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groundcontrol21 · 2 years

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Sicktember #13

Prompt #13: Seasonal/Pet Allergies

Fandom: The Three Musketeers (bookverse, I even tried to emulate the writing style, sorry Dumas)

Title: In Which The Character (and Handkerchief) of D’Artagnan is Put to the Test

Summary: Firmly inspired by this post by @sickromancer: “No, you can’t fight a duel with a hay-fever like that.” But when the duelist in question is D’Artagnan, he’ll find a way through all the sneezing.

Notes: In the book (and in the BBC show), dueling is banned, but that’s no fun, so here it’s all fully legal (but still ill-advised). Although, a little illegality never stopped anybody 🤷

On account of it being a beautiful April day, the sun shining brightly and no tasks set before them with which to fill it, the three Inseparables decided to spend the warm morning lazing about in the leafy courtyard behind the Hôtel de Treville. Knowing that D’Artagnan had been invited to take breakfast with the captain and the other newly commissioned Musketeers, they expected his presence later, and were thus surprised to find him already perched at one of the courtyard’s tables, polishing his hand weapons with such vigor as though they had done him personal offense.

When D’Artagnan did not so much as acknowledge their loud salutations as they approached his table, nor grant their arrival at it with any more than a red-eyed glare, Aramis observed, “It seems our Gascon is in a worse mood than usual!”

In reply, D’Artagnan gave a sneeze so loud and forceful he was forced to grasp his cup to keep it from toppling off the table. “Heh’EESHHHH!” He grumbled and produced a handkerchief from his sleeve, wiping at his nose with the hasty conviction of a man who had already been wronged one too many times by the bothersome appendage.

“And a bit ill as well,” Athos observed, for his part.

“I’m not ill,” D’Artagnan growled. His friends raised their eyebrows at him; surely he could hear how his own voice was pitched about an octave below its usual? He growled again at their expressions, then growled a third time when his nose demanded he sniffle. “It’s the damnable flowers with which the architects of Paris have seen fit to line every bed and fashionable avenue.” He gestured to the pots of lilacs that hung in the windowsills of the courtyard. “I’d like to wring every last one of their necks!”

“Come, such violence to a flower?” Aramis said, laughing. “Well, gentlemen, let it not be said that our noble Gascon has no Achilles heel.”

Porthos laughed, too. “If, God-forbidding, there ever comes a time when we fall out of favor and the occasion rises for a duel between us, I shall remember to schedule it in a botanist’s hovel.”

There was, however, no humor in D’Artagnan’s occluded voice. “Would you care for that duel to come today, Porthos?”

“Come, D’Artagnan,” Athos said, “what has sharpened your temper so?”

D’Artagnan ignored the older man’s inquiry, training his teary eyes on Porthos with a rabid intensity. “Perhaps you would like to schedule it for two o’clock at the Jardins des Tuileries so that I may do away with you there the way I will do away with Menard of the Red Guard just the hour before.”

Athos nodded significantly. “Ah! It is the heat of anticipation that makes his blood boil so fiercely.”

D’Artagnan turned once more to his handkerchief. “EHKSHHH! HESHHH! Ehh’ehhh’hehhhKSSHHHH!”

Aramis bit his lip. “And what has Monsieur Menard done to provoke such a challenge?”

“Now, Aramis,” Athos said diplomatically. “I am sure the young man’s ire is justified.”

“I lay no accusation of the contrary,” Aramis said, raising his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. “It is merely that I wish for our D’Artagnan to keep in mind my warnings against senseless escalations.”

Porthos scoffed. “Fie! Your warnings. Too much time with your prayer books, Master Abbé, makes you forget. A man cannot let any insult against his person stand, no matter how slight!”

Athos turned to the Gascon, who was again wiping his nose on his handkerchief. “Tell us, D’Artagnan, what caused you to issue the challenge.”

D’Artagnan told them the story of how Menard had found him taking his breakfast on a bench outside the Hôtel de Treville and how he had asked D’Artagnan why he was not dining inside with the rest of his company. At first, D’Artagnan had rebuffed the man’s inquiry, stating that if the Red Guard minded the law half as much as they minded another man’s private business, France would be all the safer indeed. But then he had sneezed thrice, awfully, and Menard wondered aloud whether the Musketeer hadn’t been kicked out on account of plague, and so D’Artagnan felt forced to impose upon the Guard that he was indeed healthy, and the true cause for his suffering and his solitude were the lilacs that the had lined the serving tables at breakfast. He had then sneezed a good four times more, and Menard insulted the quality of the expulsions. D’Artagnan in turn insulted the presumed quality of some of Menard’s other bodily expulsions, and the two men agreed to settle their insults with a duel. D’Artagnan relayed this story with all the gravity and attention it deserved, and so was immensely incensed when Aramis and Porthos commenced to laugh so hard they clutched their sides. Even Athos was smiling broadly. Aramis at least had the good grace to look a tad contrite when he glimpsed D’Artagnan’s iron scowl.

“Apologies, dear friend,” Aramis said, wiping tears from his eyes. “But surely you can see the humor in this situation?”

“No,” D’Artagnan growled, his words bouncing dully off swollen sinuses. “I certainly cannot.”

Porthos snorted again, but was silenced by the unmistakable crack of a foot striking his shin beneath the table.

Athos regarded the Gascon seriously. “Who chose the location? ”

“Menard.”

Aramis clucked his tongue in reply. “Have you been to the Jardins des Tuileries yet this season?”

D’Artagnan shook his heavy head.

“I have been with a–” Aramis colored almost imperceptibly, but continued, “--a friend.” At this, both Athos and Porthos swallowed down choked noises in their throats. “The gardens are absolutely filled with lilacs. Menard must have known this.”

Athos nodded. “It is the only reason he would have chosen such a location, out of the way for you both. It is on the outskirts of Paris. Would not the square behind the Louvre serve you just as well?”

D’Artagnan slammed his blade and towel on the table with such force as to cause the birds nesting in the tree across the courtyard to take flight. “He wishes to humiliate me further, the dog! The scoundrel! As if insulting me for my damned hayfever, over which I have no control, wasn’t enough.”

