Tumgik
#it occurs to me it looks like of like shes tasing him. shes not its just L OUD
writersindigestion · 3 years
Text
taken | edward nygma x reader
Tumblr media
“beware of the snakes.”
reader gender: female
word count: 2464
warnings: drugs, violence, suicidal ideation, abuse
notes: i mean, y’all wanted him back, didn’t ya?
PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE
Vaguely, she remembered someone handing her a doggy bag, and being driven to the precinct, where she was promptly handcuffed to a cot. She was vastly unimpressed with this treatment, and made it a point to everyone who so much as walked into the med bay. “What the fuck is this? Shouldn’t I be at, I don’t know… A real hospital?” [Y/N] inquired unhappily, rattling her cuffs around - just to annoy her caretakers, of course.
Unfortunately, Dr. Thompkins was the one watching over her, for the most part, and she was very close to smacking her patient for being so insufferable.“You’re under 48-hour suicide watch. They brought you here, because they thought this was the best place to keep you safe, as well as the people around you,” Lee explained, peeling off a pair of thick, plastic gloves with practiced monotony.
[Y/N] tried to cross her arms, but was restricted by the metal cuffs. A discontented scowl made its across her face, she settled again for making as much noise as physically possible with her restraints. “Yeah, yeah - I get it,” She deadpanned, staring blankly ahead of her, “Aren’t they better prepared to deal with suicidal patients at, I don’t know… A real hospital?”
Lee wasn’t pleased, “The order came from a higher authority - I had nothing to do with it. Evidently, my medical opinion doesn’t matter.” She scrutinized her patient for a moment. “How are you feeling?”
The detained woman stopped rattling just long enough to think past her own indignance. A higher authority? It was obvious who that was, regardless of how vague the title. What did he gain from her being at the precinct? What did she lose by being at the precinct? “What higher authority? Why do they want me here?” She was starting to sound like a paranoid addict - which, she was, but that didn’t mean she had to admit it. “I’m terrible. Thank you for asking. How are you? Why am I here?”
Dr. Thompkins’ face grew more serious, and she pulled a stool up next to the bed. “I’m just fine, [Y/N],” She replied, her brow knotted tightly together, “It’s not really my place to question orders - I do it anyways, but that doesn’t mean I get answers.” The doctor gazed over the other woman, observing her anxious, unfocused expression and jittery movements. She was suicidal - that much seemed obvious, but what was going on beneath, if anything? “You are here, because you seemed very intent on killing yourself not even a few hours ago, to the point where you were fighting the cops and were tased. You are here, because we need to watch over you, and make sure you are safe. Do you understand, or are you worried about something else?”
[Y/N] gritted her teeth at the inquisition, goosebumps rising along her limbs. What did he want? What was his plan? What did he gain from this? She shouldn’t say anything. It wasn’t secure here - or anywhere, really. She shouldn’t say anything. She should say nothing. Not anything, not anything, nothing. Words flew from her lips before she could stop them, “Something else.”
Lee leaned closer to her patient, resting a careful, tender hand on top of the other woman’s. Clearly, there was something wrong, and her charge did not feel safe enough to say what that was. She gripped lightly, trying to draw her attention. “The door is closed - are you afraid of someone seeing you? Or is it something else?”
A short silence. “Something else.”
“The handcuffs are in place to keep you here, so we can watch you, and to help make sure you won’t hurt yourself,” She explained, “Are they too tight? Or is it something else?”
“Something else.”
The doctor searched for more things that could be wrong, running over the situation in her head. She blinked, her eyes catching sight of a small pendant around [Y/N]’s neck - a tiny, no-nonsense heart that rested easily near her sternum. Extending from another cord was a shiny cross. Briefly, she checked the area for burns from the earlier tasing.  “... Is it your girlfriend? She tried to see you, but we couldn’t get clearance. We sent Chrysanthemum home, and will be calling periodically to check on her. Is that worrying you? Or is it something else?”
The patient’s fingers curled into a fist, her nails digging into her palms. “... Yes.”
“I can try to get her clearance again, if you want to see her. It will probably go through if I make a case for you. Is that what you want?”
Her answer was immediate, “No. Keep her away.”
Dr. Thompkins was obviously troubled with her vehement demand, and tried once again to wrap her mind around it. What higher authority? Why do they want me here? “Is someone trying to hurt you? Is someone trying to hurt Chryss?”
[YN]’s tongue wrestled with itself, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the thing that was screaming at her temporal lobe. She wanted to tell her. It would be so easy. Who would it put in danger? Her lover? Her doctor? Her old coworkers? Herself, least importantly?
Lee didn’t need a response. She pulled her phone from her pocket, swiftly selecting a number and waiting to hear the series of rings - or better yet, an actual reply. No one would pick up.
She called three times to find no answer.
A door opened to their right, an alert-looking officer striding in. “Dr. Thompkins,” He called, an urgent look on his face, “They need you out there. I was sent in to watch the patient.”
The medical professional glanced between her coworker and her charge, concern creating valleys across her smooth face. She leaned in towards the other woman, giving her hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right back. Yell if you need anything.”
[Y/N]’s heart dropped, a renewed sense of dread washing over her like a tidal wave. As Lee rose from her seat to leave the room, she made a grab for her arm, but the cuffs ceased her movements. She nearly whimpered to see the door swing closed behind the doctor. Her attention redirected to the nameless man she was placed in the care of, a snarl painting itself onto her visage. “Don’t you fucking try anything, cocksucker.”
The man’s mind was adrift with conflict, with confusion, but he had been given orders, and it was his duty as a cop to fulfill them. His face steeled, and he crossed the room to her side, smothering a scream with his palm as he fumbled with a syringe. He tried to keep quiet, tried to keep his trap shut, but it wasn’t in his nature to cause distress in an otherwise harmless person. “I’m really sorry about this,” The officer stuttered, his hand making its way towards the meaty part of her thigh, where he inserted the needle
She did not immediately quiet, like he’d seen in movies and tv, but his ‘superiors’ had warned him about this. He simply kept his hand pressed to her mouth, his free arm stopping her from struggling too much. After only about a minute and a half, he felt the woman in his grasp slowly decompress, and fall lax. The man removed his hands from her personage, taking a step back to observe. It was incredibly unnerving - her eyes were open, though half lidded, and it was easy to pretend she was awake.
Except she still was, barely.
A gurgle rose up from [Y/N]’s throat, and her head lolled to the side, lips parted just slightly. The cop panicked, reaching forward to cover her mouth again. Briefly, he felt her fingers start to curl around his wrist, and he relented.
[Y/N] was fading fast, and had she the mental capacity to feel afraid, she would, but the strongest part of her knew that something had to be done. She had things she needed to say, topics she needed to address - there was a very, very tiny allotment of seconds in which to speak. Operating her tongue had been getting increasingly hard over the past few months, but never before had she been so thoroughly tranquilized that she literally couldn’t talk. Finally, with her mouth stuffed full of rubik's cubes, and her muscles full of cotton balls, she managed to slur out, “He’s gonna hurt me.”
The officer almost screamed himself, hearing the words that she had to say. He panicked four times over, trying to shake the woman awake. A door opened behind them, and his voice lowered to a frantic whisper, “Who? Who?” But she was too far gone this time, her eyes glazed over to meet the figure that entered into the room.
[Y/N] woke up probably twelve hours later, her body wrapped in slimey, icy tendrils and her hair wrenched back. She screamed, squirming away from the tentacles that swarmed her figure, but they only pulled her tighter.
The foreign limbs were scaly and had the strength of 1,000 men, tugging her deeper into their coils with every passing second - no matter how hard she struggled. And they grasped around her throat, coveting every fragile, raspy breath that she tried to draw.
Minutes passed by, though they seemed like hours, and she couldn’t help but feel that her life should have ended several moments before. She was choking, she was unable to breathe, but she still lived, she still struggled. It was just another nightmare that she couldn’t wake from.
Except she was awake - sort of.
Eventually, it occurred to her that someone was speaking - a nearby voice, a cruel, smooth tone. She knew who it was, but who was it? Her consciousness would not allow her to access that part of her memory. The voice continued, rattling on about things she could not comprehend, and all she could do was listen as the tendrils fell away from her body.
“Are you coherent now? Nod if you understand.”
[Y/N] wasn’t sure what coherent meant, still seeing the tails of snakes in the corners of the room. She nodded anyways, breathing heavily against the soft fabric below her. It didn’t feel like her bed.
The other person hummed, a vague sound of disbelief. “If you could see yourself right now, you’d understand why I doubt your coherency very much. It’ll just be a few minutes now.”
