#human ghost would absolutely leave no trace of breaking the window behind

[heliads]

Touch-starved

Based on this request: “after getting close to the reader before the Orpheum through writing sessions and such and hating the fact that they “couldn’t touch”... well now that Julie freed them from Caleb... it’s game over now and Luke uses every chance he gets to express his love for y/n.”

masterlist

You sit on the edge of your bed, legs pulled up around your chest. A never ending stream of tears leaks from your eyes, and you stare unseeingly at your feet. It’s over now, isn’t it? Luke is gone, and there’s no coming back from this. Not ever.

You had thought that he might be coming back just once, when Julie walked out onto the stage of the Orpheum. You think you might have been one of the only people in the audience to see the red rims of her eyes, and realize that she would be alone for that performance. Had the boys crossed over already? You never even got the chance to say goodbye.

Then they had appeared, bursting into existence on the stage in time to the music. Luke had been there too, and you’d watched with bated breath as he flickered in and out of sight before finally making it through, away from whatever was holding him back to stay decisively with his band. You had allowed yourself a sigh of relief, the hope that he might have finally completed his unfinished business and be allowed to stay with you.

Even the thought of Luke makes you break out into a fresh wave of sobs. How long had it been since you had met him? Two weeks? Three? It didn’t really matter- it still wasn’t enough time. He had burst into your world in a splash of color and music, bringing with him endless memories and good times. At first, he’d been mainly concerned with your best friend, Julie, but after he realized your skill at songwriting, he started dropping by your house too.

Then ten minute writing sessions became half an hour, and you started visiting Julie’s studio to hear Luke play and offer advice. They became more frequent, a part of your life that you grew to depend on just like food or drink. You became close friends, and then even that wasn’t enough for the two of you. You’d look up from your notebook to see a pair of warm brown eyes hurriedly glancing away, a blush starting to form on his cheeks. You’d stare at the way his hair fell in his face and the curve of his hand as he pushed it away. You knew it when time seemed to pass far faster with him than anywhere else, or when all your songs seemed to be about him. You knew then that you loved him.

You were afraid to say anything about it, too terrified to lose those golden hours in the brightly lit studio and dark, star-studded nights. When he first told you that he loved you too, you weren’t sure what to say. Could it ever be true that Luke, this boy full of sunshine and overwhelming happiness, would ever fall for a girl like you? Yet it was, and you loved him all the more for it.

Like it or not, there was always something hovering in the corner of your mind every time his hand brushed over yours just to pass through it, or when you turned to see Luke staring at your lips, knowing that there was nothing he could do. In the end, Luke was a ghost and you were human. No amount of love could change that, although the two of you certainly gave it your best try.

But none of that mattered now, did it? You’d take a thousand missed kisses, a hundred lingering stares just to have him back. You had looked up when the boys disappeared after their final bow, and seen the look on Julie’s face. The two of you had locked eyes, and that one stare communicated a thousand words and pains, all saying the same thing. They’re gone. They won’t come back, not this time.

You knew that if you were a good friend, you would have gone to talk to Julie after her concert, but you just couldn’t bear it. You did talk to her, technically, you gave her a hurried hug and brief exclamations of pride over her performance. You both knew it was only superficial, like if you focused on the songs themselves you wouldn’t have to think about the fact that the boys were truly gone from you. She understood, and she had pulled you tight one last time before you disappeared, both of you mourning silently for the bandmates never to be seen again.

You had driven home silently, flying up the stairs and closing your bedroom door behind you with a click. Only then, with the door firmly shut and with yourself finally alone did you let the tears come. They washed over you in waves, racking your body in sobs. You missed Luke, missed him more than everything. You’ve never loved anyone like you love Luke. Loved Luke. Now he’s gone, and you cannot imagine what you’re supposed to do with yourself.

So you sit alone, crying your heart out. The tears have subsided a little bit. Gone are the loud sobs, replaced instead by inaudible agony. In a way, the silence hurts even more. There’s a sound behind you, the click of your window sliding open. You don’t bother to turn around, speaking to the person with your back facing them. “I’m sorry, Julie, but I really can’t talk right now.” You continue nursing your tissue box, but freeze when you hear a new voice instead.

“I’m not Julie, Y/N.” Your eyes widen, and you whirl around to see him. Luke. Can it really be Luke? You stand up hesitantly, your knees buckling. In the back of your mind you realize you must be a mess, with your teary eyes and everything, but none of that matters. The only thing that’s worth a fragment of your time is the fact that the boy you love is here, and walking towards you. “Luke?”

He smiles. “Guilty as charged. Oh, and I’ve got one last trick up my sleeve.” You frown at him, confused, and then he reaches out and wraps his arms around you, pulling you close to him. Stunned into silence, you return the embrace, burying your face against his shoulder. Your hands clasp around his back, and it takes everything in you to just stand there.

After a moment that seems more like a year, he leans away, tracing your cheek gently with his hands to wipe away your tears. “You don’t have to cry anymore, Y/N. I’m here. I promise.” You shake your head slowly in bewilderment. “How is this possible? I mean, you’re here, and I can-” You break off, unable to think about anything more than his hand on your cheek, your palm pressed up against the curve of his back.

Luke smiles slightly, the corners of his mouth sliding up. “I don’t know. All I know is that I’m here with you, and that’s more than I can ask for.” He looks at you for a moment, then leans forward and presses a kiss to your lips. You feel your heart race in your chest, and kiss him back.

After that, you feel like you’re on top of the world. You have Luke, even when it seemed like you’d never see him again. You find yourself making excuses to drop by the studio and feel his kiss on your cheek, to walk home with him, hands linked together, to do anything and everything with him.

On one of these days, you’re stretched out on the faded sofa in Julie’s studio, brow furrowed as you study your math notes. There’s a test tomorrow, and you’d be a lot more miserable were it not for the fact that your legs are draped across Luke’s lap, his hand tracing idle patterns into your skin as he considers his battered songwriting notebook.

Luke must feel your gaze lingering on him, because he looks up with a grin. “Hey, I know I’m good-looking and everything, but I think you should be focusing more on your math. That’s what you said you needed to do, isn’t it?” You feel your cheeks burning and roll your eyes, pretending to be unaffected. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If anything, I should go study somewhere else so I don’t have to be distracted by your, uh, hideousness.”

Luke laughs, the sound ringing like a bell in the empty studio. “My hideousness?” You nod. “Yes. I know it can be hard to hear, but-” Luke leans forward, cutting you off with a kiss. He pulls away, noting the blush spreading about your cheeks with a grin. “You still sure about that?” You huff in irritation and look away, but can’t help a grin.

It is a frigid November afternoon, and a walk through the neighbourhood on the way to Julie’s house has only made you even colder. Rubbing your arms in an attempt to keep warm, you open the studio doors and slip inside, where it’s not much better than the outdoors. You don’t see anyone inside, so it looks like you’ll be waiting for at least a little longer. 

You glance around, hoping to see a blanket or something to keep you warm, but your eyes fall instead on a flannel jacket. It’s brown and soft, tossed casually across a chair. Nobody’s here, and you’re absolutely freezing, so you put your backpack down on the ground, picking up the jacket and sliding your arms into it. The flannel is warm, and you wrap it around yourself, breathing in the familiar scent.

You’re only in the studio for a few moments longer when Luke poofs into the room. He spies you and grins, heading towards you with a flurry of conversation. “There you are, Y/N! I was hoping you’d drop by. Alex and Julie just came up with this amazing idea for a song, it’s got a good melody but I know you’d come up with some killer lyrics if you heard it, and-”

His words die off as he comes to a stop in front of you. “Is that my jacket?” You glance up at him, then back at the flannel still wrapped around you. Your hands fly to the sleeves, and you start to tug it off. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that. It was really cold, and it was the closest thing and-” Luke’s hands cover yours, stopping you from removing the coat. “No, it’s fine.”

He grins at you. “Looks good on you.” His hands leave yours, traveling up to rest instead on the curve of your hips as he pulls you close to him. Your hands thread in the soft curls of his hair as he kisses you. You’re beginning to think that you could stay here forever, but then you hear the faint sounds of commotion drifting up from the area outside the studio doors, and Luke groans softly.

“That’s the boys.” You pull away, laughing at the disappointed look on his face. “They’re your friends, try not to look so sad about it.” Luke reaches for your hands again, slowly running his thumb against the curves of your wrist. You shiver slightly, although this time it has nothing to do with the cold. Alex and Reggie are getting closer to the studio, so Luke presses one last kiss to your forehead before it’s too late. “Tell me when you’re ready to leave so I can walk you home?” He mumbles against your cheek, and you nod, a soft smile playing on your lips. This moment, right here, so close to Luke? You wouldn’t trade it for anything, and you know right then that you’ll be in love with him forever, as long as he stays by your side and you stay by his. Forever sounds good to you.

[forthiswholeworld]

for @cursed-or-not because we’re thriving on each other’s clownery (page break bc this got Too Long to inflict on unsuspecting dashes) 

They’ve had Cas back for four days when Dean realizes something is wrong.

For a paralyzing moment, he stumbles on the thought, feels the fear of it choking him as he freezes in the doorway with a mug of coffee in his hand. He watches Cas blink dazedly at Sam’s debriefing on the rugaru in San Antonio and wills himself forward, wills his mind not to go straight to darkness and loss and cosmic consequences. Cas flashes a ragged smile as Dean sets the mug in front of him, and it occurs to Dean that maybe this is less about cosmic consequences than it is humanity. 

Now that Dean thinks about it, he can see it: the circles under his eyes, the weary slope of his back-- the things Dean had attributed to resurrection rather than humanity. 

Cas is human, though, and Dean thinks he needs to remember that before he remembers that he was gone. 

Cas needs food and laundry detergent and coffee and sleep, and now that he thinks about it Dean is absolutely sure he hasn’t seen Cas touch his bed since he got back. 

He doesn’t bring it up; they’ve been here before. They’ve come back and kept secrets and spent sleepless nights trying to fix things before, and heart-to-hearts have never gotten them anywhere. 

Instead, Dean drinks three pots of coffee and waits.

It’s 2:07 AM when he hears the echo of footsteps in the hallway. He swings open the door and tries to look like he hasn’t been waiting in ambush as Cas freezes.

“Dean,” he says, voice rough and a little frantic, and Dean is reminded of the days he’d wake up to Cas blithely watching him from the foot of his bed. (The days when Heaven filled the space between them and Dean didn't understand the difference between being a human and being human.) 

He watches Cas’ eyes flit away from his gaze and smiles brazenly. “Trouble sleeping?” 

Cas shifts on his feet. “No,” he says like he’s not the worst liar in the entire multiverse.

Dean holds his gaze for another beat before breathing a sigh. “Cas.” He settles back against the doorframe to scrutinize him. “What’s up?” 

Cas swallows. His eyes trace a scuff on the floor. “It gets so quiet here at night,” he mutters, and Dean understands.

He works his jaw as he realizes. He thinks he should’ve recognized the signs. He should’ve seen the tired eyes and haunted glances and known then, because Dean doesn’t know what it’s like to come back from nothingness, but he knows what it’s like to close his eyes and see hell.

He watches Cas’s gaze flit from the floor to the wall behind him and settle just above Dean’s left shoulder, and he’s not consciously aware of deciding anything but he’s inhaling to say something, and he guesses it better be good because there’s not a whole lot he can say to heal emptiness. 

“Sleep in my room,” he says, and he’s not sure which of them it surprises more.

“Dean—” Cas starts, and Dean knows he’s going to refuse, but there’s a millisecond where his gaze catches on Cas’s and there’s something heavy in the space between them, and Dean knows what it is but he’s always refused to put a name to it.

Cas swallows as he looks away. “As long as you don’t mind,” he says, and Dean also tears his gaze away before he can do something dumb like consider the vulnerability of it. 