Athos nodded sagely, watching as D’Artagnan pawed at his reddened nose with a series of enraged sniffles. “The only question which remains is,” the older man said, “what do you intend to do about it?”

“Well, there is only one thing that can be done, I suppose.” When none of his friends showed indication of following his logic, Aramis continued as though supremely put-upon. “We convey a message to the rascal Menard and pray that he sees sense.”

Immediately, Porthos and D’Artagnan rose with a clamor from the table, and Aramis shook his head. “He cannot fight like this!” He gestured to the sniffling Gascon. “If the flowers have such an effect on him merely by being in the vicinity, imagine what it will be like when they are at his feet!”

“You advise him to back down from a challenge?” Porthos snarled. “Pardieu, Aramis, I fear you really have taken your clerical lessons too much to heart!”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth, no doubt to add another remark in spirited agreement with Porthos, but the only thing which issued forth from his mouth was another fit of sneezing, which of course incidentally supported Aramis’s argument. “HETCHOO! Hehh’TSCHH’uhhh! Heh’hhhRSHHHH! Ihh’ISSHHH!”

Once it was clear the young man had finished, Athos spoke. “The challenge is D’Artagnan’s, and so it is up to the Gascon to decide the course of action.” His light eyes roved the length of D’Artagnan’s body, like an appraiser studying a jewel. “But as his second, I issue this condition: Spar with me now. If you land a touch, you may go.”

D’Artagnan whined like a child. “But Athos is the best swordsman in the regiment!”

“All the more reason a touch should be proof of your fitness, then.”

Athos drew his longsword and, with a discomfited hmph, so too did D’Artagnan. Soon the crash of sword against sword broke the silent air as the two fought, Athos wearing an expression of curious disengagement all the while D’Artagnan scurried around like a rat to parry his blows.

“Don’t tire him out before he’s even fought!” Porthos called.

Aramis hit him on the shoulder. “Oh, hush Porthos!”

But the two of them had noticed the sweat that was already beading on D’Artagnan’s forehead, especially in contrast to the way Athos hardly seemed to move. The Gascon was far from fighting fit, that much was certain, his position firmly on the defensive even though Athos was clearly not giving his all. He leaned to the side to let off two sneezes.

“KSHH! Heh’KSHH!”

“Sneezing on me does not count as a touch,” Athos said. He raised the tip of his sword to D’Artagnan’s throat as the man blinked heavily. “Let’s go!”

Perhaps the ribbing had induced some new vigor in the young man, for not long afterward did he make a small, neat cut on the fabric of Athos’s shirt near his shoulder. D’Artagnan smiled, his breaths heaving, and stowed his sword back in its sheath.

Athos did the same and shrugged. “A promise is a promise.”

“This is folly,” Aramis said sharply.

Athos tapped his chin. “That balm from your mother—would it help in this situation?”

D’Artagnan sniffled bitterly, taking his friend’s concern as a mockery. “Seeing as though I have no wound which is external, I should think not.”

“Given his nose’s sensitivity at present, the herbal scent would likely do more harm than good anyway,” Aramis added, and then sighed deeply. “If you must fight, promise me you will duel only to first blood.”

Porthos and D'Artagnan rose again in a bleating chorus. “Aramis—“

Athos shook his head. “On this I must side with Aramis, I’m afraid.”

D’Artagnan cried out with the sharp fervor only a young man deeply incensed by the injustices of the world can possess. “But I landed my touch!”

“Only after I would have taken your sneezing head off ten times over.”

Aramis smiled to himself, and D’Artagnan sulked into his handkerchief. He remained nearly as taciturn as Athos for the rest of the morning, despite his friend’s attempts to rouse his spirits and engage him in their conversations to pass the time. In his view, there was not much to be said, not when every bit of the world from his friends to the flora seemed to side against him.

At last the time came for them to depart to the Tuileries for the duel, which revived D’Artagnan somewhat, as much as a man who can hardly breathe through his nose can be lively. The first thing he noted upon arrival at the gardens was that Aramis had told the truth; all other types of verdure had seemingly been neglected in favor of the accursed purple blossoms. The tickle which had assaulted his nose all day quadrupled, despite being near the bounds of intolerable before.

The second thing he noted was that Menard awaited him, with only one man as his second. “I must say, Monsieur D’Artagnan,” the Red Guard said, “given the state of you earlier, I am quite surprised to see you here.”

D’Artagnan rubbed his nose in an attempt to quit the infernal tickle before he spoke, but the gesture was futile. “What is it, Monsieur Menard? Eh’KSHHH! Heh’KSHHH! Do you mean to imply that I am–Hhh’RSHHH!--not a man of my word?”

“Nothing of the sort!” Menard held up his hands. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I am shocked to see a man remain so bound to his word despite the obvious…” He trailed off, brow furrowed in slight disgust at the noises D’Artagnan was making. “The obvious cost to him to do so.”

The Gascon regarded his opponent through vision made blurry with tears. “I am not a man to be felled easily, of that you can be certain! Not by you and most definitely–Ahh’KSHH’uhh!-- not—KSHHH’ooo!-- by a damn hay fever! HESHOOO!”

Menard gave a clipped nod. “That much is plain to see.” For a moment all was silent (save, of course, for the various noises of D’Artagnan which could not be helped), until at last the Red Guard spoke again. “I am willing to withdraw my earlier statements and dueling challenge in the face of such determination, if you are willing to do the same?”

‘Heh’RSHHH’uhh!” His nose was beginning to feel as though it was swelling shut, and D’Artagnan could scarcely see through all the irritated tears which clouded his vision. A year ago, perhaps, he would have barreled on with the challenge like a headstrong ox–in all honesty, he was still quite tempted to–but he congratulated himself on the wise temperament he was developing with age as he nodded.

“I am.”

Menard offered his hand. “In that case, Monsieur D’Artagnan?”

“Monsieur Renard,” D’Artagnan said, and shook his hand.

“It is settled?”