None of their words quite held in her perforated headspace, just as they failed to before. She watched the bodies of reptiles creep about the floorboards, her eyes trailing behind each creature. One of them moved close to the bed, winding up the leg of a rustic-looking chair and across the lap of a long, thin man who sat with his ankle atop the opposite knee. The woman almost cried to see the snake disappear behind his figure, and desperately waited for it to return. They almost felt like friends now. She wondered what its name was.
How strange that something so sinister had become an emblem of consistency in her otherwise tumultuous life?
She ran her tongue around the cottony caverns of her mouth, staring just past Edward onto the ornate wallpaper behind him. Her voice was croaky as she spoke, “Am I allowed to ask why I’m here?”
He’d been reading a newspaper, which he folded carefully and placed on the bedside table. His hands clasped together, a quirky little grin etched onto his cheeks. “You may ask whatever you wish - you’re a guest in the mayor’s house, after all.”
[Y/N] narrowed her eyes, the wallpaper still holding her rapt attention. “Why am I here, then?”
“You’re on suicide watch, and the precinct no longer felt that they could care for you,” Ed started, idly checking his watch, “You should be thankful. This was the best alternative.”
She was quickly becoming annoyed, and made a move to sit up before realizing that she’d been strapped - on her stomach, spread-eagle - to the bed she lay on. This distracted her from his vague explanation, if only briefly. “Does the mayor normally let his guests be held captive by his employees?”
“You misunderstand - you’re technically being hospitalized.”
“Yes, because you are the best ‘medical professional’ to watch over a suicidal woman,” [Y/N] deadpanned, “What do you mean by alternative? Where else would I have gone? A real behavioral center? A real hospital?”
“Well, they did mean to send you to Arkham-”
“Arkham?” The female shrieked, lifting her upper body off the mattress to the best of her ability, “I’m not a fucking criminal, Nygma. They would never send me there. I’m not insane, either, unlike your sorry ass.”
Edward’s face cinched dangerously, and he uncrossed his legs, leaning closer to impose on [Y/N]’s space. “You’d do good to watch where you throw words like that - you just might hurt someone’s feelings,” He warned, “And if I remember correctly - you disrupted public peace, assaulted a police officer, and resisted arrest. This town cares little for the mentally unstable, and they’d think little of you as well.”
“You and I both know that’s not true. I want to see a lawyer. There’s no legal way for you to keep me here,” She rattled, grasping at straws that she knew would only be ripped away from her.
“No self-respecting lawyer in Gotham would represent you against the mayor,” Ed countered, “They think of him as a saint for sheltering a poor, suicidal woman rather than letting her rot in the asylum. They think of him as an advocate.”
Frantically, she looked for an argument - as if her fate wasn’t already sealed. Just as she was about to open her mouth, the head of a snake crawled out of his sleeve, its body extending gracefully to the bed. She was immediately entranced by the movement, watching intently as it moved towards her.
The reptile slithered up to her face, greeting [Y/N] with a familiar smile, and she smiled in return, her lips parting over her teeth. It responded by pushing past her gums, pressing down her throat until she swallowed it whole.
Edward watched in amazement as the woman before him choked and gagged on nothing, a deep chuckle rising up from his chest. “Ketamine is a hell of a drug, isn’t it? A perfectly safe tranquilizer - given that you don’t mind the hallucinations upon waking.” He reached forward to wipe the drool from the side of her cheek, and she visibly cringed away from him.
The female breathed heavily, tears welling up in her sinuses as she tried to recover. “You’re the fucking devil, Edward,” She droned, unable to find the energy needed to curse him out like she really wanted to.
60 notes · View notes
asocier · 4 years
Text
( private verse ) handler and hound – two.
          “take a seat.”
          “this isn’t about the broken window, is it?”
          “what broken window?”
          “nevermind -- why am i here?” 
          it seems as though the window that was unintentionally ( re: intentionally ) destroyed by alison’s hound during a mission was a conversation that could be saved for another day. that was in it of itself a relief, but now she was even less prepared for what was to come. if this conversation wasn’t about that window, what was it about? 
          eyebrows furrowed as she crossed the familiar room to take the chair that was in front of her supervisor’s desk, alison scooting up closer to the tabletop before shifting her gaze to study the other. nothing odd stood out to her -- the call to his office seemed to have been out of the blue, however, so she couldn’t imagine what was on the agenda for their meeting. 
          “how’s everything with your hound?” the question cut through the silence that was settling in the room. it was asked with such casualness that it sounded like something a colleague of hers would have asked during a break. “everything’s fine. why? did something come up?” 
          “no. it’s just routine to check in with handlers now and then, that’s all. i suspected that things were going well -- you two seem to be getting along much better than his previous handlers.”  
          “we had a rough start, but i think we’re in a good spot now.”
          “and you were so adamant in refusing a hound.” and he chuckled as he recalled that interaction, her supervisor letting his hands clasp together loosely as they rested on the wooden top of the desk. that conversation was one alison remembered clearly, as well. with no say in the matter, she remembered feeling quite indignant, which was only exacerbated upon meeting eden for the first time. with an attitude like his, it was difficult not to be irritated -- but that was a hurdle she had managed to get over as time went on.
          “yes, well -- it’s fortunate that we found common ground and got along in the end.” fortunate indeed, for soma as a whole. she could certainly understand why he was considered valuable enough to keep despite his behavioral issues with previous handlers. what a waste it’d be if he were to be let go of. or worse -- disposed of. but that wasn’t something she’d ever let happen.
          “is this all you wanted to talk to me about? you could have just called my office or sent me an email.” the playful humor in alison’s remark was not lost on her supervisor, who chuckled again as he took hold of his keys and unlocked a drawer in his file cabinet. “i wouldn’t waste your time like that -- there’s an important matter i wanted to discuss with you in person.” 
          again, her expression revealed her confusion as a file was presented to her, and as she eyed the name that was printed on the tab of the folder, it soon occurred to her why this situation felt so familiar to her. amarante, c., it read, and eyes soon narrowed.
          "please tell me this is part of a mission.”
          “hm, it’s not your typical mission. think of it more as a personal mission. to help out the department.” 
          “i don’t follow.” 
          “why don’t you start by telling me your first impressions?” his invitation was accompanied by a gesture towards the folder, and he sat back in his seat as he waited for alison to read through its contents, which she did with a fair amount of caution. she wasn’t quite sure what she was supposed to look for exactly, which details he wanted her to pay close attention to, but as she examined the file, a few things easily stood out to her. 
          claire amarante, january 14th, 5′10″, hound. currently assigned to communications under the supervision of lenard [ redacted ]. strong fighting skills. specializes in offensive hand-to-hand combat, however evaluations show unpredictability in defensive skills. medical records indicate a history of treatment for injuries as a result of reckless offensive attacks, however, no severe injuries are on record. training staff notes competitive tendencies, which are most evident when interacting with other hounds.
          and she continued to peruse the documents in the file before taking the time to study the picture that accompanied the folder’s contents. a female hound -- not necessarily a rarity, but in a workplace that was so heavily dominated by men, alison couldn’t help but have a soft spot for her. a hound too, no less. even if she wasn’t in the field as often as alison and eden, being a hound was a risky profession. with a sigh, alison finally closed the folder and let it rest back on the table. 
          “she’s a strong fighter. seems to have her own style and technique, which i can admire, but being assigned to communications probably limits her to a more assistive role during missions considering her handler is based in that department. overall, she seems like a decent hound. no behavioral issues, no history of handler changes.” very different from her own hound’s file, honestly. 
          “so would you say she’s a good hound?” 
          “i’d say so. it seems like she can be a bit aggressive when provoked, but i think that goes for a lot of us here at soma.”
         “fair enough. what would you say then if i told you we’re considering a temporary department change for her? would you say she’d fair well on field missions?”
          “that’s -- kind of a strange question to ask me since you should know whether or not she’s qualified. but yes, i personally think she’d be able to pull her own weight and contribute to missions. if she had the right handler, i think she’d fair very well, especially if her technique was developed a bit more. she seems to have a good head on her shoulders -- so long as she doesn’t let aggression blind her judgement, i think she’ll fit in.” 
         “ah, i knew i could count on you, alison.” and with a smile, her supervisor produced another document from the drawer of his desk and pushed it towards her. handler reassignment, the headline read, and again, her face scrunched up in confusion. “i don’t -- understand. why are you showing me this? who is changing handlers?” 
          “it’s not your hellhound, i can tell you that.”
          “okay, but -- if he’s staying with me, who is being reassigned?”
          “lenard has to leave soma temporarily due to personal matters. as such, we have volunteered to temporarily reassign his hound to a handler in our department until he is able to make his return. and you, alison, are the lucky candidate.” a smile -- that damn smile that always seemed to have assumed that she’d give into his wish without a fight. 