“Come on then,” he mutters as he heads back into his room. “You can take the bed.”

“Dean—” Cas protests like Dean knew he would, and Dean narrowly avoids rolling his eyes.

“We’ll both take it then,” he says before he can ponder the sheer idiocy of it. 

Cas hesitates beside the bed, but Dean thinks he must be either too tired or too apathetic to argue, because he swallows and steps forward. 

Cas is careful as he pulls back the comforter and settles in; he’s careful not to take too much blanket or too much space, and they both lie stiffly on their respective sides of the bed until Dean decides he can’t take it anymore and clears his throat a little obnoxiously. He hears Cas huff a laugh. 

“You said it was too quiet,” Dean says softly, and he’s grateful for the darkness because he thinks he’s wearing a damningly fond expression. 

He thinks he feels Cas relax as he mutters, “that’s on me, then.” 

The stillness doesn’t feel so stifling after that, and he hears Cas’s breathing start to even out. 

He can feel the thrum of caffeine in his veins as he watches the ceiling. Even in the dark, he can see the outline of the ceiling fan, the trimming on the wall, the chair in the corner. He can hear Cas’s breathing, feel the warmth in the space between them, and he realizes he has no idea what emptiness is. He wonders how long it’s been since Cas closed his eyes without seeing it. 

He lies awake for the next three hours, but the rise and fall of Cas’s chest is steady and even beside him, so the caffeine overdose is a small price to pay. There are no windows in his room, but if there were he’d be able to see the first hazy traces of sunrise filtering in by the time he starts to drift off. 

Cas is gone when he wakes up. 

He staggers out of his room just before noon, and Cas doesn’t quite meet his eye as he wordlessly hands him a plate of pancakes, courtesy of Sam and Eileen, but Dean thinks the circles under his eyes look a little less absurd, and it’s enough. 

The next night, Dean leaves his door open. 

He isn’t sure what he’s expecting, but 11:00 rolls around and he’s just getting ready to turn out the lights when he hears a tentative knock at the doorframe. He looks up to see Cas in the doorway. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cas mumbles, and something about his awkward stance and fragile uncertainty makes Dean’s chest ache. 

He thinks this is where he becomes brash; this is where he scoffs a laugh and brushes off this heaviness like neither of their shoulders are bowed under the weight of what-ifs. This is where he flees back to the safe side of the lines they’ve drawn. 

He swallows. “You wanna come in?” 

Cas stills. “I--” his eyes flit to Dean and then away in a millisecond. “No. I just--” 

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, and he guesses he’s being reckless instead of brash and can’t say whether it’s for the best but he can feel the thrill of it in his veins. “Get in here.” 

Cas watches him for half a beat, probably just as surprised as Dean is that he’s managed not to be a defensive asshole about this, and then he swallows. “Thank you.” 

Dean thinks he absolutely doesn’t deserve a thank you, but Cas shuffles in and hesitates at the side of the bed and before he can say as much he’s pulling the comforter aside to make room. 

Dean falls asleep earlier tonight; he thinks it has something to do with not being hyped up on three pots of coffee and the thrill of reckless, stupid ideas. He’s not sure when Cas nodded off, but he wakes up at 3:42 to the sound of gasping, panicked breathing. 

“Cas?” He asks with a sleep-worn voice but he’s halfway across the bed, reaching for Cas’s shoulder before he can get a response or take half a second to consider how horrible an idea this is. 

“Dean,” Cas breathes, and Dean isn’t sure if it’s a question or an answer or a prayer but Cas’s breath mingles with his as he says it and something in the fragile space between them finally shatters as Cas leans into the touch. 

Dean pulls him into his chest, holds him there and tries not to let the ache of it convince him he’s going to regret this.

Cas clutches the back of Dean’s shirt like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered to this world where things are allowed to make noise and wake up and see light, and Dean rests his palms against Cas’s shoulders and wishes he had the words to promise he’s holding on just as tight. 

Dean isn’t sure how long it is, whether it’s two minutes or three hours or an eternity, but Cas’s grip on his shirt loosens, and he breathes less stuttered exhales, and he rests his chin somewhere in the crook of Dean’s shoulder and closes his eyes. 

Dean leans slowly back against the headrest and thinks he’s never been very good at this. 

The intimacy of it is familiar—the weight of an arm over his stomach, the heady tangle of limbs, the needy warmth— that’s always come naturally to him. It’s the tenderness that gets him. It’s the brush of Cas’ breath against his neck, the softness of ten years of fear and loss and a word that Dean can’t say as easily as he should. It’s the ache where the rhythm of his pulse screams something between I want this forever and I’m so afraid.  

Cas is gone when he wakes up. 

Cas is gone, and Dean’s arm is stiff and he wonders if it will ever be enough just to hold an angel haunted by empty nights. 

That night, he tells himself he isn't waiting for the knock. 

He tells himself he’s not waiting, but he hears the shuffle of bare feet in the hall and a single rap at the door and a millisecond later he’s swinging it open. 

Tonight, there’s no apologetic hesitance or fumbling for words.

There’s Cas, standing plainly in the doorway and there’s Dean, dropping his hand from the doorknob and standing too close. There’s the tilt of Cas’s head as he searches Dean’s face for something Dean knows with terrified certainty he’ll find, and there’s Dean’s gaze flitting to his mouth for a stupid, breathless moment. There’s the part of Cas’s lips and the desperate beating of Dean’s heart, the distant electric buzz of the lights and the hitch of his breath as Cas leans forward—

There’s the cluttered breath and scrape of teeth as their mouths crash together.

His lungs stutter on the drag of stubble and chapped lips and tired warmth, and because he never thought he’d be allowed to, he pulls Cas in, clutches the front of his shirt and crowds him up against the doorway until they’re pressed together and they can both feel the desperate rhythm of his pulse. Cas’s fingers ghost over his jaw and something in Dean is absolutely dizzy with the realness of it. 

He doesn’t know how long it is before Cas breaks away but he feels ready to shatter. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Cas says, and Dean breathes a ragged laugh into his shoulder. 

There are still things he can’t say, words that form in his chest sit and like a lump in his throat and will probably stay unsaid for just a little while longer, but he lets his arms circle Cas’ waist and murmurs “sleep in here, then,” and he has to bury his face in the crook of Cas’ neck to hide a stupidly fond smile.  

Cas breathes a soft “thank you” against his temple as Dean pulls him toward the bed, and Dean can hear the worn tiredness in his voice and thinks that might be all there is for a while but for the first time in their lives they have time, and it’s enough. 

It’s enough, he thinks, and he pulls Cas against his chest and holds onto him until there’s no empty space between them. 

[hercleverboy]

Ghost Of You

PROMPT : Ghost Of You By 5 Seconds Of Summer

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Reader

WARNINGS: Swearing, Heavy angst.

Here I am waking up, still can't sleep on your side

There's your coffee cup, the lipstick stain fades with time

If I can dream long enough, you'd tell me I'd be just fine

I'll be just fine

3 months, 21 days, and 5 hours.

That’s how long it’d been since the love of Bucky’s life had left. With no explanation at all.

His eyes fluttered open, and heaved a small sigh, his eyes adjusting to the early morning sunlight that poured through the slightly open curtains. He smiled contently, reaching his arm out to his girlfriend, who’d fallen asleep soundly next to him the night before. However, a frown graced his features when he found her side of the bed cold and empty. He heaved himself out of the bedroom, pulling on some sweatpants and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he headed downstairs to the kitchen, were his lovely Y/N would be, making his morning coffee as she always did. Though, as his feet padded softly into the marble floored kitchen, he was surprised to find that she wasn’t there. So he called out for her, but received no response. He checked the bathroom and the living room, though those too were empty. And that’s when the panic set in. He rushed back up the staircase, calling out her name, though it seemed to only echo around the walls of their small home. His breathing picked up, beginning to get erratic and he told himself not to panic, that there was a sure excuse for everything. However, that thought was wiped from his mind when he saw the wardrobe doors, wide open, with her side completely empty. Void of her autumn coloured jumpers, and hundreds of pairs of shoes that she insisted she needed no matter how many times Bucky rolled his eyes at her antics. He reached for his phone that sat idly on his bedside table, checking or any messages or missed calls, only to find there were none. He pressed the phone to his ear, having dialed her number, as he rushed around the home, looking for a note she may have left that explained her absence. Though again, he found nothing, and her phone went straight to voicemail. He called another 23 times, though each time nothing changed. After the 23rd call, he sank down against the bathroom door, as the tears fell rapidly from his eyes. She’d left him, she really had. The woman he loved with all he had, the woman that made him feel so human despite the animalistic things he’d been guilty of doing, The woman he’d hoped to marry one day - Gone. And just like that, Bucky’s world fell to pieces around him.

He’d hoped that she’d come back, with a silly excuse for her sudden absence, and everything would be okay. But that didn’t happen. On that particular morning, he woke up from another night of getting a mere few hours of sleep. His nightmares had also returned — she was the only one that kept them away — and he found himself unable to sleep most nights. He sat up against the headboard, pulling his knees to his chest, and placing his head in his hands. He found that he couldn’t seem to cry much anymore, as if he’d cried himself dry. He was careful not to touch her side of the bed. The left hand side, she’d always insisted she liked that side better. He hadn’t touched it once since she’d left, he couldn’t bring himself to. Turning his head, he looked at the cup that sat on her bedside table. The cream coloured mug stained with the burgundy coloured lipstick she often wore, though the stain had faded since he’d last looked at it. Though he didn’t dare touch it. And he supposes that if he could dream, he’d dream of her. How she’d held him after he’d wake up in cold sweat, tears staining his cheeks from another nightmare. How she’d whisper sweet things into his ear, tell him that he would be okay. How he wished she was here to tell him that.

So I drown it out like I always do

Dancing through our house with the ghost of you

And I chase it down, with this shot of truth

Dancing through our house with the ghost of you

Liquor never did much for the winter soldier, the serum from HYDRA had made it so. Bucky could sit and drink shot after shot in an attempt to forget how his heart desperately ached and yearned for the woman he loved. It wouldn’t do jack shit. He’d only end up throwing the bottle at the wall in his angered state, before crumbling to the ground in tears. That’s how Steve had found the poor man, 4 weeks after Y/N had left. Crumbled into a ball on the kitchen floor, surrounded by glass shards, hands shaking and bleeding as he cried out for Y/N, His Y/N.

Steve was his best friend, and had seen him at his worst times, but this was impossibly worse than ever before. Steve, having not seen Bucky for a while had gone over to the couples cozy home, knocking and waiting patiently for an answer. When none came, he turned to leave, assuming they were out, but the sound of glass shattering gained his attention. He knocked again, and busted the door open when he recieved no response. Calling out for Y/N and Bucky, Steve cautiously entered the home, checking all the rooms before heading towards the kitchen. His ears caught onto the sound of shallow breathing and what sounded like crying. He turned the corner into the kitchen, his heart breaking at the sight of his best friend, holding himself as heartbroken sobs left his chapped lips.

“She’s gone, Steve.” He whimpered out, before breaking down into more sobs. Steve was confused, though quickly caught on. He’d noticed that Y/N’s car wasn’t in the driveway, and how the home seemed to be missing the warming glow that she’d brought. Y/N had gone. Had she left? Had she been taken? Steve wanted to ask, but the sight of his sobbing friend took priority at the moment. This was his best friend, sitting absolutely wrecked on his kitchen floor. And with no other idea on what to do, Steve dropped to his knees beside Bucky and hugged him tightly. To which Bucky responded by gripping onto his friend, as he cried into his shoulder. The cracked cries that left his lips broke Steve’s heart, welling tears in his own eyes. Never had he seen Bucky in such a way.

