over her too-pale cheeks, her own shaky hands clutching tightly at the frayed edges of her mother’s shawl, almost pulling herself into a hug, as if it was her mother instead of the shawl wrapped around her. Around her neck was a silver heart locket. Also from their mother. Grace wanted to have the heirloom piece buried with their mother, but Steve begged her to keep it, stating that she would regret it if she didn’t. She knew he was right.

Steve didn’t look at her, his eyes fixed on the wet pavement. He could hear the almost silent gasps that slipped past her cracked lips as her chest heaved with every step.

He knew she was crying.

He could hear it in her hitching breath and small sniffles. He could see it out of the corner of his eye in the way she kept clutching tighter at the shawl, almost white-knuckling the fraying threads as she refused to look up beyond her own two feet.

But he didn’t say anything.

Grace was too stubborn to cry in front of him. She always had been. Even as a little girl, she had hated the thought of being seen as weak, especially because she didn’t want her brother — her frail, always-sick brother — to see through the cracks in her carefully-constructed emotional armor. 

So Steve pretended not to notice. He forced himself to keep walking, his breath coming in short bursts, reminding him that he needed to pick up some more ephedrine for his asthma.

They reached the narrow brick building that housed their two-bedroom apartment just as the rain began to pick up again, the heavy droplets splattering against the pavement and filling the empty streets with a percussive echo.

Steve fumbled for his keys as he forced himself to keep his head down. He unlocked the creaking door and stepped aside to let Grace slip past and fumble for the light switch as Steve kicked the door shut behind them.

Grace had shed her shawl and was now sitting on the old couch in the living room, methodically folding the shawl and placing it in her lap. Steve shrugged out of his own coat and silently moved to the kitchen to fumble with the old stove, then to fill the dented tea kettle with cold tap water. 

Steve reached for two chipped, mismatched mugs that cluttered the shelf above the sink. Grace pretended not to notice Steve periodically turning around and checking on her, each time giving her a half-smile, half-frown.

The tea kettle whistled, and neither of the siblings spoke as Steve absentmindedly mixed two mugs of dime-store hot chocolate with the water. The last time they had shared watered-down hot chocolate must have been three or four winters ago, but it felt right for the moment. Steve shuffled into the living room and handed his sister a mug, the less-watery mug of drink.

Steve reached for the dial of the battered radio before sitting down next to his sister, who was now clutching the shawl to her chest in between sips of hot chocolate. The radio crackled as quiet, slow jazz filled the apartment. Grace still wasn’t looking at Steve, but she leaned against his shoulder, her closing her eyes.

Neither of them spoke. They just sat there, side by side on the overstuffed couch unmoving, until Steve noticed his sister had slipped into a slumber, probably the first time since their mother’s death. He was tired and wanted to move her to her bed, but he wanted to make sure she was able to rest uninterrupted. So he stayed there.

That is, until the front door slowly creaked open. Steve looked up to see Bucky Barnes, his best friend, slowly make his way into the apartment, still dressed in black from the funeral, where he had been the first guest to arrive and last guest to leave.

“I figured you might need someone to relieve you from big-brother duties,” Bucky spoke softly, gesturing to the sleeping Grace, who was still gripping her mother’s shawl.

“It’s fine, Buck, she’s just sleeping,” Steve whispered.

“Yeah, well, you like you could use some of the same thing. No offense,” Bucky said, offering Steve a half-smile. Steve opened his mouth to protest against his friend’s offer, but Bucky beat him to it. “I’ll make sure she’s alright. Go.”

Steve nodded, and slowly let his sister fall into a sleeping position on the couch. Bucky placed a thin quilt over Grace and softly took the shawl from her hands before smoothing it out and placing it on the kitchen table, right next to where one of the many bouquets of sympathy flowers was resting. 

Steve looked back at his sister, who was still asleep on the couch, and Bucky, who was turning down the radio and finding a spot on the ratted recliner in the corner, before heading to his own room to sleep off the heaviness of the day.

August 16, 2012: The Quinjet

The Quinjet’s engines hummed steadily, cutting through the frigid air as it approached the snow-covered peaks of the Caucasus Mountains. 

Within moments of touching down on the snowy ground, the hatch to the back of the jet was opening with a hiss. Tony Stark followed Bruce Banner and Nick Fury, who were exchanging hurried questions and comments about the state of the base.

Inside, Tony found himself leaning against the metal frame of the makeshift lab set up in the cargo hold, his eyes darting between screens displaying HYDRA’s old base schematics and the cryogenic containment unit strapped down in the center of the bay. The reinforced glass chamber was engulfed in layers of steel restraints and plastered with biometric locks.

Banner stood across from him, his gaze fixed on the manilla folder in his hands, rapidly thumbing through the translated HYDRA documents Nick had handed him back on the jet. His dark brows furrowed as he digested the top-secret Soviet information.

“HYDRA pulled out all the stops for this one,” Bruce muttered to himself, pausing to adjust his glasses before looking up at Tony. “These are encrypted files dating back to the 1940s. Whatever – or whoever – this is, it’s not your run-of-the-mill science experiment.”

Tony crossed his arms, eyes locked on the dark cryo-pod. “I’m starting to get the feeling we just signed up to open Pandora’s freezer.”

Bruce huffed a small, humorless chuckle while attempting to show Tony the files. “It’s more than that. HYDRA didn’t just freeze this person – they built this fortress specifically to keep this asset hidden away. The amount of redundant security protocols, environmental stabilizers, and suspension systems… it’s overkill, even for them.”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose before glancing back to the pod. The silver casing was covered in thick, frost-covered glass, with the faint outline of a human figure barely visible through the layers of ice and condensation. “So what are you saying, Banner?”

Bruce hesitated as he threw aside the file folder. “I’m saying that whatever’s in there is important enough that HYDRA didn’t just want to keep it frozen or locked away – they wanted to keep it forgotten.”

Before Tony could respond, the Quinjet's door whipped open once more, and Nick Fury stepped into the cargo hold. He glanced at the pod, his one good eye narrowing as he took in the layers of reinforced metal and ice.

“Tell me something good,” Fury barked, folding his arms as he came to stand beside the two scientists.

Bruce adjusted his glasses, now swiping on a tablet to pull up live biometrics of the cryo-suspended subject. “Vitals are stable. Whoever’s in there is in deep cryogenic stasis – no signs of cellular degradation or neurological damage. But there are some certain…irregularities.”

Fury cocked an eyebrow. “Irregularities?”

Bruce hesitated, glancing at Tony before continuing. “The brain scans are off the charts. This subject’s neural activity levels are more intense than anything I’ve seen before, even compared to Rogers. Whatever HYDRA did to this person, they pushed the boundaries of human cognition and memory storage.”

Tony snorted, forcing a smirk. “Great. So we’re defrosting a genius. Just what I needed – another overachiever trying to one-up me in the lab.”

Fury either ignored or missed Tony’s smart-ass comment, his eye still locked on the frost encasing the pod. “I want both of you ready to contain this situation if it goes sideways. Whatever is locked in there has been kept hidden away for a reason.”

Tony felt his arc reactor hum a little louder against his chest, almost as if it had noticed the creeping sense of unease taking over Tony’s body. He tried to ignore the tightening in his chest as he glanced back at the pod, catching a brief glimpse of the curled figure encased in the ice.

“Alright,” Tony said, forcing his voice into a casual tone as he tapped his arc reactor, the cool, blue light reflecting off the glass. “Let’s crack this thing open.”

April 5, 1937: Fulton Street Diner

“I’ll be back in ten, Myra!” Grace called as she ducked out the back door of Fulton Street Diner, eager for a break.

The hinges groaned in protest as the humid spring air swept over her face, not helping with the thin layer of sweat that was already building on her forehead. She fumbled for the crumpled, half-empty pack of cigarettes jammed into the pocket of her too-large apron, finally feeling the burns on her fingers from her less-than-cautious handling of hotcakes. Grace stood beneath the buzzing alleyway light, its intermittent flickering giving her a headache.

That’s at least what she wanted to attribute her headache to. It could be from the light. Or it could be the three-page essay, two arithmetic sets, and chemistry diagram drawing that Grace had waiting for her when she got home. Or it could be the rent that was due in six days and the fact that Steve’s health issues led to him being let go from yet another factory job. Or it could be the itchy stockings she had been wearing since she got ready for school this morning. Grace would like to think it was just the stockings. 

Grace pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack, and she placed the stick between her teeth while she fumbled with the tiny, dented metal lighter she had swiped from the lost-and-found bin behind the counter. She cupped one hand around the flame as she inhaled, allowing the bitter, stale smoke to fill her lungs and settle in the pit of her empty stomach.

Grace closed her eyes as she exhaled the smoke in a slow, even stream.

The faint, muffled strains of The Mills Brothers drifted from the battered radio behind the diner counter and could be heard through the walls as she took another drag, her head tipping back as she forced herself to relax.

“Didn’t know you were a smoker, Rogers.”

Grace’s eyes snapped open, her pulse spiking as the deep voice pulled her from her moment of peace. She fumbled with the cigarette, nearly dropping it as she attempted to hide it behind her back. She locked eyes with the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing in the middle of the alley, his soft, blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he stepped closer with a smile plastered on his face.

Bucky Barnes crossed his arms over his broad chest, one eyebrow arched in amused disbelief.

Grace ignored this as she took another deliberate drag. 

“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” he teased. “Aren’t you supposed to be saving up for new shoes?” He playfully nudged her worn shoes with his own boots. “You’re wasting your money getting smokes instead.”

Grace rolled her eyes as she forced herself to stand a little taller. “Oh, give it a rest, Barnes,” she muttered. He was going to tell Steve, and then she would get another lecture, but she didn’t think there was anything wrong with her having a small moment of reprieve during the day. “You’re not my dad.”

Bucky chuckled, his head tipping back as he leaned against the brick wall beside her. “Yeah, well,” he shot back, “I’m pretty sure your dad wouldn’t want you wasting your hard-earned tips on a bad habit.”

Grace snorted. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, her voice coming out low as she exhaled another thin stream of smoke into the humid aid between them. “My dad’s not around to say anything about it, is he?”

Bucky’s smirk faltered briefly as he looked away for a moment.

“Yeah,” he murmured, as he plucked a cigarette from Grace’s pack. “Guess not.”

Grace’s eyes widened as she watched Bucky tuck the cigarette between his own lips, his eyes flicking to the dented metal lighter clutched in her hand. She hesitated for a moment as Bucky leaned in. She flicked open the lighter for her friend as Bucky took a drag, lighting the end of his own cigarette.

His broad shoulders relaxed as he exhaled, tipping his head to the side. “We’re not telling Steve about this,” he said, smirking around the cigarette resting between his teeth. “He’d have both our heads.”

Grace let out a huff of laughter, resigning herself against the brick wall again. “Fine. But you owe me a pack.”

August 16, 2012: Undisclosed Region in the Caucasus

The heavy steel doors of the cryo-chamber groaned as they slid open, thick layers of frosty fog emitting from the protected core. The pod’s core was a monstrous thing in and of itself – six inches of reinforced glass, thick metal clamps bolted to the floor, and biometric locks glowing faintly through the icy fog.

“Alright, let’s see what HYDRA thought was worth all this security,” Tony muttered, his fingers flying over the glass screen as he initiated the defrost sequence. The pod’s hidden mechanisms whirred, thin jets of steam escaping as the internal temperature slowly began to rise.

Bruce stepped closer. “Vitals are stable,” he spoke, eyes cautiously monitoring the pod. “Core temperature is rising. We should have a visual in a few minutes.”

The glass slowly began to clear, the thick layer of frost cracking and melting into thin paths of water trickling down the curved surface. Tony’s eyes narrowed as the faint outline of a human figure began to take shape – small, slender, and curled into a fetal position with wrists and ankles bound. Dark, curly hair floated in icy strands around a pale, hollow face.

Tony took a sharp step back. Bruce stepped forward. The figure came into full view – a young woman with her eyes closed, her lips tinged blue, and her fingers clenched into tight fists. A weathered red star could be seen on the left sleeve of her otherwise all-black uniform.

“This is who all the security was for?” Tony muttered, that sense of unease climbing again. “A 20-something-year-old girl?”

Bruce’s brow furrowed as he leaned in closer, trying to make sense of the faint readings flickering across the control panel. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Tony’s jaw clenched, his eyes flicking back to the girl’s face, her dark lashes resting against her pale cheeks. “Okay…okay,” he mumbled, thinking of any explanation. “The neural activity readings. She had to have been some kind of test subject…but this isn’t what they did to Rogers.”

Bruce shook his head. “No. It’s more than just physical enhancement. Her brain activity is…I don’t know…But why keep her here, tied-up, frozen, and locked away?”

A few feet away, Fury furrowed his brows as he watched over the scene. He shook his head slowly as he, along with the two scientists, realized that the cryo-pod’s inhabitant was someone who looked no more than six or seven years out of high school. 

Fury took a slow, measured step closer to the pod, his one good eye narrowing as he leaned in. The stabilization of the girls’ body temperature allowed her muscles to relax, and her head lolled to the side, giving them a better view of her face, but only Nick seemed keen on paying attention to this aspect of the girl.

For a moment, Fury’s breath caught in his throat, his mind flicking back to the small folder holding the information of SHIELD personnel that worked on Project Rebirth – the project responsible for the creation of Steve Rogers. He remembered one of the old, grainy photographs – a young woman, dark-haired and wide-eyed, standing with her arm around a pre-serum Steve Rogers. He remembered it so vividly because it was the same photo the Smithsonian had used for her memorial in the Captain America Exhibit.

Grace Rogers.

The name whispered through his mind like a ghost as he took a deep breath, but before he could fully process the thought, the girl’s head twitched, and her lips parted in a faint, almost imperceptible sound that was muffled by the thick glass.