          “do you really think that’s a good idea? i feel like i’m the worst candidate to choose for this. are you forgetting who my hound is? he’ll never get along with her. he’ll chew her up, and she’ll bite him right back from the looks of it.”
          “and that’s when you’ll step in to discipline. that’s what your role as a handler is. discipline. you managed to tame your hellhound -- if he acts up again with your new addition, you put your foot down and demand order. as for ms. amarante, she is at your mercy for taking her in.”
          “don’t talk like that. she’s not ‘at my mercy.’ if i say no, you’d just find her someone else. she has a handler by default -- it’s just a mild inconvenience for soma to temporarily relocate her to a new department until her usual handler returns. i just don’t understand why you’d choose me -- i imagine you’d choose someone else who doesn’t already have their hands full.”
          “ah, but that’s why this decision was made. the missions you take on -- there’s just two of you currently, yes? imagine what it’d be like with a third helping hand. you said it yourself, she has the potential for field missions, especially with additional training, and who best to train her than you? as for eden -- he has little say in the matter. if you accept, he’ll just have to deal.”
          “that sounds like a recipe for conflict, and conflict is the last thing i need more of. eden already gets into conflict with other hounds from different departments in the training room. i don’t need him getting into conflict with someone he’s suppose to actually work with and see daily.”
          “then tase him again. that’s what that collar is for, isn’t it? it’s not like you haven’t done it already. besides, it’s only a temporary arrangement. she’ll have her own temporary space in this wing of the building, she’ll train with you, she’ll accompany you on missions and can be as involved or as distant as you want her to be. take this to be an opportunity for you to develop your leadership skills -- you’ve always wanted a promotion, right?”
          “mm ... this isn’t really the promotion i had in mind.”
          “and who know? maybe she’ll end up being a permanent addition to your team. at any rate, the decision has already been made, so the sooner you sign these documents, the sooner the reassignment can happen and the more time you’ll have on your hands to get your hounds acquainted and trained before your next mission.”
          “if eden ends up breaking another window, don’t blame me.” 
3 notes · View notes
cuthian · 4 years
Text
Dancing in the Rain Chapter Two
Hi guys!
For this chapter, I'd like to warn you to please read the tags carefully. There is a potentially triggering scene involving gaslighting and violence at the end of the chapter -- if you think that's something that might trigger you or that you'd prefer not to read, please stop reading when Brock Rumlow's scene starts and skip to the end notes, where I'll summarise the scene for you.
Thank you again to my lovely beta and to my roommate, who have dragged me through writing this entire piece.
And thank you for still reading! I love you all.
See you in the comments, and then next week!
Love, Annaelle
Chapter Two
MUST-SEE: PEPPER POTTS SHARES ADORABLE AND HILARIOUS ULTRASOUND PICTURE OF HER BABY ON TWITTER!
Pepper Potts revealed she was expecting her first child with partners James Rhodes and Tony Stark a few months ago. Yesterday, the C.E.O. of Stark Industries shared an ultrasound picture on Twitter, where we can clearly see the baby takes after one of its fathers!
Potts, 43, announced her first pregnancy in December of last year through a truly adorable video starring her partners and Captain Steve Rogers, who is a close friend of Potts and her partners. Since the announcement, Potts has been sharing biweekly updates in the form of pictures, anecdotes and short videos featuring most of the Avengers.
[…] Besides Potts herself, the most frequent guest on Potts’ Twitter page is Rebecca Barnes, who announced that she and Thor Odinson are expecting their first child only a few weeks after Potts’ announcement. […] Potts has shared quite a few ultrasound pictures of the baby already, but her last update promises to be the most popular so far. The post boasts another ultrasound picture, this one showing that the baby might take after daddy Tony Stark! “[…]baby swallowed amniotic fluid, and then they opened their little mouth SO wide and stuck their little tongue out so far the gynaecologist nearly fell of her stool laughing,” Potts wrote. “It was wonderful to see, because it looked like our baby had the biggest, cheekiest smile on their face—just like Tony.”
Many of the other Avengers and various other celebrities saw the resemblance too.
“Takes after Tony, that one,” Steve Rogers, Captain America and close personal friend of Stark, Rhodes, and Potts, replied. “We’re gonna have our hands full.”
“Lord have mercy,” James Rhodes, daddy number two, replied. “The world’s not ready for a second Tony Stark.”
—Clarke Blake, Flair Magazine, “Pepper Potts Tweets Adorable Ultrasound Picture”, April 2016
——————
6th avenue, Park Slope, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States of America
23 April 2016
Peggy Carter
Peggy Carter had lived through quite a few life-altering events during her ninety-five years, but she dared say that sitting through a—albeit lovely—dinner with her goddaughter and her darling boyfriend, her niece and her prickly fiancé, her wonderfully dumb Steven, and Becky was a trial unlike any other she had faced so far.
Conversation was perfectly civil, of course, because Rebecca Barnes—senior, that is—did not tolerate acrimony of any sort at her dinner table, but there was a certain… tension between them that had not abated throughout the entire meal.
She had an inkling as to its origin, of course.
Sharon and her Brock had been together for quite some time, and while Peggy certainly had her reservations about the man, none of her background checks or even the private investigators had raised any red flags beyond a mild propensity for running his mouth when he had had a few drinks.
She never quite warmed up to the man though, finding herself a little put off by his brash attitude and his overall personality.
Sharon, however, had been quite besotted with the man since the day they’d met, and Peggy was not in the habit of trying to dictate her children’s—for that was what Sharon and Becca were, to her—love life. She had discretely done said background check on him, of course, because one could never be too careful, but nothing had come out of it, and so she held her tongue.
Whatever her own reservations towards him, Sharon loved him and he made her happy.
That was, in the end, all that Peggy wanted for her.
Her distaste of Brock, though, had been more apparent this night than she had intended for it to be.
Honestly, she blamed Thor a little bit, because Becca’s young man was so absurdly charming and lovely that Peggy couldn’t be fully blamed for showing something that might, in the right circumstances, be construed as… preference.
And honestly, whoever decided she was not allowed such preference?
People didn’t work that way.
Sometimes, one clicked with people, and sometimes, one didn’t.  
It was just that…
Well, she always strived to be fair to her family, even when her personality didn’t quite match with everyone, and Brock—as became increasingly clear as time passed and his relationship with her niece became more serious—was part of that family.
So was Thor, but the scales skewed much more in his favor because he reminded her so very much of her Daniel that sometimes it ached to look at him.
He was courteous and kind, and he revelled in her stories of her days as director of S.H.I.E.L.D. He referred to each little scuffle as a mighty battle, won by glorious victory, and had sworn to her that her days as a warrior for Earth had certainly earned her spot at his father’s table in Valhalla on the very first day they’d met.
She may—or may not—have shed a tear or two.
It should have occurred to her then, when Becca invited her over for dinner with Sharon, Brock, Thor, and Becky, that Brock would sense the difference in their interactions.
He was, after all, a fully trained S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and a good one too.
He’d noticed.
And the atmosphere during dinner had suffered for it.
It seemed to have eased off some now, while Thor bustled about in the kitchen to do the dishes, chattering happily with Becca, who sat perched on the counter beside him, cradling her swollen belly. Sharon leaned on the doorpost beside Becca, dangling an empty glass of wine from her fingertips as she occasionally threw a comment into the conversation.
They’d been whispering and giggling to each other the entire evening, and Peggy had to admit she was curious what those two were up to.
Steve had taken Brock to the living room, distracting the man from glowering at Peggy and Thor.
Honestly, Peggy huffed to herself, the entire thing was a tad tedious.
So she had a bit of a preference when it came to Sharon and Becca’s partners—sue her.
There was no need to be so petty about it.
“Well,” Becky said, raising an eyebrow at her, leaning back in her chair. “That could’ve gone better.”
Peggy snorted lightly and shook her head, setting down the glass of red wine she’d been sipping from all night on the table. “I suppose I could’ve comported myself better towards Brock,” Peggy admitted, glancing towards the living room, where she assumed Steve was entertaining the man in question.
Becky bit her lip and nodded lightly. “I mean… You hardly said two words to him and spent the rest of the night talking to Thor. It was rather obvious, Peg.”
Peggy pouted. “I suppose I should make an effort then, shouldn’t I?”
Becky wrinkled her nose at her and nodded. “I think you should.”
Peggy heaved a very put-upon sigh and hoisted herself out of her chair, smiling when Becky followed her example. They made their way into the living room, supporting each other as they walked, and settled comfortably on the love seat directly across from the fireplace.
