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ghstyles · 1 month ago

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Subtle | FWFW Extra

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WC: 3.2

Summary: Harry subtly, and not so subtly, says he wants to have a baby

FWFW Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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The first instance was so subtle that Y/N almost missed it. They were walking through Hampstead Heath on a crisp autumn afternoon, with the leaves turning gold and crimson around them. A young mother passed by with a stroller, her baby bundled up against the chill. Harry's eyes lingered on the infant longer than usual, a slight smile playing at his lips before he turned his attention back to their conversation about his upcoming studio session.

A week later, they were having breakfast in their sunlit kitchen. Harry was scrolling through his phone while Y/N reviewed case notes for her internship, Grumps watching them both with his perpetual look of feline judgment from his perch on the windowsill.

"My cousin Ellie just had her baby," Harry commented casually, turning his phone to show Y/N a photo of a tiny newborn with a shock of dark hair. "Seven pounds, healthy delivery."

"That's wonderful," Y/N replied, glancing up from her notes. "She looks beautiful."

Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful as he gazed at the image. "Yeah, she does," he said softly, before setting his phone aside and returning to his breakfast.

The third hint came when they were reorganizing the guest bedroom that doubled as Y/N's study. Harry paused in the middle of moving a bookshelf, surveying the room with a contemplative expression.

"This room gets great natural light," he observed, glancing toward the large windows that overlooked their garden. "Good for a nursery, don't you think?"

Y/N looked up from the box of books she was unpacking, a slight furrow in her brow. "I suppose it would be," she agreed cautiously. "Though it works well as a study too."

Harry nodded, seemingly satisfied with her response. "Just thinking aloud," he said lightly, returning to the task at hand.

The hints became slightly more transparent when Harry's sister Gemma visited with her toddler son. Harry spent most of the afternoon with the boy on his hip or playing on the floor, his natural ease with children evident in every interaction. Later, as they were preparing dinner after Gemma had left, Harry's expression was wistful.

"James is getting so big," he commented, chopping vegetables with practiced efficiency. "It goes by fast, doesn't it?"

"Mmm," Y/N hummed noncommittally, stirring the pasta sauce.

"You were great with him today," Harry continued, glancing at her with a small smile. "Very patient when he kept wanting to show you the same toy car over and over."

Y/N laughed softly. "He's a sweet kid. Easy to be patient with."

"Our kids would be like that, I think," Harry said, his tone deliberately casual despite the weight of his words. "Sweet-natured but persistent when they want something."

Y/N nearly dropped her wooden spoon, caught off-guard by the direct reference. "Our hypothetical children seem to have quite the personality profile already," she managed, keeping her tone light.

Harry just smiled, a dimple appearing in his cheek as he returned to his chopping.

The following week, they were shopping for new bedding when Harry inexplicably detoured to the children's section of the department store. Y/N found him examining a tiny pair of pajamas with dinosaurs printed on them, a soft expression on his face.

"Aren't these brilliant?" he asked when he noticed her watching him. "Look at the little feet."

Y/N approached cautiously, eyeing the admittedly adorable sleepwear. "Very cute," she agreed. "But I think we should focus on the sheets we actually came for?"

Harry reluctantly returned the pajamas to the display, but not before adding, "I always loved dinosaurs as a kid. Would be fun to share that with a little one."

Y/N merely raised an eyebrow, steering him back toward the bedding department.

The hints became even more obvious when Harry rearranged his touring schedule, declining several international festival offers that would have kept him away for extended periods.

"Don't you usually do the Australian circuit?" Y/N asked, peering over his shoulder at the calendar on his laptop.

Harry shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Wanted to be home more next year," he explained. "Keep my options open."

"Options for what?" Y/N pressed, sensing there was more to his decision.

Harry swiveled in his chair to face her fully, his green eyes meeting hers with unexpected intensity. "For whatever might come up," he said meaningfully. "Life changes. I want to be prepared for that."

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly, understanding dawning. "Are you rearranging your entire career schedule around a hypothetical baby that we haven't even discussed having?"

Harry had the grace to look slightly abashed, though determination still shone in his expression. "Not entirely," he hedged. "But I'm thinking ahead. Isn't that what responsible potential parents do?"

Y/N shook her head, torn between exasperation and a reluctant tenderness at his planning. "Harry, we should probably have an actual conversation about this before you start declining career opportunities."

Harry nodded, reaching for her hand. "You're right," he acknowledged. "I'm getting ahead of myself. But I'm ready for that conversation whenever you are."

The subtlety was completely abandoned a few days later when Grumps knocked over a potted plant, spilling soil across the kitchen floor. Harry was sweeping up the mess while Y/N scolded the unrepentant cat, who watched the cleanup efforts from the safety of the counter.

"You're a menace in your old age," Y/N informed the orange feline, who blinked at her slowly in what could only be described as feline disdain.

"He's just asserting his dominance," Harry chuckled, emptying the dustpan into the bin. "Probably worried about his position as the baby of the family."

Y/N shot him a look. "The only baby in this family is the twenty-seven-year-old rock star who refuses to put his dirty socks in the hamper," she retorted.

Harry grinned, unperturbed by her deflection. "I was thinking more along the lines of an actual baby," he clarified unnecessarily. "You know, small human, cries a lot, utterly adorable?"

Y/N crossed her arms, unable to avoid the conversation any longer. "Harry."

"Y/N," he countered, setting the broom aside and stepping closer to her.

"You've been dropping hints about babies for weeks now," she said, trying to keep her tone measured. "Some subtle, some about as subtle as a brick through a window."

Harry didn't deny it. "And you've been expertly dodging every single one," he pointed out, though there was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle observation.

Y/N sighed, running a hand through her golden-brown hair. "It's a big conversation to have," she said quietly. "Life-changing."

"I know," Harry acknowledged, his expression softening as he reached for her hands. "That's why I've been trying to ease into it. Apparently not very successfully."

Despite herself, Y/N smiled. "The dinosaur pajamas weren't exactly subtle."

Harry laughed, the sound warm and rich in the quiet kitchen. "I got excited," he admitted. "They had little claws on the feet."

Y/N shook her head, but allowed him to pull her closer, his arms encircling her waist as he looked down at her with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.

"So," he said softly. "Can we have that conversation now? The baby one?"

Y/N studied his face, the earnest green eyes, the slight nervous tension in his jaw, the vulnerability he was allowing her to see, and felt something shift inside her chest.

"Yes," she agreed quietly. "Let's talk about it."

Harry's face lit up with such naked hope that Y/N felt her heart constrict. "Really?"

"Really," she confirmed. "But talking is all I'm committing to right now," she added quickly, seeing his enthusiasm. "This isn't a yes to actually having a baby."

Harry nodded seriously, though he couldn't quite suppress his smile. "Understood. Just talking."

He led her to the sofa in their living room, sitting close enough that their knees touched. Grumps followed at a dignified pace, jumping up to claim his usual spot at the far end, watching them with a suspicious yellow eye as if he understood perfectly well what they were discussing.

"So," Y/N began, feeling slightly awkward now that they were actually having the conversation. "You want to have a baby."

Harry nodded, his expression thoughtful. "I do," he confirmed. "With you, specifically."

The clarification made Y/N smile despite her nervousness. "Well, I should hope so," she teased. "Why now, though? We've only been married a year."

Harry considered this, his thumb absently stroking the back of her hand. "It's not really about timing in the conventional sense," he said slowly. "It's more that... I'm ready. I feel settled in a way I never have before. My career is established, we're solid, and..." he paused, searching for the right words. "I want to build something permanent with you. Something that's ours."

The simplicity and sincerity of his answer touched Y/N deeply. For someone who had spent most of his adult life in the transient world of entertainment, surrounded by people who came and went, the desire for permanence was profound.

"What about your career?" she asked, voicing one of her practical concerns. "You're still touring, recording. A baby would change all that."

Harry nodded, acknowledging the reality. "It would," he agreed. "But I've been thinking about that. I can scale back touring, be more selective about projects. Work from home more. I don't need to be on the road as much as I used to be."

He squeezed her hand gently. "And I know your career is important too," he added. "I'm not suggesting you give anything up. We'd figure it out together, find a balance that works for both of us."

Y/N appreciated his consideration, though she still had reservations. "It's a huge responsibility," she said quietly. "Once we make that decision, there's no going back."

"I know," Harry acknowledged, his expression serious. "And I wouldn't suggest it if I wasn't absolutely certain about us, about our future together."

His gaze held hers, steady and sure. "I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought possible. And I want to share that love with a child, our child."

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, unexpected emotion welling up at his words. "I love you too," she whispered.

From his end of the sofa, Grumps let out a disgruntled meow, apparently unimpressed by the display of human sentiment.

Harry laughed softly, breaking the intensity of the moment. "See, even Grumps has an opinion," he joked, reaching over to scratch the cat behind his ears. Grumps allowed this attention for precisely three seconds before swatting at Harry's hand with retracted claws, a warning rather than an actual attack.

"I think he's voting no," Y/N observed with a small smile.

"He'll come around," Harry predicted confidently. "Probably appoint himself guardian and supervisor. He already thinks he runs this household."

"Doesn't he, though?" Y/N teased.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around them. Finally, Y/N spoke again, her voice soft but steady.

"I'm not saying no," she clarified, meeting Harry's hopeful gaze. "But I'm not saying yes yet either. I need time to think about it properly. It's a big decision."

Harry nodded, bringing her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. "Take all the time you need," he assured her. "I'm not going anywhere."

Y/N leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "Thank you for being patient with me," she murmured.

Harry smiled, his green eyes warm with affection. "Always," he promised, before closing the small distance between them for a tender kiss.

Grumps watched this exchange with feline disdain before jumping down from the sofa and stalking away toward the kitchen, tail held high. Human mating rituals were clearly beneath his dignity, especially when they threatened to disrupt the peaceful kingdom over which he presided. Some battles, even a cat knew, were lost before they began.

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Later that night, as moonlight filtered through the partially drawn curtains of their bedroom, Harry and Y/N lay tangled in their sheets. What had begun as gentle goodnight kisses had evolved into something more heated, their conversation from earlier seeming to have kindled a particular intensity in Harry.

His lips trailed down her neck, lingering at the sensitive spot just below her ear that always made her breath catch. His hands wandered over her body with familiar reverence, tracing the curves he'd come to know so intimately over the past year.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured against her collarbone, his voice deeper than usual, roughened with desire.

Y/N's fingers threaded through his hair, her body arching instinctively as he moved lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the swell of her breasts. He took his time, as he always did, savoring each response he drew from her, the slight hitch in her breathing when he grazed her nipple with his teeth, the soft moan when his tongue soothed the sting.

But tonight, there was something different in his attention, a new focus that became apparent as he continued his journey down her body. When he reached her stomach, his pace slowed deliberately, his kisses turning almost reverential. His large hands spanned her waist, thumbs gently stroking the soft skin of her abdomen.

"So perfect," he whispered, pressing his lips just below her navel. "You'd be so beautiful pregnant."

Y/N's eyes, which had drifted closed in pleasure, snapped open at his words.

Harry didn't seem to notice her reaction, continuing his attentive worship of her midsection. "Our baby would grow right here," he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. "Safe and loved."

He pressed another kiss lower on her stomach, his hands sliding to cradle her hips. "You'd be the most gorgeous pregnant woman," he continued, his voice a mixture of awe and desire. "Carrying our child."

Y/N couldn't help the giggle that escaped her, a combination of the ticklish sensation of his stubble against her sensitive skin and the sheer transparency of his intentions.

"Harry," she said, her voice tinged with amusement as she tugged gently at his hair, urging him to look up at her.

He raised his head, his green eyes dark with desire but questioning.

Y/N smiled down at him, shaking her head slightly. "I got the hint already," she laughed softly, pulling him up toward her.

Harry had the grace to look slightly sheepish, though there was no real contrition in his expression. "What hint?" he asked with exaggerated innocence, even as a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"The very subtle baby propaganda you're currently conducting," Y/N replied dryly, cupping his face in her hands.

Harry grinned, not bothering to deny it. "Is it working?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her palm.

"It's a bit transparent," she informed him, trying to maintain her stern expression despite the warmth spreading through her at his eager enthusiasm.

"Can't blame a man for trying," he murmured, leaning down to capture her lips in a kiss that quickly rekindled the heat between them.