“Heh’KSHHH!” He leaned to the side and withdrew his hand to grasp for his sodden handkerchief. “So it is.”

With that, the two parted ways. The Gascon returned to his friends, his whole face feeling as though it were being pressed in a vice, and they hurried to lead him out of the gardens and hopefully, back to his apartments by way of streets that were relatively flower-free.

“I still say we let the scoundrel off too easily,” Porthos grumbled. “He obviously knew what he was doing, setting the Tuileries as the meeting place.”

“I still maintain that D'Artagnan should not have gone at all,” Aramis countered. “Look what a scant ten minutes there has done to him!”

“The two of you can bicker all you like once we have deposited the Gascon back at his lodgings and me back at mine,” Athos said. “We face more pressing issues at the moment, like whose handkerchiefs D’Artagnan will use now, that his has clearly been used up.”

D’Artagnan was helpless to reply, save for a thundering, “HAHSHHHOOO!”

#i had so much fucking fun writing this #like obviously i enjoy writing but this was just like a barrel of laughs #still probably the only allergy fic i'll ever write though #sicktember 2022 #snzfic #allergyfic #my writing #more muskie snz!!!#sicktember day 13

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captainjanegay · 4 years

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Summary: Bucky is a single dad coming back from a work trip with a very bored, very whiney 7-year-old girl. A mysterious stranger with a kind heart and a notebook full of doodles comes to the rescue.

A/N: It's been... so long since I've updated this fic. I'm sorry but life got in the way and I couldn't bring myself to write anything. Here I come with apologies and hopes that you haven't forgotten about the adventures of Bucky, Alex and Steve. I'm gonna treat you with the longest chapter I've ever written (it's like 5.3k). I hope you'll like it, I got a bit carried away and my space-nerdiness is showing every now and then.

The chapters will probably come very irregularly from now on but I'll try my best not to have too long gaps between each update. I love you all and — as always — thank you so, so much for your continuous support. I cherish every single reader, every single like and every single comment you leave here :')

Chapter 7

(5.2k)

When Monday rolls around, Bucky faces New York’s chilly morning as he makes his way to work. It’s been only a few days since he got sick, but he feels significantly better now. His nose might still be stuffed and his throat might feel a bit scratchy, but he is mostly fine. No more coughing fits, no more fever. And it’s not like he could say no when his boss called him to check how he was doing and ask if he’d be able to come by before Christmas to do some required maintenance work.

But it’s fine, since the work at the Institute has slowed down, many people have already taken their days off for the Christmas break. It’s calmer than usual and Bucky can do whatever he’s supposed to do in peace.

It's a bit past noon and Bucky's mindlessly staring at the progress bar on his screen and enjoys his coffee. The peace and quiet — excluding his Christmas playlist playing in the background — is disturbed by the ringing of his phone. Slightly startled, Bucky looks around, searching for the device. After a quick glance at the screen, he answers the call.

"Hi, Buck!" Steve says, his voice soft and warm. "I hope I didn't wake you up or anything. Just wanted to check up on you, see how you're feeling."

"That's very sweet of you," Bucky says, his lips spreading in a smile. "And I'm fine, thank you. Currently waiting for the data backup to finish so you've disrupted my staring contest with the progress bar."

Steve doesn't appreciate the joke. Instead, he asks, "You're at work?" After receiving an affirmative hum, he lets out a slightly annoyed huff. "Why? You should still be in bed! Three days ago you've been barely able to get up for longer than 10 minutes. You should still rest, Buck."

"It's been six days ago, thank you very much," Bucky answers. "And I'm fine, Steve. I promise. I wouldn't come if I was still feeling sick, but the fever's been gone for a few days," two but Steve doesn't have to know that, "and I'm not coughing anymore. I'm as fit as a fiddle."

"I can hear you sniffle."

"It's the allergies," Bucky lies and that makes Steve laugh, although a bit exasperated.

"You're horrible," he says. "Bet you haven't even eaten breakfast or drink enough water or like... didn’t even wear a hat even though you’re sick."

"I did have a toast while I ran to catch the train. And now I'm having coffee for lunch. And it’s not even that cold."

An honest-to-God gasp escapes Steve's mouth after he hears that. Of course he's a Mr. Healthy Lifestyle, Bucky shouldn't even be surprised.

"How are you even functioning? You gotta take care of yourself, Buck."

Bucky's heart skips a bit. It's nice to have someone worry about him. Even if he's being dragged in the meantime. And it was nice when Steve took care of him and Alex back when Bucky was too sick to do this. Of course, he has people who do that. Clint, Tasha, Scott -- he can always count on them. But somehow it feels different with Steve. Steve hasn't been around for years like the others, he's known Bucky for just a few months and he still decided to offer his kindness and care. This thought made Bucky's heart do somersaults in his chest.

So did the fact that Steve had a nickname to Bucky's nickname. And he's been using it a lot. Bucky really likes it.

"I'm functioning very well, thank you. And so is Alex, because I'm not as hopeless in taking care of her, luckily," Bucky chuckles. Before Steve can't say anything, Bucky adds, "Besides, I've been able to survive 28 years like this so don't be overdramatic. No need to go all mother hen on me."

"Oh, you think this is overdramatic?" Steve asks, amused. "You clearly don't know what me being overdramatic is, pal. This is just some simple, friendly check-in."

"Okay, now I'm kinda curious," Bucky says. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much. "Hypothetically, what would one have to do to see what is Steve Rogers's definition of overdramatic?"

It makes Steve let out another laugh. "Careful what you wish for, Buck." It sounds like Steve wants to say something else but there's some noise in the background and his voice becomes distant and inaudible for a moment. When he comes back, he says with a sigh, "Sorry 'bout that. I need to go back to work. I'm glad you're feeling better but eat a proper meal or I'll hunt you down."

"Oh, so no mother hen anymore, were going straight to threats, okay." Bucky nods to himself and Steve huffs out a laugh. "Thanks for the call, Steve. It's very sweet of you. Have a nice day."

"You, too. Say hi to Alex from me."

"I will. Bye, Steve."