Steve was kneeling in front of said fireplace, stacking several more blocks of chopped wood onto the dwindling flames. Peggy sighed wistfully, trailing her eyes appreciatively over Steve’s impressive biceps and exquisite form. It really was such a shame he had always been so hung up on Barnes—Peggy had had a great appreciation for him before the serum too, but…
There was something to be said for the way he had stepped out of the machine too.
She was sure they’d have had a lot of fun together if he hadn’t been so arse over teakettle in love with Bucky Barnes. Of course, she supposed if she and Steve had given each other a chance, she would never have married Daniel, and she would never have eventually fallen in love with her Angie too…
She would not have given them up for the world.
“Steve, darling,” she called out when he got back to his feet. “Come sit with us. What were you two talking about?”
Steve sat down on the sofa beside her and Becky’s love seat and smiled tightly. “We were discussing work, actually.” He shot a quick grin towards Rumlow when the man dragged a chair over so he could sit across from them, leaving the rest of the sofa open for the others.
“We were talking about the time he botched my mission,” Brock said, just the hint of a sneer detectable in his tone but voice otherwise just friendly enough to not be called out. “Put two of my guys in the hospital and had the Widow tase the shit out of another one. Still jumps at shadows, that one. Can’t use him for ops anymore, so thanks.”
He shook his head and took a chug of his beer. “Scared away our target too.”
Peggy raised an eyebrow. “Is this true?” she asked, turning to Steve.
She was aware Steve ran mostly Avengers-related missions nowadays, and that those missions were usually meticulously planned by Becca, Maria Hill, and Pepper Potts. She couldn’t quite imagine such a large mistake escaping their notice.
Steve’s cheeks colored, and he shrugged. “Yeah. We got the same anonymous tip about a terrorist group we’d been monitoring, and we responded without a lot of delay—we informed Fury, and he gave us the go-ahead, but apparently Maria had also sent out a STRIKE team.” He sighed and hung his head. “We collided mid-mission.”
Rumlow snorted. “I gotta hand it to ya, you had us down quick. Team’s good.”
Steve smiled, and Peggy eyed him carefully. It wasn’t a real smile, because Steve’s real smiles still made her heart flutter a little, but there was enough sincerity in it to fool the people that didn’t quite know him as well as she did—or, she supposed, as well as Becca did.
Her goddaughter walked into the room and plopped down on the couch beside Steve, poking him in the arm immediately and drawing his attention away from the conversation.
Sharon and Thor filed into the room as well, and Peggy watched her niece as she sidled up beside her fiancé, leaning her hip against his shoulder until he slipped his arm around her waist and leaned in to press a light kiss to her cloth-covered hip.
Thor, on the other hand, fit himself into the narrow available space between Becca and Steve, jostling them both playfully as he settled, allowing Becca to lean up against him comfortably, slipping one hand to the curve of her stomach, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth.
Peggy smiled despite herself.
He did remind her so very much of Daniel, even in this.
Daniel had been sweet and nervous and in awe of her pregnancy too, and he had tried to wait on her hand and foot, even when it had made her want to shoot him more than it had helped.
She’d seen enough interaction between Thor and Becca to know their dynamic was similar, but also wildly different. Where Peggy had grated beneath Daniel’s care and constant attention, too independent and too unwilling to let loose her grasp on control, Becca seemed to find Thor’s constant gaze reassuring, and his touch calming.
“So,” Brock said, eyeing Sharon and Becca contemplatively. “You two gonna tell us what it is you’ve been whispering about all night?”
Peggy looked between the two as well. She had to admit she was rather curious too, because Becky had already informed her that it was actually Becca who had asked if she would host a dinner for all of them so she could give them some important news.
“Yes,” Becca said slowly, glancing towards Sharon and then Thor. “Yes, I think…” She exhaled shakily and set one hand on her stomach. “Well, I think you’ve all noticed I’m pregnant.”
Peggy snorted a laugh, and Steve rolled his eyes.
“Thor’s dad…” Becca continued slowly, “he… Well, he’s not been the most supportive about it.”
Thor leaned forward then, a determined, yet grave expression on his face. “My father is a most traditional man, when it suits him to be one. He has ratified laws that state that if I wish to be able to claim our child as mine—my heir—it must be born on Asgard.”
Peggy blinked.
“Oh,” she said.
Becca smiled tightly. “Because travel through the Bifrost is extremely taxing for humans as it is, I need to travel there before I hit twenty-eight weeks. Just to be safe. It’s like flying in the third trimester.”
A heavy silence followed her words, and Peggy tried to wrap her head around what that meant.
“You’re—you’re twenty-six weeks along, though,” Peggy asserted. “You would have to go within…”
“Within two weeks, yes,” Becca nodded, leaning back into Thor’s embrace. “And I would be gone for… for a while, probably. If Eir and Thor are right, I wouldn’t be up for any sort of Bifrost travel for quite some time after the baby’s born either. So I…” She looked at Sharon, who smiled encouragingly, and Peggy found she had an inkling of where this was going.
“I need a replacement for my position as official S.H.I.E.L.D. liaison to the Avengers,” Becca continued. “Someone the Avengers as a whole trust, so I…” She finally returned Sharon’s smile. “I thought of Sharon. I know you’ve… you’ve had a hard time at S.H.I.E.L.D. since… everything,” Becca’s voice lowered, and rage pulsed deep within Peggy’s veins at the mere mention of the absurd charges they’d tried to lay against her niece. “I hoped you might like a change of scenery,” Becca continued. “Some new colleagues.”
She chuckled and elbowed Steve in the side as she added, “Mind you, they’re a mad bunch, and you should never listen to Steve, even though he’s team leader, because he’s full of shit, but—”
“I am not,” Steve said, affronted.
“Oh darling,” Peggy sighed. “You always were a dramatic shit. It stands to reason that didn’t change.”
Brock guffawed and the others snickered at Steve’s expense, and Peggy smiled broadly at him.
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve huffed indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Come on, Becs, you were telling us something big, remember?”
Becca smiled beatifically at him, and Peggy shook her head to clear it—it was difficult, in moments like these, to remember that she wasn’t back in the war, and that Becca wasn’t Bucky Barnes, ribbing Steve about something or the other while the rest of the Howlies laughed at them.  
Becky, God bless her, noticed her slip in attention, and patted her hand lightly on top of Peggy’s.
Peggy shot her a grateful smile before she focused her attention back on Becca.
“That’s mostly it,” Becca shrugged. “If Sharon agrees—”
“Oh, Sharon agrees,” the woman in question piped up from where she had settled on a second dining chair next to Brock, reaching out to take her fiancé’s hand. “It’ll be good to get away from S.H.I.E.L.D. for a bit,” she added sadly, and Peggy frowned.
It hurt, to think that the organisation she had built from the ground up was such a stifling place for her own niece now. It was so upsetting, in fact, that she nearly missed the scowl that marred Brock’s face before he schooled his face into a pretty convincing smile.
Nearly.
She eyed him shrewdly.
Did his jealousy of their acceptance of Thor run so deep that anything connected to him was automatically met with anger and resentment?
“—well,” Becca continued, grinning at Sharon, “then all that’s really left is me teaching you the ropes, and us coordinating moving to Asgard for the foreseeable future.” She looked back at Thor, who smiled tenderly at her before he leaned in to press a kiss to her temple.
“I’ll miss you, sweetheart,” Becky said quietly, and Peggy’s heart broke a little for her friend. Becky had raised Becca, thought of her as her daughter more than she did her actual daughter. It wasn’t easy for Peggy to know she’d miss the birth of Becca’s first—of their first great-grandchild—so it had to be agonising for Becky.
“About that,” Thor began. “If I may… I want to suggest that perhaps, you could accompany us. I’m sure it would mean a great deal to Rebecca to have you there,” he continued, and Peggy surmised from the stunned expression on Becca’s face that Thor’s suggestions was news to her too.
Becky blinked.
“Wouldn’t I be imposing?” she asked in a small, soft voice. “Your father hasn’t exactly been accepting of Becca—would he accept another human on Asgard?”
Thor shrugged. “That is really no concern of mine. He has made too many demands that we have been forced to concede to already. I will not stand for him removing Becca from her family when she needs them most.” His eyes softened, and Peggy was harshly reminded of Daniel, of the way he’d looked at her when she was being unreasonable, of the way he’d gone to bat for her when no one would even give her the time of day.
“Steve’s coming too,” Becca said, although she didn’t take her eyes off Thor. “For a bit.”
Peggy’s gaze swivelled to Steve, who nodded. “I haven’t put down the shield in almost a decade,” he said, and Peggy was fairly certain she wasn’t imagining the way his voice wavered a little. “What better time to take a break than now?” He shrugged and said, “Well, in a few weeks. I’ll have a few things to take care of before I can go too.”