When they parted, both slightly breathless, Y/N regarded him with fond exasperation. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Part of my charm," he agreed without hesitation, his hands resuming their exploration of her body, though he pointedly avoided lingering on her stomach again.

Y/N laughed, the sound turning into a gasp as his fingers found their way between her thighs, discovering how ready she was for him despite, or perhaps partly because of, his transparent attempts at persuasion.

"Fuck," he breathed, his expression darkening with renewed desire. "You're so wet for me."

His touch became more purposeful, circling her clit with practiced precision that had her arching beneath him. "Is this what you want?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear.

"Yes," she gasped, her hips moving instinctively against his hand.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right as his thumb continued its maddening circles. "Or do you want my cock?" he questioned, his crude language a stark contrast to the tender words he'd been whispering moments before.

Y/N moaned, her body tightening around his fingers. "Your cock," she answered without hesitation, past the point of coyness or teasing.

Harry's eyes darkened further at her words, and he withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste her as he positioned himself between her thighs. The sight of him licking her arousal from his fingers with such obvious pleasure sent another rush of heat through her.

"No more baby talk," she warned breathlessly, even as she wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer.

Harry smirked, lining himself up against her entrance. "For now," he conceded, before pushing into her with one smooth thrust that had both of them groaning.

He set a deliberate pace, deep and thorough, his eyes locked on hers as he moved within her. One hand gripped her hip while the other braced beside her head, giving him leverage to drive into her with increasing intensity.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he growled, his composure gradually unraveling as their bodies moved together. "So tight around my cock."

Y/N responded in kind, her nails digging into his back as she met each thrust. "Harder," she demanded, beyond coherent thought as pleasure built within her.

Harry complied immediately, his hips snapping against hers with renewed force. "Like this?" he panted, adjusting the angle slightly to hit exactly where she needed him.

"Yes," she gasped, her head falling back against the pillows as the tension coiled tighter in her core. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it," he assured her, his rhythm becoming more erratic as his own control began to slip. "Come for me, love. Want to feel you come on my cock."

His crude encouragement, combined with the relentless friction where their bodies joined, pushed Y/N over the edge. She cried out, her body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through her.

Harry followed shortly after, driven past restraint by the sight and sensation of her climax. He buried himself deep inside her with a final thrust, her name a rough prayer on his lips as he found his own release.

They remained connected as they caught their breath, Harry's weight a welcome pressure above her. Eventually, he shifted to lie beside her, drawing her close against his chest as their heartbeats gradually slowed to normal.

After a comfortable silence, Y/N tilted her head to look up at him, a mixture of amusement and affection in her hazel eyes. "Just so we're clear," she said, her voice still slightly husky, "amazing sex isn't going to make me decide about having a baby any faster."

Harry laughed, the sound rumbling pleasantly beneath her ear where it rested against his chest. "Noted," he acknowledged, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Though it was worth a try."

Y/N rolled her eyes, though she couldn't suppress her smile. "Like I said. Ridiculous."

Harry merely grinned, unrepentant, as he pulled her closer. "You love it," he murmured confidently.

And as she drifted toward sleep in the warm circle of his arms, Y/N had to admit, if only to herself, that he wasn't entirely wrong.

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a/n: I’d give this man as many babies as he wants

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#ghstyles #fwfw #harry styles x reader #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut

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notspiders · 1 year ago

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Oh, Honey! (Bumblebee! Reader x Monster! 141)

General Warnings: Mostly fluff. Reader is female and is described as rather small and chubby. Reader is clumsy. Reader has a very large family. Characters may act out of character. Poor grammar is likely. Cussing. Part 1??? Note: Monster! 141 belongs to @bluegiragi

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Price watches you through the window.

Truthfully, he isn't sure how he and his team ended up here. One day they were being chased by a bloody team of zombies/cannon fodder, the next- he's laying on this extremely cozy bed (although it is a bit small) with his wounds nicely patched. Soap has gone hunting with the other women. Ghost is satisfied that they're all safe in this... rather massive cottage and has been snoring away in the next room for the past hour. Gaz has told him that he's going to just fly around and keep an eye out- just in case if the enemies somehow find themselves through the dense woods and into this clearing.

They really were lucky, Price thinks. According to you, the woods were a force themselves. Navigating through it, especially at night, is practically impossible. Compasses don't work. There's no signal and, of course, any type of aircraft just fail here. The woods are miles long and unless you packed enough supplies- it's suicide to dive back in and try to find your way out. It's just that sometimes the woods can help you, and sometimes the woods just gives you Mother Nature's middle finger and kills you. So there's that.

Naturally, the team was suspicious.

1) The explanation made no sense. 2) They were just outnumbered by a ton of enemies and to stumble upon this welcoming lot is... well, it's too good to be true, yeah? 3) You and your family are just way too happy. 3.1) There are no guys in your family. Your mother stated that men generally just wandered in, the family would treat them, and then they go away by themselves after a few nights. 3.2) Honestly, all of you look the same. Maybe there's like, a difference in hairstyles, body types, and obvious age gaps between the women here and there, but Jesus… Gaz has already made the mistake of confusing you, your cousins, your many sisters, and other random girls multiple times last night. 3.3) Scratch out the 'massive cottage' you guys claimed it to be. It's a mansion. Your 'family' is very large. There are many aunts, other women, cousins, other girls that were adopt into the family- Just no men. All living under the same roof and might as well be an army itself with how efficient you all did your tasks.

That said, it's very rude to point guns at innocent, clueless civilians. You, an adorably chubby, little bumblebee-hybrid (identifiable by the two rather pathetic buzzing wings behind your back), opened the door to them last night and stared blankly at their guns before cheerily ushering them in without freaking your head out. Next thing they knew, they got some quality homecooked meals cooked and served before them, plenty of drink (the honey mead everyone shared is excellent), proper treatment with their wounds (with... herbs), and warm beds. Ghost had stayed up the whole night and snooped around (just in case) but reported nothing interesting except for a few old hunting rifles and some overdue library books. Yes, each girl did carry a tiny foraging knife, but he's pretty certain they could still punt them like footballs ten at a time.

Morning comes- the team properly introduce themselves without being too specific of their occupation. There was a great deal of oohing and aahing as Price unfolded his one wing. His smoke did cause one girl to faint and her mother quickly asked for Price to... stop. He did his best and has, for now, stopped smoking his cigar. Everyone just steered clear from Ghost. Many children were petting Soap's head and playing with his fluffy tail, and others were stroking Gaz's wings.

Despite all the attention, Price's gaze is always on you. Maybe it was because of the fact that he's seen you first. You were just the cutest out of all of them. He wanted to whisk you away just to squish every soft part of your body and have you cuddled up beside him in his nest back home.

He's sorely disappointed to be told that he needs to return to bed so that his wounds can heal faster. No matter. The window gives him a very nice view of the clearing outside. Some girls are tending to the farm. Others are beekeeping. Plenty have gone to the outskirts of the forest to forage or hunt. Soap has offered to go out with the girls and they gladly accepted his help. (Tomorrow, he'll get off of this bed and join everyone too.)

Right now, you're picking the berries in your garden. It's amusing to watch you. Sometimes you bend over to pluck a few pretty flowers too- he's gotten a very nice view of your plump arse here and there. He's watched you buzz your small wings to just barely get a foot in the air and pluck an apple off the tree. Oh, how he wished to simply go out to lift you up himself... Your weight would be nothing to him.

From his observations, he's smartly deduced: Your body is round. Your little wings aren't designed for distance.

He loves the way you'd burrow your nose into any flower. Sometimes you remind him of Johnny's eagerness by the way you'd get a bit too enthusiastic and faceplant into the bed of flowers to take in the scent.

Price watches you get up, bump into your cousin (or is it sister? Or is this another girl? He couldn't be arsed), and the two of you collectively squeaked and apologized at the same time. Adorable. Fascinating. Beautiful. He hasn't felt this way ever since the time he xaight the glimpse of the shiny Excalibur in that stupid rock.

The lunch horn has been blown. He's been told that today's meal would be freshly baked bread and creamy chicken with wild rice soup. There’ll be tea and coffee for the drinks.

Price wishes his lunch would just be you.

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da-birb-writes-sometimes · 2 years ago

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How You Turn My World; Chapter 3

As the reality of your situation sets in, you try your best to survive in the Underground... and find a way out. Little do you know though, someone else is trying to find you.

Character; Lilia Vanrouge

Content; Gender-neutral reader, more shenanigans, getting more into the meat and bones of this fic

Content Warnings; Swearing

Word Count; 3.2 K

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |

Do not put my work into AI - I will push you into the Bog of Eternal Stench

Your night for the most part was uneventful. The horrid screaming had thankfully went in the opposite direction, away from your tree-top abode. Although throughout the night, little crowds of glowing eyes had amassed at the bottom of the tree, but they made no attempts to reach you. Even though they couldn’t reach you, you couldn’t help but feel unnerved, since all you could see was their eyeshine, and hear them chittering to each other.

Great, they’re probably pointing and laughing at the new fool in town. ‘Oh, look, Jim, a new plaything! Don’t they look stupid hanging in a tree like that? Fufufu.’ But you kept quiet, and just watched them, as much as they did you, making sure they didn’t try any funny business.

They didn’t stay for long though, either leaving due to their curiosity being quenched, or from how boring you were trying to be; silent, and watching, not moving. If worse came to worse, you would have started chucking rowan berries at them; if fae don’t like the tree, they probably wouldn’t like the berries either.

Eventually, the dark night dissolved into the dim glow of dawn, and once you could actually make out your surroundings and it wasn’t just one large mass of darkness, you started making your way down the tree. You were a bit proud of yourself, seeing that you had 1) survived the night, and 2) not fallen out of the tr—

Snap! … you celebrated too soon, since the branch you were using as a foothold gave way, and you tumbled your way to the ground. At least the fall wasn’t too high up, but it still stung like a bitch, and you’d definitely have a bruise; both to your body and your ego.

At least there was no one around to see you eat dirt.

Sighing, you rubbed your eyes, and smacked your cheeks; fighting off sleepiness. Focus; you need to get home. Read the damn book Mr. Sparkles gave you… damn prick is probably gonna call in a favour later…

With a still sore butt, you found a mossy rock that looked somewhat comfortable and sat down, opening up your ‘How Not to Die in Fairyland; For Dummies!’ book (not really the name of it, but it was damn close).

“Chapter nine; how to leave the Underground,” you muttered, flipping to the page. Weird, it’s only one page?

“While leaving the Underground is possible, it is a task that not many have accomplished.

Of the possible ways include;

Finding a portal; typically an enchanted faerie ring, or royal portal.

Finding a fae and tricking them into owing you a favour

One should leave the Underground before their thirteenth day. Should you stay beyond thirteen days you will not be able to leave the Underground, and will be a permanent resident.”

You shut the book, taking in a deep breath. What has it been, ten hours? It was hard to tell, the blurring of time. But at least you had a rough time of twelve days to find a portal — or have a fae owe you a favour — and get the hell back home. If worse came to worse, you were not above some benign trickery so you could see your idiots again.

…

Lilia had arrived home safe and sound, slept in his warm bed, and had some of his … delightful home cooking before he was due back at the castle. And while he was eating the somehow overcooked yet still raw eggs, he couldn’t help but wonder how the little Beastie was doing; how you were doing.

He didn’t technically owe you any favours, since he had given you that handy dandy book — if anything, you owed him, since you did say ‘thanks’ and everything — but curiosity is a fickle thing, and you seemed interesting. Humans typically reacted more when they ended up here, and made no proper moves to ensure that they made it back. But you, the little Beastie? Lilia saw a fire in your eyes, of both ire and determination. You wouldn’t give up easily, and while it was entertaining, he also knew that trouble could, and most likely would, follow wherever you go.

Last time a human like you ended up in the Underground… it didn’t end well (said human nearly burnt the Queen’s labyrinth down to the ground). Hopefully though, you didn’t prove to be as foolish, or as obsessed with fire as the last human. Who knows, maybe you would even escape! If you didn’t though, the court could use a new fool, and you seemed amusing enough to please their majesties whilst not incenting their ire.