Bruce stiffened, his eyes widening as the girl’s head jerked to the side again, her chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths as she slowly started pawing at her restraints.

“Tony,” Bruce whispered. “She’s… she’s trying to say something.”

Tony’s jaw tightened, and he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears as a choked sob escaped the girl’s mouth.

As the last of the cryo-fluid drained from the machine, the girl’s eyes suddenly flew open wide with fear and darted around the room as she thrashed against the restraints. A guttural, animalistic scream tore from her throat.

“Jesus,” Bruce whispered, his own pulse racing as he stumbled back a step.

Tony felt his fingers tighten around the edge of the control panel, his mind racing as the girl’s scream echoed through the frigid, sterile chamber, her limbs still straining against the steel-lined restraints.

Fury took another slow, steadying breath, his good eye locked on the girl’s terrified expression.

He didn’t say it, but he knew. He knew exactly who she was. He knew he would pretend to not be sure about this "theory". Most importantly, he knew that Steve Rogers had no idea his little sister was alive.

June 28, 1938: James Madison High School, Brooklyn, NY

The crowd in the small, stuffy high school gymnasium had already begun to thin by the time Grace finally made her way down the narrow, creaking wooden steps at the side of the makeshift graduation stage. Grace forced herself to stand a little taller, her jaw clenched and her head held high as she scanned the small crowd for the familiar, too-thin, too-pale figure of her older brother.

She spotted Steve first, with his narrow, hunched shoulders standing out against the rest of the mass. He was still clutching his cap to his chest, and his bright eyes were shining with pride as he pushed his way through the crowd.

Following behind him, Bucky towered over the rest of the crowd and looked just as proud as Steve.

The siblings met in the middle of the gymnasium in a hug, and Bucky joined in, easily enveloping both of the Rogers.

“You did it,” Steve spoke, his voice shaking with the force of his barely-contained pride. “I’m... I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Steve,” she said as Bucky released his hug. “I...I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, you two,” Bucky interjected, pulling Grace’s graduation cap off of her head and clutching it to his chest in feigned dramatics. “You know I can’t handle the waterworks.”

Grace let out a hearty laugh. “Shut up, Bucky,” she muttered. “I’m not crying.”

Bucky offered Grace a faint, crooked grin. “Alright, alright,” he teased as he clapped Steve on the back. “Let’s not turn this into a sob fest. We’re supposed to be celebrating, remember?”

Grace smiled back. “Celebrating?” she asked, her head tipped to the side in a rare, defiant gesture of pride. “On whose money?”

“I might have a few nickels to spare,” he shot back. “And besides, I still owe you one, right? Consider it a graduation present.”

Steve let out a faint chuckle as Bucky squeezed his shoulder. “You just don’t want her holding it over your head the next time you drag us out to Coney Island,” Steve warned his friend, smirking.

Bucky just grinned. “You know me too well, Rogers, and Gracie here, too,” he muttered, poking the girl in the side.

Grace rolled her eyes at the nickname. “Barnes, how many times have I told you not to call me–”

“Oh, hey,” Steve whispered, cutting her off. “Isn’t that Amos? The kid from your English class? The one who used to walk you home after study hall?”

Grace froze in place as a slow, burning blush crept up the back of her neck.

“Oh, shut up, Steve,” she muttered while attempting to turn around and spot the boy her brother was talking about. “He was just being nice.”

Bucky snorted. “Nice?” he teased. “Kid was practically drooling every time you walked past him in the hallway.”

Grace’s eyes went wide with embarrassment as she turned back around, locking onto Bucky’s amused face as a fresh wave of heat flooded her cheeks. “Enough, Buck,” she muttered.

Steve just smirked as he leaned in and said, “Well, it looks like he’s coming over here to say hi.”

Grace’s breath hitched in her throat as she turned and locked eyes with a brown-haired boy who was, in fact, walking towards her. Behind her, Bucky and Steve shared a knowing grin. 

“Hey, Grace,” Amos spoke, offering Grace a toothy grin. “I... I just wanted to say congratulations on making valedictorian. You... you really deserve it.”

Grace felt her cheeks flush even darker, and she hoped no one noticed her trying to smile through her nervousness. Amos and her had been in class together for years, and she was always helping him finish homework, especially during baseball season.

“Thanks, Amos,” she said, swaying on her heels. “That... that means a lot.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we can go to the pictures together sometime now that you don’t have all that schoolwork,” the boy propositioned, to which Grace eagerly (almost too eagerly) nodded her head. “Okay, swell…I’ll see you around, Grace.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, Steve and Bucky burst into barely-contained snickers, much to Grace’s dismay. 

“Can it!” Grace playfully shoved the boys, who were now making kissy noises. “Both of you.”

August 16, 2012: Undisclosed Region in the Caucasus

The air in the hold felt colder than ever as the girl in the pod thrashed violently against her restraints, her eyes scanning the room, her chest heaving with panicked breaths. Her fingers clawed at the air, and her nails scraped against the now cracked glass as guttural screams tore from her throat.

“Jesus,” Tony muttered, stumbling back as the girl’s head snapped, her fear-stricken eyes locking onto him for a single beat.

Bruce flinched and silently slowed his irregular breathing in an attempt to avoid turning into the other guy; the girl’s screams echoed through the chamber, her limbs straining against the restraints as she twisted and writhed, her head jerking back and forth like a cornered, rabid animal.

“Get the sedative,” Tony barked. “Now!”

Bruce lunged for the medical kit on the workbench, his fingers fumbling with the latch as the girl let out another almost inhuman scream, her muscles locking up as her eyes rolled back in her head and her fingers curling into fists. With one swift motion, she snapped her hands free of the restraints binding her wrists and took a swing at the glass, the only thing between her and the panicked scientists.

The girl’s head snapped back again as she cocked her arm to give another blow. Her voice cracked as she let out a stream of harsh, guttural Russian. The glass started to form cracks as she had now broken free from the restraints binding her ankles and was attempting to kick her way out.

“Пожалуйста, нет!” (Please, no!) she gasped, her eyes darting around the cramped chamber as if searching for some hidden enemy in the shadows. “Я не вернусь!” (I will not go back!)

She shattered the front panel of glass as Bruce handed Tony the tranquilizer. “Damn it,” Tony muttered, his heart pounding as he took another cautious step forward, wary of seeming threatening as he struggled to figure out how to reach her. “Just hold still, sweetheart.”

With a quick, desperate lunge, Tony jabbed the needle into the girl’s neck, just in time for him to avoid facing her rage. His thumb pressed down hard on the plunger as the clear liquid flooded her body. The girl’s head fell, her muscles locking up as her eyes rolled back in her head, and as Tony lowered her to the ground, she looked at him with pleading eyes as a single tear fell down her cheek.

For a single moment, the room fell silent, with the only sound being the faint, echoing click of the syringe falling to the metal floor.

“Jesus,” Bruce whispered, his own pulse racing as he ran his hands through his hair and stepped closer to Tony and the now-unconscious girl. “What the hell did they do to her?”

Before Tony could respond, Nick slammed on the door to the cargo hold, opening the makeshift lab up to the freezing air.

“Get her on the Quinjet,” Fury snapped, his voice sharp and commanding as he stepped over the shattered glass of the syringe. “Now. Before she wakes up again.”

Bruce stumbled to gather their materials as Tony hoisted the girl’s limp body onto the nearby stretcher, her dark hair falling in tangled, sweat-soaked curls.

They rushed her down the ice-covered corridor and out onto the snow-covered landing pad where the Quinjet waited, its engines already whining in the thin, frigid air.

As they loaded the girl on the jet, securing her wrists and ankles with metal restraints once more, Fury stepped up beside them, reaching for his radio.

As the Quinjet roared into the air, Fury turned to Tony and Bruce, his jaw set, his voice grim. “I have a theory,” he muttered, his one good eye glancing back at the girl. “But I need you two to confirm it before we bring Rogers into this.”

Tony felt his stomach twist, a prickling sensation creeping down the back of his neck. “What theory?”

Fury hesitated. “Her appearance matches Grace Rogers – Steve’s sister. She was declared MIA not too long after Rogers went into the ice, but they never found a body, and SHIELD’s records on her always seemed a little too…convenient.”

Bruce felt his blood run cold, his eyes pausing on the girl��s limp form as his mind raced to process the implications of what Fury had just said. “Wait, you’re saying this is…?”

Fury met Bruce’s perplexed gaze. “I’m saying that if I’m right, we just found Steve Rogers’ little sister – and she’s been in HYDRA’s hands for the better part of seventy years.”

May 10, 1940: Brooklyn, NY

The cramped, cluttered apartment was dark and silent for the first time in a while. Grace assumed that Steve was out somewhere with Bucky, which allowed her to have a moment to just breathe without having to mind someone else any attention. She stood hunched over the chipped countertop and placed her medical bag down as she took a slow breath. 

The long, grueling shift at the hospital had left her exhausted and achy, her eyes stinging with the strain of too many hours spent awake. Thanks to the program offered by the Kings County Hospital, she was going to be able to follow in her mother’s footsteps as a nurse. And all it took was three years of long, grueling hours and emotionally taxing on-the-job experiences. Almost two years in and she was starting to realize why her mother slept all the time.

The sharp, metallic clang of a fist pounding against the apartment door sent a jolt of panic through her body, and she whipped around as the faint stench of whiskey drifted in through the cracked door frame.

“Grace!” came the low, slurred voice from the hallway, with a bitter anger lacing the shout. “Grace, I know you’re in there! Open the damn door!”

Grace’s breath hitched in her throat, her fingers clenching into tight, white-knuckled fists where there were permanent marks in her palms from her fingernails. She debated ignoring her high school boyfriend’ angry calls to open the door, but she knew he wouldn’t leave until he had seen her.

“Grace!” he snarled, his voice low as he shook the door handle with force. “Open the damn door! I know you’re in there!”

Grace hesitated for just a moment, and then, without thinking, she reached for the door handle and opened it with a smile, attempting to discourage Amos from getting any more upset than he already was.

Amos swayed into the apartment clutching a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey in one hand, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Grace’s face as he let out a sharp, bitter bark of laughter.

“There you are,” he slurred, his voice low. “My sweet, little Grace. Too good to come see me after work, huh? Too busy patching up little kids and their ouchies to bother with your own boyfriend?”

Grace’s jaw tightened as she instinctively stepped back. “Amos,” she whispered. “You’re drunk. You need to leave.”

Amos’s gaze narrowed, his fingers gripping hard around the neck of the whiskey bottle as he took another stumbling step toward her.

“Oh, I need to leave?” he snarled, his voice coated with bitterness as he reached for her. He clamped around her wrist with a bone-crushing force. “I’m not going anywhere, Grace. You’re not gonna just walk away from me. You hear me?”

Before she could react, his free hand shot out, the back of his calloused, whiskey-slick knuckles crashing against her cheek with a sharp sting that sent a wave of white-hot pain shooting up the side of her head. Grace wobbled back, crashing against the edge of the kitchen counter as her eyes filled with tears.

It had become a routine since Amos was fired from his carpentry job nearly five months ago.

“Amos,” she choked. “Please...stop.”

Amos let out another sharp, bitter bark of laughter, his eyes narrowing with a violent spark of anger as he reached for her again, clamping down around her shoulders as he shoved her back against the counter.

The sound of the apartment door swinging open behind them sent a fresh wave of panic racing through Grace’s chest, her glassy eyes snapping open as the too-familiar sound of Steve’s footsteps echoed through the living room.

“Grace?” Steve called, his voice panicked as he rushed into the kitchen, his face going slack with shock as he locked eyes with his sister, her frame still pinned against the kitchen counter by Amos’s rough hands. “Grace, what...what the hell is going on?”

Before Grace could react, Bucky shoved past Steve, tearing through the apartment as he grabbed Amos by the collar and yanked him away from Grace, his fingers clenched into white-knuckled fists as he shoved the smaller boy back against the wall behind them.

“Get your hands off her,” Bucky snarled, his voice dangerous as he gripped Amos' throat. “Or I swear, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

Grace stumbled away from the kitchen counter, not daring to look away from Amos and Bucky.

Amos let out a choked whimper, his eyes switching nervously between Bucky’s furious face and Grace’s frazzled expression as he tried to wrench himself free of Bucky’s iron grip.

“Bucky,” Grace whispered as she reached up to brush a trembling hand over her stinging cheek, a fresh wave of shame and fear crashing down. “Let him go.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched his eyes still locked on Amos’s. For a moment, no one moved.

Then, with a low growl, Bucky released his grip on Amos’s throat, shoving the smaller boy back against the wall.

“Get out,” Bucky snarled. “Get out, and don’t come back. You ever touch her again, and I’ll make you regret it.”

Amos let out a faint choking noise as he scrambled to his feet. He stumbled toward the open apartment door, too shocked to look at Grace. The apartment door slammed shut behind him and the faint sound of his unsteady footsteps faded into the hallway.

Finally, Steve stepped forward, his face still flushed with anger as he reached for his sister.

“What the hell were you thinking, Grace?” he snapped. “You’re smarter than this. You should have more self-worth than to let someone treat you like that.”

Grace’s eyes filled with tears as a new blush, a blush of embarrassment, taking over her face.

“I know,” she whispered. “I know, Steve. I know.”

Bucky glanced at Grace's downcast face as he took a slow, deliberate step toward her. “Steve,” he muttered, shooting his friend a sharp warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Steve’s head snapped up. “Take it easy?” he spat. “She let him into our home. She let him hurt her for God knows how long.”

Grace’s breath hitched in her throat. “Fine,” she choked as she shoved her way past her brother. “Fine. You want me to go? I’ll go.”

The apartment door slammed shut behind her as Bucky shot Steve a disapproving glare. “Real nice, Steve,” he muttered, his voice bitter. “Real nice.”