A small smile is still present on Bucky's face when a few hours later he's picking Alex up from school. It grows bigger when she runs towards him down the stairs, her haphazardly wrapped scarf fluttering behind her. He takes a moment to tuck it properly and then takes Alex's backpack from her.

“How was school today?” Bucky asks as they head home.

“Fine. We played soccer and I scored once!” Alex answers proudly. “Even Adrian didn’t and he’s very good. Maya didn’t want to play ‘cause she says girls shouldn’t play soccer.”

“Jokes on her, because we have a women’s national soccer team and they’re the best. They’re the world champions.”

A gasps escapes Alex’s mouth. “Really? That’s so cool! I want to be a soccer player when I grow up!”

“Not a ballerina, anymore?” Bucky asks, with a small smile.

“No, I’m gonna be a ballerina but I’m gonna play soccer sometimes, too. But that’s after I’ll fly to the moon!”

Bucky only nods and grins at her. He wouldn’t be surprised in the least if she actually pulled that off in the future. There weren’t many things that could stop her since she decided upon something.

“How’s space?” Alex asks, swinging their hands back and forth.

Bucky chuckles. It’s a bit of a tradition at this point. He doesn’t really remember how it started but now she never asks him “how’s work” but it’s always “how’s space?”. Personally, Bucky loves it. It makes him feel like he’s doing much cooler things that he really does.

“Pretty boring, sadly,” he admits. “Didn’t have much to do today and many people are on their breaks so no fun space facts to share today. I chatted on the phone with Steve and he wanted me to say hi to you.”

“Oh, is he coming over today?”

Slightly confused with the question, Bucky shakes his head. “No, he’s not. We just talked on the phone. Why?”

“I don’t know, I thought you liked Steve.”

“Well, I do. I like uncle Scott too but we don’t hang out with him every day, either. Steve has his own life and stuff to do, so we shouldn’t bother him all the time.”

Alex makes a small hum and Bucky’s not sure if it’s a dismissive or an agreeing one. After a moment, she adds, “I bet he wouldn’t mind though. He told me he really likes you.”

“What? When?” The revelation almost makes Bucky stop in the middle of the pavement. The biggest surprise is not that Steve likes him, Bucky has figured out this much after all those times they’ve hung out together. What really takes him aback is that apparently his daughter and Steve are having conversations about him when he’s not there.

“When you were sick and Steve went to ballet class with me. I told him he’s cool and I’m happy you have him so you’re not so lonely. And he said he thinks we’re really cool too and that he likes us a lot.”

This time Bucky slows down and eventually stops. There’s a furrow between his brows when he looks at Alex.

“Why would you think I’m lonely, munchkin? I’m not, I have you and mama, uncle Clint and Scott. And now Steve. I’m more than fine.”

“Well… Okay, maybe I didn’t mean lonely. But sometimes when you have a lot to do and you worry and mama or uncle Clint are busy you do this—” Alex furrows her brows and pouts, apparently imitating a worried Bucky “and you’re quiet and worried. And now you smile even more than you did. You smile all the time when you text Steve.”

For a moment, Bucky only gapes at her, not sure how to react. That’s a lot of information coming at once from his 7-year-old daughter.

“I’m— Well, I’m okay, even if I worry sometimes. And I couldn’t be lonely, having such a sweet little munchkin by my side,” he smiles, bopping her on the nose and getting a smile in return. “But thank you for caring about me, sweetheart. I love you to the moon and back.”

“And I love you to Jupiter!” she answers.

“But not back?” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Nah, it’s already so far away, it’s enough.”

The conversation with Alex stays in Bucky’s head for the rest of the day. It’s gnawing at him enough that before he goes to bed, he takes out his phone and calls Natasha.

“How’s my favourite co-parent doing?” she greets.

“Do you have any more co-parents?” Bucky asks instead of answering.

“Nope. That’s what makes you my favourite.” Bucky only sighs so she continues. “Did something happen? You’re usually in the mood for late night conversation when something’s on your mind.”

There’s no point in denying it since Natasha would see right through him. “It’s nothing bad. Apparently Alex thinks I’m lonely.”

“Well, she’s not wrong.”

“What? Tasha, no. I’m not lonely, where did you two get that idea?”

“James, it’s not my fault that you’re an idiot. I know that you have people who love you around. You know that, too. But I know and you also should know — but here’s the ‘idiot’ part — that it might not be enough sometimes. And I’m pretty sure we’ve had a similar conversation like a month ago, so I don’t know why you act all surprised now.”

“Remind me, why did I even call you?”

“Because I am incredible and you value my opinion like no one else’s and also you love me deeply,” Natasha explains dutifully.

Bucky huffs out a laugh as he sits heavily on the side of his bed. His eyes land on the comic from Steve, still laying on Bucky’s bedside table, propped against the lamp. “Sounds fake, but okay.”

“Did our daughter have any more revelations for you?” Natasha asks.

“Well…,” Bucky hesitates for a moment. “She and Steve gossip about me when I’m not around. And apparently I’ve been smiling more lately. But that’s about it.”

Natasha hums but even through the phone Bucky can hear that she’s rather amused.

"What?" Bucky asks.

"I didn't say anything!"

"I can hear you laughing, just say whatever mean thing you're going to say and let's get this over with."

"I'm not gonna say anything mean! I was just wondering when we'd mention Steve in this conversation," she chuckles. "But really. Even your daughter can see that a relationship would be good for you. And that you like Steve a lot. Why not kill two birds with one Steve?"

Bucky sighs. "Because one Steve is also enough to kill this friendship we have."

"Why do you always just automatically assume that things will get fucked? It doesn't have to be the case. I'm serious, you'd better take a grip on yourself and ask him out or I'm back in three days and I'll do this for you. And I'll be as obnoxious and embarrassing for you as I can."

That's actually a pretty horrible threat. She would do that. And it would be both mortifying and horrible to experience for all the involved parties — maybe except Natasha. Bucky laughs, trying to imagine it, but the laugh is short-lived.