“Hmm, wonder if their majesties have felt the intrusion,” Lilia hummed to himself, cleaning up his dishes. He could easily just magic it away, but the trip to the mortal realm had taken a lot out of him, so he was stuck doing some good old fashioned manual labour, not that he really minded. Doing the dishes was better than being digested by some mangy, overweight, cat.

A crack of lightning sounded outside, disrupting the otherwise beautiful and peaceful day. “That answers that question!” Lilia sounded too cheerful for what many fae considered to be a bad omen, as lightning rarely meant a good thing when it concerned the royal family.

A raven came to rest on the windowsill, eyes glowing green; a messenger.

Lilia tapped its beak, letting the message play.

“General Vanrouge, I require you to apprehend the trespasser on our land, lest they taint the soil,” the raven recited Queen Maleficia’s message. “Shall you deem it necessary to use drastic measures, so be it… To call this number back, place a coin into the raven’s mouth. To save this call—”

Lilia groaned, but coughed up a bronze coin so that the Queen didn’t send more ravens to his house on his day off. “Our guest shall be dealt with swiftly, I assure you of that.” Lilia ended his call, the raven blinked, coughed out the coin, and flew off in a ruckus of cawing.

He sighed, and cracked his back. “Hopefully our guest can understand… and not hit me with a broom this time.” With a snap of his fingers, Lilia poofed into his trademark green sparkles, and he was a bat again. Instead of being lost in the mortal realm though, he was off to find you, who was most likely lost in the Underground… hopefully you didn’t get eaten or fell into the bog again, since he doubted the Queen would want a dead(?) or putrid smelling guest.

“Beastie, Beastie, Beastie, wherever could you be?”

…

“Where the hell am I,” you wheezed. You had been walking for a good bit, since hey, the bog really smelled bad, plus you didn’t want to stick around long enough where the creature that was screaming last night decided to come back and make an appetizer out of you. So, you were walking. Where to? You had no idea, all you knew was that you needed to find a portal somehow, of the mushroom variety, or royally produced.

Currently, you were fighting gravity and making your way up a steep hill, but you knew you would be able to see over the dense forest canopy once you reached the top, and maybe, just maybe, you would be able to make sense of your bearings. Would you know where you were once you reached the top? Pfttt, no, but at least you would know what exactly was around. A sulfuric rotten egg-smelling swamp was one thing, but you wouldn’t be all too surprised if you found out there was a man-eating daisy patch or some other nonsense here.

Finally, you made it to the top of the hill, and you caught your breath before looking out towards the horizon. To the north, the sea of trees continued for what seemed forever. East, the trees made their way into a grassy plateau where there seemed to be a village of some sort in the distance; quaint. South, uh, the swamp, definitely not going back that direction, you’ve had enough of that swamp. And west, a castle, surrounded by a maze.

“An enchanted faerie ring or royal portal,” you muttered, weighing your options.

You had about twelve days left to get out of this place. You could spend those twelve days trying to find a so-called ‘faerie ring’ in the forest since those things were mushroom circles, but the chances of finding an enchanted one seemed to be slim to none. On the other hand, castles usually equaled royalty, which would equal portal. Knowing royals though, they were probably batshit insane. Also, if they felt like you were lying or trying to dupe them? Hey, they could apparently turn you into a slug or some other easily squishable being if they wanted to. And you really didn’t want to be turned into a slug… now at the moment at least.

“Forest,” you looked at the forest, “or castle?” You could also go east, but the grassland didn’t exactly scream portal potential or had any rowan trees (or any trees for that matter). “That is the question. Look for weird mushrooms and maybe get eaten by some critter, or potentially piss off some royal and end up as said critter. Hmmm.”

You groaned, and flopped down to the ground; both options weren’t all that appealing, or even guaranteed that you would find a portal. Rolling over to your stomach, you opened up the book again, seeing if it had anything that could help you make up your mind on the options in front of you.

Scanning over the table of contents, there was nothing about where to find a portal in the woods. There was, however, a handy dandy chapter on fae etiquette, including government specifications…

You looked up towards the castle again, eyeing the maze. And started coughing out into laughter at your situation. “Pfttt, didn’t I wish that the Goblin King would whisk me away from my life,” you wheezed. “And here I am! In the fucking Underground with a labyrinth?!” Your laughing subsided into a tired sigh, and you set your eyes back towards the castle. “The irony is astounding really.”

At least you didn’t have to worry about some baby being turned into a goblin… right?

No, no, you only wished for yourself to be taken away, no one else. But would that mean you would end up as a goblin? Fae? Or as some weird pet or servant to a fae? Hopefully not… and at least you had the somewhat credible book that Mr. Sparkles gave you.

Shit, I owe him a favour though… CURSE YOU SARCASM!!!!

Well, maybe Mr. Sparkles will cut you some slack, since ya know, you did save him from Grim… but you also did hit him with a broom… and insulted him… I am so fucked, aren’t I?

…

You eventually got to the entrance of the maze (the labyrinth?), and sat down on a bench outside of it, huffing and puffing. “Does everything want to–” you stopped that sentence, knowing your luck, if you said it out loud, it was bound to happen. “Never mind that…”

“Never mind what?” A voice said to your right.

You shot up and whipped your head around, coming face to face with a door(?) with a face. “I-”

“You never mind!” A second voice said, and on your left was another door, sending its counterpart a dirty look. “You know better than to meddle in such affairs!”

The right door, which was a weathered red, rolled its eyes at its neighbour. “Bah! Curiosity killed the cat-”

“But satisfaction brought it back. I know!” The left door, a brilliant blue, huffed. “Ignore them, they do this to everyone.” They sneered (if doors could sneer) to their neighbour. “Don’t you have anything better to do than trick people?”

Did I just get in between these two during something?

The red door got offended, turning even redder by some means. “Like you should be one to talk! ‘Oh my dear traveller, one of us two doors is a liar and does nothing but lie! Do not let my neighbour fool you!’ It’s the same every single time with you!”

It’s giving bitter divorced couple who for some reason still live with each other—

“I would do no such thing!”

“LIAR!”

“NO YOU ARE THE LIAR!”

You groaned, their bickering was starting to give you an all too familiar migraine. “Will both of you shut up?!”

Both of the doors tch-ed at your remark but stopped their nonsensical arguing, and you rubbed at your temple, easing away the building tension. But they turned their attention to you, looking at you with a mix of curiosity and something else… doors couldn’t be fae… right? The book didn’t say anything about talking doors… could they be portals? It couldn’t be that easy, nothing was ever that easy.

“Did anyone ever teach you any manners, mortal?” The red door huffed, turning its nose up at you.

The blue door looked at you with a similar expression, “Yes yes, awfully rude you know! Lucky it's just us though, and not the mistress. Oh ho ho! She would turn you into a newt for that!”

I wasn’t too wrong about them turning me into a slug I guess… would a newt be an upgrade in this case? Since they have bones—

“And you’re a door,” you deadpanned, “you both haven’t been polite either, ya know?” You had better things to do than kissass to two sentient doors, so no, you weren’t going to be polite. “So the sooner you tell me which way to go, the sooner I’m out of your… splinters?”

The doors grumbled but didn’t raise any objections.

“As you may have overheard, one of us is a liar,” they both said at once. “One of us will lead into the labyrinth, whereas the other will lead you back to where you started your journey.” They both chuckled, looking at you with amusement. “It is up to you to decide which is which.”

You looked between the two doors, weighing your options. “And what if I just walk into the labyrinth? What happens then?”

The blue door hummed, “Well, it would eat you!” … why did it sound all too cheerful about that?!

“So I don’t really have any other option then, do I?”

“Nope!~” They both gave you cheerful smiles, and you were half tempted to go off into the woods and find that magic portal by your lonesome. At least then you wouldn’t have to deal with a pair of divorced doors, and a human-eating labyrinth that belonged to some mistress that would turn you into a newt if she felt like you were being snippy with her.

You sighed. Of both the doors, the blue one seemed more sympathetic, whereas the red door was more harsh… “Okay, red, open sesame!”

The red door looked shocked that you picked it over its counterpart, but it opened nonetheless. The blue door grumbled that you had chosen its neighbour over it, but stayed quiet.

When the door opened, all you could see was black.

“Do you actually lead anywhere?” You threw a rock in, but no sound came out.

The red door was silent though; apparently, when it was open, it couldn’t talk. And while you didn’t miss the bickering, you really wanted answers, and the blue door wasn’t saying anything either.

Sighing, you walked forward, hoping that you had chosen the right door. Once both of your feet were over the threshold, light started to filter in. Did I choose right?! But before you got too ahead of yourself, you felt the ground give way under you, and you were falling; falling towards an all too familiar sulfuric-smelling bog.

“SHI-”

…

You were back in the bog of eternal stench, and spitting the rotten egg-tasting water out of your mouth again. And this time, Mr. Sparkles wasn’t here to make you magically smell better either. Nope, you were stuck smelling horrible until you could find a change of clothes.

Crawling out of the water, you grumbled and hissed curses towards that red door. Of course, you would end up here again! Why not! Laugh it up, Underground! Laugh it up!

“I hate it here,” you seethed, wringing out as much water as you could from your clothes.

Shit, the book! But the book was still dry… Fuck you, book. Fuck. You. Of course, the book would stay free of wet and stench, whereas you were now shivering, since the water was frigid, plus you were angry and embarrassed that you had been deceived.

It was no use though just sticking around here lamenting and fuming. So you hoisted yourself up and marched back to the labyrinth; and even though the trip was a good three hours, your anger and pettiness drove you forward.

“YOU-” you hissed, pointing a finger at the red door.

The red door looked at you, looked to its blue neighbour, and then back at you before it started laughing. “I see someone took a little dip-”

You got up in its face, “Fuck you, asshole.” You turned around and marched up to the blue door. “Open up,” you cracked your knuckles, not breaking eye contact. And either your intimidation worked, or your smell was so offensive that the door just wanted you gone; weaponizing the stench works wonders against prissy doors.

“Th-” You remembered your first blunder; do not thank the fae. “You are too kind.” And you stepped through the blue door, which was as dark as the red one, but once the door closed, you didn’t find yourself back in the damned bog. You were now in the labyrinth, and perhaps a step closer to finding a way home.

…

Lilia found himself in the bog, looking around for the Beastie (you). But they were nowhere to be found, save for a wet spot on the grass and some torn-up moss.

“Ah,” he suppressed a laugh, “they fell in again, I see. Poor Beastie.” At least they’ll be easier to find.

He summoned a glass orb, a looking glass of sorts, and looked inside of it. “Show me the human,” he whispered, sprinkling it with some green magic. “And show me their location.”

The glass orb multiplied into three. The first orb showed a close-up of your face, an annoyed yet determined look on your face. The second orb showed that you were surrounded by hedges. And the third and final orb showed that the hedges were actually the Queen of the Underground’s personal labyrinth.

“… at least they can’t really run off anywhere.” But this wasn’t a great turn of events. Many people, both human and fae alike, had tried their best to navigate the labyrinth. But it was a fickle thing; you had thirteen hours to reach the castle, and if you didn’t within those thirteen hours? You would be stuck within it, as one of the beings that tried to stop trespassers from reaching the castle.

Lilia pinched the bridge of his nose, “Beastie, what have you gotten yourself into?” And he turned into a bat, flying off to try and find you. While the Queen did want you apprehended, Lilia would rather it be with his own hands, and not be held liable for any further actions or decisions you made.

...