Steve got all of the avengers looking for Y/N, though she’d managed to clear her path pretty well. This only broke Bucky’s heart even more, because it meant that she didn’t want to be found. Though he wouldn’t give up. He needed her like he needed air to breathe. If she’d left because she felt as though she wasn’t good enough, he’d spend every minute he had to making her believe she was more than enough. Whatever he could do for her to come back with him, to go back home. Weeks turned to months, and the search wasn’t turning up any results. So Bucky would sit, in his broken home, as the record player spun the vinyls that she’d loved to listen to. A particular song began to play, one that she’d claimed was ‘their song’, and it only made his heart clench more. He stood up, swaying slightly to the melody as he remembered how they’d danced to this very song. How they’d made 3AM promises that it would be that very song that they danced to during their first dance as husband and wife, that they’d have kids of their own one day.

They laid in their bed, wrapped up in each others embrace. It was 3 in the morning, and they really should’ve been sleeping, but the couple found that conversations at this time of night were the best. Y/N was softly giggling at a joke Bucky had made, as she laid on his chest, her fingertips tracing patterns on his chest as his hands held her hips gently. Her giggles died down, and she sighed contently. Bucky took the time to take in her beautiful features. How her smile brought such a sense of warmth, how the light freckles on her cheeks seemed to shimmer, how her soft skin gleamed in the small stream of moonlight coming from the window. It was at this time of morning, that he let his mind speak, without often processing his words. It meant everything he said was authentic, and meaningful.

“I’m going to marry you one day, Doll.” He whispered, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear.

She chuckled, quirking a brow. “Are you now?”

He smirked, tightening his grip on her a little as if it would bring her any closer than they already were. “Damn right I am. One day, I’ll ask you, and You’ll be the Mrs Y/N Barnes,”

She chuckled fondly at the idea, looking into his eyes with a look of adoration. “And I’ll say yes in a heartbeat.”

He chuckled at that, “I’d hope you would.”

“And our first dance, it’ll be to our song?” She asked, her voice perking up in question.

“ Of course, doll. And after I make you my wife, we’ll have tons of wild sex and hopefully get a few kids out of it.” He was partially joking, though he knew that he wanted her to be the mother of his children.

“I would gladly have your children. But I get to choose the names, right?” She giggled.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, darlin’.”

Cleaning up today, found that old Zeppelin shirt

You wore when you ran away, and no one could feel your hurt

We're too young, too dumb, to know things like love

But I know better now, better now

Steve insisted on coming over to the apartment, to help Bucky out with the cleaning jobs that he was too mentally exhausted to complete himself. The search for Y/N had become harder and harder, as every time they came back from a potential lead empty handed, the chances of finding Y/N got slimmer and slimmer. Bucky wasn’t taking care of himself, admist all the worry for Y/N, he’d forgotten to take care of himself. So Steve insisted he’d come over to help.

Steve let himself into the apartment, with a key Bucky had given him months ago. It’d been when Y/N and Bucky as gone away from the weekend, to spend some time together. Y/N had hundreds of house plants that she kept. They were her pride and joy. Whether it was the little cacti that sat by the front door, or the flowers that were budding in a vase on the island in the kitchen. She loved them, and always ensured they had enough water. So when they’d gone away, she asked Steve if he’d keep them healthy for her, giving him a spare key and strict instructions on how to feed each one. Bucky had tried to keep them topped up, knowing that when she came back to him she’d be upset if her plants had died. But over the past month, the only thing that mattered to him was getting her back home. He disregarded anything that didn’t involve the next potential lead, and threw himself into figuring out where she’d gone, and why.

“Hey, Buck. How’re you feeling?” Steve asked, polite as always.

“I think I might have a lead on Y/N. Someone in —“ Bucky started rambling, but was cut off by Steve.

“When was the last time you ate? Or even showered?” Steve was growing angry. He understood how he was struggling to cope, he was grieving. Though Steve hated to watch as bucky tore himself apart, not even looking after himself properly as he was so consumed with finding her.

“I’m fine. I don’t have time for that, I’ve got to— I need to find her.” Bucky’s eyes were pleading, but then again so we’re Steve’s, as he begged for his friend to take care of himself. Steve bent down, beginning to pick up some crumpled cans and crisp packets that littered the room, and had just opened his mouth to encourage Bucky to eat something, when the doorbell sounded.

Bucky gasped, his eyes welling with tears as he made a dash out the bedroom door, with Steve calling after him. Bucky threw open the front door, ready for Y/N to be standing behind it, only to be met with a confused looking delivery man. Bucky’s face dropped, and his hands fell beside him.

“Uh, package for a — Mr Barnes?” The delivery guy mumbled, confused at the tears that welled in Bucky’s eyes. Steve came up behind him, taking the package from him and smiling politely.

“Yes, thanks.” He thanked the delivery man as Bucky shuffled back to his room, all hope of his Y/N returning vanishing from within him.

Steve held the package suspiciously, checking it out before deciding it wasn’t a threat and was safe enough to open. He pulled open the package, ripping the tape from the sides, and out fell a t-shirt with a small white note attached to it. Bucky’s eyes drifted over to the black shirt that Steve held in his hands. His mouth ran dry and his throat tightnened when he recognised it immediately. It was his Led Zepplin shirt that Y/N stole from him repeatedly. It used to annoy Bucky, when he couldn’t find his favourite shirt, but that one morning he’d walked in on it hanging from her frame, he’d decided it looked better on her anyway.

“Buck?” Steve’s voice brought him back from his daze, and he stumbled toward we’re Steve stood. He took the shirt from Steve’s hands, and brung it to his nose, inhaling deeply. And of course, is smelled like her. Her favourite Tropical perfume filled his nostrils, and his eyes clouded with those all too familiar tears. This was the shirt she’d worn when she’d left him. He squeezed the fabric in his fingers, inhaling the scent again as Steve remained silent, his eyes re - reading the little note that had been attached to the shirt. Bucky eventually looked up, his eyes landing on the paper Steve held.

“What does it say, Steve?” He asked quietly, though Steve couldn’t seem to find an appropriate response. Therefore, Bucky snatched the paper from his face fingertips. It was definitely Y/N’s handwriting. Neat and tidy, written perfectly in the blue felt pen she loved so dearly, and beautiful in every sense. He read the simple words over and over, hoping that maybe they’d change if he read them just once more.

“I’m so sorry, Buck.” Steve whispered. Bucky willed himself not to cry, and so sucked in a deep breath, placing the paper on the bedside table and sinking down against the bed frame, holding the shirt to his chest.

A string of simple words that made his broken heart feel shattered.

“I’m not good enough for you.

Let me go.”

After moments of silence, Bucky felt a shuffle beside him, as Steve took a seat on the floor next to him.

“Im so lost without her, Stevie.” He mumbled.

“I know, buddy.” Steve placed a comforting hand on his friends shoulder. “But we’re gonna bring her back. Okay?”

So I drown it out like I always do

Dancing through our house with the ghost of you

Bucky would never forget the day that he was pulled from his bed by rapid knocking on the door. It’d now been 6 months without his beloved Y/N, and the avengers search wasn’t turning up any results, and neither was Bucky’s. He’d groaned, hoping that whoever it was would get the hint and leave if he just ignored them for long enough. However, whoever was knocking was persistent, and so, Bucky dragged his aching body from the bed and trudged towards the door. Pulling it open, he sighed when he saw Steve standing the other side.

“Steve, you were here yesterday. I told you I’m fine, now go—“ Bucky began, but was interrupted by Steve who quickly cut him off.

“We found her.” Steve breathed. If he’d come from the tower, he was breathing heavily from the overall anticipation and adrenaline of it all.

Bucky’s voice chocked up, and his world spun. “I— you — what?” He managed to choke out.

“Y/N. We found her.”

She sighed, breathing in the fresh scent that the air held around her. She sat on the small balcony of her studio apartment, looking out at the bustling city around her. Paris truely was a stunning city, and the French culture was so intriguing to her. She’d always wanted to travel, and use what she’d learnt of the French language to communicate with those around her. She simply adored it. However, no matter how content it made her, that didn’t stop the heavy ache in her chest that weighed her down. Her heart ached for the man that she loved. Though, she had no right to claim she was heartbroken, because she’d done it to herself really. She’d been the one to leave without giving the poor man any indication as to why. And it was impeccably cruel. Thing was, she couldn’t give him what he wanted. She was no where near enough. Numerous times throughout their relationship, Bucky had expressed how he planned for her to be the mother of his children, and god she wanted nothing more, but that was the problem. 2 weeks before she’d left him without a trace, she had booked a doctors appointment. She thought she may have been pregnant, which excited her to no end, but she wanted to have it confirmed before she told Bucky. When the doctor told her she wasn’t pregnant, but instead was unable to conceive, her world collapsed. She didn’t say a word to Bucky. Surely he’d be disappointed in her? Her body wasn’t capable of giving him the one thing it was supposed to be able to do. It hurt her to think of how fondly he’d spoken of having kids and being the father he’d always wanted to be, when she knew she’d never be able to give him what he desired. Her logic was that if she left, he’d move on from her and find himself a woman who could give him the family he wanted. So with tears streaming down her cheeks and sobs catching in her throat, she’d kissed his cheek as he slept peacefully on their bed, and left without a single trace. She covered her tracks to the best of her abilities, because she knew that the Avengers would be all in on trying to find her. She couldn’t let that happen, not if she wanted to give Bucky the chance he deserved. She sighed, gazing out as the sun set, before standing and grabbing her coat from the rack by the door, slipping on her boots, deciding on going on a walk to clear her clouded mind.

Stopping in front of the apartment building, which was down one of the narrow stoned paths of the beautiful city, Bucky couldn’t comprehend what was happening. After months of sleepless nights and crying himself dry of tears, he was finally going to get his girl back and bring her back home where she belonged. No matter what had made her leave, they’d fix it. He wouldn’t live without her, he simply refused to let her go after this. The 6 months of torture without her taught him, if anything, that once he got her back, he would never let her leave his sight again. Steve pushed open the door, and began the climb up the stairs to where Y/N’s studio apartment was on the fourth floor of the building. Bucky followed closely, the nerves building up inside him. Yes, he was going to get his girl back, show her how much he loved her. But what happened if she didn’t want to go back? What happened if she didn’t love him anymore?

Bucky didn’t have time to process the immense speed that his thoughts came at, and was surprised at how quickly they’d reached the door that was hers. Steve banged the side of his shoulder into the front door, which swung wide open due to the lack of security on the door lock. The studio was quite bare, but still had little pieces of Y/N littered everywhere. Her perfume hung in the air, and there were 3 small cacti plants on the kitchen side. Though, Y/N was no where to be seen. They both checked the small apartment, but found nothing.

“She’s not here.” Bucky murmured. “She’s not fucking here!” He yelled, his metal fist curling into a ball and smashing down on the wooden table in the kitchen, making a large hole through its center.

Steve attempted to soothe his friend, though it did little to ease his anger. “Bucky. Calm down. She can’t have gone far—“

“She was supposed to be here!” He screamed, his breathing turning erratic. The silence was deafening, but Steve didn’t dare speak. Only The sound of her boot heels walking along wooden floors broke the silence. Seconds later, a hesitant Y/N walked slowly into the apartment.

Bucky’s head whipped around at the sound of someone entering the apartment, and the breath was knocked from his lungs. There she stood, tears in her eyes and a small smile on her lips. His Y/N.

“Hey there Doll.” He managed to whimper out, the tears causing a lump to form in his throat.

“Hi Bucky.”

And I chase it down, with this shot of truth

That my feet don't dance like they did with you

[breitzbachbea]

Day 2: Lost and Found

Summary: Ivan needs a little alone time. That’d be alright for Yao, if Ivan would have not disappeared from one second to the other without telling anynone ... Warning: This is an Human AU and set in my Mafia!AU series. Viktoriya and Irina are Human OCs of mine, but they are only mentioned Ship: RoChu Read it on Ao3 Read it on Fanfiction.net Buy Me a Coffee

Yao had expected a few things for his first longer stay in Russia. It was Russia, after all, and Ivan was Ivan. He had seen both do a few confusing things.