“Just let me know when,” Becky said, startling Peggy a little. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
In a flash, Becca was up and flung her arms around her grandmother, and Peggy smiled lightly. She’d never gotten to have these kinds of moments with her own son—he’d passed away before he’d been able to marry, to have children, and Peggy had been left with no one until Tony was born, and then later Sharon and Becca.
She was glad that she would get to have these moments now, at least.
Becca’s children, Tony’s children, Sharon’s children—if she ever chose to have any—would be her great-grandchildren, and she would love them like they’d been Michael’s.
She leaned her shoulder into Steve’s when he sat beside her, taking her small, wrinkled hand in his.
“Almost feels perfect,” he said quietly, watching Becca and Becky with a very familiar gleam in his eye. “Doesn’t it?” He looked at her and squeezed her hand carefully—so very carefully.
Peggy knew everything he wasn’t saying.
They’d lost Timothy only a few months ago, and Gabe a year before that. Dernier, Morita, Falsworth and Barnes had been gone for so long they felt like distant memories to her, and the others were only a little fresher in her mind than that—although she supposed they were much fresher in Steve’s mind. They were the only ones left of their merry little band, and… she understood what he meant.
They still had family, and it felt almost like home—but nothing ever would without the others.
“Yes,” she agreed, leaning her cheek against his shoulder, taking comfort in his presence. “Almost.”
——————
THE EFFECT OF POPULAR CULTURE ON WARTIME PROPAGANDA: CAPTAIN AMERICA
The character of Captain America was created by Jack Kirby and Joe Simon at the instruction of Senator Brandt after Captain Steve Rogers—a soldier without a military rank at that time—received the super serum and successfully survived the procedure. The character that was based on Steve Rogers’ life and journey to become the first and only American super soldier first saw the light on March 10th, 1942 in what would become a monthly collection that ended in July 1949, for after the war people lost interest in these kinds of stories.
[…] Thus we can see the importance that offers this comic as a primary source, as well as being interesting to study the covert propaganda mechanisms. It also shows how people reacted to the horrors of war, especially those who felt that it was something that could happen to themselves, like the creators of Captain America. […] All the same, the collection of Captain America is most suitable for this type of study because we do not just see an imaginary superhero fighting Nazis and preventing them from seizing global control, but we see an American soldier and patriot fighting for his rights and his ideals.
This is something to keep in mind when analysing these comics because, after all, Steve Rogers is a soldier and a real man, rather than another superhero. There is no official report on how Captain Rogers felt about his life being used to create propaganda, although there are several interviews available with members of the Howling Commandos, who all imply with varying degrees of subtlety that the Captain was not a fan of being followed around by cameras during missions.
[…] Captain America has become a classical icon in the American culture over time, paraded about in comic books and films to promote what one can generally classify as “traditional Christian values”. An interesting, if not important, question one must ask themselves here is whether Captain Rogers supported those values himself. What little sources remain documenting the Captain’s life before he received the serum paint a picture that does not always fit with the image propaganda painted.
Rogers was, for example, the only child of a widowed, Irish immigrant mother, sickly and small in stature, and a card-carrying socialist whose arrest record was more impressive than several of today’s most well-known activists’. The only thing from his propaganda Captain Rogers ever openly agreed with was that he valued his new powers because he hadn’t always been this healthy—he used them to fight adversaries, Nazis and villainous HYDRA, to defend his homeland and principles because it was the right thing to do, not because he sought to fight anyone.
[…] also in one of the first issues of the Captain America comics after Captain Rogers’ rescue of the 107th Regiment from Azzano, we are introduced to his inseparable partner, Bucky, who is the mascot of the 107th regiment in the comic books. This character soon became almost as popular as Captain America, because children didn’t have to dream about superheroes anymore—they could be one even when they were as young as Bucky Barnes.
Of course, James Buchanan Barnes, the inspiration for the character, was no child, nor a simple mascot for the 107th Regiment. The decision to make a grown man, who was an accomplished soldier that made the rank of Sergeant before he finished boot camp and was handpicked for extended training as an expert marksman, was almost definitely a carefully considered one.
He was Captain Rogers’ childhood best friend and rumoured to be the reason Captain Rogers’ decided to save the imprisoned soldiers at Azzano. His influence on Captain Rogers, both as a comic book character and as his real-life right-hand man, is undeniable and must be considered in the context of this study. […] little is known how Sergeant Barnes felt about his comic book character, although several of the surviving members of the Howling Commandos have implied that neither Barnes nor Rogers were particularly pleased with their fictive counterparts.
[…] on the pages of this comic, the fears and concerns of the American society at the time, regarding their ideas about the war and the Germans, are reflected.
[…] nevertheless, it should be noted that Captain America was meant to be a figure that brings hope to the society, to bring it together to overcome the crisis. Not only this, with his ideals based on the reform of the New Deal, they could recover it to set a perfect example to try to carry out a new economic change. […] even after Sergeant’s Barnes’ and Captain Rogers’ untimely and tragic demises, the figures of Captain America and Bucky Barnes continued growing, expanding and reaching mythical proportions.
With Captain Rogers’ miraculous recovery and revival, and his subsequent breakdown of everything the public has been fed by propaganda during the last sixty years, the question has arisen of how much of written wartime history is correct, and how much of it is the result of propaganda made real by fictional characters.
[…] perhaps we live in a historic moment in time in which we need to appeal to the fictional characters to find heroes and role models that everyone should and could follow.
—Marina Chorro Giner, “Political Propaganda during WWII: Captain America”, unpublished article on academia.edu about the influence of popular culture as political propaganda during WWII, March 2013
———————
Tony Stark’s Personal Lab, Avengers Tower, Manhattan, New York, United States of America
12:23 A.M., 28 April 2016
Tony
Tony was a few hours into his favorite, semi-hazy mindset, tinkering with one of his newer prototypes—a modified version of the Mark IV suit, possibly designed with specs of every individual Avenger in mind, just in case—grease smeared across his cheek and all over his shirt when the elevator dinged pleasantly, and a heavily pregnant Pepper waddled into his workshop, one hand supporting her belly and the other pressed to her lower back.
Tony dropped his screwdriver and shot to his feet, rushing towards his girlfriend. “Hey Pep,” he said gently, because last week he’d greeted her too loudly and she’d cried for an hour and then yelled at Rhodey for not getting her French fries.
Tony was a genius. He occasionally learned from his mistakes—and the first thing he’d learned during Pepper’s pregnancy was to not aggravate or question the expectant mommy.
“What’re you doing down here?” he added, subtly walking her to the ultra-comfortable couch he’d put in his lab because Pepper—and occasionally Becca, when she got bored and needed to rib someone other than Cap—wandered down here to find him regularly.
“It’s late,” she told him reproachfully. “Rhodey’s not here to cuddle me, so you have to.” She tugged on his hand and frowned at him. “Come to bed with me.”
Usually, Pepper telling him to come to bed did the trick fine—Tony really did have a hard time saying no to her in general, and it was twice as bad now that she was pregnant and he owed her because “she was letting his spawn dance on her bladder for nine months”, and really, he couldn’t argue with that.
Of course, Pepper used that argument on him and Rhodey for everything—ranging from letting her have the last slice of bacon to driving to the grocery store in the middle of the night to get her the good kind of chocolate, because it “just wasn’t the same” if they got it delivered—but that didn’t make it any less effective.
Tony looked longingly over his shoulder at the suit he’d been working on.
Pepper sighed. “Alright. Compromise. Show me what you’re working on first, then bed.”
Tony beamed and led her back to the workbench, plopping down on his seat and gesturing to the suit—that would fit Cap’s dorito-esque proportions perfectly once it was finished—excitedly while he explained the features he’d built into it. Pepper smiled indulgently at him, rubbing her fingers through his loose, curly hair—he hadn’t put any product in it today, and he knew she liked it best that way.
“Steve’ll definitely appreciate it,” she told him when he fell silent.
Tony sighed and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the swell of her stomach, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment. He hadn’t slept in a while, because… because he needed to be sure that everything was ready, was safe by the time the baby—babies—would arrive, and he didn’t have a lot of time left.
Pep was due in five weeks—Becca in thirteen.
Sure, Becca wouldn’t be in the Tower for a while after the baby was born, and she was probably going to be safer on Asgard than anywhere else, but… just in case.
Just in case any of his nightmares turned out to be true.
He was pulled from his thoughts by a dull thump against his forehead. He looked up and blinked at Pepper, who was clearly fighting a smile.
“Was that—” he said, astonished, “Did my own kid just kick me in the head?”