Tags; @afunkyfreshblog, @cheezy-moon, @eynnwwyjth, @ithseem, @lucid-stories, @ryker-writes, @twistwonderlanddevotee, @xxoomiii

~~~~~~~

Author's Note; After a little break from writing this fic, I'm back! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter, even if it was only for the pay-phone/raven and the divorced bickering doors!

If you liked this, do check out my masterlist for more content!

#twst #twst x reader #twst x gn reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x gn reader #lilia vanrouge #lilia vanrouge x reader #lilia vanrouge x gn reader #now we can get into building the relationship between these two fufufuffufufu #mr sparkles = lilia | beastie = reader #i wrote 1K of this back in September and the rest in the past two days #too be fair i was feeling a bit burnt out so i did need to step back a bit #but i've been feeling inspired again!!! yippee!!!!#raven; mmmmmm MONEY!!! 'to continue your call-'#*sad trombone noises* reader ended up in the bog again; will they ever smell good again?!#a break from the horrors i'm writing for the twst murder mystery au; back to the labyrinth au!!!#twst labyrinth au #and my fun tags have returned too!!!!

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cherryheairt · 12 days ago

Text

Silver Dagger

Boothill x fem!reader fic

wc: 8.3k

cw:: angst, death, set before his planet was destroyed, completely self-indulgent, takes a lot of his backstory and builds upon my idea of it (written during 3.2 update), he fell first and harder troupe, i hc him as native american and mexican so his human looks reflect that, reader called ‘little lady’ but just as a cute nickname and not a desc of height+weight<3

Inspired by Monica Barbaro's cover of Silver Dagger listen for best exp <3

“Don't sing love songs, you'll wake my mother”

Your first encounter with the man you called Boothill was certainly a memorable one, though you both had entirely different perspectives on how the interaction went.

You'd heard of the cowboy around your little town in the middle of nowhere. Heard of him being a generous term, of course. Your mother spent every waking chance she got cursing his name. His real name, that only the townsfolk and contractors were privy to. Though she was sick and bedridden most of the time, her waking hours were spent looking out of her bedroom windows, muttering under her breath incessantly about how the young folk were stirring up too much trouble for your little town to handle.

As a woman of tradition and religion, she didn't trust him. If you were anything superstitious, you wouldn't either. After all, his given name did mean ‘Loaded Gun’. Trouble waiting to happen. If he didn't seek it out, it would hunt him down instead.

She might be right, sure, but you didn't pay Boothill and his little gang any mind. They never bothered citizens, and in fact, made a point to defend them like some kind of make-shift army. Boothill was the oldest of his brothers and sisters, those who grew up in the little orphanage and all raised by Nick and Graey. Those two, though getting on in age, were kind and always making a point to help the community. Your mother disapproved of them raising Boothill, the mysterious orphan with no origin beside a name, but never doubted their aptitude for raising the other less fortunate children of Hillshire.

You didn't personally know the righteous cowboy, but heard of his tales of heroics at the saloon most rowdy nights. How he and his siblings managed to ward off thieves, gangs, and monsters on the outskirts of Hillshire.

He always came back, though, to the little town no one knew or cared about. Most people your age had long since left to find bigger opportunities out on other planets in the vast galaxies, while you planned on planting your own roots right where you were. So did Boothill, apparently, though you couldn't understand why someone who could get rich beyond belief doing real bounty work across the universe would want to stay.

You were bound to meet him one day. Whether that was today or ten years from now, you would get to see the man up close.

You just didn't expect him to be such an eccentric. Men with a reputation like his were hellbent on being stoic and rough-around-the-edges.

It was supposed to be a simple task. Go to the pharmacy and grab some medication for your mother. Easy. You were the only customer in the store, alongside the owner of the establishment that you'd become familiar with over the past few months.

“Thanks, Jameson.” You smiled lightly, pulling out your wallet to pay.

He waves you off quickly. The meds were fairly hard to come across so far from the cities, but he always managed to get them shipped on time. “How's your ma doin’?”

You shrugged, “as well as she can. As she usually is. Sometimes coherent, other times mumbling ‘bout things I can't understand.”

His sympathy was clear in his water-blue eyes. “Things'll get better, hun.”

After paying, you headed to the entrance to start on your walk back home, only to be startled by the opening clash of the single door. A man stood in its doorway, holding a long hunting rifle and a no-nonsense look in his eyes. You froze immediately, not letting your gaze leave the intruder as he slowly closed the door behind him and pointed between you and Jameson.

“This doesn't have to become a problem. All you got, on tha’ floor, if you knew what's best for ya.” The gunman barked, nudging his gun to gesture you to move closer to the counter where Jameson was standing eerily still.

Not having much of an option, you tossed your wallet at his feet. There goes your month's income. You'd just have to pick up extra shifts at the diner and pray you could pay the bills and next month's medication fee.

Jameson did the same, though a lot less shaky than you. He was almost languid in his actions, not a furrow in his brow nor a drop of sweat on his face from the tension. It was his business at stake, why wasn't he panicking?

“The bag, too.” He barked as he snatched both wallets from the floor.

You glanced at the paper bag in your hands, clutching it ever tighter to your side.

“I need this. You can have the money.” You shook your head, heart pounding in your chest as you did.

He raised his brow, surprised at your sudden defiance. The man took two slow steps toward you, the rifle practically shoved between your eyes as he grit his teeth at you. “No?” His breath was hot on your face. “The bag. Or I shoot a hole in that pretty face ‘a yours.”

“I believe the little lady already said ‘no’.” A new voice chimed from behind the gunman's. Glancing behind him, you were surprised to see the town’s cowboy casually holding a silver revolver to the back of his head.

“You try anything, and I'll shoot her.” The gunman grunted out, though the look in his eyes betrayed his uncertainty.

“I'd like to take that wager.” The cowboy smirked, taking a slow step forward and digging the head of the gun into the man's hair. “Let's see who walks outta here alive. Whole lotta trouble for some petty cash.”

Wager?

This bastard was playing with your life like it was a game!

It was more pregnant silence before the gun in your robber's hands began to tremble and his forehead brimmed with sweat. You flinched as the rifle touched your forehead just a smidge, squinting behind him to look at the man over his shoulder. He looked impatient and inconvenienced more than worried for your or his own safety. As if it were just another Tuesday evening for him.

Which, to be fair, it likely was. This kind of situation was boring in comparison to chases on horseback and shootouts in a canyon. You hoped his indifference didn't make him cocky—your life was still on the line. No man holding a rifle could ever be predictable.

“Come on, buddy.” Your ‘savior’ rolled his eyes. “We ain't got all day. Stallin’ won't help much.”

The gunman pursed his lip so hard they went stark white and nearly disappeared. When he talked, spit came from behind those lips and landed right in front of your shoes. “I have some demands.”

Boothill raised a black brow. “You think you got a choice here?”

“I want to leave without a fight. If I drop the money, you let me go, and no one gets hurt.” He continued like a gun wasn't at the back of his head and ready to off him right there and then.

A low, amused chuckle left Boothill's throat. He lowered the revolver and tucked it into his holster.

What was he doing?

“Go right ahead.”

To your utter shock, the gunman took the generous offer and started to slowly creep back while keeping his gun pointed right at you. All the way past Boothill and toward the pharmacy door. At the doorway, his shaky hands fumble with his bag and he throws it on the floor, swallowing his nerves before meeting Boothill's casual look and taking another slow step outside of the building.

He's letting him get away.

Boothill's hands moved faster than you could comprehend as he drew his revolver back from his thigh and shot the rifle’s barrel. It blew completely off, and the man holding it flinched back so hard that he felt straight on his ass, believing he'd been shot directly.

You could only stare in awe as Boothill took his time approaching the man and crouched down in front of him, tipping his hat up to properly show his face. The mans' chest heaved up and down as he tried to calm himself and realize that he was still alive. “Now, you gon’ turn yourself into the sheriff's office or do I need to escort you there myself?”

“I—I'm going!” He struggled to get to his feet, coughing slightly before he ran off to the sheriff's department to apparently turn himself in. From what you heard, the cowboy and the sheriff were on somewhat good terms and the sheriff didn't mind Boothill's chaotic antics so long as he controlled the violence and kept the shooting to a minimum. Outside of Hillshire, however, was Boothill's free game where he did as he pleased.

Said man brushed off his chaps like nothing happened at all. “You alright, Jameson?” Courteously, he tossed Jameson's wallet back over to him and earned a grateful wave in response.

“All thanks to you, cowboy. Nothing but a troubled young man lookin’ to make a quick buck.”

He took yours more carefully, handing it out to you directly. Now that you weren't being held at gunpoint and could take the cowboy in clearly, he almost made you nervous with his intense eyes. Dark brown as they were, you could see flecks of green reflect in the sunlight coming through the windows. His skin was tan and sun-kissed freckles marred his cheeks and any exposed skin on his hands and neck you saw from all his years of being out in under the hot sun. His hair was long, abnormally so for Hillshire's type of men, and a pin-straight black that shone in the light like onyx.

Pretty, you dare admit. But saying that to a cowboy's face would certainly win you no favors.

“And the lady?” He asked, tipping his hat to acknowledge you for the first time. “He didn't hurt ya or nothin’, right?”

“I'm fine,” you managed to choke out. “Just a bit shaken, I suppose.”

His eyes narrowed and he grit his teeth. “That's just no way to treat a lady. Robbin’ is one thing, but to keep that ugly gun shoved in your face is crossing a line.”

You couldn't help the barely concealed laugh that left your mouth at his disapproval at a man's way of robbing an establishment. “I'm okay, really. I'm grateful for your help, sir. Don't know what I'd do with myself if he ended up taking this medication.”

He seemed to loosen up at your reassurance. “No need to call me that.” He introduced himself formally, taking your hand in his and placing a polite kiss to your knuckles. Quite a dramatic display, but you supposed that was just part of his quirks. “Happy to help any pretty lass in distress.”

Bashful, you shifted on your feet and couldn't find the will to meet his eyes.

He continued fluidly, though, not allowing a moment of silence between the two of you. “I can't say I've seen you ‘round here before.”

“Been here longer than you have, cowboy.” You smiled as his eyes widened. You introduced yourself by only your first name, knowing that your last held no meaning to anyone in this town or any other beyond it.

“Is that so? And I've missed out on such a pleasure this whole time.” Your name was like honey dripping from his words as he purred it out, testing it on his tongue.

“I don't really get out on the town much.” You explained. “My ma is sick, so I really just go between work and Jameson's before staying home and taking care of her the rest of my time.”

He listened intently, nodding along sympathetically. After all, Graey and Nick themselves were getting on in age and couldn't quite do everything without the assistance of their many ‘adopted’ children.

“Quite a shame, indeed. May I have the privilege of treating the busy lady to a drink?”

You almost agreed, almost took his calloused hand and strutted right into the saloon to enjoy a nice night out with the gentlemanly cowboy without a care in the world.

You almost agreed, if not for the heavy weight of responsibility on your shoulders.

“I wish I could, truly…” You trailed, clutching the bag of pills at your side.

Boothill only smiled that knowing cheshire grin of his, and held his arm out nonetheless. “I get it. At least allow me to walk you home, then.”

“I'd be grateful.” You took his arm, and it felt natural to mold together with him.

So, you both said your farewells to a not-so-discreet eavesdropping Jameson, and started on your walk home.

“How'd you know that man would shoot both of us the moment you put your gun away?” You inquired, curious of his train of thought.

He perked up, “Scared ya, did I?” With a boisterous laugh.

Squinting up at him, you kissed your teeth. “It's hard not to worry when a gun is pointed at my face.”

“Right, sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I've dealt with lots'a guys like him before. Most of ‘em just want quick and easy in-and-out cash grab, not a full-on shoot out. They rarely ever hurt anyone, and when they do it's usually an accident. When a gun is pointed at ‘em, they got no backbone anymore and flee at first chance. I knew he'd take running over shooting you and getting shot himself in turn.”

You hummed along with his explanation. “That does make sense, I suppose.”

“Tried and tested.” He nodded proudly.

“But don't think I'm happy about you calling my life a ‘wager’.” You deadpanned soon after, and it was his turn to look away and pretend to adjust his hat.

“I didn't mean to scare you, honest.” He said, brows knitting together sincerely. Then, he stopped and faced you entirely, unhooking your arms. Bemused, you stopped to look at him. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” As he says it, he crosses his index over his heart and closes his eyes as if making a wish to the biggest star in the night's sky.

You laughed at his bout of sincere yet childish apology. “Don't be so dramatic. I'm sure it won't happen again.” Turning back to the path, you kept walking on.