"Come on, Nat," Bucky starts after a moment, getting serious. "Steve is great and it's great having him around. But what if I make a move and he's not interested? I don't want to freak him out. Or remember that message I accidentally saw on his computer? He might be seeing someone already or be interested in someone else," Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. "Plus, I know from experience that no matter how much he might seem to like me, a guy with a kid can turn out to be a bit much for people. I don't want to get hurt. I don't want Alex to get hurt. She adores Steve and I don't know if I can risk it."

"But I'm telling you, nobody's getting hurt anytime soon," Natasha chimes in. "You're overthinking, Yasha. Those are all valid concerns but you know what the counterargument is?" She takes a small break but she's not expecting Bucky to respond. "Steve's a good guy. He likes you. He likes Alex. He came to a primary school dance recital after knowing you for like a week just because you and Alex asked him to. Even if he doesn't want a relationship, it doesn’t mean that your friendship has to end. From all you've told me, he doesn't seem like the kind to trample on your hearts like this. Give yourself some time, but promise me you're gonna think about it, okay? And call me if you work yourself up into an anxious mess again, okay?”

“I will try not to be an anxious mess, but I’ll let you know. And I’ll think about it. Thanks, Tasha.” Bucky says.

“I love you no matter what, you dumbfuck. Bye.”

Bucky barely manages to say it back before she hangs up. He shakes his head with a small smile and retrieves his charger cable from behind the bedside table. As he plugs his phone, he accidentally knocks down the drawing from Steve. He picks it up, staring at the soft lines for who-knows-which time. His thumb gently traces the “Get well soon, Buck! x” scribbled at the bottom.

Looking at it, Bucky imagines the moment when Steve was writing it down. In his mind, he sees both Steve and Alexandra at the kitchen table, both leaning over their respective pieces of paper, focused on whatever they’re drawing. They are smiling, chatting about whatever common interest they’ve currently discovered. It’s a very nice picture. Enough to make Bucky’s heart ache.

Because Natasha is right. This is exactly what Bucky craves and what he’s been ignoring for years. That domesticity, that warm feeling one gets when looking at someone they care about. That happiness. He can almost imagine himself joining the picture he’s created in his head, walking over to that table and dropping a kiss first on Alex’s head and then on Steve’s, before he starts preparing the dinner. It feels right.

Maybe it’s not usual to imagine this calm, family life with someone he’s not even in a relationship with. Most people probably think of tons of other things, things that are not so… settled. Not as serious. Sometimes they never reach this part. But Bucky has figured a while ago that it doesn’t really work for him. He already has a family. And this family means everything and more to him. If he ever was to date, he has to make sure that the person would fit into his and Alexandra’s life. He has to skip ahead to make sure it’s worth going through the dates and the passion and all the work a relationship requires, without it all ending in a heartbreak. But Steve…

Steve fits so well into this picture, it scares Bucky a bit. Because this would be even harder to let go, if things didn't work out.

It's pretty clear, now that he allows himself to think about it, that he has some feelings for Steve. Besides the friendliness and sympathy, that is. They're the romantic kind and they're still fresh and shy but they're here. And Bucky has absolutely no clue how to deal with them. It's not even that surprising, he realises. Because how could he not catch feelings for Steve? For the kindest, most thoughtful and most selfless person in the world? For someone with his heart made of gold, who always knows how to make Bucky laugh? Someone who gets so passionate about the things he loves and just as much about the ones he despises? Who cares deeply, laughs with his whole body and who next to all this softness and kindness, is also a stubborn little asshole? Who — and this is the most important of all — adores Alex and whom she adores just as much?

Bucky's heart was a lost cause from the start.

Steve has a lot of qualities that Bucky would fall for if he looked for a partner. And that he accidentally might have fallen for anyway. And that's all without even mentioning that Steve is so ridiculously attractive that it might've skewed Bucky's view on beauty forever.

The point is — Natasha is right. That this could be a good thing. They could be a good thing. But what they have now is already good and Bucky really values this friendship. He isn't sure if pursuing a hypothetical picture in his head is worth putting it at risk. Because he still can't be sure if Steve's interested. For what Bucky knows, he's kind and caring towards all of his friends. It doesn't mean that Bucky and Alex are special.

He can almost hear Natasha's voice in his head, calling him an idiot and yelling that he won't know until he tries. Which is right, since Natasha always is. It doesn't help him stop the — partially excited but mostly terrified — somersaults his insides make. With a small sigh, he puts the drawing on its place by the lamp, flicks off the lights and burrows himself under the covers. He doesn't have to have everything figured out straight away. Letting himself even consider it is a big enough step for now, he decides as he drifts off to sleep.

The next day is Bucky's last day at work before the Christmas break. He doesn't really have much to do, just finishing some last updates and dealing with whatever paperwork he was putting off earlier. Most of the time, he chats with Scott, who has been wandering aimlessly around the institute for the lack of work and eventually landed in Bucky's tiny office. They've been chatting about their Christmas plans — nothing too elaborate for both of them, just simple time at home with their families — and now they started discussing where they should go to grab some lunch. Just as Bucky almost convinced Scott that they should go to this sushi place down the block instead of the Italian place, there's a knock on the door.

Bucky sends his friend a confused look.

"It wasn't me," Scott raises his hands in defence.

"Come in," Bucky calls after another second passes. It's probably someone having a last-minute computer problem or one of his co-workers wanting to drop by with Christmas wishes.

Except, when the door cracks open, Steve's head pokes in. Its hair is messy, its cheeks reddened from the cold and its lips spread in a smile.

"Hi, Buck. And hi Scott, it's nice to see you again," he says. "I'm not interrupting?"

And because Bucky's brain is still processing the fact that for some reason Steve's come to visit him at work, Scott's the one who says, "Not at all, come in."

Steve hesitates for another second. Bucky's brain finally kicks in and he smiles which is apparently the invitation Steve needed, because he finally fully walks into the office.

"Hi, Steve. I didn't expect you here," Bucky says, his smile growing bigger.

"Well, you should. Because after our talk yesterday, I decided to bring you lunch," Steve says, proudly showing a big paper bag in his hand. "I told you you haven't seen shit, and especially not overdramatic me."