Bucky knew where she would go. The narrow, dimly-lit alley behind the diner she worked at in high school.

He found Grace leaning back against the brick wall, her eyes closed as she inhaled from a cigarette, just as he had seen her many times before.

The soft noise of footsteps on the pavement behind her sent a panic through Grace as she whipped her head around to see Bucky stepping into the pale, flickering circle of light where he joined her against the wall

They just stood there, Grace staring down and Bucky staring at her.

“How long?” Bucky muttered, breaking the silence as he watched the girl he had known since they were both barely tall enough to reach the counter of this very diner. “How long has this been going on?”

Grace hesitated for a moment, not meeting Bucky’s gaze. “Two months,” she whispered, lying through her teeth and hoping Bucky didn't press her for the real timeline.

He should have seen the signs. He should have known. He should have put the pieces together sooner.

But he hadn’t.

Now, he didn’t say anything else about it all. Instead, he removed the cigarette from Grace’s fingers and took a slow drag. 

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Grace didn’t mind someone seeing her cry.

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The Quinjet’s engines roared as they let the Caucasus Mountains fall away behind them, the turbulence jostling the medical gurney strapped to the center of the hold.

Grace lay slumped against the restraints, still unmoving, though Tony made sure to check every few minutes.

Bruce sat across from him, adjusting his glasses, as he sifted through the files from the cargo hold. 

Nick Fury stood at the far end, silent.

Finally, he turned to Tony and Bruce. “Alright,” he muttered.. “I suppose you two deserve some answers.”

Tony’s head snapped up. “Yeah, that would be nice,” he muttered. “What the hell did we just pull out of that bunker, Fury?”

Fury hesitated. “I’m not sure,” he said, his voice grim. “But if it’s what – or who – I think it is, then we have a lot of work to do.”

Bruce spoke up. “You said she’s Rogers’ sister?”

Fury nodded. “I don’t have confirmation yet, but based on what I know about Grace and what I’ve seen here…she might be.” Fury looked back at the girl. “She was part of the medical staff for Project Rebirth, recruited before she was deployed to the frontlines as a nurse. She worked under Howard, assisting Dr. Erskine with the early stages of the super soldier serum project.”

Tony froze. “Wait, hold on,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward. “You’re saying my dad worked with her?”

“Maybe,” Fury said. “If this really is Grace Rogers, then yeah – Howard knew her. They worked together...she studied under him.”

Tony’s fingers flexed at his side. “But my dad never mentioned her,” he muttered. “Not once. Not in any of his journals, not in any of his notes…nothing.”

“She was young – barely 23 – and a woman. SHIELD wasn’t exactly eager to admit that they had someone like her on the payroll, even off the books. She wasn’t the clean-cut, all-American hero type. She was a nurse – a field medic – not a soldier. Howard probably kept her involvement quiet to protect her, keep her off the radar,” Nick explained.

“So you’re saying she might have…” Bruce questioned. “What? That she… survived?”

“I’m saying it’s a possibility,” Fury maintained. “But I need proof. I need a DNA match before I even consider telling Rogers about this. We can’t afford to get his hopes up based on a hunch.”

“Alright,” Tony muttered, his jaw tightening as he glanced back at the unconscious girl, the vibrations of the engines humming through his feet as the Quinjet cut through the freezing, gray sky. “Let’s get the DNA test done, then.”

May 17, 1940: Brooklyn, NY

Grace Rogers silently trudged down the cobblestone streets of Brooklyn after another long day at the hospital.

She had barely spoken to Steve in days, their argument over Amos still echoing in the back of her mind like the sting of a fist against her cheek. She had been avoiding their apartment as much as possible, spending her nights in the overcrowded nurses’ dormitory at the hospital and her days bouncing between the bustling noise of the emergency ward and the too-bright, too-clean sterility of the operating theater.

She hadn’t seen Bucky since that night in the alley behind the diner, his silent comfort still burned into her memory as clearly as the bitter taste of the stale cigarette smoke. She had half-expected him to come by the apartment, to try and talk to her, to try and coax her out of whatever dark, lonely place she had retreated to in the aftermath of her breakup with Amos.

But he hadn’t. And Grace wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

She reached the building that housed her and Steve’s apartment but hesitated for a moment before heading inside as she caught a glimpse of the flickering streetlight out of the corner of her eyes.

Then, without thinking, she turned on her heel and headed for the diner alley. She knew it was a bad habit, but she opened her pack as soon as she reached the end, ready for her hazy moment of silence before she went home and faced her brother.

“Long day?”

Grace whipped her head off of the brick wall and locked eyes with a broad-shouldered figure. The man gave a half-hearted smile as he reached up to scratch at the stubble along his jaw.

“Bucky,” she whispered. “What...what are you doing here?”

Bucky just grinned, fully this time as he tipped his head. “I was in the neighborhood,” he replied. “Thought I’d grab a cup of coffee. Figured you might be here.”

Grace fought back a smile as Bucky took his place next to her on the wall, holding a cup of coffee that had likely been made by Myrna this morning. She never made two batches in one day, just hoped no one would drink it all before they closed.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Take a load off. You look like hell.”

Grace let out a chuckle. “That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?” She asked, gesturing to the cigarette between her fingers. Bucky held out his flimsy paper cup and Grace accepted, taking a slow sip.

It had become a quiet, unspoken routine. After her long, exhausting shifts at the hospital, Grace would take the long way home and find Bucky, already leaned up against the brick wall with two cups of weak, watered-down coffee.

They would stand there for hours. They rarely spoke, their conversations limited to half-formed thoughts or stories from the emergency department and shared, knowing glances.

But that was enough. It had become a kind of silent understanding, a mutual, wordless agreement to just be there for each other, to share the quiet ache of loneliness and exhaustion without judgment or expectation. And without mentioning Steve.

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The steady hum of the monitors filled the sleek, glass-walled lab, the harsh, sterile light shadows across the polished metal countertops and flickering computer screens.

Grace lay strapped to the gurney, her lips parting only for quiet mumbles as the sedative began wearing off.

Tony leaned against the edge of one of the counters as he eyed the DNA scanning sequence displayed on one of the computers. The flickering screen rapidly scrolled through lines of genetic code as it processed the blood sample he had hastily collected on the Quinjet.

Bruce stood beside him, glancing nervously between the girl and the screen.

Nick Fury stood at the far end of the lab, his jaw set, his gloved fingers flexing at his sides as the sequence continued to flash and click.

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours as each new line of genetic code was processed. Finally, with a soft, mechanical beep, the screen froze, and the final results flashed onto the display.

SUBJECT: DOE, JANEMATCH: 99.9%RELATIONSHIP: SIBLING – ROGERS, STEVE

Tony felt his stomach twist, his pulse spiking as the confirmation hit him like a physical blow.

Next to him, Bruce scrolled through the page, attempting to find something indicating a mistake in the reading.

“Holy hell,” Tony said flatly. “It’s really her. It’s actually her.”

“Jesus,” Bruce said to himself. “What the hell did they do to her?”

Tony went into skeptic mode. “This doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered as he glanced back at Bruce, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Why the hell would HYDRA freeze Steve’s sister? What did they want with her?”

Nick interrupted the frenzy with an announcement. “I need to make a call. Rogers needs to know about this.”

Tony scoffed and waved Nick away. “Yeah, yeah, good luck with that. We’ll be here hoping she doesn’t wake up.”

Tony felt an all-too-familiar tightness in his chest, a creeping sense of betrayal and disbelief that his father – the man he had spent his entire life trying to live up to – had kept this from him.

“I don’t know about you, Banner,” Tony muttered to the other man. “But I wish I called in sick today.”

March 17, 1940: Behind the Diner

Tonight, it was raining. Hard. Grace’s cigarette had been put out by the heavy drops, and Bucky’s paper cup was getting soggy. But he didn’t say anything, just stayed there, waiting in the cold until Grace seemed to breathe a little easier.

He glanced over at her, her shoulders not so tight anymore. “You’re not walking home in this, are you?”

Grace managed a faint smile as she forced herself to meet his knowing gaze. “I’ve walked through worse,” she spoke softly. “It’s just a little rain.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. Her and her pride.

“Grace,” he started his rebuttal. “Don’t be stubborn. My place is just a few blocks from here. You can crash on the couch. It’s better than catching pneumonia.”

Grace hesitated for a moment as she felt a faint blush creep up in the nape of her neck.

She should say no. She should laugh it off, wave him away with a half-hearted excuse about needing to be up early for her shift at the hospital, just like she always did. She should thank him for the coffee, toss her cup into the ever-overflowing dumpster, and slip back out into the rain-soaked darkness.

But she didn’t. 

Instead, she took a slow breath and looked back up at the taller man, who was now using his jacket as a makeshift umbrella for the both of them. Besides, he was just a friend lending a hand. And a couch. And a jacket.

“Alright,” she whispered as the blush creeped to her cheeks. “Alright, Bucky. Lead the way.”

Bucky’s eyes softened, his shoulders relaxing just a little as guided her out of the alley, ensuring that his jacket was covering her more than him.

August 16, 2012: Avengers Tower, Communications Room

Nick Fury paced the length of the small communications room, his boots clanging against the polished marble floor. He reached for the phone clipped to his belt and took a slow, steadying breath.

He had made countless difficult calls in his career – informing families of fallen agents, negotiating hostage releases, calling in airstrikes on targets too dangerous to let live – but this one felt different. More personal. More complicated. Finding Steve’s sister all preserved and ready to enter the new century would have been great. But finding her all preserved in a HYDRA base was a different story.

“Rogers,” he spoke evenly. “This is Fury. Are you alone?”

There was a brief pause, followed by the faint sound of a television clicking off in the background.

“Yeah,” came Steve’s voice, his tone tinged with an underlying note of confusion. “I’m alone. What’s going on, Fury?”

“I need you to come to Avengers Tower,” Fury said grimly. “Now.”

There was another brief pause, this time followed by the muffled sound of Steve’s feet clanging against the floor as he moved away from the television. “What’s going on?” Steve asked again, his voice tense. “Is something wrong?”

Fury hesitated, then forced himself to speak. “I need you to come to the Tower,” he repeated. “It’s… it’s about your sister.”

There was only silence on the other end for a few moments, but Fury knew Steve’s mind was starting to race.

“My sister?” Steve asked carefully. “What…What do you mean? What happened? Did you find something?”

Fury pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can’t explain right now,” he said, tightening his grip on his phone; “Just…get to the Tower. Now.”

Fury heard Steve exhale loudly. “I’ll be there in ten,” Steve said before hanging up and dropping his phone onto the edge of the kitchen counter. He stumbled back a step, wondering what news Fury could possibly have about his little sister. Steve steadied himself. “Ten minutes.”

September 3, 1940: Bucky’s Apartment, Brooklyn, NY

The first time Grace stayed over at Bucky’s apartment, it felt strange, unfamiliar, even though she had done it countless times during their childhood. But that was when Steve was there. When there were no unspoken understandings.

The surprisingly tidy living room was filled with the scent of old leather, and Grace curled up beneath the quilted blanket Bucky had tossed over her shoulders without a word.

She had fallen asleep listening to the radiator in the corner and the white noise of the rain pounding on the ground outside. She had woken to the quiet sound of the radio and the unmistakable scent of burnt coffee drifting in from the kitchen as Bucky leaned against the door frame, offering her a crooked grin.

“Morning, Gracie,” he had spoken, his voice gravelly as he reached for a chipped coffee mug to pour her a cup. “Hope you like your coffee strong and bitter. It’s the only way I know how to make it.”

Grace smiled, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and chiding him for the use of that nickname. She took a sip of the coffee and made a face up at Bucky. “And burnt, apparently.”

From that night on, it became a habit that neither of them ever bothered to question or analyze too closely. They began bypassing their silence in the alleyway and instead began taking smoke breaks on Bucky’s balcony, though those had become fewer and farther between. Bucky would pour a cup of weak, watery coffee and sit beside her on the couch as they shared the comfortable silence.

Grace always stopped by after her days at the hospital, but she didn’t always sleep over. However, when the rain was coming down too hard, or the wind was blowing too sharp, or sometimes for no reason at all, Bucky would catch her elbow as she went to leave, tipping his head to the side and offering her that same crooked grin.

“Stay the night, Gracie,” he would murmur. “You know my couch is comfier than your cot at the hospital.”

Grace would pretend to roll her eyes at his use of her nickname as she fought off the heat from her pink-tinged cheeks.

“Oh, fine,” she would mutter. “But only because I’m too tired to argue with you, James.”

He would chuckle at using his real name and reach for the old deck of cards on the shelf above the stove. He would shuffle the worn, dog-eared cards with practiced ease.

“Alright, Gracie, but don’t think I’m going to take it easy on you just because you’ve had a rough day. I’m in it to win it.”

Grace would let out a low laugh and sigh as she reached for her mug of coffee. He had gotten better at making sure it didn’t burn.

They would play cards for hours as they shot each other sharp, teasing glances over the water-stained tabletop. And sometimes, when the games dragged on into the early hours of the morning, when they had moved to the couch over a game of War and the weak light of the streetlamp was their only source of light, Grace would find herself leaning into Bucky, falling asleep not out of exhaustion, but out of comfort.

Bucky would sit there, quietly and contently observing the girl leaning against his shoulder. And without quite realizing what he was doing, he would reach up to brush a strand of Grace’s curls behind her ear as she faded into slumber.

In moments like that, Grace would let herself hope for more rain, more stolen moments over cards, more nights spent curled up on Bucky’s sagging couch as the creak of the radiator and the crackling jazz tune drifted into the air around them.

In moments like that, Bucky would find himself looking at her for just a little too long, his softening eyes lingering on her long eyelashes and pursed, sleeping lips. 

But he would never tell her that.