He had however not expected his new boyfriend running away from him, his bodyguards and Yaos bodyguards. Finding him in an abandoned house a little outside of the village was again fitting for both Russia’s and Ivan’s weirdness.

The door was hanging slightly ajar and as he stepped inside, he immediately spotted the big footprints left behind in the layer of dirt and dust.

He followed them upstairs and into a room that was bare except for a wardrobe and a bed which both had seen better days already.

And it was bare of any Ivan, too, at first glance.

“Ivan?”

Yao received no answer but as soon as he stepped a little further into the room, he saw him.

Ivan was lying behind the bed on top of a rug that was undeniably as worn down as the rest of the house.

“There you are! Playing Hide and Seek like a kid, I can’t believe it!”

“Am I not allowed to be childish once in a while?” Ivan asked. “Who isn't childish every once in a while?”

Yao was standing in front of the bed and bowed slightly over it. “It’s one thing to be childish and another one to leave without a trace and breaking into abandoned houses. You’re 22, not twelve, you can’t just go off on an adventure.”

“I wasn’t going on an adventure.” Ivan averted his look and turned it back onto the ceiling.

“You also can’t just run off to sulk,” Yao said. “That’s not a mature thing to do.”

“You sulk a lot, Yao.”

Yao now knelt on the bed to get closer to the other. “First off, that’s not true and second, even if – You just ran away! The others are worried! Sheez, don’t you ever think about the consequences of the things you do?!”

“I don’t,” Ivan said. “It’s a really neat thing in my opinion, don’t you think so too?”

“I think it is absolutely immature and idiotic!”

Ivan sighed. “Yao, you’re only 30, have you forgotten all about your childhood?”

“I’m not 30 yet!” Yao objected.

Ivan laughed but then carried on unwaveringly. “Not having to think about consequences or tomorrow is such a nice part of being a kid. Being immature isn’t a bad thing.”

“But you aren’t a kid anymore. You’re an adult and have responsibilities. You can’t just shrug them off whenever you like it.”

“Who says I can't do that?”

Yao opened his mouth to say Your common sense, but then froze. He frowned as he closed his mouth. He turned around and sat down properly on the bed while he tried to think of a better reason to convince Ivan.

“Yao?” He didn’t turn around to look at him. “Yao, it is not very mature to sulk.”

“I am not sulking!” Yao said and swirled around.

Ivan laughed loudly. Once finished, he put his arms out for a hug. Yao did not take him up on it.

Ivan dropped his arms, shrugged and laid down again to stare at the ceiling.

“You really worried the others,” Yao said. Maybe Ivan hadn’t realized how upset his friends had been over his disappearance.

“I guessed I would”, Ivan replied and Yao furrowed his eyebrows.

“Why didn't you tell them where you were going?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Ivan said. Suddenly, he frowned.

Yao raised an eyebrow but did not know else to ask. What question was there to ask when Ivan apparently didn't know an answer?

A gust of wind managed get inside the room through the desolate windows.

Yao just wanted the two of them to get back home , so he pulled his phone out to tell the others were Ivan was. Then they could stop searching and worrying about him.

As he stared at the screen however, he couldn’t bring himself to it. Something was going around his head.

“You did a pretty good job at hiding. Have you done this before?”

“Yes.” It was silent for a while until Ivan said: “I never told anyone before.”

“That you ran away before?”

“No. I mean that I never told anyone where I’d go when I wander off.”

“And why didn't you?”

“I didn't want to be found. Not by my father. Or my mama, either.”

Yao slowly put the phone back into his pocket and turned to look at Ivan, eyes wide open and eyebrows arched in surprise.

Ivan however was looking at the ceiling with a kind of lost, surprised look himself. As if he didn’t understand what he just had said, either.

“Your parents have been dead for a while, haven’t they?” Yao asked.

“A little, yeah. I think ... I don’t know how many years it has been. My memory always gets hazy when it comes to them; I know mom died before dad, so if she has been around, so was he. And I know that if I am thinking about anything business related, it has to have been after his death. No, wait, sometimes I don’t know if I didn’t do it for him, either …”

“I understand what you mean,” Yao said. “It's been hazy for me, too. Years go on and on and the past melts together ...” He sighed. “But that wasn't why I was asking, I didn’t want to remind you of that. I simply thought that it must mean you haven’t run away in a while.”

“Oh, I did,” Ivan said nonchalantly. “It’s just that Vicki got fed up with it pretty quickly after I knew her for a while and … she worried about me. So did Irina then and so I kind of stopped it. I don't like making them sad, so today I usually take my alone time when they’re not around anyways. But today ... Today I just ...”

Yao saw Ivan struggle to put something so overwhelming that it made him cut all ties with everyone for a while into words.

“It's okay if you can’t explain it,” Yao said. “I can guess.”

“I don't think you can," Ivan said.

Yao snorted. “I've been around this world a little longer and know a thing or two.”

“You've not been around me for longer, though.” Ivan said. When Yao looked at him, he looked away.

He preferred to not respond to that. If Ivan wanted to get into a huff, then he should get into a huff.

Yao wrote a message to Viktoriya that he had found Ivan, but there was no reception. Oh the joy.

“Ivan, I think we should really go back,” Yao said. “Do you think you had enough alone time yet?”

“No,” Ivan answered.

Yao sighed. “If we don’t get going, you will have more than enough alone time lying in bed with a flu!”

Ivan laughed. A few moments later, he said: “Today is a bad day.” He sat up and climbed onto the bed. Before Yao could do anything, Ivan wrapped his arms around him. “Thanks for finding me, Yao.”

“You're welcome,” Yao said. While the first touch had been cold – Ivan had been here for a while too – his body heat slowly began to warm him up. Yao ignored how they should get going in favour of revelling in the comfortable warmth.

“You don't understand me,” Ivan said in a rather sad voice, “but that's okay. I don't understand me either. It’s nice to know that you're going to stay around me even if you can’t do anything with me.”

He was warm on the outside but Ivan’s words let a cold creep into his bones, heavier than any cold breeze could ever do. Yao turned to face Ivan and he did look sad, too. Eyes half lidded and not even the ghost of a smile on his face, he looked sad and tired. Their eyes locked and a few moments passed when Ivan leant in closer. As he closed his eyes, so did Yao and Ivan pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.

His lips - and presumably Yaos own - were so cold a shiver run down his spine.

“Alright, let's get home, before any of us catches a cold,” he said and Ivan smiled.

[residesatshamecentral]

Meetings

Archer & Huth's first night together!! (Prompt) (P.S- absolutely love your writing!) 

Dear anon, thanks so much for saying you like my writing! But writing sex was an experiment and I am not sure I will repeat it. Hope you enjoy this, anyway...

...

Huth shut the door behind him with uncharacteristic gentleness. His expression was abstract. It took him a moment to turn and look at Archer, as though the other man was a difficult task to be carried out with care and forethought. But of course, thought Archer, handling him was a large part of Huth's daily tasks. You could hardly blame the man for showing it in his face, though, of course, he did.

“Archer.”

Huth's voice was gentle. Archer lit a cigarette and close his eyes, breathing in the smoke slowly. He perched on the edge of the table and fixed Huth with a stare that contained a complexity of emotions, alloyed into steel. Huth met it with raised eyebrows.

He knew he did not really hate Huth. Archer's emotions swirled like a sea, rising and falling in a tide. At present he was in deep, and the bitterness made him twist away as Huth slowly paced forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Don't touch me, please.”

“How English of you.” Huth took a bottle and two glasses from the cabinet and poured from them both. “Odd little quirk of civilisation, these reflexive good manners.” He toasted to Archer with a little tip of the wrist. “I think an Englishman would apologise if he knocked someone's teeth out. Whether he meant it or not.”

“Just don't touch me.”

“You really do blame me.” Huth swallowed his drink like medicine. “I cannot belive you have the nerve to criticise me, knowing all you know.”

“Too many of those people had children.”

“And they made their decisions and decided terrorism was more important to them than the safety and security and future of those children. Have you lost your memory?” Huth tapped the top of Archer's head lightly with his cane. “Sympathise with these rebels all you like, but never forget; Their leaders tortured us.”

“The people we just sent to the firing squad didn't.”

“We don't know that. Even if we did, they made their choices. We made ours. And here we are. And, Archer, you cannot shoulder the consequences of their decisions for them. You have your own self-absorbed moral wrangling to bear. Let them bear theirs. They knew perfectly well what would happen to those who loved them if and when they got caught. Well, they did it anyway, and they lied and stole, like we do, and they killed, like we do, and they did what they saw as their duty every time. As we do.”

Archer met his eyes. They observed each other in silence for a moment, as though from opposite ends of some vast chasm where the obsidian waters run, miles below, and the winds are perilous. Too far away, and dangerously close.

Archer leaned forward.

“You lying coward” he whispered.

Their breath mingled. Huth was the first to lean back, slowly, the silence stretching out between them, demanding a reply. Distantly, a clock struck the hour, somewhere out in the city. It was one in the morning. Archer wondered when he had lost the habit of going to sleep like a normal human being.

Huth refilled his own glass with a clink, pushing the other toward Archer like a Christmas present. “You need to be drunk my dear Superintendent” he said. The look he cast Archer was sly, glittering, full of irony and something darker. “When a sober man acts drunk, that is a sign that he desperately needs alcohol. Drink up. Drink. Let us empty the damn cabinet.” He sighed and examined his glass, his colorless eyes taking on a peculiar blankness as though seeking the depths for the answer to some unanswerable question. His face relaxed. For a moment he looked much older than he was.

“We both need a drink” he told the air. “God knows.” He downed his entire glass and refilled immediately. Archer held up his own glass, watched the light shine and refract in the amber depths.

“If God knows it, he has a lot to answer for” muttered Archer. He drank.

...........

It was somewhere around one thirty in the morning when Huth, SS Standartenfuhrer and scourge of political dissenters, pulled his assistant towards him and planted a clumsy, drunken, illegal kiss on his mouth.

The curtains were open. Unusually for Berlin, no-one was watching. Had anyone been awake, watching silent from the rooftops on that cold Autumn night, they would have seen two tiny figures, frail like charcoal sketches of men, struggle in an underwater silence, behind the glass of the window, the room a cell of warmth in the blank Berlin night. A strange, slow, reluctant wrestling, as though neither figure knew if they were seeking possession of or freedom from the other, conducted in silence, and the wind was the only witness.  

..........

“Mmh” grunted Archer. The kiss was all teeth and impatience. An incisor bruised his lower lip as Huth's fingers closed possessively around his neck, near the base of the skull. “Sir.”

“Don't pretend you never anticipated it” Huth spoke against his mouth, their lips brushing with the words. “You foresaw it a long time ago. And you signed up for it then, because you wanted to.” The fingers of his other hand closed in the fabric of Archer's shirt, clenching and creasing.

“Don't” muttered Archer into Huth's parted lips. The mouth closed on his again. He waited out the kiss, surfacing with thoughts full of red heat. “Don't do that now.” Huth said nothing, their faces close.  

The world was obscured, only one of Huth's darkened eyes and a slice of his cheek within view. Archer exhaled, hating himself and leaned into another kiss, hands gripping the tabletop by his sides. Huth was rough and greedy, biting, tongue invading, taking possession. Archers head spun. He was hot with humiliation, hot with anger at the iniquities of the day, anger at Huth, hot with drink and his skin burned. The air was cool on the back of his neck, where the hairs pricked upright and then his hands clung of their own accord to Huth's shoulders, twisted into his hair, and Huth's mouth was slipping sideways, trailing across his skin. He closed his eyes.