Pepper snorted a laugh and Tony gaped at her. “My kid kicked me,” he repeated, slightly hysterically.
“Kid’s got good sense already,” someone said from behind him, and Tony whirled around on his wheelie chair to find the fucking Widow and her younger, redder shadow crowded in his doorway.
“Well, fuck you too,” Tony blurted, although he winced as Pepper smacked the back of his head for cursing in front of the—unborn—baby.
“We have to talk to you,” Wanda said slowly, accent lightly coloring her words. “We have…” she frowned and looked to Nat with a light frown, “…discovered something. Possibly.”
Pepper huffed a sigh. “You can have him for thirty minutes. No longer,” she said sternly, wagging her finger at the two other women. “It’s late and I need sleep, and I need my favorite teddy bear in my bed—preferably after he’s showered the grease off.”
Widow smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”
With that, Pepper waddled out of the lab, leaving Tony alone with their resident lethally reds. “Okay,” he said. “Well. Whaddya got?”
----------------------------
Poetic Edda – Hovamol – stanza 81 to 89
“Give praise to the day at evening, to a woman on her pyre, to a weapon which is tried, to a maid at wedlock, to ice when it is crossed, to ale that is drunk.
When the gale blows hew wood, in fair winds seek the water, sport with maidens at dusk, for day’s eyes are many; from the ship seek swiftness, from the shield protection, from the sword cuts and from the maiden kisses.
By the fire drink ale, over ice go on skates; buy a steed that is lean and a sword when tarnished.
A man shall trust not the oath of a maid, nor the word a woman speaks, for their hearts on a whirling wheel were fashioned, and fickle their breasts were formed.
In a breaking bow or a burning flame, a ravening wold or a croaking raven, in a grunting boar, a tree with roots broken, in billowy seas or a bubbling kettle, in a flying arrow or falling waters.
In ice new formed or the serpents folds, in a bride’s bed-speech or a broken sword; in the sport of bears or in sons of kings. In a calf that is sick, or a stubborn thrall, a flattering witch or a foe new slain.
In a light, clear sky or a laughing throng, in the bowl of a dog or a harlot’s grief!
In a brother’s slayer, if thou meet him abroad, in a half-burned house, in a horse full swift; one leg hurt and the horse is useless… None had ever such faith as to trust in them all.”
—Predictions of Odin One-Eyed, King of Asgard and the Nine, as quoted by Snorri
--------------------------------
Tony Stark’s Personal Lab, Avengers Tower, Manhattan, New York, United States of America
2 A.M., 28 April 2016
Steve
Steve yawned and rubbed his hand through his undoubtedly messy hair.
He had rolled straight out of bed when J.A.R.V.I.S. had called for him, and the only reason he hadn’t rolled right into the suit was because the A.I. had assured him it wasn’t an Assemble-call. He had, thus, not made a lot of effort, and wandered down to Tony’s lab in his pyjama’s.
His only concession to social convention had been to pull on an incredibly soft t-shirt, and thick, woollen socks that Thor had once gifted him.
“Tony,” he complained as soon as the elevator doors opened, “why am I here? I could be sleeping.”
He stopped short when he caught sight of Natasha and Wanda, both gaping at him with parted lips, Tony standing a little behind them, his hair wild and curly and his expression sheepish.
“You woke him up for this?” Natasha demanded, rounding on Tony with a mighty frown. “I thought we agreed to wait until tomorrow, at least—J.A.R.V.I.S. hasn’t even finished processing all the information!” She gestured towards the large holographic screen angrily, and Steve looked too, unsure of what he was looking at.
“I didn’t agree to anything,” Tony protested. “You said—”
“We don’t know anything!” Natasha bit out harshly, uncharacteristically emotional and expressive.
“He should know!” Tony argued.
Nat opened her mouth to argue back, but Steve had had enough. “Guys!” he yelled, startling them all. “What do I need to know?”
Tony blinked wide-eyed at him. “Uh,” he said. “See. The thing is…” He stopped and looked helplessly at Natasha, who had her arms crossed over her chest and was glaring at him.
“Steve,” Wanda said timidly from where she stood, slightly behind Natasha, her eyes wide and imploring. “I didn’t want to tell you unless I was sure.” She had pulled the sleeves of her long t-shirt down over her hands and was fiddling with the edges nervously. Steve hadn’t seen her look this withdrawn and nervous in… God, he didn’t even know how long, and he didn’t like it.
“Tell me what, kid?” he asked, careful to keep his tone calmer than before.
“We think Hydra might be back,” Tony blurted, before his eyes went wide again and he clapped his own hands over his mouth.
Steve stared at him.
“That’s not funny,” he croaked, his hands curling into fists at the mere idea. “That’s not fucking funny.”
Natasha looked at him, for the first time since she’d turned from him to yell at Tony, and her eyes were so sad, so horribly sad, that it made his skin crawl. He stood stock still as she approached, didn’t move when she laid a hand on his arm, didn’t breathe as she said, softly, “No one’s laughing, Steve.”
“I destroyed them,” he said, a little desperate. “I burned them to the ground, and I salted the earth, I made sure nothing was left.” He didn’t realize how loud he was speaking until the ringing silence that followed the last, shouted word. “I died destroying them,” he whispered. “They’re gone. Tony, you’re—you’re wrong.”
“It wasn’t Tony,” Wanda said quietly, and Steve startled at the sound of her voice.
“What?”
“It wasn’t Tony,” she repeated. “I found them. And we’re not sure, but… we’re as sure as we can be.”
Steve noted, right then, that his breathing was more unsteady than it had been since he’d received the serum. He felt like he was having an asthma attack for the first time in eighty years.
He couldn’t say he’d missed it.
He sat, heavily, in the nearest wheelie chair and stared at his hands—he’d killed, pretty indiscriminately, with these hands, had tried to raze everything even remotely related to Hydra to the ground with these hands—and wondered if everything he’d done, if everything he’d died for…
If it had all been for nothing.
“Tell me,” he finally whispered hoarsely, lifting his gaze from his hands to look at his teammates—his friends. “Tell me everything.”
—————————
E 206th Street, The Bronx, New York City, New York, United States of America
28 April 2016
Brock Rumlow
“Look,” Brock said patiently, slowly, because he knew he was pushing the line here, and that this whole thing could backfire on him very easily. “I’m not saying that I don’t think it’s a good idea, or that I don’t think you could and should do it.” He pushed up from the bed he shared with Sharon and walked over to where she stood, arms crossed over her chest and frowning.
“Shar,” he cajoled, trailing his hands down her upper arms. “I’m so proud of you. And of course, you should absolutely take this amazingopportunity, I’m just…” he shrugged and schooled his face into something semi-hurt. “I just wish I’d been part of the conversation, you know? We’re… I mean,” he sighed. “We’re supposed to be doing all of this together, right? And making huge, career-defining decisions are a part of that, aren’t they?”
He could see Sharon’s anger melting away, replaced by something sheepish—something he had been hoping to incite in her. He was desperately trying to salvage whatever he could from the flaming wreckage that had been his plan to turn Sharon.
In his defence, it had been working—Sharon had been relying on him, mostly, had been talking much more warmly about his fellow S.T.R.I.K.E. agents, who had been vocal about their support of her, while still feeding into the rumours about her supposed misconduct, and Brock had been so close to gently suggesting that maybe they should spend more time with those kinds of people…
With the people that believed her, that didn’t perpetuate a false, twisted version of her, with people like her and Brock—
And then it all got fucked up.
He’d been planning on how to turn Sharon for years, had set everything into motion years ago, had been working it—on her—for the longest time before fucking Rebecca Barnes and her meddlesome band of Avengers had ruined everything.
Fuck those fucking bastards.
And fuck fucking Rebecca Barnes for giving Sharon options.
For getting her away from S.H.I.E.L.D. and from Brock’s direct influence and fuck her for doing it so smoothly and sneakily and fucking publicly that he hadn’t been able to do anything but nod along.
All he could do now was try to pick up whatever pieces were left and try to formulate something new, something equally good or better, something that would get Pierce to listen to him, to acknowledge him and to recognise the work he did for the betterment of Hydra.
“You’re right,” Sharon sighed, arms falling to her side as she leaned back against their dresser. “You’re right, I’m sorry, I should’ve talked about it with you. I just…” she threw her hands up in exasperation and shook her head. “I was so excited, so thrilled by the idea of getting away from it all that I just…” she hesitated. “I just didn’t think about it and said yes.”
Brock lifted a hand to stroke his fingers through her thick, blonde hair as he must’ve done hundreds, if not thousands of times before in the past five years, and heaved a sigh.
Really, he might have grown to like Sharon more, over time, if she’d let him turn her.