August 17, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The automatic doors to the medical lab hissed as Steve Rogers hurried into the room so brightly lit you couldn’t tell it was creeping into the early hours of next day. The sharp, chemical scent of antiseptic stung his nostrils, and the faint, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor echoed in his ears as his eyes raced around, searching for Fury until he finally processed the sight of the figure strapped to the medical gurney in the center of the room. A small female figure with dark curls, twitching under the bright lights.

Grace.

It was her, unmistakably. 

She shook with each breath as the last traces of the sedative slowly wore off. Her head lolled to the side as her eyes fluttered, not quite opening yet. 

Tony and Bruce stood beside the gurney, watching the encounter nervously. Steve had yet to acknowledge them, and they stiffened as he took a slow, unsteady step forward.

Fury lingered in the corner instinctively tracing the holster on his hip. This wasn’t going to be one of those happy family reunions.

Steve caught his breath as he carefully examined the figure, sure that he was dreaming.

“Grace?” he whispered. “Grace… is that you?”

Grace’s head jerked to the side, as her eyes popped open.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, her glassy, unfocused eyes locked onto Steve’s, and her lips parted in a faint, breathless whisper as a flicker of recognition flashed across her pale features.

But then the flicker was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp burst of panic as she strained against the thick, metal restraints as the heart monitor started beeping frantically in time with her ragged, uneven breaths.

“No, no, no,” she gasped, her voice panicked as she lifted her head and jerked it back, slamming herself on the gurney. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly. “Где я? Что происходит?” (Where am I? What’s happening?)

Steve watched helplessly as his sister thrashed around.

“Grace,” he whispered again. He reached for her shaking hand, his heart breaking at the sight. “Grace, it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Grace paused her thrashing for just a moment to take a double-glance at Steve, a big man who now seemed so small. In an instant, her eyes darted away again, her pulse spiking as the heart monitor continued to beep frantically, and she began attempting to twist away from the brother she did not, or could not, recognize. She writhed against the restraints, clawing at the air as she let out a choked, animalistic sob.

“Пожалуйста, нет!” (Please, no!) Her chest heaved. “Не трогай меня!” (Don’t touch me!)

Steve felt his heart shatter as he stumbled back a step, and he watched his sister’s contorted, panic-stricken face as she thrashed against the restraints, continuing her screams in Russian. 

“Jesus,” Tony muttered, his own pulse spiking as he reached for the edge of the gurney. “We need to sedate her before she hurts herself.”

Bruce stumbled forward, and he reached for the small, glass vial of tranquilizer on the nearby workbench. “Steve,” he spoke hurriedly. “You need to back up. I’m sorry.”

Steve couldn’t do a thing as he watched the two scientists stick her with a needle and inject the sedative.

He had imagined this moment a thousand times. The day he would be reunited with his sister. He never imagined it like this.

February 28, 1941: Bucky’s

It had been snowing this time, and Grace and Bucky had already completed the methodical dance of pretending like she was thinking about leaving. It wasn’t like she was avoiding Steve, or that she really needed a free cup of joe. She just wanted to stay.

Grace leaned back against the cushions, her fingers still wrapped tightly around the not-so-awful mug of coffee Bucky had pressed into her hands as soon as she walked through the door.

She had barely managed to kick off her damp, second-hand shoes and shrug out of her flurry covered coat before Bucky had tugged her down onto the couch beside him, holding his own cup of coffee in hand.

“Long day, Gracie?” He had teased, shuffling the deck of cards as he had done so many times before. “Or just a long walk?”

Grace had managed a half-cocked smile as she forced herself to sit up. “Both,” she had muttered. “But don’t let that fool you, James. I’m still going to kick your ass at rummy.”

Bucky had let out a low, comfortable laugh at that. “Oh, we’ll see about that, Gracie,” he had spoken, fighting against the burning lump rising in his throat. “We’ll see.”

They had played cards for hours, just like always. But now, the battered deck of cards lay forgotten on the coffee table. And they still weren’t tired.

Bucky reached for the dial on the side of the radio next to the couch, and the familiar strains of the jazz tune faded into a slow, mournful ballad, the crackle of the singer’s voice echoing softly through the room.

Grace let out a quiet scoff to herself in response to hearing the change in genre.

“What?” Bucky poked. “You got something against Billie Holiday, Gracie?”

Grace shook her head smiling, that blush creeping back up her neck. “No,” she said softly, forcing herself to look away from the man. “I just...I didn’t think you were the sentimental type, James.”

Bucky gave a crooked grin before he reached for her, tugging her to her feet.

“Come on, Gracie,” he invited, one hand nestled into the curve of her waist as he began to sway to the ballad. “Dance with me.”

Grace let out a chuckle at Bucky’s poor rhythm, but placed a hand on his shoulder and began to sway along. She took a clumsy step to the side, her frame crashing against his shoulder as she let out an embarrassed squeak.

Bucky just chuckled. “Here,” he whispered as he gestured down, guiding her feet onto the tops of his thready socks. “Just follow my lead.”

Grace didn’t have any air left in her to laugh, so she just offered him a toothy smile, caught off guard by the out-of-routine intimacy.

“Maybe one day, Gracie,” he whispered as he tipped his head down to rest his chin against the top of her head. “I’ll teach you to dance the right way.”

Grace smiled, shaking her head against Bucky’s chest, now so close she could hear his heartbeat. 

“What?” Bucky lifted his head and looked down at her, smirking coyly. “You don’t think I have what it takes?” 

Grace felt the blush rising again. “No…I didn’t say that…I just–”

Then, all at once, the moment shattered as the creaky radiator cut through the air, and both individuals stepped away from each other.

Bucky let out an uncomfortable chuckle, his own cheeks now creeping with pink as he reached up to scratch at his stubble.

“Sorry,” he muttered, shooting her a nervous glance. “I, uh... I guess I’m just tired. Long day. You know how it is.”

Grace looked back at the man, forcing herself to blink away the tears that tempted the corners of her eyes as she shot him a reassuring smile.

“Yeah,” she whispered, swaying on her heels ever so slightly. “Long day.”

They stood there another quiet beat as the Billie Holiday ballad finished.

Finally, Bucky broke the silence. “Take the bed, Gracie,” he offered.  “I’ll take the couch.”

Grace hesitated for a moment. “Alright, James,” she whispered. “Alright.”

August 17, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

Tony and Bruce stood around a hologram display in the observation deck, carefully reading through files found in the Caucasus. Steve was quietly sitting in the corner of the room, eyes downcast while he listened to the scientists try to process the information they were seeing.

“JARVIS, pull up the image files,” Tony muttered.“I want to see what HYDRA was doing to her.”

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS replied. The lines of text vanished from the display and were replaced by a series of grainy photographs, each more horrifying than the last.

The first image flickered into focus as the pair of scientists leaned in closer, their gazes locked on the nightmarish scene captured in the photo.

Grace knelt on the metal floor of a small cell, her sweat-soaked hair clinging to her cheeks as she clutched her bloodied hands to her chest. Her eyes were filled with terror as she looked at the camera, with the photo presumably taken by one of HYDRA’s scientists. There was what looked to be a puddle of vomit on the ground in front of her.

Steve looked up for a moment, then instantly regretted it. His heart sank into his stomach and he himself was fighting back vomit as he tried to force himself to look away before the next photo appeared on the display.

This photo showed Grace with a thick mouthguard in, which was barely noticeable due to the large metal headband surrounding her temples. Grace was bolted into a chair, restrained by her arms, legs, and neck.

Steve started sweating when he noticed Grace’s fingernails were torn off. 

“Oh my God,” Bruce whispered to himself. “They were…”

Tony tightened his grip on the edge of the table. “Electroshock. Trying to condition her. Reprogram her.”

The image flickered again, replaced by a third photo – Grace was strapped to a hospital bed and there was a thin tube leading a steady stream of blue liquid to an IV in Grace’s arm. The serum. In the photo, Grace was contorting her body as if she was possessed, and you could tell she was in pain as she threw herself backwards and attempted to claw at the skin around the IV. 

Steve felt his pulse spike as he remembered back to the pain he felt during his own injection. “Where the hell is Fury?” he interrupted. “He has a lot of nerve…some sick show-and-tell for my kid sister who doesn’t even recognize me?” Steve paced towards Stark. “And then he just leaves? Now I’m supposed to trust you two to–”

“Rogers–” Tony started, holding his hand up to calm Steve down, “I need you to–”

“You need me to what ?” Steve swatted Tony’s hand away. “I need you to do something helpful instead of–”

“Steve,” Tony said firmly, gripping Steve by the shoulders. “We are helping. Fury is sorting through everything else we found in that lab. It was a big lab. It was all just for her, okay? We have no clue what we are getting ourselves into, and we’re not trying to get anyone killed in the process, including your sister. Now either take a breather or go sit down.”

Tony released his grip on Steve as an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Bruce, ever the mediator, broke the silence. “Steve, we don’t have to keep going with the photos right now,” he said softly, not making eye contact with the blonde man.

Steve swallowed hard and shook his head. “No…I…I get it. I’m sorry…I just–”

“I know,” Bruce said, “but these photos will help us help Grace.” Bruce looked back at Steve, who was sitting in the corner again, face buried in his hands. “Just…don’t be afraid to step out.”

Steve’s eye twitched as he looked back up from his hands, nodding in response to Banner as the display flicked to the next photo.

This time, the photo showed Grace staring back with empty eyes. She had a muzzle on, but Steve had seen those eyes many times before. He had seen them when he told her about Bucky’s fall. He had seen them when he yelled at Grace unnecessarily. He had seen them at their mother’s funeral. Grace looked small in comparison to the dark emptiness in the background of the photo. She was in some kind of aircraft, and she had her arms wrapped around her torso – almost as if she was hugging herself. She might have been wearing a muzzle, but this didn’t hide the spot near her left ear where there had clearly been a chunk of her hair ripped out.

The image flickered again. This image showed Grace hunched over in her metal cell again, but this time, you could see the detailed outline of her bruised and battered spine through her hospital gown, and if you looked past her protruding elbows, you could see every single one of her ribs. She wasn’t looking at the camera anymore.

Tony thought back to his own time of isolation, back in the cave. He looked a bit like that when he returned. He looked starved too.

The next photo was a stark contrast between the previous. Grace stood in the front of her cell, her eyes full of rage and her lips curled into a snarl. Behind her was the lifeless body of what looked to be a HYDRA doctor, his white coat soaked with blood. There was no real weapon visible in the scene, but Grace clutched onto what looked like an ink pen. 

Bruce knew what it was like to be that angry. 

Bruce was so distracted by his own thoughts that he almost didn’t look up for the last photo of the sequence. In this photo, Grace was in a different room, this one also all metal, save for the twin-sized, blood spotted mattress she was sitting on. She still had empty eyes, but she was crying. The muzzle didn’t cover the large metal collar around her neck, chaining her to the wall behind her. Grace was sitting curled up tightly, but it didn’t change the fact that you could tell she was naked.

Steve leaned over the trash can on his right and threw up.

March 10, 1941: Fulton Street Diner

The small, crowded diner was loud with the clatter of plates and the low murmur of a dozen overlapping conversations. The air was thick with the greasy smell of fried eggs and coffee, but it was much better than the smell of the dumpster in the alley behind the diner.

Bucky leaned back in the cracked vinyl booth, one arm stretched across the backrest. Grace sat beside him, her head tilted as she stirred the whipped cream remains of her chocolate milkshake with a long, silver spoon. It was Bucky’s birthday, but he had bought the shakes, insisting the Rogers siblings save up for new coats or shoes.

Steve sat across the booth, frowning slightly as he watched the two of them. He noticed Grace’s faint, wistful smile. He noticed the way Bucky’s arm hovered just a little too close to her shoulder, his fingers brushing the fabric of her dress each time she shifted in her seat.

He had been noticing the small, quiet changes for weeks now. The way Bucky’s gaze lingered on Grace a little too long when he thought no one was looking. The way her eyes lit up when he walked into a room. The way she tried to hide the nervous tinge that crept into her cheeks whenever his name came up in conversation.

It had started as a nagging suspicion. But now, sitting here in the cramped, noisy diner, watching the two of them share a small smile over celebratory milkshakes, he couldn’t pretend to not see it anymore.

Steve set his milkshake spoon down with a decisive clink. Both Bucky and Grace glanced up, their small, secretive smiles fading as they caught the perplexed look on his face.

“You two…” Steve said with a mix of concern and frustration. “You’re not...you’re not getting ideas, are you?”

Grace stiffened beside Bucky, her spoon clattering against the side of her glass as her eyes widened, the color draining from her cheeks. Bucky’s easy, lopsided grin faltered, his arm slipping from the backrest as he straightened in his seat. 

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky said, forcing a strained chuckle as he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the edge of the table as his fingers twisting together nervously. “What are you talking about?”

Steve let out a slow, heavy breath, his gaze meeting Grace’s before looking back at Bucky. 

“I’m not an idiot, Buck,” Steve said curtly. “I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. The way you act around each other. I know you’re close, but this…,” he said, gesturing between the two, “whatever this is, it’s a bad idea.”

Grace looked down at her milkshake glass.

“Steve, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky said, still forcing a smile.

Steve scoffed. “I know my sister, and I know you. And I know that whatever this is, it’s a mistake. A disaster waiting to happen.”

Grace felt an ache bloom in her chest.

“Steve,” Bucky said. “You’re my best friend. I’d never do anything to hurt you or Grace. You know that.”

“But you have to admit that it would be insane to think this is a good idea,” Steve said, finally starting to relax. “To think that this...wouldn’t end horribly for both of you.”

The words hung in the air as Grace eyed Bucky through her peripheral vision. Then, she looked up and forced a smiled at her brother. “You know I’m smarter than that, Steve.”

And then Steve stood, feeling accomplished enough to leave the pair alone. “I know,” he said before teasingly pointing at Bucky. “But this guy…this guy takes stupid with him wherever he goes.”