Huth savaged his throat gently, kissing and biting, the tooth marks tiny dents. Archer tilted his head back and gave in to vertigo. There was no thought, only a darkness filled with sensations. The hot predator mouth, the nipping teeth, and the cool air on the curve of his throat. The heat rising. Red heat, flushing up, from where his body met Huth's, pressed close, against his leg, against the space between his legs... Heat flushing, up his torso, where the firm hands gripped him, invading, feeling, laying claim... Heat. Flushing up, past the restricting collar that penned it in, rising to meet the air where is cooled him, where Huth's mouth was on him, where...

He wanted the world reduced to this spot, wanted a lock on the door to keep out a city of invasive moral greys. He wanted Huth to stop. He wanted Huth to not stop. He wanted time and the world locked out. He wanted to touch someone. He wanted to take a gun to the world. He wanted to sleep. He wanted.

He wanted.

Huth rocked against him like a ship at sea and Archer reeled forward in the dangerous waters. A sort of gasp broke the busy silence of the room. It took a moment for Archer to realise it came from himself. Huth broke off and looked up at him. His face was almost innocent, eyes wide and guileless. Archer looked down at the hot verge of himself, seeing the torso, the brown shirt so very rumpled, seeing the part where their bodies joined, where Huth pressed up against him at the table edge. Saw the arms wrapped immovably around him. There was only one way this could end. The silence told him. The beating temperature of his own blood told him. The loneliness of the night outside the window told him. And something rebellious twisted in his gut to know it.

“Dangerous here” he muttered. Something flickered over Huth's face and was blanked out, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. He had been unsure, Archer realised, with an irrational surge of anger. Unsure. The risk had paid off. “Aren't you ashamed?” he asked the immovable face viciously.  “Fuck you. Aren't you ashamed? You are my superior, sir.” Huth's mouth tightened and he remained silent. Eventually, Archer let his head fall forward, leaning into the other man's arms. His chin rested on the top of Huth's head. The arms twined around him, pressing tight, a sea anenomie embrace.

They remained like that in silence for a while, listening to each others breathing. Huth was the first to break away, becoming businesslike. “We will go to my flat” he said. He rubbed his face, seemed to gather himself, then looked up at the rumpled figure before him. Archer's eyes were dark, his face emptied by weariness. Huth clenched his jaw, assessing every feature with concern. Were the lines of Archer's face harder than a year ago? Was his mouth becoming bitter? He traced the line of the lips, feeling the breath on his fingertips as Archer flinched away. He didn't care. He moved on to caress the cheek, feeling the delicate bone structure, studying the lines around the dark eyes, the expression of the eyes themselves. He knew the tightness, the slight droop of the mouth particular to defeated men. He had seen it a thousand times, in prisoners, in blackmail victims, in press-ganged saboteurs and spies. Was there a trace of the look in Archer's face? He couldn't tell. If there was, was it his fault? The question cast itself on a night with no answers, leaving only an aftertaste of self-accusation. He caressed the throat, touching the soft skin just under the jaw, running down, feeling the blood and the breath under his fingertips. He dropped his hand and stood.

...........

Huth's flat was bare and masculine, full of the ghosts of cigarettes and solitary evenings. Archer wondered how often he was actually here. Neither man had spoken in the car, and in the living room, neither seemed in a hurry to begin. Social niceties were not wanted here, they both knew instinctively. When they wanted to talk, they would talk.

Huth put a record on a dust-filmed gramophone. A saxophone mourned its way through the night.

Archer was examining the clock on the mantelpiece when he sensed Huth's body heat behind him. Muscle-hard arms encircled his torso and he kept his eyes on the clock. Small skeletal figures flanked the clock face as though to keep the owner mindful of death. It was decedent art of the sort now banned. Huth''s lips were on his cheek and he mused on a bone finger pointing to a carved hourglass, presenting time to the unwary. Hands unbuckled his belt. The clock face said two-fifteen.

Huth's teeth grazed his skin under the touch of possessive lips. Compulsion takes many forms.

They reached the bedroom slowly, shedding clothes methodically as they went. Huth stripped Archer's tunic and shirt deliberately, paying every move and shedding of cloth grave attention, until the white chest was bare. He caressed it.

Archer felt the edge of the bed against the back of his knees and collapsed  onto it without objection. He closed his eyes, giving himself up to fate. That sense of exquisite humiliation enveloped him again, as the assault stripped him naked, every hair on his skin prickling. Hot breath huffed over him and made those hairs tremble. He was naked. He was exposed. His fingers clenched empty air.

Then Huth's body was on his and he embraced the hard frame that felt more like a weapon than a man. Iron under the skin. Hard muscle flexed against his, and his fingers traced a foreign anatomy, ran down from flesh-less shoulders to the small of the back. His eyes opened and their gaze locked again, a clash of soul on soul as fingers gripped his thighs.

The night passed in gasps and sighs, becoming sharp cries, a rocking acceleration as the two men struggled together.

It was war. What else it was, neither would have said or admitted.

They clung and bit, seeking solace in the touch and taste of the other man, seeking possession of something neither could name.

The night passed in the expanding and contracting of a pupil. In the rising of Archer's knees. In whispers heard by shadows gathered like cobwebs in the corners of the room. The night passed in Archer's longing for conclusion, as each rock of a dangerous boat tipped him closer to that longed-for breaking on the threshold of death.

The clustering shadows retreated slowly, as the room grew hotter, each gasp fanning a flame that irradiated the bare walls, the indifferent furniture. The shadows, retreated, trembled, vanished, as a cry broke out that incinerated the night for a moment, a cry from two throats, of triumph, of pleading, of despair.

….............

They shared a cigarette. The smoke coiled as it always did, towards the ceiling, indifferent to the changing lives of men.

But then, how much had changed? Really?

They lay together in the bluish dim before dawn, before the tentative grey light announces the day. An artist would have found them a nice study. Still, angular limbs, contours and shadows, only the glint of light on an eye to indicate either was awake.

At some point soon, they would have to get up, put their uniforms on, and face the eternal war of attrition that the day brought. They would have to talk; The hard-eyed, grave conversations of  SS intelligence; And words between them alone.

For now they lay silent, content in each others company, before the dawn.

[heavnofhell]

imagine luci being human without any powers, and sam making him fake wings to wear. luci appreciates it so much he cries in sam's arms. sam declares he will always be his angel, human or no.

Alright, nonny - you gave me way too many feelings with this, and I am here to return the favor.

Makeshift Wings

Beautiful.

He shouldn’t think that - feels a small pang of guilt every time the word crosses his mind - but that doesn’t make it any less true, so far as Sam is concerned. Because Lucifer is beautiful, even now… perhaps especially now, and when the hunter lays eyes upon his other half, he is reminded of brilliantly shining diamonds, scattered in fragments across a dark surface, somehow more luminescent and breathtaking in pieces than they ever were when they were part of a whole.

And Lucifer is broken; or, at very least, he is cracking, slowly, but steadily. Why he was torn from his perdition and tossed into the world this way was yet unconfirmed, but they had their theories. If God wanted to crush the pride that had always burned so brightly within His favorite son, this was an effective method, cruel as it was.

“Lucifer. It’s late. Why don’t you try to sleep?” Sam’s voice is light and casual, but his warm eyes are drinking in every subdued movement of Lucifer’s body, watching as the fallen angel blinks his heavy eyelids repeatedly, taking effort to focus on the hunter’s words.

“Perhaps. Later.” Sam nods, but he knows Lucifer won’t. He hasn’t slept in days, save for a few moments of nodding off uncontrollably, his desperate body fighting his stubborn mind.

“Okay. Just remember to shut off the lamp before you turn in, okay?” This time Lucifer nods, but his eyes are still staring straight out of the small window, watching white snowflakes dance against an onyx sky. Sam turns to walk away, glancing back briefly, unable to stop his hungry eyes from taking in the quiet and peaceful scene… and he thinks, once again, that Lucifer, with his slowly darkening stare and mussed up hair, looks absolutely beautiful.

“Lucifer…” The younger Winchester speaks in a slow, careful tone, wary of startling the figure before him. Lucifer is sitting on one of the low tables in the library, his head bowed as he looks down at a book lying open in his lap, but his gaze eerily vacant.

“Lucifer, would you like something to eat? Cas made you a peanut butter sandwich. We didn’t have any jelly, though, so he used some sliced strawberries, instead.” Sam smiled softly, a quiet, half-hearted chuckle leaving his lips as he draws closer to the de-powered angel.

When Lucifer looks up at him, there is no spark of light in his empty eyes, and the angles of his face are just a little too sharp, his skin so exceedingly pale, it almost seems to glow.

“Hm? No thank you, Sam. I’m not hungry.” No - Lucifer is never hungry. He is fading away slowly. He looks, to Sam, like a porcelain doll, fragile and captivating with its eerie shadow of life, as though the line between real and not real can be defined only by the necessity to breathe.

Perhaps that is the Grace yet within him. Sam can feel it there, trapped somewhere unreachable. Lucifer must feel it, too, and how frustrating it has to be, to have the one thing you crave be so near, and yet so unobtainable. He’s struggling. He’s losing. It’s written in his diminishing features and in the way he is gradually slowing down. But yes - even now, Lucifer is hauntingly beautiful.

“Would you like something to drink, at least?” Sam’s voice is quieter now, more of a plea than a simple question, and the archangel takes three long breaths before he finally presses his lips together, and gives a weak nod. His eyes are filled with sympathy - sympathy for Sam - and it breaks the man’s heart. But when he hands Lucifer the glass, and watches him take a short sip of the milk inside, he feels like he could break out into happy laughter, and, after a moment of contemplation, that’s exactly what he does, Lucifer’s ghost of a smile nearly causing Sam’s heart to burst right through his chest.

But that’s the last time he sees Lucifer smile. The days drag on, and Sam searches frantically for a way to fix his shattering angel. He finds nothing, but he refuses to give up. He won’t give up on Lucifer. After all, the archangel never gave up on him.

It’s early one Thursday morning when Sam realizes that Lucifer has left all of his undying hope back in the cage, and is no longer willing to fight. The sun is not quite risen, but the hunter was wide awake, something inexplicable, but undeniable having roused him from his deep slumber. There is a dull ache in his chest, and his only thoughts are of Lucifer.

His search is frantic, and, when he turns up no traces within the bunker, he moves outside, shoving open the heavy metal door, snow piling up high on the other side. The air is frigid, and the wind bites at his uncovered face relentlessly. The hunter zips his Carhartt up a little higher, his boots leaving large imprints in the thick snow as he trudges out into the biting dawn.

He doesn’t need to go far, however, before he spots the missing archangel, and his heart drops to his feet. Sam crosses the distance in a second, dropping heavily to his knees before the terrifyingly still form of his other half. Lucifer is sitting on a large rock just a few meters from the bunker’s entrance, his bare feet buried deep beneath the snow, his brilliant blue eyes half-closed as he sways slightly in the bitter wind.

“Lucifer.” This time his voice is beyond a plea - it is a prayer, sent up to the very creature he kneels before, his hands fumbling to pull off his over-sized gloves, his warm fingers reaching up desperately to cup Lucifer’s freezing face. 

“Hey - how long have you been out here, Luce?” He’s searching that flawless face, tears choking him as he takes in the unresponsive gaze, and he’s screaming inside because Lucifer can’t be gone - Lucifer can’t give up now, not after all he has endured. It isn’t fucking fair. None of this is fair.

“Come here…” Sam pulls the archangel to him, rising up and lifting Lucifer’s limp body into his arms, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks when he realizes it is far easier than it should be. He shoves his way back inside, not bothering to remove his boots as he moves down the stairs, pulling Lucifer closer to his chest as he manages to get them to his room.