He strided right next to you, matching your pace and taking your arm right back into the crook of his elbow. A strange habit, you noted, but quite a cute one. “Don't jinx yourself.”

Rolling your eyes, you shrugged his words off. “I don't believe in curses and jinxes, just coincidences.”

Boothill seemed to give that some thought, right as you approached your doorstep. “Well, if it be a happy coincidence I'd sure like to meet you again.”

Well. . .just a few times wouldn't hurt, right? It's not like your mother needed twenty-four/seven supervision, and she slept frequently, leaving you bored out of your mind and picking up small hobbies like sewing and cooking. Hell, you'd cleaned that small house top-to-bottom countless times in a mere few months.

“I'd like that, too.” You agreed softly, watching his face light up. “I've got Mondays and Tuesdays off from work?”

“Got it.” He chirped out. You could see the cogs in his head spinning at a mile a minute, thoughts perfectly concealed from even your observant eyes. “It's a date. I'll see you around then, sweetheart.” With a dip of his hat, the cowboy was set off on the road again.

“A date…?” You muttered to yourself. He really liked you enough for a real date, then.

“Wait!” You called after him, to no avail. “When are you coming by?” The shout was lost to the bushes surrounding your house. Soon, he was completely out of sight and you were left wondering when you'd see the black-haired cowboy next.

“She's sleeping here, right by my side

and in her right hand, a silver dagger”

Your mother made sure to give you a mouthful as you fluttered about the kitchen to prepare her meds with her dinner. Though, everything she said seemed to go in one ear and right out of the other.

It was Sunday evening, and she had yet to stop talking about the ‘delinquent’ cowboy who walked you home. No matter how much you insisted on his bravery and heroism, she managed to double down with each point you made. At some point in the weekend, you'd simply started humming along to her antics.

“You can't be with a man like that.” She started this evening, grumbling in her chair as she watched the window, as always. “All they do is lie, cheat, ‘n steal. Ain't no man like that will be leaving my daughter crying.”

“It was just one walk, ma.” You said, stirring the beans and ground beef. “Not like I'm marrying him on the spot.”

She huffed, throwing frail hands up in the air. “You say that now,”

She meant well in her frustrations. After all, your father was just the type of man she thought Boothill was. A flashy cowboy who came riding into town, saving a few damsels along the way, and leaving before they could say their “I do's” right at the altar. Your mother wasn't so lucky to escape the charm of a peacocking man, and her parents didn't take it so kindly when she confessed her pregnancy. That was how you'd ended up in Hillshire, anyway, just a mere babe with a mother left all alone to raise you.

Still, she persevered despite being a young woman alone in a strange and small town, swearing off men from her life. By extension, swearing them off from yours. You'd done well to abide, though unintentionally as it was, and simply never met any interesting men.

Until Boothill, of course.

But he wasn't like your father, nor anyone else. He was a stationary cowboy, loyal to the small town that took him in.

“Supper's ready.” You chimed, clearing the tense mood and plating the chili for the two of you. Alongside her bowl, you set down her daily pill and a glass of lemonade.

Today, she took the pill without a sigh and simply dug into her food. Sometimes, the fight she would give you about taking the chalky tablets would almost make you happy, seeing her become lively for just a few minutes at a time, though it was purely in protest. Most days she seemed vacant, a shell of her former outspoken self. The ashy color her skin had grown into chilled you to your core, the cold skin of her once warm hands made you choke back tears, and the tremble of her once strong body when she moved around made you wince. Her physician told you her state would only decline from the moment she was diagnosed, only stagnated by the pills, which relieved pain and disease progression.

It wasn't long before she went to bed with a full stomach and a quiet mind. You took the little victories in stride.

Their only downside was making her drowsy almost immediately. She would sleep twelve hours most nights, only getting up on your gentle command for baths and food. Muscle atrophy and bed sores were your current biggest fears with her being bed bound so often, so small and painfully slow walks and stretches in the front yard often were good medicine by themselves. A healthy dose of sun never hurt anybody, you supposed.

As you cleaned up for the night, a knock on your door broke through the absentminded hums.

And who else would knock on your door on a Sunday evening besides the hero-of-the-week himself.

Him standing on your front porch wasn't what surprised you, the small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand did.

He was wearing a set of fresh, clean clothes that seemed to be well-loved but still brushed free of the lingering dust that he carried with him the day they had met. A denim, sherpa-lined jacket with a white tee under it and a pair of dark blue jeans. Of course, he couldn't part with his tall, black cowboy boots that he seems emotionally attached to. You wondered if he wore them to appear taller, though he was towering already as it was. His hat matched his boots well, silver lining both in intricate designs. He put a lot of effort in, clearly, and the thoughtful act made your heart squeeze.

“Well, don't you look pretty.” You grinned, taking the colorful bouquet into your hands and giving the individual flowers a delicate touch. You'd never gotten flowers before—much less hand-picked ones. “You pick these yourself?” The lavender was especially pretty, standing out against the warm tones of daffodils, sunflowers, and asters.

“Got two hands for a reason,” he took his hat off and placed it against his chest, the remnants of the setting sun hitting his speckled brown eyes just right. “To catch trouble-makers and to treat a woman right.”

“They're lovely.” You thanked him, admiring the clumsy twine bow one last time before placing them on the table centerpiece vase. He lingers in the doorway as you do, glancing around subtly but never inviting himself in.

“Was hoping you'd allow me to treat you to that drink.”

“I'd sure like that.” You glanced at your clothes, which were far more casual than even his simple attire. “Give me a moment, make yourself at home while I put on something presentable.”

“Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” He settles into your seat at the table, crossing his ankles and humming a tune you couldn't quite place.

You didn't have many ‘going out’ options, but you settled for something that could go with Boothill's clean yet casual look. A nice blouse and some old straight-legged denim jeans you had tucked away at the bottom of your wardrobe.

By the time you whipped your hair into a suitable style, you grew anxious that you'd made him wait too long for your vain pampering.

Though, all those thoughts were thrown out of the door when you watched Boothill's expression light up when you walked out.

“Why, I think I found myself the sweetest berry in the patch.” Politely, he dipped his hat to you and offered an arm out. “You ready for some dancin’?”

Looping arms, you trailed after him out the door. With one last look behind you, you softly clicked the door closed. One night of fun wouldn't hurt anyone, you deserved it. “Just don't get upset if I step on your toes.”

He laughed heartily, shaking his head. “I've been kicked ‘n stepped on by my horse more times than I care to count. I wouldn't even feel it.”

“We'll see.” You chided, taking in the fresh air and the setting sun. The walk to the saloon wasn't far—nothing was really far apart in Hillshire—and you noticed some other couples also on their way to the bar. “I dunno if those heels make good dancin’ shoes.”

“Heels?” Boothill asked, genuinely confused. He lifted a boot up briefly, almost tripping over his own foot as he did before righting himself.

“Aren't they?” You questioned lightly. “Boots higher than the hills surrounding the town.”

It was his turn to scoff. Though there was no malice behind it, he seemed thoroughly offended. You laughed as he sputtered to defend his precious heels. “These are made to hook onto my stirrups.”

Even though you liked teasing him about the frilly boots, you quite liked the little ‘ring’ the spurs produced every step he took.

“Whatever you say, Boothill.” You raised your arms defensively, amused at his scrunched up face.

“Boothill?” He exaggerated. At your smile, he hid his face momentarily, dragging a tanned hand down it. “Guess I've been called much worse than that.”

“You ain't ever ride a horse?” He continued, seeming baffled at the very idea.

“No?” You shrugged. “Everything's walking distance.”

“You're missin’ out.” He sighed dramatically. “I'll have to take you out one day and introduce you to Missy.”

“Is that your horse?”

You approached the saloon fairly quickly. He opened the door for you, stepping aside to let you in first. Immediately you were hit with the scent of alcohol and the sounds of music and laughter. Though it was only a Sunday evening, it seemed like everyone in town was here enjoying the atmosphere.

“Sure is. She's gotten me outta some tough shit all throughout Taconia.” The country was vast, and Hillshire was a mere forgotten speck on the map. How much world was out there that you would never experience?

“How many cities have you been to?” You wondered as he started ordering drinks. You quietly murmured your order to the bartend, Leonard, and he grinned upon noticing your arrival. It'd been months since you'd visited and sat for a drink. You saw most folks down at the diner, anyway, so he was always a familiar face. Surprisingly, Boothill had never made an appearance there. He must've preferred the lively saloons to slow diners. You briefly wondered how many gals he had asked to buy drinks, and if you were simply another weekend mistress.

Even if you were, his charm and sweetness certainly earned no complaint from you.

You sipped on a prickly pear frozen margarita while he swirled his whiskey in its glass. “Not as many as you'd think. Well, Taconia's not nearly as big as the map makes it out to be, and I'm not much of a sailor. There's a few big cities between here and the Dival Sea, but nothing beats good ol’ Hillshire.”

“You can't really favor this instead of places like Miron and Silowa?” You insisted. “I've heard millions of things about the melting pots. Everyone who can leave here does—and they always write home about ‘making it big’.”

He ‘tsks’ and waves his hand. “Sure. Some people like the fame and fortune. I like the bustle, too. There's a shitload a’ bounties to be found in the backalleys of those places. Nothing beats home, though. The home cooked meals that Nick makes, Graey's scoldings being heard well across the fields, the orphanage's walls being filled with crayon drawings and memories.” He reminisced, sighing and shaking his head. “Hillshire makes it all worth coming back to.”

“Never thought of it like that.” You said. “Figured a big-shot like you would feel trapped here.”

“Cowboys can't be trapped.” He winked. “We're free spirits.”

You laughed, watching the people on the dancefloor. “Maybe I should look into that.”

“Y'know.” Boothill started, taking a swing of his whiskey. “It's rare to see someone not give in to a man holding a gun.”

“Really?” You mused. “I guess I wasn't really tryin’ to be brave. Just that I knew that medicine being taken was as good as a death sentence. Shit, I was scared out of my right mind the whole time.”

“Either way, I applaud the courage.” He mock-bowed in his seat, earning a small giggle from you. This pleased him, pearly teeth peaking out from behind his lips again in a charming grin. “That's what drew me to you, at first.”

“What? Me nearly pissin’ my pants in a pharmacy?” You scoffed playfully.

“Exactly.” He said, more earnestly than you thought. “Anybody who stands their ground is doin’ something right in my books.”

“And the second thing that drew you to me?” You egged on boldly.

“Helps a lot that you're pretty as a peach.” He cheekily smiled, dimples alighting his cheeks.

“Happy that I could be pleasant eye-candy.” You played along, polishing off your sweet drink. He was quick to match your pace, wiping off stray droplets from the corner of his lips. He stuck out a hand, urging you up from the barstool.

“And will the little lady spare the cowboy a dance?”

“I think she might,” you took his hand, allowing him to lead you amongst the crowd.

That night, you and Boothill danced for hours without missing a beat. You both laughed and chatted like old pals catching up, and by the end of the night when he was walking you home, you almost cursed yourself for expecting him to want a lil’ something extra as most men in Hillshire did.

You were surprised and glad to see that he only placed a delicate kiss on the apple of your cheek before bidding you ‘goodnight’ and promising to see you again. He never promised exact days and times, and it was then that you learned his reason behind that. Boothill was never quite sure ‘when’ he'd be able to see you, but was always certain that he would. Boothill never broke his promises, not a single time for as long as you lived.

“She says that I can't be your bride

‘all men are false’, says my mother”

Thirteen months after you met Hillshire's cowboy, Boothill proposed to you. It wasn't a hasty decision made on a lustful whim nor a peacocking ‘down-on-one-knee’ gesture in a crowded restaurant. No, it was perfect.

Boothill took you to the crest of one of Hillshire's many mesas. You trailed up there often, riding doubled up on top of Missy's sturdy back where she proved to always be as sturdy as a donkey.

He sat you down as the sun was setting, taking a bottle of your favorite prickly pear wine and popping it open, pouring your glass first as he always did. He drank from his own glass of red, hiding his scrunched up face the best he could to appease you. Boothill never enjoyed wine, but caught on that you secretly hated the scent of beer and the taste of whiskey on his lips. The moment he noticed, he stopped drinking such drinks altogether and insisted that he grew out of the flavor. It warmed your heart and amused you all the same.

You dined on pasta (Boothill made it himself, with Nick's recipe) and talked and laughed all evening long. When the stars were far above you and you were laying on his chest, he whispered his question in your ear.