They all laughed, Steve louder than the other two, before he slipped out of the aisle and out the front door of the diner, leaving Bucky and Grace sitting in silence – a silence that was no longer comfortable.

August 29, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

Steve sat in the observation room, his eyes fixed on the monitor displaying a live feed of his sister. Grace was currently asleep, the only time she was out of her restraints. Banner told Steve that they would have to take things as slow as possible, but even progress this small made Steve feel hopeful. Tony and Bruce shuffled into the room, Fury following behind them.

Nick set a small box on the table in front of Steve before sitting down.

“We found something while clearing out the rest of the cargo hold,” Nick explained. “Back at the base where we found her. They were still clearing out some of the lower levels, and found a crate stashed behind a false wall in one of the holding cells. That box was in there. It looks like HYDRA kept some of her personal items. Things they didn’t bother to destroy.”

Steve leaned forward and pulled the box closer. “Personal items?” he muttered. “Like what?”

Nick hesitated. “Photographs. Letters. A few pieces of jewelry. We thought…well, Banner thought maybe they could help with the memory reconstruction. Give her something familiar.”

Steve felt his breath catch in his throat as he slowly pulled the lid open to reveal neatly stacked black-and-white photos and yellowed letters nestled inside.

Steve meticulously emptied out the box’s contents onto the table, noticing the smeared ink and familiar, flowing script that covered the pages of stationary. “I don’t see any jewelry.”

“Give me a minute, will you, Rogers?” Nick muttered. He carefully reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small drawstring pouch. From that, he pulled out a silver locket. The thin chain was knotted as though it had been worn regularly. Also hanging off the chain was a silver ring, its small diamond glistening under the harsh observation deck light.

Steve inhaled sharply. He reached for Grace’s necklace – the necklace that was once their mother’s. He thumbed the diamond nestled in the hillock of the ring, silently remembering how Grace showed it off to everyone she met. How Bucky wished he could have bought her a nicer one.

Bruce and Nick watched Steve examine the jewelry while Tony curiously sifted through the photos. Stark looked up to ask about one of the photos but paused when he saw what was in Steve’s hands. “Is that…?”

Steve looked up quickly, pulling himself out of memory lane. “Her engagement ring,” Steve said with a wistful smile. “The locket was our mom’s...I…I don’t know…” He took a deep breath. “I have no idea how she managed to hold onto them all these years.” 

Tony looked at the all-American super soldier as he passed Bruce a photo. Bruce examined it, finding a much softer, much brighter Grace. She was wearing a polka-dotted dress and laughing unabashedly as a tall, clean-cut man enveloped her in an embrace from behind. The man, who Bruce recognized as the late Sergeant Barnes, was smiling into Grace’s rosy cheeks. Banner smiled sadly at the photo. 

“Maybe…maybe that will help,” Bruce reassured Steve. “Maybe it will help her remember.”

March 11, 1941: Bucky’s

The door to Bucky’s small apartment creaked open, the hinges groaning in protest as Grace stepped inside. Bucky followed close behind, reaching past her to flick on the living room light.

Grace dropped her coat onto the back of the couch and reached for the deck of cards still on the coffee table from their last game.

Bucky closed the door quietly behind them. He ran a hand through his hair, silently anticipating the tension after yesterday’s conversation at the diner.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Grace cracked a smile and let out a nervous bark of laughter. “I can’t believe Steve,” she said, her voice high and thin, the words tumbling from her lips. “He thinks... he thinks you and I... that we...”

She couldn’t finish the sentence, her words dissolving into another burst of shaky, half-hysterical laughter, her hands clutching at the fabric of her dress as she swayed on her heels.

Bucky blinked at her, his brows furrowing, his lips parting slightly in confused, wary surprise. But then, slowly, a lopsided grin crept across his face, his own shoulders relaxing just a bit as he let out a chuckle.

“He thinks we’re sweet on each other,” Bucky said, each word dripping with forced, incredulous amusement. He leaned back against the kitchen table as he shook his head, his eyes sparkling with exaggerated mirth. “Can you imagine? You and me?”

Grace pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, muffling her uncertain laughter. “Insane,” she managed. “Completely insane.”

Bucky let out another humorless laugh, his head tipping back as he forced the words out. “What, you think I’m gonna start bringing you flowers? Writing you love letters? Whispering sweet nothings in your ear?” He shook his head, looking back down at Grace with a dull pain in his chest. “C’mon, Grace, you know better than that.”

Grace eked out a half-choked snort as she forced herself to match his easy, joking tone, to pretend that the idea of falling for him was this ridiculous. “And what, you think I’m gonna start batting my lashes at you, swooning like some lovesick girl in a dime-store novel?” she shot back, her eyes narrowing in exaggerated suspicion. “Please. I’d rather fall down a flight of stairs.”

Bucky laughed quietly as he forced himself to ignore the ache in his chest and push away the simmering warmth that spread through his veins every time she looked at him.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah, that’d be just like you, wouldn’t it? Tripping over your own two feet instead of admitting you might actually like me.”

Grace’s breath caught, her eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before she shot him a defiant glare. “Please,” she smirked. “I’m not that clumsy.”

They both fell silent then, the faint, echoing sound of their forced laughter lingering like the ghost of the Billie Holiday ballad they once danced to. They stood there, their eyes locked. 

And then, slowly, Bucky’s eyes slipped away from hers, and his hands slipped from the edge of the table as he turned down the narrow hallway that led to his bedroom.

“Get some sleep, Grace,” he muttered quietly. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Grace watched him go, her heart still racing as she sank into the couch behind her.

And as the door to Bucky’s room clicked softly shut, Grace convinced herself for just a moment that it really was all just one big joke.

August 31, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

The harsh lights of the medical lab shone down on Bruce as carefully adjusted the portable EEG scanner bolted to the side of the medical gurney, glancing between the readouts on the monitors and a trembling Grace sitting on the bed, strapped into restraints.

Grace forced herself to take a breath as she scanned the room. Her sweat-soaked hair clung to jagged scars that criss crossed her cheeks.

Bruce gave Grace a small, reassuring smile as he fidgeted with the tablet housing the two-way translation program patched together by JARVIS.

“Alright, JARVIS,” Bruce muttered. “Translate, real-time. Keep it simple.”

“Of course, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS replied. “Beginning real-time translation now.”

Bruce took another look at Grace, who was staring back anxiously, her fists white knuckling the sheets of her makeshift bed.

“Okay, Grace,” Bruce spoke softly. “I brought something for you. Something I thought might help you remember.”

Grace’s eyes met Bruce’s for a moment as she tried to comprehend the second voice translating Bruce’s words. 

Bruce reached into the small case sitting on the edge of the nearby workbench, careful not to look away for too long as he pulled out the silver locket.

“This is yours,” Bruce said gently. “You wore this. It…it meant a lot to you.”

Grace stared intently at the necklace, eying the diamond of the ring dangling from the flimsy chain. Her fists unclenched and her chest heaved as memories of another life – a life she couldn’t quite place – flickered at the edges of her fractured mind.

Then, without warning, without even realizing what was happening, Grace’s mind went blank and her fists balled up again. She let out a choked yelp, snapping her head back as she threw her body against the gurney’s mattress. The necklace fell from Bruce’s hands and clattered on the floor as he rushed to Grace’s side. She spasmed violently against the thick, padded restraints bolted to the side of the gurney.

“Нет!” (No!) she screamed, her restrained limbs shaking. Grace’s fingers clawed at the air as she continued thrashing and snapping her head back. “Перестань! Я не буду!” (Stop it! I won’t!)

Bruce felt his heart skip a beat at the sight, and he looked up to the observation deck, hoping to signal someone else down for help.

“ты меня обманываешь!” (You trick me!) she screamed, her voice broken as she continued throwing herself back, now aiming for the metal sides of the gurney. “мне жаль…” (I’m sorry…)

Tony burst into the room, lunging towards one of the small syringes of sedative hilted on the wall above the workbench. He could feel the arc reactor humming in his chest as he carefully jabbed the needle into the side of her neck.

As Tony pressed down on the plunger, Grace clawed at his wrists and pleaded in a soft whimper, “Мне очень жаль…Я не хотел. Пожалуйста…не надо больше.” (I’m so sorry…please, I didn’t mean to. Please…no more.)

Grace let out one final sob before collapsing, and still holding onto Tony, she gasped out, “ты заставляешь меня... я больше не хочу причинять себе боль.” (You’re making me…I don’t want to punish myself anymore.)

August 3, 1941: The Rogers’ Apartment

Tonight, Bucky had come to Grace. He was pretending like it wasn’t because he didn’t trust him and Grace to be all alone. Pretending like he wanted Steve to be there as a reminder that Bucky shouldn’t say out loud exactly what he had been thinking for moths.

Steve was setting up Scrabble at the table as Bucky silently watched Grace sip coffee out of a chipped porcelain mug. She stared blankly at the small black-and-white television sitting on the counter.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe. “You know, Gracie,” he said. “If you keep drinking coffee this late, you’re never gonna get any sleep.”

Grace glanced nervously at Bucky. “Maybe I don’t want to sleep,” she uttered in response. “Maybe I’ve got too much on my mind.”

Bucky slowly stepped closer.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his eyes locked onto Grace’s. “What’s on your mind, Gracie?”

Grace swirled the mug of coffee around. “Nothing,” she whispered as she watched the coffee slosh around before forcing herself to look up and speak a little louder. “Just… just thinking about the future, I guess. Thinking about what comes next.”

Bucky took another step forward. “What, you thinking about finding a nice fella?” he teased. “Settling down? Getting a little house in the suburbs? A white picket fence, two kids, a dog?”

Grace tilted her head ever so slightly. “Maybe,” she spoke, not playing into Bucky’s remark. “Maybe I’ll settle down. Maybe I’ll find some nice guy to marry, raise a couple kids, live happily ever after.”

Bucky cautiously leaned in closer. “What about me?” he murmured, not teasing her anymore as he held eye contact with the curly-haired woman standing just a few inches in front of him. “What if I want to be that guy?”

Grace felt her mouth run dry as she searched to find the words to say. But instead, she let out a forced laugh, the sound barely reaching her cheeks as she looked away, stealing a glance at Steve in the next room.

“Don’t get any ideas, James,” she whispered, looking back at the taller man with a halfhearted smile. “I’d eat you alive.”

Bucky reached for the stubble on his jaw as he stepped back. “Yeah,” he said, giving Grace a lousy attempt of a reassuring grin. “Yeah…I guess you would.”

August 31, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

Back upstairs, Bruce breathlessly took a seat at the table and rested his head in his hands while Tony stood next to Steve, who was solemnly staring down at his now-sleeping sister.

“What the hell was that?” Bruce muttered to the other men. “What just happened?”

Tony clenched his jaw before turning around to face Banner.

“I thought… I thought the locket might help,” Bruce explained. “I thought it might trigger something – a memory, a connection – but…but I didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect her to…to react like that…I mean, what was that – some kind of…some kind of PTSD panic attack?”

“That was more than just a panic attack,” Tony said. “That was…that was something else. That was a full-blown meltdown. Like…like she was–”

Tony beelined to grab the tablet sitting on the table in front of Bruce. “She said something about punishment…I don’t – JARVIS, read that translation back to me.”

“Yes, sir. Ms. Rogers apologized for her reaction to the necklace and said ‘stop it, I won’t,’ followed by ‘you trick me’, ‘please, I didn’t mean to’, and ‘no more’,” the AI voice recalled. “The last thing Ms. Rogers said before going unconscious was, ‘You’re making me. I don’t want to punish myself anymore.’”

Steve’s gaze was still fixed on the limp body of his little sister as he listened to JARVIS emotionlessly recite his sister’s cries for help. He hesitated a moment before turning around. “You think they conditioned her to hurt herself if she starts to remember?” he offered in a low voice. “Like…like a failsafe? Some kind of self-punishment protocol?”

“It’s possible,” Bruce said. “It’s…it’s possible they built some kind of trigger into her conditioning.”

Tony fidgeted with the tablet. “Yeah,” he spoke curtly. “something to force her back into line.”

“We’re going to have to be more careful,” Bruce said to himself. “If we push her too hard, if we show her the wrong thing…we could send her even further back into her conditioning.”

Steve looked back down at his sister. “Yeah,” he whispered. “A lot more careful.”

December 11, 1941: The Rodgers’ Apartment

The windows of Grace and Steve’s apartment shook with every gust of wind that whipped through the snow-covered streets below. The soft, metallic clink of ice-laden power lines mingled with the radio, but this time, it wasn’t a slow ballad or a soft jazz tune. This time, it was the sound of dread settling over the city.

“...American forces in the Pacific continue to regroup after the devastating attack on Pearl Harbor earlier this week, as President Roosevelt prepares to address the nation once again...”

Grace Rogers sat curled up on the couch wrapped in her mother’s shawl. Steve was in bed, sick with the flu as Grace listened to the radio, attempting to digest the waves of shock and fear tumbling through her mind.

A soft creak came from the kitchen as Bucky practically tiptoed into the living room.

“Hey,” he whispered, lowering himself onto the couch beside her.“You, uh…you holding up okay, Gracie?”

Grace looked over at Bucky, whose face was riddled with worry.

“Yeah,” she murmured back. “Yeah…I’m…I’m fine. Just… just trying to wrap my head around it, y’know, James? It…it doesn’t feel real.”

Bucky frowned slightly. He could see Grace force herself to exhale.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah… I know what you mean. It… it doesn’t feel real.”

The two of them sat shoulder-to-shoulder in suffocating silence, both looking down at the ground. For a moment, Grace thought she might collapse into him and cry.

Then, without warning, Bucky gently reached for her hand.

“Gracie,” he spoke softly. “I’ve been…I’ve been thinking about something.”