She was fucking smart, and if he hadn’t been quite so good an actor, she’d have seen through him years ago, and it didn’t hurt that she was easy on the eyes either.
Not to mention that the sex was fantastic.
It really was too bad she was so independent and opinionated.
So mouthy.
He could’ve put up with her overbearing aunt and Rogers and Barnes if she’d just been a little more… a little more docile, a little more receptive to his needs.
If she would’ve let him turn her to Hydra, rather than take the first opportunity that led away from him with both hands, not even bothering to look back.
Some fiancée she was.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, before she leaned in and kissed him.
He kissed back automatically, without thinking much about it—it’d become a reflex, after all this time—trying to consider what he was going to do now. What use did he have for Sharon now that it had become glaringly obvious that he was never going to be able to turn her unless he would entirely rewrite her memory, like they’d done to the Soldier.
Unlike the Soldier though, Sharon would likely not survive the procedure.
Barnes, however… much as she aggravated him just by existing, Barnes had the exact potential that Sharon now lacked.
He needed access to Barnes, to the Avengers and their plans—
Brock broke the kiss abruptly, leaning back far enough to see Sharon’s quizzical expression.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, forehead creasing into a frown.
“Nothing,” he shrugged, eyeing her carefully, fingers tightening in her hair. “Sorry babe. This ain’t personal.” He abruptly tightened his hand into a fist and yanked, smashing Sharon’s head against the dresser as hard as he could. She gave a yelp that abruptly cut off when she hit the hardwood surface, and dropped like a sack of bricks when he let go off her, falling to the floor of their bedroom in an inelegant heap.
Brock eyed her prone body.
Well. That was step one.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and shot a quick text to Jack Rollins.
Time to implement step two and work out the rest of the plan.
HYDRA had sat back and watched Barnes and the Avengers mess up their plans for too long. It was high time to remind Barnes of her place in the world—not a future princess of fucking Asgard, but a future Soldier of Hydra.
—————————
Start from the beginning:
In Hell We Stand By You:
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)
Never Feel Alone:
(1) (2)
Decisions: (1)
Dancing with a Limp:
(1) (2)
Chances:
(1)
Starting Over:
(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)
Dancing in the Rain: 
(1)
Or read it HERE on AO3 :D Find the next chapter HERE on Tumblr :)
1 note · View note
lamptracker · 5 years
Note
A blurb with cop!Tom where him and the reader had a bad fight the night before and he goes to work the next day before she wakes up and the next day she gets in a bad accident or just gets injured badly?
Tom drove around in his squad car, doing his daily patrol. As he did, he replayed the fight you’d had last night in his head:
“What do you mean you took an extra shift this weekend?” You practically shouted. “It’s our anniversary on Saturday!”
“I know, love, and I’m so sorry,” Tom replied, voice already tinged with regret. “But McConnell has a funeral to go to, and I know we’re saving up for that vacation, I just thought...”
You sighed as you pinched the bridge of your nose. “I get that,” you said slowly, “but you should have asked me first. Any other weekend I would have said it was okay, but Tom! I wanted to spend our anniversary TOGETHER.”
“I get that, love, but-”
“You know what?” Your voice was quiet, the true sign that you were angry beyond belief. “I’m sleeping on the couch tonight. See you tomorrow.” With that, you gathered your pillow and blanket and marched off to the living room. Sighing deeply, Tom attempted (but failed) to go to sleep.
Just then, the voice of the dispatcher came through the radio:
“All units, please be advised. Car accident on the corner of Parkway and Sheridan, three vehicles involved.”
“I’m only a few blocks away,” Tom said into the radio. “On my way now.”
He turned on his siren and drove as quickly as he could to the intersection. As he did, a thought occurred to him: (y/n) takes that way to work. It sounds like it’s bad, I hope she missed it...
Tom arrived on scene roughly the same time as the ambulance and a fellow officer. “Okay, what happened?” he asked his co-worker.
“Driver in front thought she saw a deer,” the officer replied, pointing to an elderly lady in a blue sedan. “Stopped short and the car behind her rear-ended her, causing the car behind them to rear-end them as well. But, Tom... you’re not going to want to see who’s in the middle car.”
“Why, who... oh, God.”
He didn’t even need to see who was in the car to recognize its owner: You.
Tom’s heart dropped. He had to get to you, he had to. The last time you two spoke, you were angry at him. What if... what if that was the last time you two got to talk, ever? What if you didn’t make it today? What if...
“Tom?” The other officer rested their hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Fire department’s on the way with the Jaws of Life. They’re going to get her out. Then you can see her, okay?”
“I... I think I need to sit down.” Tom immediately sat down on the curb, head in his hands. I know I’m not the praying type, he prayed silently, but God... if you can hear me, please don’t let anything terrible happen to her.
Normally he’d be right there in the middle of the action, helping the victims and getting statements. But since you were involved... he couldn’t do anything but sit and pray.
“Tom!” The other officer said. “Tom, she’s out. Go ride in the ambulance with her.”
“But what about...”
“Osterfield and I can finish processing the scene,” they said, pointing to their partner. “He’ll drive your squad car back to the station. Just go, be with her, okay?”
Tom nodded. He waited for the EMTs to finish loading you up into the ambulance, then climbed in after them.
“She’s unconscious,” one of them said. “Not sure how serious her injuries are right now, although you can clearly see she’s lost a lot of blood.”
Tom just nodded as he gently grasped your hand. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, tears flowing down his cheeks. “I should never have taken McConnell’s shift, then we wouldn’t have fought and at least you’d know how much I love you. Please pull through for me, love, please.” He then looked up at the EMTs and said: “And if you tell anybody I’m crying I will not hesitate to Tase you.”
**
Two hours.
Two hours of pacing the waiting room, wondering, waiting, hoping and praying.
Finally, a nurse came out to give Tom a progress update.
“She’s awake,” she said. “She’s asking for you. She looks a little rough, stitches in her eyebrow, some facial contusions, broken arm and broken clavicle. No concussion, she got lucky there. We had to give her a transfusion too. She’s in a lot of pain, but with time and a little physical therapy she’ll be okay.”
“Oh, thank God,” Tom breathed as he followed the nurse into the room that would become your home for the next two weeks.
“Tommy?” you asked, voice small and raspy. 
The nurse was right: you looked like you’d been through the wringer, alright. The entire right side of your face was bruised and swollen; the right side of your upper body immobilized. 
“Oh, darling,” he said softly. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’ve had better days.” You smiled a tiny smile.
“Listen, darling, I’m so sorry about last night. I should never have taken that shift, I-”
You squeezed his hand with every last ounce of strength you could muster. “Easy, Tom, it’s okay. Really. The thought of spending our anniversary at home alone is still better than how we’re actually going to spend it.” You sighed. “That lady in front of me...”
“Legally blind, as it turns out,” Tom said. “And driving against doctor’s orders, she should never have been behind the wheel. Downtown’s gonna do a number on her. In the meantime,” Tom leaned over to softly kiss your forehead, “get some rest, okay.”
“Are you...”
“Not leaving your side. Sergeant’s giving me a week paid leave to help take care of you, and some of the other guys are trying to donate their PTO.”
“That’s so sweet of them.” You smiled at him, a little more widely this time. “I’m sorry about all this, I-”
“Oh, love, no. This isn’t your fault, don’t blame yourself.” 
“It’s hard not to.” You yawned, wincing slightly. “So when do the painkillers kick in?”
Tom laughed. “Just get some rest. I love you.”
“I love you too, babe.”
73 notes · View notes
10oclockdot · 7 years
Photo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
True/False 2017 Festival Report, part 1:
in which I give capsule reviews of films that I viewed on March 2 and 3, the first two days of this year's True/False, in order of best to worst.