The ring on your finger brought gossip through the little town. People finally had something to talk about besides the Miltons’ affair that occurred two years ago, and moved on to the fresh and more intriguing chatter. You only bit back smiles at assumptions of a shotgun wedding and choked back bursts of laughter when you overheard two old maids guess that you were a planted golddigger that would force the town's heroic cowboy to skip town and never come back from the city. No one's option truly mattered when you were in love, and you knew Boothill felt the same. Nick and Graey, as well as Boothill's many siblings, were immediately ecstatic to hear the news and held a big family dinner to celebrate their son's engagement.

Your mother was the complete opposite. Even as you eased her into knowing Boothill and his good deeds, showing her how he truly cared for you and cherished you every day, she was vehement in her opinion. You would never marry Boothill against her wishes, and if you did, you were truly dead to her.

Months flew by as you postponed your wedding date time and time again. So long, in fact, that you gave up and decided to marry Boothill without her blessing. It pained you to not have your only family attend, but the church was full nonetheless. The entire town showed up for your wedding and the day was the happiest of your life.

The silver ring you commissioned for your husband lies on his chest at all times, looped through a chain and never taken off. It held a sliver of red on the inside of it, a small line that matched the one on your ring.

Your mother gave you the cold shoulder, as expected. You took care of her every day, still, sat with her while she ate her meals and swallowed the pills woefully. She never spoke, never warbled or complained any more. Just angrily chewed and stared outside the windows.

You still worked at the diner, something you insisted upon even when Boothill offered to take care of you completely. You liked getting out of the house and the social life serving offered, no matter how meager the pay was.

Not a day went by without someone stopping by the diner to keep you company. Whether it was Boothill himself or his family. Nick, Graey, and all of his siblings young and old would stay for hours simply chatting it up with you. Mikey and Ash would call you ‘big sis’ while Donser and Colin looked after you like you were their little sister. Your mother may have turned you away when you disobeyed her, but you found family in Boothill's.

Boothill's house was where you spent most evenings, now. Your house, too, technically, although you could never spend a full night away from your childhood home in fear of coming home in the morning to a cold body. Boothill was always understanding, and even checked up on her subtly during your longer shifts whenever he could. Sometimes it felt like a long-distance relationship with how Boothill traveled for bounties and you sleeping in separate houses, but you knew it would all pay off one day. Your love wasn't fickle, nor was it conditional.

“Leave you alone, to pine and sigh”

Boothill brought home a little baby girl with hair as orange as the rising sun. The vision of the little swaddled up bundle should have been more surprising than it was, but he truly was Nick and Graey's son and he took after them well. It was only a matter of time before he took in orphans of his own. Your own, too, now. Orphan no more, the little girl would be raised under your roof as your and Boothill's baby.

He said she was a bounty's daughter, and that the father was a criminal of the highest caliber. He would've been happy to turn a blind eye had the man been a petty thief, but his ring ran through the streets of Silowa and took far too many lives to be allowed to live on.

As you held her in her arms, you knew her freckled little cheeks would be the death of you. The orange tree that you'd been picking from behind you was long forgotten in favor of the baby.

As a small apology for the suddenness of his decision, Boothill proposed for you to name her. It was a simple decision, really, and an entirely fitting one. The basket of fresh oranges on the ground was a perfect match to the soft wisps of curls atop her little head. “Clementine.” You murmured against the breeze, and she smiled a gummy grin.

Clementine deserved far more than her father's fate. You and your husband were determined to give a good, safe life to her.

It'd been a few months since your mother passed away, bless her soul. It was a rough transition from being at her bedside every day to having no one to tend to. Boothill filled the void in your heart the best he could, holding you throughout your grieving hours and staying by your side every day. His first bounty after her death was the one that brought your daughter into your life. Little Clem felt like a sign from your mother, whether it be reincarnation or a gift from above to show her love. She never did give her blessing to marry him, and that broke your heart far more than she ever knew. In some way, you knew this was her apology and perhaps even blessing. Your family of two became three, and soon you became the most content you'd ever been.

“He's got a chain, five miles long

and on every link, a heart does dangle”

Every bounty that Boothill took, you always made a point to see him off. You were sure of his skill and timeliness, but the routine comforted you. In the early hours of the morning before the sun could even peak through the sheer curtains of the living room, you swayed back and forth to a silent tune. Boothill's arms wrapped around your waist and yours around his neck, soft whispers shared that were lost to the world.

When time came that he had to leave, you didn't forget to grab the new scarf-shawl from the closet. You carefully pulled the ring of fabric around his head and down to his neck, nodding in satisfaction at the look of it. The blaze of red contrasted his black and Graey attire, standing out in a way that perfectly suited his flashy personality.

“Keep the dust from getting in your nose and mouth. Wanna keep those lungs nice and clean as long as we can.”

Boothill grinned and saluted you, leaning down to meet your lips in a heated kiss. “Whatever the boss demands.” He agreed playfully.

Tiny stomps interrupted the kiss, and your attention was drawn to the fiery curls escaping from their bedroom. “Daddy didn't say bye!” With fury-filled, clenched chubby fists, Clementine crossed her arms and sniffled.

Although Clem wasn't Boothill's by blood, no one would really guess. She picked up on all of his mannerisms quickly. Even rode a horse before she could walk, Boothill-accompanied of course. She was the happiest little toddler you'd ever seen, and the light she brought into your lives was immeasurable. She hated to see her father go on his work trips, sometimes even more than you did, but took it in stride and held her tears in as all brave girls did.

“Aw, I'm sorry, babygirl.” He crouched down on one knee to scoop her up in a comforting hug. With her head dug into the plush scarf, she tried (and failed) to hide her sniffles of sadness. “I didn't wanna wake you up, you looked like you were havin’ a peaceful dream.”

“I was.” She grunted indignantly.

“Next time, I'll wake you up.” He promised. “And when I get home, we'll take a ride down to your grandparents’ house to pay ‘em a visit. How bout that?”

“Fine,” she wiped her face off, which was reddened and puffy from tears. “Will Domino be there, too?” She asked, hope shining in her eyes. The little farmdog that Nick and Graey had caught her attention more than anything else these days. Boothill had brought up surprising her with a pup of her own, and you had been asking around town for any prospects.

He chuckled. “Of course. He'll be happy to see you.”

Clem grinned, clapping her hands and hugging him again. “Thank you, daddy!”

“Anything for my Clementine.” He stood with her in his arms, handing her off to you with a final kiss on her forehead. “Daddy's gotta go to work now, can you promise me you'll take care of mama?”

“I promise!” She nodded firmly, puffing her chest up like a knight. You gently pulled Boothill into a hug, careful not to squish your daughter between the both of you as he caressed you head and whispered into your ear.

“It's a simple one, shouldn't take more than a week.” He said lowly. “I asked Donser and Colin to keep an eye on the two a’ you.”

“You don't need to bother your brothers.” You rolled your eyes. “We'll be just fine here at home.”

“I know,” he pulled back slightly, pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth in a longing kiss. “Just gotta make sure my girls are safe.”

“Always.” You reassured him. In the doorway, he pulled on his hat and turned to dramatically wave the two of you goodbye at the end of the fenced-in lawn.

“Love you!” Clementine yawned and waved.

“I love you, Boots.” You called after, blowing a juvenile kiss to him.

“I love you both.” Boothill caught the kiss that you sent him and pulled it to his heart. “I'll be back before you can even miss me.”

While you cradled Clem in your arms and rocked her slowly back to sleep, you watched Boothill ride off as the sun rose over the horizon.

You missed him already.

The bounty was a bust. A first in his career, in fact. He'd never failed to catch a slippery criminal in all his years in bounty hunting. Unfortunately, his contractors were the ones who called it off before he could finish his mission. They were awfully hush-hush about their reasoning, but they paid Boothill for his time and that was that. He didn't question it any more.

Whispers of the IPC were ringing around gave him an eerie feeling. In all the towns he passed, people had begun to fear the soldiers from that off-planet organization that were lingering around in large numbers. He didn't heed much thought to it, but quickened his journey nonetheless.

It'd been three long weeks, and Boothill was more than ready to go back home to his wife and daughter. To see their smiling faces and hear their contagious laughs was the sole reason behind his hard work. He missed them dearly, and clutched the scarf you had given him close every night.

It was the cannons that caught his attention first. Cannon fire rained from the night sky like shooting stars. The hills and mesas surrounding Hillshire did a damn good job of keeping the small town hidden, and that was Boothill's biggest curve at that moment. He could make out the haze blocking the stars above the town, and knew it could only be buildings and greenery caught on fire. In what volume, he couldn't tell.

“Go, Missy! Take us home!” He yelled out, steering her the fastest way he knew.

Missy was no race-horse anymore, if she ever was, but the urgency in her companion's voice lit a fire under her hooves and she galloped as fast as she could back home.

He raced through razed houses and IPC soldiers to get home. He passed Jameson's pharmacy, the saloon, the diner, your old house. Everything was lit up in a grand display. Screams were filling the air and gunshots silenced them quickly.

Even though Boothill never strayed from his path home, he let his gaze stray to the orphanage. There were no babies or young children there anymore, no one who couldn't run if they had to. Nick and Graey would have assistance from Colin and Donser if needed—if they couldn't get out in time.

Did they escape? Did they meet you on the edge of the property and get away? Were you long gone and safe, waiting for him to find you? He prayed that it was so.

Why were they here? The ‘IPC’ who came after planets who had debts or resources that could prove useful to them. There were thousands of habitable planets out there, perhaps even millions. His planet was nothing worth overtaking. It was a small, primitive desert compared to planets he heard tales of from travelers.

Their guns were useless compared to the IPC's blasters. Their horses were slow and ran out of stamina quickly compared to their spaceships and cars. What did they want, what debt were they after?

He rounded over the last hill like he was on fire himself.

The house was in a blaze. The animals had long scurried off into the surrounding brush and fled North. The grass was black and burnt while parts of the house were already collapsing in on itself.

You had to of left already.

He jumped from Missy's saddle and sprinted into the house. The door was closed. It burned his hand to simply touch the knob, let alone kick it open when he found it jammed.

It was locked. You were still inside. Clementine was still inside.

He screamed your name like a lifelife. Shouted and hollered over the distant cannons and gunshots. “Where are you?!” He pleaded, bursting open every door. The house was hotter than an oven, blasts of heat cooking him in every direction. He choked on the smoke, ducking down when a beam fell and covering his face with the scarlet scarf.

“Baby?!” He shouted again, voice cracking.

The nursery was the only room left.

If his heart wasn't already in his stomach, it certainly was now.

He used his jacket to touch the metal doorknob, grunting out in frustration when the door still didn't budge. The fire didn't stop for anything, he was running out of time. He kicked and kicked at the door, eventually getting his foot through the wood and breaking it apart until he could fit through it. There lied the culprit of the jammed door—a support beam that had fallen right in front of it.

But beyond that, was you. The smoke was so thick and hazy that he struggled to see clearly. The far wall was already lit up and blocking the window. On the center of the floor, right beside the cradle, was you lying motionless.

He wasted no time to hop the beam and rush to your side. He lifted your face up into his own, muttering useless prayers and begging for you to wake up. He desperately wiped the black ash from your cheeks and forehead, vainly attempting to soothe you awake. Your hands were red and blistered from burns, likely from the window or knob, and your nails were practically torn from their beds.

“Come on, sweetheart. You gotta get up,” he croaked, lifting you from the floor and stopping when you were half-way scooped into his arms.

Under you, curled by your chest, was Clem.

She looked peaceful, like she was merely in a deep sleep.

Boothill's world fell around him. Suddenly the fire meant nothing. The inhalation of smoke didn't make him hack and cough or pass out. The heat didn't chase him outside to catch the cool breeze. He was entirely numb. His eyes stayed glued to the bodies at his knees, and for a moment the world was silent.

His family was dead. His beautiful, soulful wife and gentle, happy daughter.

Gone to the world without a single chance of saving.

He didn't want to live in a world without them.

The fire nipped at his heels and singed the tips of his hair, but he was unmoved. He hunched over, curling around the two just as you curled around your baby to protect her from the flames. He couldn't bear to live a purposeless life without an ounce of light in it.

He didn't pull himself out of that house. He didn't move when another beam fell across him back and pinned him to the floor on top of your limp body. He didn't even feel the burns raging across his arms and legs.