Grace snapped out of her daze and looked into Bucky’s blue eyes as he rubbed his thumb over hers.

“About…about enlisting,” he continued, Grace already furrowing her brows in confusion. “You know…joining up. Doing my part. Going over there and…and fighting. Making a difference.”

Grace’s eyes glossed over as she struggled for the words that had caught in her throat, the words that might keep him from leaving, the words that might make him stay.

“Bucky, you…you don’t have to—” she started, shaking her head softly. “You don’t have to go. You…you don’t have to put yourself in danger like that. You don’t have to—”

Bucky leaned his head in, tightened his grip on her hand. “I don’t have to?” he whispered. “What are you saying, Gracie? Are you saying you want me to stay?”

Grace looked down at their interlocked fingers and gave a slow blink, allowing a tear slide down her pink cheeks.

She wanted to look up at him and tell him that she needed him to stay for her own selfish reasons, that she didn’t want to roll the dice and gamble on the chance that he may not come back.

But instead, she forced herself to look away.

“I just…I think it’s really brave of you,” she uttered with as much sincereness as she could muster. It was brave of him to want to go. Of course James Barnes would want to go, would want to put his life on the line for others. She took a breath before continuing, “To… to want to make a difference. That’s…that’s really brave, Bucky. Really brave.”

Bucky’s heart dropped at the use of the name ‘Bucky’, and he bit his lip to fight back asking Grace to give him a split second of honesty, to tell him what she was obviously hiding. Instead, he softly let go of Grace’s hand and leaned back into the couch.

“Yeah,” he whispered, his voice strained and broken. “Yeah…thanks, Gracie.”

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1, 3:41 a.m.

Grace’s eyes slowly fluttered open, her chest rising and falling in short bursts as she softly stirred under the blankets haphazardly piled around her. For just a beat, she mistook the metallic hums of the air vents for the tinny crackles of Bucky’s old radio. 

Then, she looked down and saw the heavy restraints laying unbuckled next to her. 

She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t under a pile of too-thin quilts and asleep on her too-creaky bed. Her eyes flicked around for some kind of familiarity until she caught a glimpse of silver on the ground below her. She forced herself to sit up and untangle her limbs from the heap of white blankets that reminded her of her days at the hospital in Brooklyn.

Grace delicately stepped down from her cot and reached for the silver locket. She exhaled softly at the sight of her engagement ring and carefully clasped the necklace around her neck. She thumbed the engravings of the silver heart, and for a single, heart-stopping moment, she felt at peace.

Then a voice came from out of nowhere. “Мисс Роджерс, вы хотите, чтобы я позвонил доктору Баннеру?” (Ms. Rogers, do you want me to call for Dr. Banner?)

Grace jumped at the sound and stumbled back into the makeshift bed. She looked around the dark room for the source of the foreign voice, but she found no one.

“What…?” she whispered. “Who…who’s there?”

“Мисс Роджерс, хотели бы вы сейчас говорить по-английски?” (Ms. Rogers, would you like to speak in English now?) The voice spoke.

“Please, I…I don’t want any trouble,” she said in a panicked voice. “I just want to go home.”

Grace caught sight of the glass door on the far side of the room as she pressed her fingernails into her divots in her palms.

“Please wait while I call for Mr. Stark.”

Grace looked around, now frantic. “Stark?...I don’t…I don’t understand…” A light flicked on from above. “I…I have to go…I have to go home.”

Grace dashed to the door and rattled the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “Please,” she croaked. “I’ll just leave. Please, please just let me go home.” She shook the door with force.

Upstairs, Tony was already in action as Bruce lifted his head from the table. Tony glanced downstairs to see a terrified Grace banging on the glass door of the medical lab room.

“What…,” Bruce said, still half asleep. “What… what the hell is happening, Tony?”

“Sir,” JARVIS replied. “Ms. Rogers is awake. Her heart rate is spiking, and her EEG readings are irregular. She appears to be speaking in English, and she is in a highly agitated state”

It was Steve’s turn to panic, and in just a few seconds, he went from eyes closed and head resting against the wall behind him to bolting in the direction of the lab. “Where is she?”

“Steve, Steve, wait–” Tony called, Bruce following closely behind.

Grace’s pounds on the door echoed through the stairs, muffling Tony’s warnings to Steve. “Rogers, do not go in there, you don’t know what she–”“

The door to Grace’s room hissed open and Steve stumbled into the room, locking eyes with his sister’s as she backed against the wall. She looked back at him as if he was a ghost. To her, he was.

“Gracie,” Steve whispered as he slowly made his way across the room. “Gracie, it’s me.”

“Steve,” Banner warned from behind. “Don’t.” 

Grace let out a pitiful cry, her face twisting in betrayal. “You don’t get to call me that,” she spat. “You…you left. This..this is your fault, Steve. You…you let him fall! You…you took him from me, and then you left and–”

“Gracie, please,” Steve pleaded, still making his way to his sister, who was pressed against the wall. “I’m here. I’m here. I didn’t let him go. I’m here. You’re here. We’re safe. We’re safe.”

Bruce slowly reached for a syringe, its vial already loaded with sedative.

“No!” Grace screamed. “No, you…you promised me, Steve! You promised me you’d keep him safe!” She pointed her finger at him. “You lied! You…you lied, and then you left me all alone! Where were you, huh?”

Steve reached for his sister only to be shoved away.

“Gracie, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I should have been there. I should have protected you. I’m so sorry, Gracie. I’m so sorry.”

Grace shook her head, her vision clouded with angry tears, and when she looked up, she saw a man with dark features standing slightly behind Steve. She froze.

“You…you…,” her voice dropped as she locked eyes with Tony. “Howard? But you…no, no…no, this can’t be real,” she whispered to herself, no one daring to make the next move. “It’s not real.”

Then, without warning, Grace lunged in Tony’s direction. “You…” she snarled, “you liar! You coward!” She scratched him across the face, blind with rage. She shoved him backwards. “You weak, pathetic excuse of a–”

Steve attempted to pull Grace off of Tony, but she had her fingers locked in the man’s hair, still screaming while she violently yanked at him, “I trusted you! And you couldn’t even–” 

The needle sunk down into Grace’s neck, and as Bruce injected the sedative, she collapsed into Steve, but her gaze never moved from Tony. “I…I needed…,” she murmured through gasps, “you promised…but you…you…” Steve held her as Grace’s legs went wobbly. “You selfish…”

Her eyes rolled back in her head as she crumpled onto the floor completely. She softly let out whimpers until she lay motionless, her head only supported by Steve’s arms. 

No one moved until Bruce spoke up. “Get her back in restraints.”

January, 1942: Postal Exchanges

Letter #1: Bucky to Grace (Day 3 of Basic Training)

Dear Gracie,

I’m writing this from a bunk that feels like it was designed specifically to break my spine. The guy next to me snores loud enough to scare the coyotes away, and the food here is some kind of science experiment gone wrong. If I survive this, it’s gonna be a miracle.

You’ll be happy to know I haven’t tripped over my own feet yet, despite the drill sergeant trying his best to run us into the ground. The guy’s got lungs like a bullhorn and a face that looks like he’s been chewing on nails since birth. Makes me miss your sweet disposition and the way you only yell at me when I deserve it.

Steve’s letters keep telling me to keep my head up and “show ‘em what Brooklyn’s made of.” Thought about signing his name up for the next drill just to see how far that patriotic spirit takes him.

Tell him I’m fine and that I haven’t punched anyone (yet). Miss the way you two keep me grounded. Feels weird not having you around to tease me about my hair or yell at me for burning the coffee.

Take care of yourself, Gracie. Try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone. If you do, make sure Steve’s around to keep you from accidentally burning down the apartment.

Write me back, alright? Just so I know you haven’t gone and joined the circus without me.

Yours (platonically),James

Letter #2: Grace to Bucky (Day 5 of Basic Training)

Dear James,

I can’t believe you’re really gone. The apartment feels too quiet, and Steve keeps moping around like someone kicked his favorite puppy. I tried to cheer him up by making breakfast, but I burned the toast and nearly set the whole kitchen on fire. Steve says you’d never let me live it down, so I guess I’ll just have to perfect my cooking before you come home.

I still can’t wrap my head around you being a soldier. I keep picturing you barking orders and terrifying some poor recruit who can’t figure out which end of the rifle is up, though I know it’s probably the other way around. All the girls in the neighborhood keep asking about you. I’m trying to keep them at bay, but you know how they get when someone mentions your name.

Steve keeps telling me you’ll be fine, but he doesn’t see how you can’t sit still for two minutes without starting a fight with gravity or some poor, unsuspecting piece of furniture. If you get yourself injured because you tripped over your own gun, I’ll never forgive you.

I miss you. It’s not the same here without you. Keep your head down and your fists up. And please, don’t let the drill sergeant break that big head of yours.

Write me back, James. I’m starting to forget what your handwriting looks like.

Your friend (and nothing more),Gracie

Letter #3: Bucky to Grace (Week 2 of Basic Training)

Gracie,

Didn’t think I’d be so desperate to hear from anyone, but getting your letter made this hellhole bearable. I read it twice, mostly because I couldn’t stop picturing you nearly setting the apartment on fire. Makes me almost wish I’d been there to see it. Almost.

Steve’s right, though—you really should stay away from the stove. We both know you enjoy my cooking better anyways.

Training’s getting tougher. They had us out running for hours yesterday. Thought I was gonna die right there on the field. Guess I’m not as tough as I thought.

They gave me some downtime today, so I thought I’d write you again. There’s a kid here, probably not much older than you, who talks about home the way you do—like it’s this place you hate but one you’d fight the whole world to protect. Makes me wonder if that’s how you still feel about Brooklyn. Can’t imagine you anywhere else.

Bet Steve’s still trying to make sense of the quiet. Bet you’re still telling him he worries too much. I can practically hear you saying it, even from here.

I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. And quit trying to scare off the neighborhood girls—it’s flattering, but you know I’d rather hear about what you’re up to than any of them.

Write soon, alright? I’m starting to forget what your laugh sounds like.

Always (but not in that way),James

Letter #4: Grace to Bucky (Week 3 of Basic Training)

Dear James,

I’ve read your last letter about a hundred times. Steve caught me grinning at it like an idiot and made some crack about how you must have finally admitted you’re not as big adn bad as you pretend. I told him you’re still trying to make basic training your personal playground.

I keep telling the girls at the diner that you’re a pain in the neck, but they still swoon when I mention your name. One of them actually asked me to send you a handkerchief she embroidered. I told her you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you got it.

Steve’s taken to fussing over me more now that you’re gone. I think he’s scared I’m gonna up and disappear too. He won’t say it, but I see it in his eyes. You’ve gotta come back and tell him to quit hovering—he’s driving me crazy.

Keep writing me, okay? It’s the only thing keeping me from losing it. Just don’t go getting yourself hurt, Buck. I don’t think I could handle that.

Your friend (and nothing more),Gracie

Letter #5: Bucky to Grace (Week 4 of Training)

Gracie,

If you tell Steve I actually miss his worrying, I’ll deny it. But I do. He’s always been too good for this world. Makes me feel like a real ass for leaving you two behind.

That handkerchief thing made me laugh so hard I nearly got caught by the sergeant. I don’t need some stranger’s embroidery. But yours? Maybe. Just make sure it doesn’t smell like smoke.

Keep your chin up, Grace. Knowing you’re waiting makes this place feel less like hell.

Yours (but not like that),James

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Observation Deck

The heavy, reinforced door clanged shut behind the men as Tony, Steve, and Bruce shuffled into the observation room. Footage of Grace’s motionless form was displayed on the monitors mounted on the walls.

Tony slowly lowered his hand from the fresh, jagged scratch marks running down the side of his face. “Jesus Christ, Rogers…did you teach her that one?” 

Steve didn’t look at Tony. “She called you Howard,” he muttered. “She…she looked right at you and called you Howard.”

Bruce watched as Steve stood up straight and turned towards Tony, the super soldier's face dripping with disgust as he said, “She was…she was blaming him for something. She said he lied to her. That he…that he promised her something, and then he left her.”

Steve’s jaw tightened as he played through the scene in the lab.

“She said he abandoned her,” Steve continued. “She said he left her. Lied to her. Used her and then left her.”

Tony’s head jolted up, his eyes locking onto Steve’s.

“Don’t,” Stark snapped. “Don’t you even start with that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Steve scoffed.

“I know what I just saw,” he shot back. “She didn’t just call you Howard. She tried to claw your eyes out. She was screaming at you like you’d personally betrayed her. Don't you think HYDRA would teach their agents to be a bit more covert than that? That...that wasn’t just a glitch in her programming, Tony. That was real.”

The corners of Tony’s mouth twitched in aggravation.

“And what exactly are you implying, Rogers?” he spat. “You think my father did something to her? Took advantage of her? That he abandoned her? Like she said, you weren’t there.”

Steve stepped forward, his fingers flexed at his side.

“Yeah? Well, I know Grace,” he argued. “I know she wouldn’t have just let herself be used like that. Not unless she thought he would come back for her.”

Bruce quickly stepped between them, his eyes shifting nervously.

“Hey,” he interrupted as he cautiously raised his hands in a calming gesture. “Let’s not jump to conclusions here. None of us have any idea what happened. For all we know, she’s just confused, latching onto the first familiar face she saw.”

Tony’s ground down his jaw as he stared at Steve.

“Why did she suddenly switch to English, huh?” Bruce pressed. “She hasn’t said a word of it since we pulled her out of that cryo-pod, and now she’s rattling off full sentences like it’s 1945. What triggered that? What made her suddenly remember how to speak English?”

February, 1942: Postal Exchange

Letter #6: Bucky to Grace (Week 5 of Training)

Gracie,

Alright, I’ll admit it. I’m starting to miss Brooklyn. The way the subway rattles beneath your feet, the smell of fresh bagels in the morning, the way the summer air sticks to your skin like syrup. Mostly, I miss the people. The way Steve never knows when to quit and the way you always manage to trip over the same crack in the sidewalk on the way to the diner alley.