Sam immediately lays the angel upon his bed, pulling off his heavy coat and dropping it to the floor as he moves to the closet, grabbing a clean towel from the upper shelf, and an old sweatshirt from its hanger. The hunter nearly trips over his discarded jacket as he returns hastily to Lucifer’s side, quickly drying his feet with the towel, before reaching into his beside stand for a pair of thick socks, putting them onto the angel’s feet with care.

Sam then reaches down to hoist Lucifer up once more, pulling him close and cradling his head against the crook of his neck as he picks up the sweatshirt, leaning back and beginning the tricky work of maneuvering the clothing over Lucifer’s head of unruly blond hair. He gently lies the angel back down, and patiently works his arms into the sleeves, focusing upon the work with all of his attention, clenching his jaw when he feels the familiar burning behind his eyes.

“Sam.” Sam is just covering the archangel in blankets, when his name rises up between them, soft and curious and the purest sound that the hunter has ever heard. He looks into the glacier blues, his heart skipping a beat when he sees something like life behind them, however dull and tired.

“Hey!” His greeting is filled with excitement, but his voice his a hoarse whisper, the one word wavering as it leaves his tongue. Lucifer is watching him, his eyebrow twitching lightly like he’s working to puzzle something out, and Sam can’t stop the choked bark of laughter that jumps up from this constricted throat at the warm familiarity of the expression. For just that split second, he feels like he’s looking into the face of his archangel again, and not the broken, nearly-human shell he was becoming.

“What’s wrong?” Lucifer is pushing himself up, looking slightly startled for a moment when he glances down to the sweatshirt, before releasing a quiet hiss of pain, no doubt finally feeling the stabbing pain in his limbs as his body warms to a normal temperature.

“Hey now - why don’t you lie back down for me? You need to rest, Luce.” He places his hand upon Lucifer’s chest with the utmost care, almost afraid to apply pressure, but desperate to coax the angel back down onto the mattress. Thankfully, Lucifer seems to understand, and he almost falls back down, grimacing again in pain before looking up to Sam, his eyes darkening as the realization creeps over him.

When Lucifer pulls his gorgeous eyes away from the hunter’s face, Sam says nothing. Instead, he reaches up to pull the blankets higher over the angel’s chest, his warm fingers carding gently through the tufts of blond in a slow, soothing motion. But Lucifer is already shutting himself away again, and, God, Sam can’t let him see his tears - but he isn’t going to leave. Not now.

Hesitantly, the man lowers himself down beside his angel, turning onto his side, one arm tucked beneath his own head, the other reaching out tentatively to rest atop Lucifer’s chest. The other doesn’t respond - of course not - but Sam keeps his hand there, and he lives with every breath that Lucifer takes, matching his own to the slow rhythm, feeling all at once both whole, and as though he is missing something vital - as though he can breathe, but the air isn’t clean enough, and he’s drowning on dry land.

He’s watching the angel’s face, and there is a flush in his cheeks from the recirculating blood, and his eyes look like they are burning from the reflection of the warm bathroom light, and he looks more alive than Sam has seen in a very long time. And dammit, why does he look so beautiful when he’s so goddamn broken?

Lucifer doesn’t venture from Sam’s room often after that, and, therefore, neither does Sam. He is terrified of what he’ll find when he returns, even if he only leaves to get food from the kitchen. Dean shakes his head and clicks his tongue and tells Sam they should put him away somewhere, and it takes every ounce of willpower Sam has not to punch his brother square in the jaw, knowing the reaction is uncalled for, but maybe his nerves are just that shot.

The man takes anything dangerous from the room - he keeps his razor in the kitchen and he moves all of his weapons back into the armory. He’d rather take on an assailant with his bare hands, than face the alternative risk. Even so, he wakes up in the night from painful nightmares. He sees the archangel’s pale skin decorated in rivulets of crimson, his piercing blue eyes shining out from his pallid face with a muted satisfaction as the life he deems so worthless slowly drains from his body.

Lucifer doesn’t comment on it - he hardly speaks, at all - but Sam could swear he still sees right into the hunter’s mind. On those nights he jerks awake, breathing raggedly and clutching at the blankets, he finds good fortune comes from his tortured subconscious. Cool fingers will run though his shaggy hair with a feathery touch, tracing the stubble that grows upon his cheek with purpose. Sam shaves less often now, because the task takes too long, and he refuses to let something so unnecessary cost him everything.

And the archangel knows. Sam doesn’t know how, but he sees it in his eyes, and he feels it in his touch, and he wishes it meant something to Lucifer - that it would convince him of his importance. But, in his eyes, Sam doesn’t see that gratitude. Instead, he sees regret - and he knows his other half well enough to know that he thinks himself a burden.

And then an idea comes to Sam. One day, when he returns from a quick shower, he finds Lucifer upon his bed, a book lying on the mattress before him. It must have been tucked away in the old bookshelf, and it was one Sam hadn’t noticed before. He approaches the angel slowly, watching him curiously as he traces his finger slowly over something on the page. When the man finally has a view of the open book, he sucks in a short and quiet breath.

Whatever the book is - something regarding nature, Sam assumes - it contains a photo of a large bird on one page, and the diagram of a feather on the next. Lucifer’s slender finger is delicately tracing the lines of that feather, his eyes distant and filled with emotions that are in short supply these days.

As Sam leans over to look, a droplet of water falls from his hair, hitting the page lie a heavy drop of rain. Lucifer looks up with a small inhalation of surprise, slamming the book shut simultaneously, and dropping it onto the bedside table.

“You can read it, Lucifer. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” Sam immediately regrets interrupting, and the angel just shakes his head, gesturing toward the book dismissively.

“It wasn’t all that interesting.”

But he was wrong. For Sam, it became the source of endless fascination, and it set his gears turning, a plan coming into mind. He begins to make trips to their library on a regular basis, scouring the old collection for anything on birds or feathers, and bringing them back to his room. He sticks them away in the corner of his closet, bringing them out only on those rare occasions when Lucifer has fallen asleep, his body no longer able to resist the need for rest.

Sam sits on the floor in the dim light that streams out from the cracked bathroom door, tracing the pages with a sharp blade he keeps in a small box beneath the kitchen sink, next to his razor. He works quietly and patiently, using what time he is allotted by the slumbering archangel, his task taking dozens of sessions over the next month. There are a few times he looks up to see those heart-stopping, breathtaking eyes staring at him curiously from where Lucifer is stretched out upon the bed, and the hunter smiles brightly, quickly pushing his scraps into a book and closing the cover.

By the time he has completed the first part of his self-appointed task, it seems that Lucifer has fallen into something of a limbo. He isn’t actively growing stronger, nor is he breaking himself further. He’s still far too thin, and he doesn’t sleep nearly enough, but he’s found stable footing… although Sam fears that the slightest unexpected tremor will send him crashing down again. He needs to use this window.

He asks Castiel to sit with Lucifer for an afternoon, giving him videos and books and games - anything to keep the angelic brothers occupied. He always marvels at how well they take to one another these days - Lucifer seems to take a unique comfort in being near his brother, and Castiel manages to gracefully combine respect and concern, treating the fallen archangel reverently, but with the tender care of a concerned sibling.

Sam spends the time in the garage, working away at his little project, returning a few hours later to find the brothers sitting quietly on opposite sides of a checker board, a small smile on Castiel’s face, and a subdued look of concentration furrowing Lucifer’s brows gently. Sam sits down at the foot of the bed, watching silently as they finish the game, both taking great care in gathering each small piece and placing it back into the box.

He watches with a mixture of wonder and amusement when Castiel, tucking the board beneath his arm, leans down to kiss his brother lightly on the temple. Sam has no idea where he picked up such a gesture, and he’s even more amazed that Lucifer doesn’t seem to mind, the man unable to hide the wide grin on his face as he bids Castiel goodnight.

“Lucifer - will you come with me for a moment? I want to show you something.” He stands near the edge of the bed, his voice soft and low and he watches the angel expectantly. Lucifer’s eyes turn up to meet Sam’s own, and he gives a short nod, easing himself from the mattress and walking to the door, turning back to allow Sam to take the lead.

The hunter smiles and nods, feeling suddenly nervous as he moves through the door, pausing for just a moment, before reaching out and taking up Lucifer’s cool hand in his own. He pulls him through the bunker and down to the garage, stopping a moment when they enter the dark space.

“Sam?” Lucifer’s hushed voice is filled with confusion, and the man gives his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze.

“I made something for you, Luce. If you don’t like it, that’s okay… but…” He presses his lips together, feeling foolish for the uncontrollable butterflies in his stomach. With a deep breath, he reaches over and turns on the light, illuminating the large garage, watching the archangel as he blinks rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the new light.

He knows the moment Lucifer sees them - the large, paper wings, propped up upon a work table. He had used strong wire to create the curving backbone of the set, like two little half-arcs, bent into the flowing slope of wings. Attached were countless paper feathers, each one having been cut carefully from the pages of dozens of books and articles, all varying shapes and sizes, yet, somehow, Sam has managed to work them together seamlessly. They are hanging freely from the wires, draping down like paper curtains, connected to one another with meticulously looped string.

Sam holds his breath as Lucifer stares straight ahead, his eyes unblinking as he slowly pulls his hand free of the hunter’s, stepping carefully forward. For a moment, Sam feels a wave of fear; what should happen if Lucifer thought he was taunting him? What would he do if the archangel grew to resent him for an act so insensitive. Had it been in poor taste? Maybe it had. Lucifer was so quiet, his fingers reaching out to brush lightly against the paper - clearly he thought Sam was making a joke of his condition.

The thoughts whirl around in the hunter’s head, and Sam opens his mouth, a desperate apology poised on his tongue when a quiet sound steals his words away. A sob. It is a heart-wrenching sound, rising up from the quiet archangel and ripping Sam’s soul in half. He rushes forward, cursing himself with every beat of his hammering heart, Lucifer’s name rushing from his lips as he reaches the archangel’s side.

“Sam - you made these?” Lucifer’s cobalt eyes turn to look at his other half, and Sam finds himself suddenly mute. There is a smile on the angel’s lips, despite the tears streaming down his pale face, and his eyes shine with the light that has been missing for months. Sam swallows down hard, nodding silently as he searches for his voice.

“I made them for you.” His voice is as choked sounding as the archangel’s had been, but Lucifer’s smile grows, more tears pooling over and streaming down his cheeks. “Lucifer - whatever happens - with or without your Grace - you will always be the light that leads me on, just as you always have been. You are my Morning Star, and I need you, Lucifer - I need you to be here. Because you’re my guardian angel, and you always will be.” He smiles weakly, knowing that his words are probably overly sappy and romantic, but finding that he doesn’t care.

“Sam.” Lucifer shakes his head, his lips trembling as he sucks in another sharp breath, his eyes darting back toward the paper wings. “They’re beautiful.” He’s still staring at them, enraptured and filled with so, so much life, and Sam can’t help but reach out to him, his warm fingers wiping the tears gently from the archangel’s cheek.

“Lucifer.” He whispers his angel’s name with nothing but love and reverence, the sound of a man at worship, still so in awe to find himself in the presence of Heaven’s Brightest Son. The archangel turns to look at him, his brows pinched together as he studies Sam with his own look of adoration and wonder.

“Lucifer… please - stay.” They both know what he means, the weight of the request so heavy and heartbreaking, and Lucifer is without words, another strangled sob leaving his throat as he begins to nod vigorously, his entire body more alive and animated than it has been for a very long time.

“Yes. Yes, Sam.” He can hardly force the words out, but it doesn’t matter, because Sam sees the truth in his eyes, and he knows they can make it through this. He opens his arms, and Lucifer crashes into him, gripping at his shirt and burying his face into his neck, and he’s crying and he’s breathing and he’s here and he’s so very, very alive, and it makes Sam’s heart cry with more happiness than he thinks he’s ever felt. His arms pull the archangel close, and he holds his alarmingly frail body as tightly as he can, as though he is the only thing that is keeping him from shattering into a million pieces upon the concrete floor.