But someone pulled him out.

Someone took that choice away from him.

The IPC saved his life but took his soul.

The day he learned the name Oswaldo Schneider was the day he swore on your name to kill the bastard who destroyed his planet.

For now, he would live. He would liive until he puts a bullet between the man's eyes.

“You're awake.” A monotone voice woke him from the sweet caress of slumber. It was rough and cold, nothing at all compared to your soft and warm one that he was blessed enough to wake up to for so long.

A distant dream.

If he could meet you in it again, he would in a heartbeat.

He will.

Once he destroys the foundation that killed his family.

Once he slaughtered the man who killed you.

Then, and only then, could he bear to show his pathetic face to you in the afterlife.

“The procedures are complete. All in one, as you requested.”

A mirror was held in front of him.

His body had changed. It was metal all over, besides the swell of his cheeks and small stretch of his neck. His eyes were different too, lifeless. Once pitch-black hair was now mostly white. Nothing was his, not even his heart. Nothing that you touched was left except for his hair and face. The eyes that looked at you with love and reverence. The hands that held his daughter close to his chest as she listened to his steady heartbeat.

A faint whirr replaced it. He wasn't human anymore, not a man.

“Every feature can be learned with time. It will take some adjusting, but I'm sure you'll get the hang of it fast.” A clipboard was shoved in front of his face.

“Sign here, please.” The doctor continued. Awfully official for such a dubious procedure, but who was he to tell some intergalactic space doctor-mechanic how to do her job.

He didn't read it, didn't even skim. At the bottom was the dotted line.

First and last signature.

He took the black pen from the doctor's chilled hands, and signed without missing a beat.

Boothill.

“For I've been warned, and I've decided

to sleep alone all my life.”

Has anyone else ever tried prickly pear and its many flavored foods/drinks? It's one of Arizona's famous native flavors and quite an interesting taste. Hillshire is inspired by Johnny Cash's famous song ‘Boothill’ (lol) and Tombstone itself. Such a beautiful little town with a rich history. The name Boothill is canonically from cowboys and gunslingers in the 1800s being called ‘Boothills’ and the grave of Boothills in Tombstone, but I liked this idea a little better for sentiment. I'm actually quite proud of this story and hope it doesn't completely flop lmaoo

#hsr x reader #hsr #boothill #boothill x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #fanfic #writing #cherryheairt #angst #boothill angst #Spotify

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usafphantom2 · 1 month ago

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YF-12 at Mach 3.2 at an altitude of 74,000 feet (23,000 m) to a JQB-47E target drone 500 feet (150 m) off the ground. The missile did not have a warhead but still managed to hit the B-47 directly and take a 4-foot section off of its tail! Thank you to…Romain Hugault for this amazing drawing

The Y F-12 was a derivative of the A-12 . With the looming threat of long range Soviet nuclear bombers, the U.S. Air Force knew they needed a high speed interceptor they could task with closing with and destroying bombers before they could reach American targets. However, America’s involvement in the Vietnam War made funding difficult to come by.

The introduction of ICBMs into Cold War nuclear posturing meant that the most looming nuclear threat was no longer long range bombers, it was missiles.

Only about 80 of these missiles were ever built, with seven total guided launches attempted from the YF-12. Six of those test launches resulted in kills, with the propulsion system failing on the seventh. Despite never seeing operational use, the AIM-47 would go on to serve as the basis for the legendary AIM-54 Phoenix missile later carrier by the Grumman F-14 Tomcat. There is one YF-12 remaining at the Museum of the Air Force near Dayton Ohio.

Linda Sheffield

@Habubrats71 via X

#yf 12 #lockheed aviation #skunkworks #aircraft #ADC #usaf #aviation #interceptor #cold war aircraft

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cyle · 5 months ago

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still confused how to make any of these LLMs useful to me.

while my daughter was napping, i downloaded lm studio and got a dozen of the most popular open source LLMs running on my PC, and they work great with very low latency, but i can't come up with anything to do with them but make boring toy scripts to do stupid shit.

as a test, i fed deepseek r1, llama 3.2, and mistral-small a big spreadsheet of data we've been collecting about my newborn daughter (all of this locally, not transmitting anything off my computer, because i don't want anybody with that data except, y'know, doctors) to see how it compared with several real doctors' advice and prognoses. all of the LLMs suggestions were between generically correct and hilariously wrong. alarmingly wrong in some cases, but usually ending with the suggestion to "consult a medical professional" -- yeah, duh. pretty much no better than old school unreliable WebMD.

then i tried doing some prompt engineering to punch up some of my writing, and everything ended up sounding like it was written by an LLM. i don't get why anybody wants this. i can tell that LLM feel, and i think a lot of people can now, given the horrible sales emails i get every day that sound like they were "punched up" by an LLM. it's got a stink to it. maybe we'll all get used to it; i bet most non-tech people have no clue.

i may write a small script to try to tag some of my blogs' posts for me, because i'm really bad at doing so, but i have very little faith in the open source vision LLMs' ability to classify images. it'll probably not work how i hope. that still feels like something you gotta pay for to get good results.

all of this keeps making me think of ffmpeg. a super cool, tiny, useful program that is very extensible and great at performing a certain task: transcoding media. it used to be horribly annoying to transcode media, and then ffmpeg came along and made it all stupidly simple overnight, but nobody noticed. there was no industry bubble around it.

LLMs feel like they're competing for a space that ubiquitous and useful that we'll take for granted today like ffmpeg. they just haven't fully grasped and appreciated that smallness yet. there isn't money to be made here.

#machine learning #parenting #ai critique #data privacy #medical advice #writing enhancement #blogging tools #ffmpeg #open source software #llm limitations #ai generated tags

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correctproseka · 3 months ago

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NPC BATTLE 3.2

Shiraishi Ken is An's father and a former musician who hosted and performed in the legendary event "RAD WEEKEND" with his group RADder. He was the one who inspired both An and Akito to become street musicians. He is currently running a live cafe and bar called WEEKEND GARAGE, which he built after he retired from the scene. At the end of the On Your Feet event, he decides to temporarily close down WEEKEND GARAGE in order to fully start mentoring Kohane and her groupmates after their defeat in Taiga's showdown and seeing just how determined they are to surpass RAD WEEKEND. He has given each a different task in order to surpass RAD WEEKEND because he believes Vivid BAD SQUAD can achieve and go beyond Ken's dream. In BURN MY SOUL, Akito's task was revealed to reignite and gather their audience again.

Mita Kotaro is a street musician and a friend of BAD DOGS. He respects Ken, but initially thought that his daughter An doesn't have talent and is just using her father's popularity. In Vivid BAD SQUAD's Main Story, he sabotaged Vivids' first live performance and created an "opportunity" for Vivids and BAD DOGS to confront each other. However, he later saw Vivids' true skill and apologized for ruining their first event, and started practicing and honing his own singing skills even harder. He was referred to only as "Musician" in the group's Main Story until his name was revealed in the STRAY BAD DOG event story. In the THE POWER OF UNITY, Kotaro reveals that he wanted to surpass RAD WEEKEND

#project sekai #pjsk #npc battle #polls #shiraishi ken #mita kotaro

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captainpulisic · 2 years ago

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darling, you’re the one I want! - m. mount

this is for my best friend in honor of her birthday (who else would get a invisible string/ timeless alluded fic?). m, thank you for being my other half, and for being the first to always read and support everything I write. we'll get mushy later, together. love, d gif credits to owner, wc 3.2 k

it’s like a scene out of a fairytale.

no, scratch that. this was better than any fairytale you had ever read as a child. all the dreamy prince charmings that you had fantasised would come and whisk you away to a castle, were nothing compared to mason. all the countless tales of romances and happily ever afters, had never prepared you for the way your heart would stutter when being in masons proximity.

it had been a beautiful day, clear skies and a cool breeze ruffling the leaves of the trees that surrounded you. tucked away from prying eyes, mason had settled this picture perfect picnic at the park not too far from your flat.

we both only get so many days off, he had squeezed your hand as he guided you through the park. we should spend it together, doing something just for us.

you couldn’t help but watch in awe as he laid out a blanket for the both of you to sit down on, carefully placing the picnic basket on the ground. he had gone all out. it was all very delicate, him being so attentive as he took out plates and utensils. then came the variety of fruits, snacks and other food for both of you to indulge in. it was all so detailed, so thoughtfully planned out.

“I broke a few wine glasses when I tried shoving them into the basket,” his cheeks tinted as he spoke. with a bashful smile and an awkward laugh, he pulled out two paper cups. “so we’re going to be using these.”

“how romantic,” you over exaggeratedly sighed, putting a hand over your heart.

“oh, you haven’t seen romance yet.” mason reverts his attention back to the basket, searching for who knows what. after a few seconds of digging through it, he pulls out a few paper straws. “a straw for the lady.”

you can’t help but snort, “i’m swooning!”

as you begin to pile an assortment of food on both your plates, mason tasks himself with filling both cups with a good amount of wine. basking in the sunlight and rejoicing in the lack of clouds, you couldn’t help but marvel at how lovely the day was.

no work, no school, no distractions. just you and mason. there was nothing that could top how at peace you felt in that exact moment.

unbeknownst to you, mason was the complete opposite. he kept hoping you wouldn’t see through his cool facade and ruin the big day he had planned. he was antsy, jittery. no matter how much wine he consumed, his nerves wouldn’t settle down. his fingers kept ghosting over the small, velvet box in his front pocket. gods, he hoped that wasn’t a dead giveaway to you.

after watching the hours waste away, you’d both found yourselves with an empty bottle of wine and full hearts and stomachs. sitting down side by side, you both had your legs stretched out, pushing past the border of the blanket. absentmindedly, you kept bumping your foot against his.

“I love this place so much,” you mused with content sigh. your hand reached out to brush the grass on your side. stealing a quick glance towards mason, your cheeks warm up when you see how focused his gaze is on you. “back when I first moved here, I used to spend hours in this park. I would walk around, lay on the grass, or just sit on a bench and wait.”

you feel silly telling him this. it was all just girlhood dreams of fairytales and prince charmings.

“wait for what?” his hand brushes yours, ever so lightly. it’s comforting and encouraging for you to continue.

“love, I guess.” it feels even sillier saying it outloud. shaking your head and letting out a self-deprecating laugh, you wave him off. oh well, if there’s one person you’d confide your childish fantasies to, it’d be mason. there’s no one else you’d trust more. you shrug, “I don’t know, I just found the idea so romantic that I'd meet the love of my life here. that, maybe, when I'd least expect it, I would bump into someone and just know that they were my soulmate. that all the waiting was worth it because they’d been out there, looking for me. and it’d be so romantic, how we were both out in the world, unaware of each other's existence, but deep down we knew we’d find each other.”

looking back at mason, you see how still he’s gotten, how quiet he’s become.

“I was on my way to you,” he says slowly, softly. you hadn’t noticed the moment he had intertwined your hands in his, yet there he was giving you reassuring squeezes. lifting it up, he leaves a gentle kiss on the back of your hand. “I was looking for you.”

“you found me.” they’re shy smiles, the ones you’re giving to each other. few words said with heavy meaning behind them, it’s become sickly sweet. one last tap to his foot with your own, “and it took you long enough.”

he leans in, this kiss directed to the corner of your mouth. mumbling into your skin, “my silly girl.”

instead of replying, you give his hand one last squeeze before letting go and lying back down on the blanket. you let your eyes close as you sigh once more, “I really do love it here.”

it becomes quiet for a second. then you hear mason rustling next to you, yet you don’t bother to open your eyes. you’re too content with your position and situation. mason clears his throat but then gets quiet again. he does this two more times. my sweet boy, you’re about to blindly reach for his hand and coax him to lay down with you, when he finally speaks up.

“I know you love this place,” he takes another deep breath. you instantly hear the nervousness in his voice, “er, that’s actually why I brought you here, today.”

curiosity gets the best of you, making you peek one eye open.

big mistake. the sight that’s in front of you makes your heart do somersaults and backflips.

there mason is, your beautiful boy, down on one knee with a small box in his hand. you barely notice the box, though, too caught up in the way he’s looking at you. immediately, you’re sitting up, becoming eye level with him.

“from the very first date,” he begins. you want to make a quip about how much his hands are fidgeting, yet refrain when you realize yours are no better. he’s speaking slowly, adding emphasis to every word. “I called my mum and told her I'd found the girl I was going to marry. hell, the next time I saw the lads, I told them you were the future missus.”