This makes Bucky laugh out loud as he shakes his head in disbelief. How is Steve even real?

Scott is watching them with a slightly confused but endeared smile on his face. Before anyone can say anything, he gets up from the chair, slapping his thighs as he does.

"Okay then, I'll leave you to it," he says, walking towards the door.

"There's plenty to share, if you want to join us," Steve offers, because of course he does. His gold-heartedness wouldn't have it any other way.

But Scott only shakes his head at that. "Nah, I'm in the mood for some sushi today. Thanks, though."

"Asshole," Bucky narrows his eyes at Scott. "I hope you'd choke on it."

His friend only laughs at that, "Enjoy your lunch date! It's been great to see you, Steve. Merry Christmas."

"You too, Scott. Say hi to Hope and Cassie from me."

With one last grin aimed at Bucky — and a very pointed look behind Steve's back — Scott leaves them alone. Bucky tries not to dwell on the fact that Steve didn't even bat an eye when Scott called it a lunch date.

"Why should he choke?" Steve asks with a chuckle.

"I've been trying to talk him into going to that sushi place for almost twenty minutes before you came," Bucky sighs and then notices that Steve is still hovering by the door. "Come on, take your coat off and sit down. I can't believe you've brought me lunch."

Steve shrugs off his coat and leaves it on the hanger by the door, next to Bucky's. Today he's wearing a maroon sweater that really suits him and a pair of dark jeans. He pushes his sleeves up before he digs into the bag and Bucky tries not to stare too obviously.

"Someone's got to make sure you eat, since after yesterday I've gotten an idea you're not good at it yourself," Steve says. "Guess it wasn't necessary. Sadly, I don't have sushi but maybe you're in the mood for Thai?"

"Depends on whether you've brought me the dumplings or not," Bucky answers.

Steve laughs in response and takes out one of the boxes and hands it to Bucky. "I did. I also have green curry for you? I hope I remembered correctly that you like it? If not, I'm sorry, we can switch—"

"Steve." Bucky says solemnly, placing his hand on Steve's forearm, to stop him from fumbling with the food. "You not only brought me food but you remembered my favourite after I mentioned it one time. You are an angel. You should hide it better, because you make us mortals look bad."

He's only half joking. Steve does seem like a higher being of some sorts and it's unfair that Bucky's poor heart is supposed to handle it. It doesn't do a great job. Especially not when Steve laughs, his eyes crinkle so much they turn into thin slits.

"And I am the overdramatic one?" Steve asks, unpacking the last things and finally sitting on the chair across from Bucky. He's still smiling but there's a blush colouring his cheeks and creeping down his neck.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek to contain a grin but the truth is, he's immensely proud of himself for pulling this reaction out of Steve. To stop himself from saying something stupid, he digs into his food.

"By the way, how did you find me here?" Bucky asks, his tongue sticking out a bit in concentration as he fishes for a dumpling with his chopsticks.

"Clara let me know where your office is, she was very helpful."

Bucky furrows his brows. The surprise makes him drop his dumpling back into the container. "Clara, as in Clara Oswald, our receptionist? How do you know her?"

"I don't. We've chatted for a few minutes and I explained why I'm here and she told me how to get to you."

"Ah, of course it took you about five minutes to charm her and get into a government building just like that," Bucky chuckles.

"I didn't charm anyone! I just politely asked and she helped!"

If it wasn't Steve, Bucky would take it as fake modesty. But the truth is that Steve really seems to be completely oblivious to the effect he has on people. It’s endearing to see him do this.

"So here's when you do your cool space stuff?" Steve asks, changing the subject.

"Here's when the real scientists come searching for help when there's some IT-related issue," Bucky corrects him. "I don't do anything cool. I make sure all the data is where it's supposed to be and that whatever equipment they need is ready and working properly. Or part of it, Scott's an engineer and he takes care of the rest. I do get to read some space facts first hand, though."

"That's still cool space stuff for me," Steve shrugs with a small smile. "What kinds of things are you researching here? Like some particular aspects of outer space, or—?"

Normally Bucky would just give the shortest answer possible. People usually get bored quickly when he starts talking about it. But something in the genuine interest on Steve's face, the way he is looking around the office — which is nothing special, the only nice things are the sky maps and some spaced themed art — makes Bucky think that maybe Steve wouldn't mind getting the longer answer.

"Well, we mostly study the weather. Both the Earth's and the one in the solar system, like the solar winds and magnetic storms, stuff like that. We study exoplanets and try to discover or guess as much as we can about them," Bucky says. "I helped to create simulations that predicted how they could look like and develop, to see if there's a possibility to inhabit them. We did it by basically dumping all the data we have into an elaborate computer programme and waiting to see what comes out." Bucky laughs and Steve does too, but he has the look of utter fascination on his face as he listens. "And all this helps with some more down-to-earth stuff — pun not intended. Like, we've done tons of studies in climate change."

"That's—," Steve starts when he makes sure that Bucky's done. "All of this sounds incredible. And you're a part of all those amazing things, how great is that?"

Bucky feels that his cheeks start to burn. There's another reason he usually sticks with the short answer. As much as he's proud to be working here and as much as he loves it, the impostor in him always makes sure that he understands the difference between his work and the actual research, analysis and all the heavy lifting that the astronomers do. He helps, of course he does. He does a great job at it, but there's still a difference. And such praise usually makes him squirm uncomfortably.

"And don't even try to get all modest with me again," Steve warns as if he's been reading Bucky's mind. "You've said that you don't do cool space stuff and then admitted that you've helped to create a program to imagine how exoplanets can look and change. So I know you're full of bullshit."

Steve raises an eyebrow in what's supposed to be an unimpressed look but it's not even close. The smile and the curious, bright eyes that are stating right at Bucky are destroying the effect. The blush on Bucky's cheeks only deepens, especially as Steve adds. "I've been impressed before but— Wow. Really, you guys are doing such incredible things here, I can’t wrap my head around it."

"We really do," Bucky agrees, eventually.