Lucifer isn’t broken. He might be cracked and he might be bent, but he is still here, and he is still fighting - and that, Sam thinks, makes him more beautiful than ever before.

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 53: Sasha

Beep! Beep! Beep!

“No.” Basira’s voice manages to sound matter-of-fact and authoritative despite being muffled by Sasha’s shoulder blades.

Sasha groans and rolls forward to slap at her alarm clock. “Well, you don’t have to get up, but I have work today.”

“Ugh. I should. I really need to start looking into getting a new job, but…” Basira sighs and flops back against the pillows. “Think I’ll wait until this whole…thing is done. Might be hard to get time off to go chasing down killer mannequins in a taxidermy shop.”

Sasha grumbles wordlessly, then gets up to start getting dressed.

She follows the smell of coffee and something sweet into the kitchen, where she finds Wade standing at the stove. Sasha’s never been much for cooking—she’s eaten more homemade meals in the last year than she has in the preceding nine put together—and her kitchen isn’t well-stocked, but she laid in a supply of the basics after work on Friday in anticipation of her uncle coming home, and she’d tried to make something for him yesterday. Seeing him standing there trying to cook himself is at once unexpected and familiar.

He looks up and smiles at her. “Good morning, sunshine,” he teases her.

“Morning,” Sasha mumbles. She pours herself a cup of coffee, sweetens it automatically, and downs about half of it in a single gulp, at which point she feels human enough to give her uncle a smile and a hug.

“You haven’t changed a bit.” Wade hugs her back with one arm, then flicks his wrist and flips the pancake he’s cooking into the air before catching it neatly. “Still got it. Your friend doesn’t eat bacon, right?”

Sasha tries not to be embarrassed. She’s a grown woman and this is her flat, and Wade has made it clear he respects her and her choices and she’s allowed to do whatever the hell she wants, but she’s still got the same feeling she had when she was sixteen and he nonchalantly asked if her boyfriend wanted eggs or if he’d already escaped out her bedroom window. “Right.”

“Well then, these are almost ready. Would you rather eat at the table or standing around like a bunch of twenty-somethings in a bad sitcom?”

“I’ll set the table.”

Basira comes out just as Wade is plating the last of the pancakes and greets him with no trace of discomfort; Sasha envies her for that ability to stay calm and unruffled. As they eat, Sasha asks her uncle, “What are you planning to do today?”

Wade looks pleased. “Actually, I have an interview at nine. A gentleman wrote me last week and said he thought there was a position I might be qualified for. I—I suppose he has an eye out for upcoming releases that might have skills he needs.”

There’s a hesitancy there, and Sasha is almost tired enough to give into the static and reach for his secret, but stops herself at the last minute. “You’ll have to tell me all about it after work. Or I can call you at lunch.”

“I’d like that.” Wade grins.

Basira leaves with Sasha twenty minutes later. While she’s in less need of coffee than usual, thanks to her uncle actually making a pot—she really ought to get a programmable coffee maker, but she’s never managed to get around to it—she has a routine and she doesn’t want to break it now. They ride together until Basira has to get off to change trains; she pats Sasha’s shoulder, wishes her luck, and vanishes.

Melanie arrives at about the same time Sasha does, from the other direction but also clutching her usual cup of coffee. When they get down, Tim is having an apparently good-natured argument with Jon about whether he needs help getting his jacket off over the cast while Martin makes the first tea of the day. He glances over his shoulder with a smile that looks a tad strained at the edges. “Morning. How’s your uncle, Sash?”

Sasha returns the smile. “Settling in remarkably well, all things considered. He’s even already got an interview for a job. Seems excited about it. How was your weekend?”

“Quiet,” Martin says after a brief pause.

“Tim didn’t wrap your room in tinfoil or staple all your furniture to the ceiling?” Sasha teases.

Tim holds up his casted hand. “With this?”

Sasha laughs. “Fair point.”

Martin smiles again as he sets a cup down in front of Tim and hands another to Jon. “Seriously, it was a good weekend. Charlie’s birthday was yesterday, so…”

“He came over and helped us with his cake,” Jon tells her. His eyes light up the way they usually do when he talks about the little boy. “Martin found one of those old-fashioned hand-crank ice-cream makers somewhere, and it still works, so we made ice cream, too. Spent the rest of the evening playing board games.”

“Betrayal at the House on the Hill,” Tim supplies.

Melanie frowns. “How old is this kid? Nine?”

“Eight,” all three of the boys say in unison.

“Good. Start ‘em young.” Melanie thumps down in her chair. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Jon’s smile fades. “Honestly…I think we need to focus on the usual work today. Statements, filing…all of that. I’d—I’d like to have things as much in order as we can, before…”

He trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish. They have a location—Melanie’s been doing a lot of poking around, using skills she honed during her Ghost Hunt UK days, and managed to confirm that the Unknowing will be taking place at a museum called the House of Wax in Great Yarmouth. They have a time; Melanie and Tim’s combined efforts have led them all to estimate the ritual will be going off sometime on the sixth of April, God alone knows why. They even have something approaching a plan, which is a novelty. Actually, they have two plans, sort of. Now all they have to do is…wait.

Sasha hates waiting.

She gives it a go, though. It’s all busywork, it’s a way of marking time, but she knows it means something to Jon, and subsequently she knows it means something to Martin and Tim. Honestly, the three of them are obviously stupid in love with each other, it’s borderline ridiculous. It’s also kind of touching, watching them together—the gentle touches, the small acts of service, the wordless communications, the way they lean into one another when they’re sitting together. The fear on their faces when one of them is hurt or in danger, the relief when one comes home safe and sound, the smiles when they think the others aren’t looking. Add Charlie into the mix and they’re an absolute mess of domesticity and sap.

They’re also scared shitless about what’s going to happen on Thursday night, and she doesn’t need the Eye’s power to see that they’re afraid of losing one another, so if squaring away files they’ve been neglecting will make them feel better, she’ll suck it up and do it.

The four assistants work away at their cluster of desks in more or less silence; Jon’s in his office, but the door is propped open. He’s recording, judging by the rise and fall of his voice, but Sasha guesses they aren’t real statements or he’d have it closed. They’ve all been working away for a couple hours when the Archives phone rings.

“Not it,” Martin says without looking up.

“Not it,” Tim and Sasha say in unison.

“I hate you all,” Melanie claims and picks up the phone. “Archives.”

She leans back in her chair, twirling the cord around her finger and looking for all the world like a teenager from every single nineties sitcom Sasha ever watched talking to her best friend or boyfriend, except that her expression is one of utter disgust. “Yeah. Okay. Yes, sir.” Her Doc Martens thump onto the floor as she leans forward to hang it up.

“Let me guess,” Tim says dryly. “Elias?”

“Yeah. Wants to see all of us in his office, ASAP. He says it’s important.” Melanie’s voice drips with contempt.

Martin sighs and scrapes his chair back. “Jon?” he calls.

Jon appears in the doorway of his office. “I heard. Let’s get this over with.”

They all trudge their way upstairs. Rosie gives them her usual bland, pleasant smile and asks about Tim’s hand, then announces them to Elias and ushers them in. Sasha starts slightly when they walk in to find Basira and Daisy standing there, Basira with her arms folded over her chest and an expression of faint annoyance and Daisy with her hands in her pockets and a look of utter disgust. Elias is watching with that smarmy, oily smile of his that makes Sasha want to set his hair on fire and see how long he’ll burn, like a cheap kerosene lamp.

“Thank you, Rosie, I’ll call if we need you,” he tells Rosie.

“Of course, Mr. Bouchard.” Rosie backs out of the room—reluctantly, to Sasha’s eyes—and pulls the door shut behind her.

There’s a brief pause before Elias speaks. “Thank you all for coming.”

Sasha sighs impatiently. She’s not the only one; they all make various noises of frustration and annoyance. Is Elias even capable of talking like a normal human being anymore, or is he deliberately playing up the Evil Overlord trope? Jon’s lips press into a thin line before he says, “Well, you said it was important.”

Elias flicks his gaze over to Basira and Daisy. “I’m glad you could come as well. I don’t want to take up too much of your valuable—”

“What do you want?” Jon interrupts, sounding tired and annoyed. Sasha sees Martin’s hand twitch and silently wills him and Tim both to keep it together. The last thing they need is for Elias to know the depth of their feelings for one another.

“To help,” Elias says pleasantly. “Do you have your recorder running?”

“Of course he does,” Melanie says, sounding unimpressed.

“I…” Jon looks down at his hand, as if he’s just realized he’s holding the official Archives recorder. “Yes.”

“Well, then, I’ll speak clearly,” Elias says. He folds his hands on his desk and meets Jon’s eyes. “You will soon be attempting to stop something few have witnessed and fewer still have survived.”

“Not alone,” Jon says quietly.

“We’re, um—” Basira shoots a sideways glance at Sasha, her expression hard to read. “I think we’re all going.”

“Yes.” Elias doesn’t look all that happy about that, to be honest. “And I believe your plan—ah, simplistic as it may be—does have a reasonable chance of working.”

“Well, thank you.” Jon’s voice is dry as the Sahara, but Sasha sees him stiffen slightly. They’ve known all along that Elias probably knows more about what they’re planning than they want him to, but to hear him confirm it…

“It should work. It doesn’t need to be fancy,” Daisy growls.

“Well, quite. But given that there is every likelihood that one or more of you may end up confronting the Stranger in a rather direct manner, I thought it best you have an idea of what you might encounter.”

Jon and Martin both throw identical quick, pained looks in Tim’s direction; Tim doesn’t seem to notice. Sasha sighs. “Oh.”

Elias reaches into a drawer—not, Sasha notes, the one containing his gun. If his gun is still in there. “Detective Tonner was kind enough to bring me Gertrude’s tapes, as soon as her superiors released them.”

Startled, Sasha turns to look at Daisy. Basira, too, is looking at her with raised eyebrows. Daisy ignores them both. Jon doesn’t look at her. “Of course they did.”

“There is one I feel it may be wise for you to hear. All of you,” Elias adds, his gaze sliding over Tim and Martin in particular—or is that Sasha’s imagination? He places a loaded tape recorder on his desk. “May I?”

There’s a chorus of sighs and groans. Elias is really laying it on thick. “Fine,” Tim mutters.

Elias presses Play.

Sasha feels the familiar sensation of the statement flowing through her. Like with every other one of Gertrude’s tapes she’s listened to, it’s not as satisfying as most and doesn’t fill her as thoroughly as even an older statement. She’s always assumed that it’s because it’s more…regurgitated, that it’s empty calories in a way, but with what she knows now, she wonders if it’s just that more of the energy from Gertrude’s tapes goes to Martin. If their family connection makes their connection through the Eye stronger as well.

She banishes the thought ruthlessly from her mind and listens. She’s heard of Wolfgang von Kempelen and his Mechanical Turk, of course. One of her papers in uni was on the history of automata and artificial intelligence, so of course she’s heard of it. At least those details that are known to the general public…

Suddenly, with a jolt, it occurs to her that she knows where this statement is going, where it ends up. At first she thinks it’s the Eye granting her knowledge, but then, suddenly, she remembers a conversation with Gertrude Robinson she had once regarding the papers she’d included in her portfolio when she first applied at the Institute, including the one mentioning the Mechanical Turk, and she remembers a later conversation where Gertrude asked her to come down to the Archives and spent an hour picking her brains for everything she remembered from her research, then handed her a letter and said I thought this might interest you, my dear.

She’d been flattered. Gertrude didn’t call anyone my dear.