I caught myself thinking about that day we spent at Coney Island last summer. The way you dragged me onto that rickety old Ferris wheel, your hand clutching mine like you thought the whole thing might collapse beneath us. I kept telling you to look at the view, to stop squeezing my fingers like you were trying to break them, but you just kept staring at the bolts and cables like you were expecting them to snap any second, rattling off something about objects in motion.

I still remember the way your laugh echoed in my ears when we finally got to the top, the way the wind whipped your hair into a tangled mess, the way you clung to my arm like you never wanted to let go.

It’s a good memory. One of my best. I keep coming back to it when things get tough out here, when the nights get too long and the days feel like they’ll never end.

I know you’re just a letter away, but it feels like you’re a world apart. Write me back, Gracie. I need something to look forward to.

Yours,James

Letter #7: Grace to Bucky (Week 6 of Training)

Dear James,

I got your letter today. Read it twice, then once more just to be sure I hadn’t imagined it. I’m glad you still remember that day at Coney Island. I do too. I still have the picture you took of me with my hair all wild and my face flushed from the wind. I remember you making some wisecrack about me looking like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket. I should’ve thrown you over the rail.

Steve asked me why I was smiling so much when your letter came. I told him it was because you’d probably tripped over your own feet again and written me a whole letter about it. He just rolled his eyes and called you hopeless.

I miss you, James. I try not to think about it too much, but it creeps in sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world feels too big and the apartment too empty. I miss the way you make the walls feel a little less close, the way you can turn a bad day into something worth laughing about.

Don’t get too cocky about that, though. I still think you’re a pain in the neck.

Come home soon. I’m starting to forget what it feels like to have someone tease me until I’m ready to throw something.

Yours,Gracie

Letter #8: Bucky to Grace (Week 7 of Training)

Gracie,

I’m sitting in the mess hall, crammed between a bunch of sweaty, exhausted recruits who look like they’re about to drop dead into their slop. The food here still tastes like cardboard, but I’m too tired to care.

Your letter got me through another rough week. I must’ve read it a dozen times, just sitting on my bunk, trying to picture the way your face scrunches up when you’re trying not to smile, the way your eyes light up when you’re pretending to be mad at me. I’d give just about anything to see that right now.

Sometimes, when I’m running drills or cleaning my rifle for the hundredth time, I catch myself thinking about you. You’re like sunshine. I keep telling myself to cut it out, to keep my head in the game, but it’s like trying to quit breathing. 

Tell Steve I’m fine. Tell him I miss him, but not as much as I miss you. And those cigarettes.

Write soon, Gracie. I’m starting to think I might not make it through this place without your smart mouth keeping me sane.

Only yours,James

Letter #9: Grace to Bucky (Week 8 of Training)

Dear James,

I read your last letter by the window, the one that creaks whenever the wind blows just right, the one you used to bang your elbow on whenever you tried to sneak in after a late night at the bar. I could almost hear your voice in the words.

Steve’s started asking me why I keep looking out the window like I’m expecting someone. I told him I’m just trying to catch the mailman, but I think he’s starting to get suspicious. He always did have a way of seeing through me, even when I was trying my hardest to keep things to myself.

I miss you. I try not to say it too often, but it’s the truth. I miss you in a way that feels too big for my chest, like it’s going to split me open if I don’t see you soon.

I hope you’re still keeping that big head of yours out of trouble. I hope you’re still smiling, still cracking those dumb jokes that make me want to hit you.

Write me back soon, okay? I need to know you’re still out there, that you haven’t forgotten me in all that dust and noise.

Your sunshine,Gracie

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1 & Observation Deck

As Bruce cautiously stepped inside the lab doors, the door hissed shut behind him, causing Grace to flinch. She sat curled up in her cot, still restrained from the events of a few hours prior, and she stared blankly at the cold, metal wall in front of her, her eyes still bloodshot and unfocused.

“Grace,” Bruce started, stepping closer to the cot. “Grace, can you hear me? It’s Bruce. Dr. Banner.”

Grace didn’t respond.

“Мисс Роджерс,” JARVIS chimed in. “Доктор Баннер пытается поговорить с вами. Хотите ли вы ответить?” (Ms. Rogers, Dr. Banner is trying to speak with you. Would you like to respond?)

Grace flinched at the sound, her head popping up to meet Bruce’s gaze before darting away again. She muttered something in Russian.

“JARVIS, can you translate that for me?” Bruce said, stepping even closer and offered her a glass of water.

“She said, ‘Please, just leave me alone,’” JARVIS replied.

Bruce hesitated before slowly backing away from the woman, and without another word, he slipped back out of the room.

Upstairs, Tony, Steve, and Nick huddled around the table as they watched the footage from Grace’s outburst.

The video showed Grace lunging at Tony, clawing at his face as she shrieked about betrayal, lies, and broken promises.

Nick let out a low, dry chuckle, his one good eye narrowing as he watched Grace yank Tony by the hair while Steve attempted to pry her away.

“Well,” Nick muttered. “Can’t say I blame her. Stark does have a face you just want to punch.”

“Are you serious?” Steve snapped as he intently eyed Fury. “You think this is a joke? That’s my sister you’re talking about. She’s not some…some lab rat you can make jokes about.”

Nick didn’t bat an eye as Steve scolded him.

“Relax, Rogers,” Fury said. “I’m just saying, the girl’s got some fight in her. You should be glad. It means she’s still in there.”

Steve rolled his eyes, about to argue, when Tony interjected.

“Yeah?” Stark asked. “Well, maybe she wouldn’t have to be fighting like this if your organization hadn’t just let her fall into HYDRA’s hands in the first place.”

Fury tilted his head in amusement. “Watch it, Stark.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t have to be fighting like this if it wasn’t for your award-winning dad and his–” Steve started.

Bruce stepped into the room just as Tony opened his mouth to fire back.

“Guys, come on,” Banner spoke over the bickering. “This isn’t helping. We need to stay focused. We need to figure out what triggered this. You can rip each others’ heads off all day long, but you’re never going to get your questions answered if you don’t help Grace.”

February 27, 1942: Brooklyn, NY

The snow had come down hard the night before, blanketing Brooklyn in a thick, sparkling layer of white that crunched with every step. Grace pulled her woolen coat tighter around her shoulders, and one gloved hand clutched tightly around the paper bag of groceries she had just picked up from the corner market.

She had nearly reached the front steps of her apartment building when something cold and wet exploded against the side of her head, the shock of it sending a spray of powdery snow down the back of her collar.

Grace whipped her head around with a mix of surprise and irritation. Her fingers tightened around the paper bag as she looked for the source of the snowball.

“Hey!” she shouted, her voice high and sharp, her eyes narrowing as she turned in a slow, wary circle, her boots slipping slightly on the icy pavement. “Who the hell—”

Another snowball whizzed past her ear, narrowly missing her head as it shattered against the iron railing of the stoop beside her.

Grace let out an outraged huff, her cheeks flushing a bright, angry pink as she turned, her eyes still searching the snow-draped shadows beside her building.

“Alright, you little punk,” she muttered, her breath puffing out in short, furious clouds as she took a step onto the icy street. “You’ve got about three seconds to show yourself before I—”

A third snowball arced through the air, this one hitting her squarely in the chest and knocking the paper bag from her hands, the contents spilling out onto the cobblestone in a clattering, chaotic mess of canned soup.

Grace let out a small, startled yelp, her arms flailing as she staggered back, her feet slipping on the ice beneath her boots as she struggled to regain her balance.

“That’s it!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the brick walls. “You’d better hope I don’t catch you, you—”

But then, a familiar, rough laugh cut through the frozen air, the warm, crackling sound of it stopping Grace dead in her tracks.

For a moment, she thought she must have imagined it, that her mind was playing cruel tricks on her, that the long, lonely weeks of waiting had finally driven her mad. But then she saw him, his tall, broad-shouldered form half-hidden in the shadows, his dark hair mussed and tangled from the wind, his bright, blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he stepped out into the glow of the streetlight, his lips curled into that familiar, crooked grin that made her knees feel weak.

“James?” she whispered.

His grin widened as he took a steady step toward her, his gloved hands slipping into the pockets of his thick, woolen coat as he tilted his head, stopping for a moment to examine the scattered groceries at her feet before locking onto her flushed face.

“In the flesh,” he said, taking another step towards her. “Miss me, Gracie?”

Grace felt her legs turn to jelly as she took an unsteady step toward him.

Then, with a small, choked sob, she broke into a run, her boots slipping and sliding on the icy pavement as she hurled herself at him, her arms outstretched.

Bucky’s eyes widened in surprise, his own breath escaping him as Grace slammed into him, her body crashing into his frame with enough force to knock him off balance.

As his boots slipped on the slick pavement beneath his feet, they tumbled backward into the snow, a sharp, breathless yelp escaping Bucky’s lips as his back hit the cold, powdery ground with a thud, the breath knocked from his lungs as Grace collapsed on top of him, staring at him with a grin.

At first, they just laid there, all tangled together in a heap of limbs and damp, snow-covered clothing, their eyes locked.

Then, slowly, a small, trembling laugh bubbled up from Grace’s chest. “You...you jerk,” she whispered, her breath hitching, her hands still clutching desperately at the front of his coat as she leaned down, her nose brushing his, her lips hovering just inches from his own. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Bucky let out a rough, breathless chuckle, his arms wrapping her into a hug, and as he buried his face in the soft, dark curls at the nape of her neck, he whispered, “Missed you too, Gracie,” his breath warm against her skin. “God, I missed you.”

September 2, 2012: Avengers Tower, Medical Lab 1

Bruce adjusted the thin, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he entered the lab, the cameras buzzing softly, following his path as the doors shut behind.

Grace didn’t look up as the doors shut.

Bruce hesitated before attempting to address her again.

“JARVIS,” he said quietly. “Can you translate for me? I don’t want to scare her.”

“Of course, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS replied. “I am ready when you are.”

Bruce steadied himself before beginning his questions.

“Grace,” he asked. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

JARVIS translated his words into steady Russian, as Grace searched around the room for another voice.

“что...что ты имеешь в виду?” (What... what do you mean?) she asked. “я...я не понимаю.” (I... I don’t understand.)

And as JARVIS translated back to Bruce, Grace frantically looked around the room again. “что это? кто это?” (What is that? Who is that?) she asked.

“The voice you’re hearing,” he assured her, “That’s JARVIS. He’s...he’s not a person. He’s an artificial intelligence, a computer. He helps us with things around the tower. Security, communication, translation...that sort of thing.”

Grace fidgeted with her blankets as she listened. 

“And...and I should probably tell you,” Bruce continued. “It’s... it’s not the 1940s anymore. It’s 2013. You’ve...you’ve been in cryo for a very long time, Grace.”

She looked at him with confusion, almost as if she wanted to say something back.

“Alright,” he spoke. “I know this is all very confusing. I can’t imagine what it must feel like to wake up in a strange place, surrounded by strange people, and...and to not remember how you got here. I just...I just want to help you. I just want to help you remember who you are. If... if you’ll let me.”

JARVIS continued translating as Bruce studied Grace’s face for any signs of hostility. She hesitated, and then, slowly, she gave a hesitant nod.

February 27, 1942: Brooklyn, NY

The snow crunched beneath their boots as they made their way back to Bucky’s, their gloved hands still tangled together.

Bucky glanced down at Grace, giving her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze as they reached the front steps of his building.

Grace stumbled slightly on a patch of ice, her breath hitching, her hand tightening around his as she let out a small yelp.

“Easy, Gracie,” he chuckled, wrapping a steadying arm around her waist. “Wouldn’t want you breaking that pretty neck of yours before we even make it inside.”

Grace let out a giggle, and that familiar heat crept up her spine.

“God,” Bucky muttered, mindlessly kicking the door shut behind them and helping Grace shrug off her coat. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be out of that goddamn training camp. I swear, if I had to spend one more night on that thin, lumpy cot with Collins snoring two feet away, I would’ve shot myself just to put myself out of my misery.”

“Was it really that bad?” Grace prodded with a smirk on her face. “I thought you were supposed to be tough, soldier. I thought you liked a challenge.”

Bucky smiled as he made his way to the couch.

“Oh, I like a challenge,” he started his rebuttal. “But basic training? That’s just cruel and unusual punishment. Half the guys in my unit could barely run a mile without collapsing, and don’t even get me started on the food. I think they’re trying to kill us with canned beans and powdered eggs.”

Grace plopped next to Bucky on the couch, reaching for the quilt that had accompanied her through many rainy nights.

“You poor thing,” she teased. “I had no idea you had it so rough.”

“You wouldn’t last a day, doll,” he said through a toothy grin. “I’d give you an hour, maybe two, before you started crying for your warm, comfortable bed and your nice, quiet apartment.”

Grace’s cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink.

“Maybe you’re right,” she murmured. “I’m not exactly cut out for military life.”

Bucky’s grin softened as the room filled with silence.

“You should stay the night,” he muttered. “Take my bed. It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than that lumpy old couch, and you’ve got a long walk back to your place in the morning.”

“But you just got home,” she whispered. “You should take the bed. You’ve been sleeping on a cot for months. I’ll be fine out here.”

Bucky reached out for her hand again, instinctively tracing her wrist with his thumb.

“Gracie,” he softly urged. “Take the bed. I insist.”

Grace hesitantly released his hand and made her way to his bedroom, shooting him a sweet smile before she gently closed the door behind her.

And maybe it was because she couldn’t hear the creak of the radiator, or maybe it was because it didn’t feel right to not be sleeping on his couch, but as Grace lay down to sleep, she couldn’t stop thinking about what Bucky had said earlier. About his breath on her neck or his hands wrapped around her waist as he murmured, “Missed you too, Gracie. God, I missed you.” 