The beaming smile Steve sends him feels like a reward Bucky didn't know he deserves.

"So you've always liked space? Or was it an accident that brought you here?" Steve asks.

"No, I've always loved it. It's just so fascinating and there's always so much more to learn about it," Bucky doesn't even try to hide his excitement. "I've never fully understood all the science behind it but I loved staring at the sky, trying to find all those constellations and planets and galaxies. I've figured a way to somehow connect it to what I was good at and make it my job. Which is amazing. But now I mostly stare at the computer screen instead of the stars. "

He doesn't want to sound ungrateful but he must admit that it does kill some of the fun. But not even the astronomers simply state up at the sky to admire the view.

Steve only nods in response. "Alex mentioned that you guys went on a trip out of town to watch the stars. It must've been great."

"We did! It was like… almost 2 years ago, I think? I borrowed one of those fancy telescopes they have here. I needed to pick Alex up every time, cause she was too small to reach it," Bucky laughs as he brings out the memories. "It was fun, we should do that again, sometime. But I don't have much time now, so it’ll have to wait."

"It does sound great," Steve smiles that soft smile again. "I hope you'd find some time as it gets warm enough for such trips. I bet Alex would be delighted."

"Yeah. I'll let you know if that happens, in case you'd like to join," Bucky says before he can think better of it.

There's more of the childlike excitement on Steve's face as Bucky mentions it so maybe it wasn't that bad of an idea.

An actual bad idea comes out of Bucky's mouth a bit later, just as Steve is getting ready to head out. Bucky's lunch break is long gone and forgotten, because it's been two hours that Steve spent here. He apologises for staying so long and the assurances that Bucky didn't have any more work to do doesn't help.

"I'm sorry for taking your mind away from your responsibilities, but it was great spending time with you," Steve says.

So of course, because Bucky's heart doesn't get any chance to regroup, he doesn't have time to think before he blurts out. "We should have dinner together."

It's certainly not something Steve was expecting to hear. He just stares at Bucky. Before he has a chance to say anything, Bucky continues, "I mean. You should come for dinner. Clint and Nat are always around for a dinner, sometime between Christmas and New Year's. If you don't have any plans, it would be great if you came. But it's okay if you can't or don't want to."

Another moment passes and Bucky tries not to squirm under Steve's gaze. Luckily, Steve finally blinks and smiles as he says, "No, Buck, of course I'd love to come! I don't have any particular plans, will probably hang out with Sam for most of the break but I'll have plenty of time."

"You could take Sam with you," Bucky adds. He desperately tries to regain the control of his own mouth. "It'd be great to finally meet him."

"I'll let him know, I bet he’d be happy to come, too. Thanks again for the invite," Steve smiles as he cracks open the door. With a little wave, he walks out of the office. "Bye, Buck. Have a nice day."

"You too, Steve," Bucky says to the already closing door.

When Steve's gone, Bucky exhales heavily through his mouth as he leans back in his chair. Both of his hands go up to thread through his hair, tugging at it lightly.

Apparently, he has a dinner to prepare.

taglist: @steverrogers @till-the-end-of-the-line-punk @buckyshappyending

#where i'm meant to be #stucky #stevebucky #stucky fic #stevebucky fic #stevebucky fanfiction #stucky fanfitction #chapter 7 #my wrtiting #wimtb #sorry it took me so long!#i really hope you'll like it :')

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terriblelifechoices · 7 years

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Hi! Just letting you know that I've been having a rough month and reading+re-reading your fics (and comment fics! love the ones about the Graves kiddies/families and Graves' team in the cell lmao) has been a great stress reliever for me :) I really want to leave longer comments on your chapters but I think I'll only be able to do that when stuff gets better lol. For the time being, thank you for the lovely writings!

Hey, I’m really sorry you’re having a rough month. I’m glad reading the fic and comment fics helps relieve a little stress, though. Please don’t worry about comments! I hope things get better for you soon.

And just in case it helps, I thought maybe you’d enjoy more comment fic just for you. ;)

… This might actually need to be its own series of comment fic. The Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny

Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, October 1944

“Do you know,” Professor Jauncey mused, “I am starting to think I should just create a Graves-specific form letter to send to your parents.” He sounded more wistful than anything else, as though the streamlined precision of a form letter would protect him from further Graves sibling antics.

Gawain was not sure why the headmaster thought a form letter would protect him, but he sympathized with the impulse.

Gawain loved his older siblings, but he was not blind to their faults. Individually, Galahad and Olwen could be a lot to handle. Together, they were terrifying.

“Sorry, sir,” he said, and meant it. He had no idea how to make Galahad and Olwen stop being Galahad and Olwen, and he was pretty sure the headmaster didn’t either. Gawain knew better than to try, but the headmaster didn’t seem to have figured that out yet.

Jauncey sighed. “I really think you mean that,” he said.

“Well,” Gawain said. “I’m not sorry about disrupting Professor Thompson’s class.”

The headmaster sighed again. “Of course you’re not. What are you sorry about, then?”

“Galahad and Olwen.”

Jauncey’s puzzled look went a bit strained around the edges. A lot of people had that reaction to Galahad and Olwen, especially once they met them. “What do Galahad and Olwen have to do with your disrupting Professor Thompson’s class?”

“Nothing sir,” said Gawain. “I’m just sorry they’ve …” He made a vague hand gesture designed to convey Galahad and Olwen’s essential Galahad-and-Olwen-ness. “Y’know. Set a precedent for how the Graves family behaves.”

Jauncey looked down his nose at Gawain. He had rather a lot of nose to look down, so it was a pretty impressive look. “A precedent that you seem determined to follow,” he observed.

Gawain felt that was unfair, and said so. “I am not! I’m not crazy,” he hastened to assure the headmaster. Galahad and Olwen were determined to follow Dad and Gwen and a lot of the Aunties and Uncles into MACUSA. Gawain was pretty sure MACUSA and the rest of wizarding America would be safer for it, but he also thought that anyone who wanted to be an Auror was just plain nuts. Anyone who voluntarily got chased and hexed and sometimes tortured by Dark wizards had to be off their rocker.