Casting JonBenet (Kitty Green, 2017) True/False alum Kitty Green, whose film Ukraine is Not a Brothel divided audiences at the fest three years ago, returned this year with a major work, fresh off its triumph at Sundance: a hybrid documentary experiment called Casting JonBenet. Green put out a casting call in the Boulder, Colorado area -- the site of the murder of child beauty pageant participant JonBenet Ramsey two decades ago -- looking for locals to audition for the roles of JonBenet, her parents, her brother, and a few more figures close to the case. One by one, these actors sit down in front of the audition camera, framed as precisely and hauntingly as an Errol Morris interview, and talk to Green about their knowledge of the case, their theories about the case, their everyday lives, and the tragedies in their pasts that would help them to get into their roles. The audition footage, shot in 4:3, comprises the bulk of the film, but is occasionally intercut with 2.35:1 footage of fragments of what looks like a larger JonBenet Ramsey project that was never made. Lest you assert that this was all underhanded and exploitative to hold an audition for a non-existent film, Green explained in the Q&A that she apprised the auditioners of the nature of this experimental project, and apparently all participants agreed to have their unscripted audition tapes turned into a documentary. Green added in the Q&A that it was quite difficult to explain the project to the auditioners since no one had made a film like this before (though it's actually pretty similar to Mohsen Makhmalbaf's 1995 film Salaam Cinema, but with some added formal ornament). Though the experiment has limited documentary value in the traditional sense, it nevertheless takes the temperature, albeit obliquely, of the community that's lived in the aftermath of this unsolved case. You also get to meet some regular people with stories nearly as bizarre as the role they're auditioning for. What's more, the film opens up inquiries into the nature of documentary truth and how it relates to the different orders of truth that an actor might seek when inhabiting a role. I found it mesmerizing throughout, and a few moments even had me bolt-upright in my seat. For instance, after playing footage of some auditioners discussing the theory that JonBenet's killer was actually her brother (who was a young boy at the time), Green cuts to a montage of child actors attempting to split open a watermelon by beating it with a flashlight. And as if moments like that weren't enough, it all ends with majestic staged sequence in which about two dozen of the actors perform as multiple copies of the same characters on a set of the Ramsey house. It nearly evoked a live-action remake of Rybczyński's 1980 short Tango, but far more operatic and far sadder.
The Force (Peter Nicks, 2017) A couple years back I happened to catch Peter Nicks's debut film, The Waiting Room, a Wiseman-esque documentary about the goings-on a major hospital's emergency room. His institutional focus continues in his sophomore project, The Force, which embeds the viewer in the troubled Oakland Police Department. The film opens just before a police academy graduation, where we see the graduating officers in a tight prayer huddle. The moment the prayer ends, they break into a raucous chant celebrating their identity as the 170th Academy class. And so the film establishes its dialectic: will this department base its esprit de corps on militaristic chest-thumping masculinity, or on a spiritual quest for their better angels? The film takes us on a two-year journey through that question, at times making me believe that the Oakland PD is absolutely reformable, and at other times making me believe that police departments in general, by some basic flaw in their institutional structure and ideological foundation, are beyond saving.        The Force is full of great insider footage that gives insight into the trials that beat cops and commissioners alike go through on a daily basis (during an excruciating tear gas training, the cadets are told, "You don't have the right to panic."). Eyewitness on an important moment in police history (2014-2016), the film tells the thorny facts of that history well. But throughout the film, Peter Nicks also deploys a series of subtle and utterly brilliant innovations on the art of observational documentary editing. Let me describe a few moments. Early in the film, a police officer is asking a man questions in a gas station parking lot when the suspect takes off running. Nicks's camera follows the action as well as it can, and a block away the officer tases the man as he's climbing over a fence. A moment later, as the officer describes the incident to justify his use of force, the footage from the incident replays, now intercut with the officer's body cam footage. These two pieces of tape corroborate his story. I know that the replay of footage doesn't sound like a major innovation (it's been around since at least Gimme Shelter), but the moment I saw it, it felt like a quiet breakthrough, or at least a powerful reminder of the evidentiary capacity of documentary, as well as the polytensuality of documentary images. Later in the film, another officer experiences a tense confrontation with an agitated man on the street. The officer manages to prevent violence from occurring, but by this point in the film we've already been made to realize multiple times that the Oakland PD is understaffed and its officers have to work 12-hour shifts that see them going from call to call, non-stop. As the officer drives away (we see him in close-up, with a thousand-yard stare), Nicks intercuts clips from the confrontation along with body cam footage of the same. Here, the replay functions as beleaguered memory. The empathy of the moment is remarkable.        There's plenty more to say about this expertly-made film, but it all boils down to one thing: I never thought I'd feel so much sympathy for the Oakland Police Department. From the very beginning, it's clear that Chief Whent sincerely desires to end corruption, that he cares about the community, and that he wants his officers to understand the validity -- even the patriotism -- of the anti-police protests. He tells them, "The core foundation of this country was a mistrust in government. And we are the most visible sign of that government." Elsewhere a Community Liaison pastor invited to address the unit adds, "The past stole your identity and ran up an incredibly high bill." It's a lesson we can all benefit from: we must know our history to know ourselves.
The Road Movie (Dmitrii Kalashnikov, 2016) True/False 2017 marked the North American premiere of this compilation documentary, an alternatingly rollicking and harrowing journey through the Youtube phenomenon of Russian dashcam footage. Director Dmitrii Kalashnikov said he went through over 3000 publicly-posted dashcam clips to make this film, which runs a bit over an hour and features a little over 100 clips ranging from driver's ed disasters to weather-related accidents to forest fire drive-throughs to surreal encounters with drug-addicts, swat teams, meteorites, and wedding parties. As a work of editing, it has some notable qualities -- particularly Kalashnikov's interest in oscillating between the funny and the horrifying -- but apart from its obvious voyeuristic enticements (in the Q&A, Kalashnikov said that all documentaries were voyeuristic), its main strengths are conceptual. For instance, what does it mean to take Youtube off Youtube, transforming it from a private diversion to a public, collective spectacle? What does it mean to make a supercut not of professionally-produced footage, but of amateur footage? If we accept the axiom that footage uploaded to Youtube marks a site of interest or desire (that is, people presumably do not upload footage that they do not find interesting, since they desire that others will take an interest in it), then what might such an aggregation of footage express about the collective fascinations and desires of the culture that produced it? Finally, I also noticed that throughout the screening, many audience members had trouble suppressing an impulse to issue hushed directives or invectives at the drivers of the cars on screen. The perpetual POV must have made it feel like we were watching a friend play Grand Theft Auto -- a friend who clearly, given the number of disasters we saw, definitely needed our advice.
Abacus: Small Enough to Jail (Steve James, 2016) Steve James (Hoop Dreams, Stevie) is a towering figure in documentary. His latest project was made for Frontline, so it's somewhat smaller in scope and ambition, but his skill has not faltered, and the story is an important one. The film chronicles the story of Abacus Federal Savings Bank, which to date is the only bank against which a fraud lawsuit was brought relating to the 2008 housing collapse. If you haven't heard of this story before or this bank before, don't feel bad. Abacus is, the film tells us, the 2651st largest bank in America: a little community savings and loan serving the first-generation immigrant community in Chinatown, New York City. The prosecution was, the viewer infers, a careerist move from the District Attorney's office. They must've figured that the Sung family, which founded and runs the bank, wouldn't fight it. But the family did fight it, spending millions over the course of six years. And that's the real story here: not our leaders' hopelessly unjust response to the 2008 financial crisis, not the DA's ignorant (possibly racially biased) targeting and concomitant underestimation of the family, not even the subtle but important cultural differences in the way first-generation Chinese think about loans and money in general (though that part's fascinating), but rather the story of the family itself: pulling together, fighting tooth and nail, and, sometimes hilariously, arguing with each other for minutes on end over little things, like what their father's eating for lunch. Even if this film didn't strike me as a major work by a long shot, the True/False audience was clearly behind the Sungs, even breaking into spontaneous applause when the not-guilty verdict was read. In the Q&A afterwards, Steve James said that from now on he'd like to have the True/False audience for all his films.
Stranger in Paradise (Guido Hendrikx, 2016) Stranger in Paradise is one of those agit-prop experiments with a great concept but not-so-great execution. It opens with a montage of footage from all over, from Arrival of a Train at La Ciotat to news footage of the refugee crisis. Voice-over intones the tale of a spherical lump (earth) on which there emerged a conflict between North and South, "the worship of a god who supplies and demands," and a moral crisis of human movement and hate. It was a bracing way to get us started. Act 1 stages an experiment in which a white male actor portraying the xenophobic political perspective of Europe addresses a room of real refugees (men and women of color) stuck on the island of Sicily, speaks cruelly and superciliously to them, and improvises responses to their real questions. Act 2 repeats the scene with a different group of real refugees, but this time the white male actor argues the opposite: that refugees help the economy, and that it's Europe's moral duty to give back to the people groups from whom so much was stolen during the colonial period. In Act 3, the same actor holds a kind of mock hearing for each asylum-seeker, explaining why they will or won't be granted entry into Europe, and in the Epilogue, a single long take, the actor holds a semi-staged conversation with some passers-by on the street, talking about the project we've just viewed. To be sure, the film's heart is in the right place, but the edge of its satirical knife is dulled by two factors: second, it's simply not shot very well, and first, for all its attempts to satirically subvert the reactionary narratives of the refugee crisis, it still puts a white European at the center and relegates the voices of asylum-seekers to secondary importance. It wishes it were a Peter Watkins film, but it isn't.
2 notes · View notes