The tape clicks off, almost making her leap out of her skin. There’s a beat of silence before Jon says, slowly, “Right.”

“Is that it?” Basira demands.

“It’s unlikely to be identical. The stranger is not known for its…consistency.” Elias stows the recorder away.

“But something like that?” Basira presses. Sasha’s come to know her well over the last few months and she knows Basira likes facts, good solid things she can sink her teeth into. She doesn’t do well with maybes and we-hopes. “We can’t trust what we see.”

Elias nods sagely. “The familiar may seem strange, the strange familiar.”

“One long category error,” Sasha muses.

“Well, isn’t—I mean, that’s what the Stranger wants, isn’t it,” Martin says. It’s not a question. “For us to doubt everything.”

Jon brushes his fingers against Martin’s for the briefest of seconds. Sasha hopes Elias hasn’t seen, but at the same time, what can he do about it at this point? “No one ever said it was going to be easy.”

Which is true. The Primes have never underestimated the danger they’re going to be in. Elias looks pleased. “Brilliant. I have been doing my best to prepare you, Jon, to see. You should have an easier time of it than the others.”

“I doubt that,” Jon says, a bit acerbically.

Elias eyes the four assistants skeptically. “Well, it should, I hope, give you an edge. Otherwise I would never suggest you going yourself.”

You are such a terrible liar, Sasha thinks but doesn’t say. Aloud, she says, “Well, I guess we’ll all find out, won’t we?”

“No,” Elias says. “I understand you will be taking Detective Tonner and Basira with you?”

“We’re going with them,” Daisy growls, and the rewording speaks volumes.

“Quite. Then honestly, Jon, I think you have all you need. Your…assistants should remain here.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters. “No, no, we can help—”

“Too many will attract attention,” Elias says. “And while I know your team have been…acquiring abilities, shall we say, none of them are on your level, and Melanie doesn’t even have that.”

“Melanie was planning to stay behind anyway,” Melanie says with false brightness and gritted teeth.

Elias nods as if this was all his idea. “And of course, Sasha, I would expect you wouldn’t want to risk death or…worse. Especially now.”

At those words, Sasha freezes and her blood runs cold. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Your uncle seems to be settling in well. I’d imagine he’ll do well here, but of course you wouldn’t want him to worry.”

Sasha’s eyes widen. “What. Do. You. Mean.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Elias’s smile broadens. “Well. I certainly wouldn’t want to steal his thunder, so to speak. But nevertheless, I should think the last thing you would want to do is worry him, or risk leaving him so soon.”

Sasha hasn’t been planning on staying…but honestly, she’ll be a liability if she goes, she rationalizes, and even if he’s being a smarmy arse about it, Elias isn’t necessarily wrong. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“So the five of us—” Tim begins.

“No,” Jon says firmly. “Elias is right, it’s going to be—I can’t put you all at risk like that. It’s too dangerous.”

“Tough,” Tim says bluntly, his face tight with anger. “We’re not risking you. You don’t want to take all of us, fine, but you’re not going alone. Either Martin goes or I do.”

“I…” Jon looks stuck. Sasha bites the inside of her cheek. So far this has been going exactly according to plan, but she doesn’t think Tim is faking that anger. She files that away to ask him about later.

Martin puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “I—I think you’re right, Jon. I’d be more of a—I’ll stay behind. But please take Tim.”

“I’m not sure how much help Tim will be with his hand in a cast,” Elias says with a raised eyebrow.

Jon’s lips thin. “I will take that under advisement.”

“Fine.” Elias appears to give up the fight. Sasha doesn’t trust it. “Now, unless there was anything else…?”

“Not if—no,” Jon says finally.

“Excellent. Well, it’s a three-hour trip up to Great Yarmouth,” Elias tells them. “When do you plan to leave?”

“We think the ritual is going to be Thursday,” Jon answers.

“Perfect. I’ll be in touch with you on Wednesday to confirm the arrangements.” Elias beams. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

It’s a clear dismissal, and they all file out quietly. Rosie watches them in undisguised interest as they pass her desk, but they leave the office and head down the stairs in total silence, Daisy and Basira accompanying them.

The second the door to the Archives closes behind them, Basira asks, “Do you think he bought it?”

“We’ll talk about this later,” Martin says, flicking his eyes towards the trapdoor.

Jon nods. “Do, ah—can you two come back later? Say around four?”

“I’m off today,” Daisy growls.

“R-right. Right. We’ll…reconvene then. Go over the plan one last time. Confirm a few last scheduling details. Thank you.” Jon manages a smile, then turns to Tim and Sasha. “In that case, I’m sorry to have delayed you two so long, but you can go ahead and get your lunch.”

Sasha’s a bit startled. She’s honestly lost track of time. “I’m not actually hungry right now, but thanks, Jon. I’ll just keep working. Someone else can go.”

“It’s Monday,” Martin points out. His cerulean eyes are wide with worry—almost fear. “You and Tim always go to lunch on Mondays.”

Sasha’s about to remind him of all the times they didn’t take their lunch together when Tim nods and takes her elbow with his good hand. “That’s right, it is. Feels like it’s been a week this morning. C’mon, Sash, let’s go.”

“O-oh! Sure,” Sasha says, surprised. She grabs her jacket off the back of the chair and follows Tim out the door.

It’s a nice, moderate day, exactly Sasha’s kind of weather. There’s a fish and chips shop just across the nearest footbridge they usually go to on Mondays, and they walk in an unusually charged silence. Sasha waits until they’re settled at the table opposite one another before she says, “You didn’t forget it was Monday.”

“You were going to duck out,” Tim counters.

“I didn’t realize you needed this so much.”

“I don’t necessarily. It’s routine, though. It’s a ritual. That’s important to him.” Tim’s face softens. “When Jon left for Beijing…Martin told me he and his dad had this ritual they used to do the night before he left on a voyage, and the last time his dad left, he fell asleep in the middle of it. And then his dad didn’t come back. I guess he’s a little superstitious, but I’m not going to argue with him. It matters to him. So yeah, if it helps him feel like we’ve done everything we can to make sure this goes off successfully, I’ll go to lunch with my best friend.” He gives her a pretty good impression of his signature cheeky grin. “It’s a sacrifice, but I’ll manage.”

Sasha flicks a fallen bit of batter at him, pinging it off his cheek. “Arse. Well, then, while I’ve got you as a captive audience—what’s wrong?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you, Sash?”

“Yes. I’m keeping my eyes firmly inside my own head and out of yours, so I don’t know what you’re actually thinking. And you’re impossible to read. Also, I don’t think you were altogether acting in Elias’s office.” Sasha points a chip at Tim, then pops it into her mouth. “So. Spill.”

Tim sighs. All traces of false mirth disappear from his face. “Just…can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course,” Sasha says, a bit bewildered.

“Look after them for me, will you?” Tim evidently sees the look of confusion on her face, because he elaborates. “Jon and Martin. Wh—if I don’t come back from this, if I die—”

“I thought the plan wasn’t going to have you anywhere near the actual ritual.”

“The timing on the—we’ll have to talk it over with Daisy, but I think it’s going to be tight. There’s a risk I’ll be bringing the building down on my head,” Tim says. “It’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. It’s worth it if it keeps them safe. Just promise me that if it does happen, you’ll look after them for me. I-I’m sure they’ll be fine without me.”

“The hell they will.” Sasha sets her packet of fish and chips down on the table a little harder than necessary. “Tim, I don’t need the Beholder to know how you three are, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. It will devastate them if they lose you. Just like it would devastate you to lose them.”

Tim looks away. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s exactly the same! They’re not going to let you go in there with a death wish.”

“I don’t want to die, Sasha,” Tim explodes. At least he’s keeping his voice down. “I’m just saying, if I do…please. Just…just make sure they’re okay. Make sure they don’t…break.”

Sasha doesn’t want to, she really doesn’t, but she also knows this is important to Tim, so she nods. “If that happens…I promise I’ll do my best for them.”

Tim relaxes. “Thank you.”

“But,” Sasha stresses, “you have to promise to do your best to live. Especially if, as I strongly suspect, you’re not discussing this with them. Because I swear to God, Timothy Stoker, if you die I will be telling them that we had this talk, and I’m sure you don’t want them furious with you.”

“Duly noted.” Tim grins, but doesn’t meet her eyes.

Sasha is about to push him when her phone rings. A quick glance at the display screen, and she flinches. “Sorry, Tim, this is Uncle Wade. I’ve got to take this.”

“Go ahead.” Tim breaks off a piece of cod and stuffs it in his mouth.

Sasha thumbs the CALL button. “Uncle Wade, hi, I’m so sorry, I was going to call you but—”

“It’s fine, it all worked out.” Wade sounds like he’s barely keeping a lid on his emotions. “I only just got out myself.”

“Of your interview?”

“No, no, that—that was over hours ago. Sasha, I got the job! He hired me on the spot. We did all the onboarding paperwork then and there, and I actually got to start today. I’ve been spending the last couple hours getting set up, learning the ropes, all that sort of thing.” Wade says all of this in an excited rush she hasn’t heard from him since she was thirteen. “Someone just popped in to let me know I could go take a lunch break. I just got so into it I forgot about food. I was hoping you’d be on your lunch break and I could talk to you.”

Sasha smiles, relieved. Her uncle’s adjusting to freedom a lot better than she had feared he would, and it’s good to hear him so much like the man she remembers. “That’s great! What are you going to be doing? Where do you work?”

“You are talking,” Wade says proudly, “to the Executive Director of Information and Operations Technology at the Magnus Institute.”

“So your job title is the E-DIOT?” Sasha teases, and then her mind catches up to the last part of what he’s just said. “The Magnus Institute?”

Tim snorts his drink out of his nose. Wade still sounds delighted. “It surprised me, too. Did you know the Institute doesn’t have a proper tech department? I mean, of course you do, you’ve worked there seven years now. But yes. Mr. Bouchard wrote me last week saying that he knew I was getting ready to be released from prison and that he’d very much like to interview me about the position. He wants me to integrate all the systems in the building, troubleshoot programs and technology, that sort of thing. It’s just me for right now, but once I give him a list of what needs to be done and what resources I’d need to do it, I might have a staff to work with. We’ll see.”

“That’s…that’s wonderful, Uncle Wade.” Sasha can’t bring herself to dampen his enthusiasm by pointing out how terrifying an organization this is.

“I know it’s a bit—I know what you’ve told me about the Institute,” Wade says, as if he’s reading her mind. “But quite honestly, in my position, I can’t afford to be all that choosy about a job. The pay’s good. The pay’s great. He’s offering me way above the industry standard. And to just walk out of prison and walk straight into a high-paying position? In my field?” His voice softens. “Plus, I get to work with you. That’s worth a lot to me.”

“And to me,” Sasha says. She smiles warmly. “So what’s your next step?”

“This afternoon I’m going to start going round the different departments, talk to the heads and staff and whatnot, figure out what they need in terms of tech. What they need as an isolated system, what it would help to have integrated with what other departments.”

“Brilliant! Definitely come by the Archives today. I want you to meet the rest of my family.” Before it’s too late, Sasha adds mentally. “We’ve got a meeting at four, but—”

“Say no more. I’ll be there at three, how’s that?”

“Sounds good. See you then. I love you, Uncle Wade.”

“Love you too, Puddle-Duck.” Wade pauses. “And don’t worry. I won’t call you that in front of your friends.”

Sasha laughs and hangs up.

Tim watches her seriously. “He was interviewing at the Institute? Is that what Elias meant?”

“More than that. He’s already been hired.” Sasha rubs a hand over her face. “Guess that’s as good a reason as any to stay back. At least I won’t be in any danger. Probably.”

“You’ll be fine.” Tim knocks back the last of his drink. “C’mon, finish up and we’ll head back. Loads to do before we save the world.”