“Mr. Graves,” Jauncey said, repressive. “Fascinating as this discussion is, I am not going to debate the relative sanity of anyone in the Graves family with you.”

Gawain squinted at him. He was pretty sure that the headmaster had just implied that they were all nuts, but he wasn’t one hundred percent certain. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not.

Probably not. He was already in enough trouble.

“Right, sir,” he said. “Sorry, sir.”

“Getting back to the matter at hand,” said Jauncey. “Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what happened.”

Gawain resisted the urge to make a face. Dad liked that trick. So did Uncle John and Uncle Alex. It was an Auror thing. Asking people to tell you what happened in their own words put them at ease, and it also made them more likely to slip up and tell you more than they meant to.

Gawain had gotten wise to that trick when he was about seven.

“Professor Thompson was teaching us about healing potions,” Gawain said, trying to make it sound like he wasn’t thinking very carefully about what he was saying. “Today we were covering Pepper-Up, ‘cause we’re coming up on cold season, and he wanted to be preemptive. And then someone asked if he meant for us to test the potion on ourselves, and Professor Thompson said yes. And she said, that’s dangerous, sir, and he said, I assure you, Miss - Um.” Gawain gave the headmaster a slightly panicked look. He did not want to get Rosamund Weiss in trouble too. She hadn’t even done anything wrong, aside from point out that it was wrong to experiment on children. “Anyway,” he forged on. “He said, I assure you that if you brew the potion correctly, it’s not dangerous at all.

“Except, it kind of is,” Gawain said. “Because we’re students and we’re still learning, and I think Libby Frasier’s melted more cauldron’s than anyone else in Ilvermorny history, so her potion probably wouldn’t be safe to drink at all. And Uncle Robert says that you should never, ever test a potion that you’re not completely sure of. Especially not outside of a controlled laboratory setting,” he added, because Papa had a bizarre love of potions and he and Uncle Robert could go on about them for hours. “Uncle Robert has this whole speech about lab safety,” Gawain added. “I’ve heard it kind of a lot.”

Jauncey looked resigned. “Yes, I gathered. You seem to have it memorized.”

“Er,” said Gawain. “I didn’t really mean to give the lab safety speech,” he said. “It just kind of … happened.”

That part was the first out and out lie he’d told all day. Professor Thompson had turned an ugly look on Rosamund. Gawain knew that look. It was the look that said Rosamund would be the one to try Libby’s potion, regardless of how it turned out, and that he wouldn’t let her go to the infirmary afterwards, either.

Gawain hadn’t wanted Rosamund to be sick. The Weiss’ and the Graves’ were allies. Sort of. He didn’t think Dad and Director Weiss got along very well personally, but they had each other’s backs professionally and that seemed to be good enough for them. Grown-up’s were weird like that.

Also, Rosamund was really pretty. Gawain got kind of stupid around her sometimes. He couldn’t help it.

So he’d cleared his throat and said, “Actually, sir, Miss Weiss is absolutely correct. The dangers of cross-contamination alone present an unreasonable risk.”

Professor Thompson had stared at him. “Mr. Graves,” he’d said, in a tone that suggested that Gawain was twelve and therefore dumb. “Do you even know what cross-contamination means?”

“Contaminating one substance with another,” Gawain had said promptly. “It’s dangerous in a laboratory setting, or with food, if you have allergies. In a laboratory setting - especially a teaching one, like this one - you’ve no idea whether or not who used your workstation last cleaned it as well as they should have, so there’s a risk that your potion might be contaminated with whatever they were working on.”

“No one likes a know it all, Mr. Graves,” Thompson had drawled.

“Sorry, sir,” Gawain had said, obviously not sorry at all. “It’s just, shouldn’t we be taught the principles of lab safety? It’s important.”

Libby had raised her hand. “I’d kind of like to know the principles of lab safety,” she’d said.

“That’s because you’re dangerous,” Atticus Lee had said.

“Exactly,” Libby had said. “If there’s a way for me not to be dangerous in class, I want to know what it is.”

That had made a lot of sense to the rest of the class, and Gawain figured that was as good a time as any to launch into Uncle Robert’s Lab Safety Is Important And Here’s Why speech.

“You gave a twenty minute lecture on lab safety,” Jauncey said, drawing Gawain back into the present. “The other students took notes.”

Gawain rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “I might’ve been quoting Uncle Robert when I said there’d be a quiz.”

“And that just … happened,” said the headmaster.

“Yes?” Gawain ventured.

“Merlin’s beard,” said Jauncey. “It’s Galahad and the dueling club all over again.”

“Hey,” protested Gawain. “I’m not that bad.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Graves, but you and your brother have rather more in common than you think,” the headmaster said.

Rude, thought Gawain. He kept his mouth shut, though. Authority figures rarely wanted to know what you thought of their opinions.

“Please refrain from taking over your professor’s classes in the future,” Jauncey commanded.

“Yes, sir,” said Gawain.

“You will apologize to Professor Thompson,” the headmaster continued.

Since Jauncey didn’t say he had to be sincere, Gawain was willing to meet him halfway.

“Yes, sir,” Gawain said again.

“And you have two weeks of detention,” Jauncey finished.

“Yes, sir,” Gawain said.

Jauncey sighed. “You can go back to class,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” Gawain said.

“And Gawain?”

Gawain turned back at the door. “Sir?”

“We do, actually, have your safety in mind. I wish you’d trust that.”

If he really had their safety in mind, he’d have taken Gawain and Rosamund’s point and made sure that Professor Thompson didn’t make the students test improperly prepared potions on one another.

Gawain ducked his head, acknowledging the headmaster’s point.

He bet Galahad and Owen would have some ideas about how to deal with Professor Thompson, if the headmaster wouldn’t.

Terrifying wasn’t so bad, when it was on your side. And there was nothing the Graves siblings couldn’t do, as long as they did it together.

#my fic #comment fic #Possible 'verse #The Graves Brood #Gawain Graves #The Graves Brood vs. Ilvermorny

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