And she couldn’t fall asleep.

But it was probably the radiator.

She tossed and turned, trying each pillow in hopes that sleep would find her.

But Grace was still thinking about his laugh that felt like home and their collapse in the snow that felt like it was driven by the force of the past two years. She was still thinking about how they lay tangled together in the powdery white, their breath mingling in the laughter.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she adjusted the blanket.

It had been so easy, so natural to fall back into the familiar rhythm of his presence. All it took was a few moments to fall back into their familiar patterns of nicknames and teasing. And it felt right.

But it wasn’t, and she knew it. 

She opened her eyes, swung her legs over the edge of the creaking bed, and slowly rose to her feet.

She took a small step toward the door and pursed her lips, silently cursing herself for even thinking about going out there to him.

Grace sat back down.

Then, again, she stood up 

She walked to the door, then stopped.

This was a mistake.

She sat back down.

She should never have agreed to stay the night. She should have insisted on going home, should have forced herself to turn around and walk back out into the snow-covered streets, should have kept her distance.

But she hadn’t, and now here she was, sitting on the edge of his bed, her pulse racing, her mind spinning with a million different thoughts, wishes, and regrets.

She stood back up.

She would just go out there and insist he take the bed. She was used to the couch anyways.

The door loomed before her as she gathered the courage to reach for the doorknob. 

But then, before she could open the door, it creaked open, and in the faint flickering of the streetlamp from just outside, there he was.

Neither of them moved as they locked eyes, both surprised at the others’ presence.

Bucky took a step into the room, his calloused hands reaching up to brush a curl out of her face as closed the door behind him, the faint, metallic click of the latch echoing softly.

Grace felt that familiar blush creep all the way to her ears as Bucky stepped even closer, tilting her chin up to meet his gaze.

“Gracie,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, his eyes flicking down to her lips. “I was just... I thought maybe you needed...”

But before he could finish, Grace met him in the middle, her hands slipping beneath the woolen fabric of his sweater as she pulled him down, her breath warm and shaky.

In an instant, Bucky had his other arm wrapped snaked her back, and she followed his lead towards the bed behind them, their breath coming in desperate gasps as they grabbed at the hem of each other’s clothes.

Grace felt the metal frame behind her knees, and Bucky’s breath hitched as Grace pulled him down. He held the delicate curve of her neck, keeping those dark curls out of her face with one hand as he lifted her back onto the mattress with the other. 

He moved his hands to the fabric of her dress, his thumbs brushing lightly against her shoulders as he slipped the material down her arms, his breath coming in jagged bursts, and Grace tugging at his hair in response to his stubble brushing against her neck.

Bucky’s solid frame covered hers, and she clung to his sweater, pulling at the fraying edges in an attempt to get it off of him. Bucky whispered her name, his rough hands running over the back over her thighs as he pulled her closer.

“I love you,” he murmured into the crook of her neck. He tightened his grip on her, his fingers digging gently into the bare, flushed skin of her sides. “God, Gracie, I love you.”

Grace felt the red that was once localized to her neck spread down her legs as Bucky softly groaned in response to her lifting her hips in search of friction. 

“I love you,” she whispered back between soft pants. She pulled him closer, wrapping her arm around the back of his neck as he softly nipped at her neck. “I love you, James.”

Grace gently pawed at the belt holding up his gray slacks, and she heard him give a faint whimper before pulling away from her neck and meeting her eyes.

“Gracie…are you sure?” he whispered.

She bit her bottom lip as she nodded, running her thumb over the stubble right under his bottom lip.

Bucky’s gentle whispers coaxed Grace to finally be the one to let someone take care of her, and Grace’s mewling panting followed Bucky to the high he had been holding out on for so long as the warmth of soft gasps and the faint creak of the mattress ushered them into morning.

[nowimjustastranger]

Fic request...lets see...

How about stcmo!ford experience meeting the eldest Stanley and/or the youngest Stanley he had saved?

Ford had just drifted off into a light and restless slumber when the notification came in, his helmet beeping urgently from where it sat on his makeshift workbench, the surface cluttered with electronic scraps and soldering tools. Ford heaved himself up with a grunt of effort, striding over to the helmet to pull it on and access the data to pinpoint where the emergency was and the severity of the situation.

D – G/727 | 12 yo | COD: Self-Inflicted Injury

Ford’s hands fumbled to clip the helmet underneath his chin, blindly reaching for his trenchcoat and dimension hopping gun from the backrest of his desk chair and nightstand respectively. The coordinates were already pulled up on the screen, having been uploaded from his helmet, so all he had to do was pull the trigger and step through the swirling gateway to reach his destination.

Even with the upgrades and adjustments, his radar still struggled to get an exact location, but the multiverse was a big place and wormholes were notoriously complex so Ford couldn’t fault the technology for not quite being up to par. After all, Ford could deal with a bit of searching. He was always dropped within a certain radius of the event, so he simply had to travel toward the epicenter to find what he was looking for.

His boots crunched as he stepped on glass and he snapped out of his single-minded focus to look down, his ribcage tightening at the sight of a distant memory brought into startling clarity. Glass Shard Beach. At least now he had an idea of where he was going, there was really only one spot that Stan would be drawn to, and Ford found his feet briskly carrying him toward a familiar silhouette in the distance.

There was a soft light emanating from the ship’s interior, the hole that Stan had made in the hull upon discovering the wreck not yet repaired. Ford had to crouch in order to carefully crawl inside, not wanting to alert the child to his presence before he was able to properly assess the situation, each movement slow and calculated as he prowled into the cramped space.

Ford saw Stan almost immediately, his stomach swooping in a nauseating fashion as the golden glow illuminated the alarmingly large red puddle around Stan’s left arm. He lunged forward with a wounded sound, scrabbling toward the boy in an entirely undignified manner, his black pants soaking up the still warm blood when he kneeled beside Stan. Ford checked his pulse the old fashioned way, the sensors in his gloves easily picking up the boy’s slightly weakened heartbeat.

He hasn’t lost too much blood then. Good.

Ford took Stan’s left arm in a gentle grip and turned it to examine the gash, his narrowed eyes cataloging every mark that marred the boy’s scrawny arms. Some were fresher than others, layers upon layers of wounds healed only to be carved open again. This was what hatred looked like. This was the kind of self-loathing that burrowed into you with harsh words and even harsher fists, wearing you down until death looked like the better option.

Ford’s throat clicked dryly when he swallowed, retrieving his collapsible med kit from his utility belt. He gave the boy a mild numbing agent before reattaching the vein that Stan had accidentally severed, sealing the wound with a small red penlight that increased the rate of repair. He didn’t heal it all the way, leaving it a tender pink scar to hopefully deter Stan from carving himself up in the future.

Ford sat back on his haunches with a full-body shudder when he was finished, dragging his helmet up and off his head to gasp for air, his bloodied hands shaking. He sloppily set the helmet down beside his soaked knees, gaze honed in on the steady rise of Stan’s chest until his vision began to blur; hot tears spilled down his face, dripping off his trembling chin as he silently wept.

Stan was so young. Too young to be out this late by himself, slicing himself open with a jagged piece of glass. Where the fuck was his brother? Where was Stanford when Stan was punishing himself for simply existing? Ford had to take a deep, shuddering breath and remind himself that his counterpart here was a child and he couldn’t use his usual methods to make Stanford see the error of his ways.

The most he could do was point Stanford in the right direction and hope that the workaholic brat didn’t just ignore the signs until it was far too late. This was undoubtedly the youngest and most self-destructive Stan that Ford had come into contact with up to date, so the chances of him making it to highschool were slim to none unless his brother noticed Stan’s desperate cry for help.

Ford wiped his face with the sleeve of his trench coat, grimacing at the mess that he left on the dark fabric. Honestly, he would probably end up burning this outfit, he had a sneaking suspicion that the smell of blood would linger no matter how many times he washed the articles of clothing. It was suffocating even now, filling the small space with the nauseating stench of copper.

Ford swiped the bloodied shard of glass from the sand and tucked it away before he gathered the unconscious boy into his arms, cradling the small body close to his chest. Ford pulled the pin on a sanitation grenade and tossed it into the blood before grabbing his helmet and swiftly ducking out of the hole, greedily inhaling fresh air until the fog of panic and despair lifted from his mind.

He only got a few steps away before the grenade went off with a loud hiss, white smoke rolling out of the hole in the hull, cleansing the boat’s interior of blood as well as a laundry list of other harmful substances on a microscopic level. Ford adjusted his grip on Stan as he plucked a syringe from the small black case on his utility belt, injecting Stan in the upper arm with a serum that would eliminate any illness that he could’ve given himself.

Stan began to stir as Ford put the emptied syringe away, reluctantly depositing the boy onto the sand beside the hull’s opening so he could pull his helmet back on, buckling the strap beneath his jaw just as Stan’s eyes cracked open. The boy sluggishly scanned his surroundings, his brows furrowing in blatant confusion before his squinted gaze came to a shrieking halt on Ford.

Stan’s eyes widened as he sat up straight, his owlish stare briefly darting to his arm, face blanching of color when he saw the pink scar. Ford was careful to keep his body language relaxed and open, arms limply hanging at his sides. Still, the boy was visibly distressed, scooting back an inch or two before the hull of the ship prevented him from putting any more distance between them.

“Please don’t tell my parents!” Stan blurted, his shoulders hunching as he drew his legs up, his left arm tucked between his thighs and his stomach to hide the evidence of his dangerous and unhealthy coping mechanism from view. The boy couldn’t seem to maintain eye contact anymore either, his gaze dropping to stare at his knees with alarmingly wet eyes. Ford’s heart lurched in his chest, aching to draw the boy into his arms and just hold him.

It suddenly struck Ford that the boy was ashamed. But not of what he had done, just of getting caught.

“I won’t.” Ford assured as he raised his hands in a placating manner, relieved when Stan’s defensive posture relaxed some. Ford would rather volunteer to be Bill’s plaything for eternity than set Stan up for the backlash that he would receive from his useless brute of a father. So it was safe to say that Filbrick Pines wouldn’t be involved in this delicate matter.

“Really?” Stan timidly asked, his narrowed eyes briefly flicking to Ford, most likely looking for some sign of deceit. Ford had nothing to offer other than truth though, and it seemed that Stan had reached the same conclusion because the tightness that his body held melted away as he slumped back against the hull with an explosive breath of relief.

“So long as you promise me something.” Ford hedged, keeping his hands raised when Stan’ gaze cut to him, the beginnings of suspicion and something uncomfortably close to fear brewing in his eyes. Ford slowly lowered himself to sit, legs crossing as he gracefully settled on the sand approximately four and a half feet from Stan.

“Right… uh, what is it?” Stan grumbled, lazily draping his unmarred arm onto his knees before propping his chin on it. Ford’s back ached from simply watching the boy practically fold himself in half, bewildered as to how such a compact position could possibly be comfortable to maintain for any length of time. Ah, the joys of youth, a time long past for Ford.

“Whenever you want to hurt yourself, go to someone you trust.” Ford said firmly, pointedly dipping his head in a pointed nod at Stan’s hidden arm. The boy made a sound that was somewhere between an incredulous bark of laughter and an annoyed scoff, mulishly turning his head away to stare at the ocean. Ford let Stan silently stare at the waves for a moment, the boy clearly collecting his thoughts.

“Can’t. He’s always busy with school stuff.” Stan said at last, his tone flat and matter-of-fact as that bottomless well of sadness returned to his eyes. How such a small body could hold so much pain was beyond Ford. However, it wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary for a Stan, it just wasn’t usually seen in one so young. “He doesn't have time for me or my stupid feelings.”

“How you feel isn’t stupid, Stanley.” Ford objected, and the vehemence in which he spoke startled the poor boy, who flinched as if he were expecting a physical blow to accompany the outburst. Ford felt something molten stir in his chest even as he made a conscious effort to soften his voice, his hands primly folded in his lap to keep them out of sight. “Just tell him that you need him.”

“Why bother? He won’t care.” Stan retorted hotly, anger overtaking the sorrow as he fixed Ford with a fierce glare. It was quite impressive, how someone so little could manage to look so intimidating. It’s no wonder that the bullies stuck to name-calling when Stan took to looking at them like this when they harassed his brother.

“He will. Stanley please, he will.” Ford was very nearly begging, body instinctively leaning forward, straining toward the boy like a flower seeking sunlight. Nevertheless, Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line of uncertainty; yet there was an undeniable flicker of hope in his gaze that Ford immediately latched onto. “Just give him a chance to prove it.”

“Guess it can’t hurt to try…” Stan haltingly conceded, his contemplative stare drifting down to his left arm. Ford could see the boy’s thoughts written all over his face as clear as day, though it was hardly a secret that Stan wore his heart on his sleeve. The boy desperately wanted to believe him, to let what appeared to be a random stranger convince him that someone cared.

The knowledge that Stan thought himself so insignificant broke Ford’s heart.

[wings-and-beskargam]

Workbench Update

Space-Canadian winter is hard on armourers. Paint and other products don’t like to cure properly in the cold. So! Only a bit of progress on the ongoing buy’cese and beskar’gam builds.

To do List

Archers bucket: paint touch-up and weathering before MMCC app photos!

Lil’Archer: finish paint details.

Scorch: Visor and HUD install. Prep, paint and assemble DC-15s

Crosshair: Bullseye on visor. SAND THE GRUMP OFF THAT FACE!

Tech: Final sand and prime on bucket. Paint. Install HUD, goggles lenses and light. Install padding. Complete armour scaling and construction. Prep and ALLLLLLLL the paint work, mounting and fitting on armour plates. Install electronics. Have fun. (?)

Clone fairy lights: kill-marks on lil’Gregor. Paint Echo and Fives.

😱😴