you’re awestruck, “oh, mase.”

“from the beginning, I told everyone I was going to marry you one day.” his unoccupied hand reaches for yours, once again. he’s squeezing it as if his life depended on it and you reciprocate the action. “’m sorry it took me a couple years to actually keep true to my word. I just- I just wanted to become the best man I could be. I wanted to make sure I was someone who deserved to call you his wife.”

you pause for a moment, trying to process what was happening. you dig your nails into the palms of your hand, trying to stop yourself from shaking even more. the tears won’t stop from falling down your cheeks. when the fuck did I start crying? half of you wants to laugh and the other half wants to start weeping. and the many paper cups of wine you had are definitely not helping. any other day, you'd curse yourself for being so silly, but the sight of mason down on one knee has you caring about nothing but him. and the glossy eyed stare he’s giving you isn’t helping.

“you said you’d wait for your soulmate because you knew they were out there. and they were. I was.” giving him a watery smile, you nod for him to continue. every word he says tugs at your heartstrings. he’s gone onto rambling but you don’t mind because it’s all so perfect. “but the truth is, I had never really believed in soulmates. I thought it was all a load of rubbish. but meeting you and getting the chance to love you, I know I was a proper idiot. of course soulmates exist and I know you’re mine. I know we were meant to find each other. and if I was too unlucky to never have found you, I know I'd spend my whole life being miserable and wondering where you were. all this time, waiting for each other, I'd gladly wait all over again if it meant I got you in the end.”

all you can repeat through your tears, “oh mason.”

“y/n, my y/n.” he opens up the small velvet box, unveiling the prettiest ring you’d ever seen. it was perfect, and quite suitable to your taste. he knew you so well, it made you want to weep even more. looking back up at mason, you saw all the emotions he was going through. hopeful eyes looking into your lovestruck ones, “will you, please, marry me?”

both you and mason know your answer. there’s no doubt about it. nonetheless, you manage to cry out a “yes,” and an “of course, I’ll marry you.”

of course you would, there was no question about it.

yet, masons face fills up with a mixture of relief and joy. helping the both of you off the ground, he wraps his arms around you and lifts you up. spinning you around, his lips capture yours as repeatedly mumbles into your mouth thank you thank you thank you.

there’s tears and laughter and kisses and just pure happiness as you embrace each other.

pulling away, mason gets the ring out of the box, ready to finally place it on your finger. after months of looking at hundreds of rings that varied in style and cut, you were finally going to wear it and become his fiancee.

fiancee.

yes, he could get used to calling you that. well, up until he’s able to call you his wife. then he’ll never be able to stop calling you that.

what the fuck, mason frowns to himself. as he had started to slide the ring onto your finger, it became stuck. right up to the knuckle, it wouldn’t budge a millimeter.

“uhm,” he tries to laugh it off. attempting to successfully slide it on again, you can see him internally freaking out as it won’t move. “this shouldn’t be happening.”

one more try. one more failure.

beginning to profusely swear, “I can’t believe I got the wrong ring size.”

“mason, it’s oka-”

he pouts, “’m such a bloody idiot!”

“no, you’re not.”

“I am,” he deadpans.

“mason, no.”

“I can’t believe I fucked this up,” he’s stressed, running his fingers through the ends of his hair. you hate seeing him so frustrated, hate seeing how quick he is to beat himself up. the curse words are flowing like lava from his mouth. “I had one fucking job and I didn’t even do it right.”

“baby, it’s okay.” you can’t help but laugh at the situation. you’re still over the moon, with tear filled eyes over the proposal. and here he is, berating himself for such a simple mistake. trying to ease him, “it’s not your fault, i’m sure this happens all the time.”

“no, y/n. you don’t understand.” he’s frustrated, holding the too small ring between his fingers. there is nothing but disdain and disappointment in his gaze. all he can do is shake his head, “I did my research, it’s supposed to be a perfect fit.”

your arms still around him, you lean up to nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck. you know nothing can ruin how happy you are. damned be the ring, mason loved you and he wanted to marry you. who gives a fuck about anything else?

he’s rambling again, “I did everything I could. I took so many of your rings and gave them to the jeweler so he’d know your exact size. I really did plan this out.”

it should be impossible how quick your head turns to look at him, “you took my rings?”

“yeah,” he trails off, still fidgeting with the ring, too distraught to notice your questioning look.

“I told you I thought my sister kept stealing my stuff every time she came to visit and you said she probably was.”

“yeah,” now he’s looking at you like you’re the crazy one. with a puzzled expression, “and?”

“mason!” you lightly shove his shoulder, in jest. you want to be upset, but how can you be? the more bizarre this becomes, the more endearing you find it. he’d gone through so much trouble to make this as sweet as possible, it was too much for your heart.

“what?” he throws his hands up, in defense. “I did what I had to!”

you tease, “well that clearly worked out well for you.”

“y/n!” his pout gets deeper by the second, as he kicks at a tuft of grass. “don’t torture me.”

“hey,” reaching up to grasp his chin, you force him to look down at you. it's a reflex for his hands to land on your waist, instinctively pulling you closer to him. giving him a small smile, “this doesn’t matter to me. I love you and I want to marry you and be with you forever. I don’t need a ring to prove these things.”

all mason can do is sigh softly, his hands giving your waist a squeeze. meeting your eye, he feels idiotic and embarrassed all over again. looking away, “you deserve to be wearing the ring.”

“and I will wear it, eventually!” you tilt his chin, again, forcing his eyes back on you. hoping to cheer him up, “it’s okay, we can go get it resized.”

there’s a struggle, you can see, going on in his head. processing and taking all your words into consideration, you think you’ve talked him through his sorrows.

you should’ve knocked on wood. you should’ve crossed your fingers and bit your tongue. because all too soon, he’s huffing and pouting, again.

“yeah, but that’s going to take a while!” he bites his lip, and those big brown eyes give you the most dejected look known to man. “in the meantime, how are people going to know you’re my fiance? I finally put a ring on it and no one’s going to know.”

you’d laugh if you didn’t know how proper upset he was about this.

mason continues, “my mum and dad! and your mum and dad! and our friends! they all said they wanted pictures of you wearing the ring. what ring am I going to send a picture of, hm?”

your thumb had begun to leave gentle strokes on his cheek. looking over his worried face, you know you’re going to love this boy forever. after a moment of watching him go through the five stages of grief, your own face lights up. “I have an idea.”

mason pauses the existential crisis he'd been going through, slightly confused, as you kneel down to the remnants of your picnic. he watches you sort through leftover pieces of cookies and discarded orange peels, in search of something. rummaging through the knocked over paper cups, you let out a triumphant aha as you lift up two scraps of straw wrappers. his eyes never leave your hands as you, still kneeling, begin to twist them into circles- like some sort of origami project. in seconds, you're standing back up, holding two paper rings up to him, smiling hopefully, “we can use these? and now we both get a ring.”

and this is when mason knows he, truly, will love you forever. taking one of the rings from you, he kneels down one more time. as if on cue, the tears have started for both of you, again.

holding the paper ring you had made, up to you, “will you marry me?”

you laugh, gently, nodding as he slides the ring onto your finger. it’s all tears and love, “of course, I love you so much.”

he begins to kiss your hand, on the spot just above where the ring is. he leaves a trail of a few more, up and around your wrist. his lips brush over the palm of your hand, all while his eyes never leave where the ring lays. even when you softly move your hand from his grasp, he’s in awe.

“hmmm,” you let out a sigh as you stretch out your hand. mason sees the discontent look on your face, as you inspect the ring. oh no, what could he have fucked up this time? looking back at him, you put on your best poker face. pretending to yawn, “I usually prefer silver but I guess this’ll have to do.”

instead of answering you, mason pulls you down to the grass so you’re at his level, again. you’re both laughing messes, as he cups your face and brings his lips just above yours. “you like watching me suffer, pretty girl.”

“a tad bit,” is all you manage to get out before he captures your mouth in a deep kiss. it’s full of want and love and happiness. before, it could get any further, you lightly shove him away, before grabbing his hand.

with the both of you kneeling, you seize the other paper ring you had made and place it on his finger. mirroring his actions, you leave a kiss on his hand. and once more, shy kisses turn into deeper ones until you both remember that can wait for later tonight. then out come the phones and you have a little too much fun, taking pictures of the homemade rings. it’s a bit funny as you both pose for a selfie, with both paper rings being shown off. it becomes even funnier when the responses sent back from family and friends are a mixture of congratulations and confusion.

wow, you really cheaped out didn’t you, mate? ben replies in the groupchat. you have to kiss mason a few more times to stop him from texting ben to fuck off.

on the walk back to your flat, you can’t stop marveling at the rings on both your finger. it’s caused you to almost bump into a few lampposts. lucky for you, mason is always there to guide you to safety.

stopped at a crosswalk, mason turns to you. “when we tell everyone this story, can we change a few details to make it more romantic and less fucked up?”

“what are you on about?” lightly tapping his chest, “it was the most romantic proposal, ever.”

he pouts, bumping your shoulder with his, “don’t tease.”

getting on your tiptoes, placing your hands on his shoulders, you lean in for another kiss. with a serious nod, “it was more romantic than any fairytale could ever dream of being.”

feedback is always appreciated, please and thank you. once again, happy birthday to my best friend, forever looking at the moon and thinking of you.

#mason mount fic #mason mount x you #mason mount x reader #mason mount #mason mount imagine #mason mount fluff

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mayhemstories · 4 months ago

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Prototype: Love - chapter index!

check it out on ao3 here!

"You are a detective from New York who gets transferred to Detroit during the android uprisings to work on the deviant task force with Connor and Hank. Connor is… Connor. Quickly, you realise that situation is much more complicated than you had imagined. How will your difficult history with androids influence your ability to work on the case? And what about the growing feelings between you and the android sent by CyberLife?"

part one - "i have only known you since Monday" chapter 1: first impressions - 1.1 // ao3 chapter 2: first glances - 1.2 // ao3 chapter 3: first missions - 1.3 // ao3

part two - "already loved you on Tuesday" chapter 4: do not - 2.1 // ao3 chapter 5: count - 2.2 // ao3 chapter 6: you(r) chickens - 2.3 // ao3 chapter 7: before they hatch. - 2.4 // ao3

part three - "you warned me on a Wednesday, said your love would hurt" chapter 8: information - 3.1 // ao3 chapter 9: relativity - 3.2 // ao3 chapter 10: gravity - 3.3 // ao3

updates every two weeks!

#prototype love #pl #detroit become human #dbh connor #connor rk800 #dbh connor / reader #dbh connor x reader #connor rk800 x reader #connor rk800 / reader

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anika-ann · 1 year ago

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Back and Forth - part 3.2

Part 3 - Bounce Back - 2/2

Type: series; agent!reader, inhuman!reader

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 14000

Chapter summary: In which you have to survive the charity auction and it's not easy... for several reasons.

Series masterlist

Warnings: overthinking, self-doubt and issues with self-image, A+ parenting and its consequences, mentions of (in)human experimentation, alcohol (briefly as a coping mechanism), SPOILER armed assault, language and charming Steve, because he is most definitely a warning

A/N: ALWAYS MIND THE WARNINGS; dividers by @firefly-graphics 💕; moodboard is for the vibes and does not necessarily reflect reader’s appearance

A/N2: Second 'half' of the 3rd chapter. As you might have noticed, this is a long one. But with hints of fluff. So…yay? 💕 If you wish/need to split the reading, I recommend to end a reading session at the second in-text divider 😊

Daisy Johnson, despite being the legendary Quake, did in fact have a moment �� which was enough of a shock to stop your headache from getting worse, even if your hands seemed to get a little clammy as your phone lit up with her response.

You would have done just fine without anyone’s input, you considered yourself competent enough to choose an evening gown, thank you very much. But after the day you had had so far – you could hardly believe it wasn’t even noon yet – there was a small traitorous voice of hope in the back of your head. Despite the heavy feeling in your stomach weighing you down, a dull reminder of being alone in this world, it urged you to reach out to the one group of people that once made you believe that you could share more with someone than workload or more than lust that turned into ashes and smoke once the fire had been lit up too strong. Daisy had been in the centre of it – she and maybe Coulson.

It was a dangerous game you played, indulging in the one thing you knew would come back to slap you in the face; entertaining the idea that there was someone who genuinely cared for you regardless of your abilities was setting you up for disappointment. But there was something about Daisy, so honest and sincere, that had wormed its way through the walls you had sworn to keep up for support, several inches thick and vibranium-strong. And that didn’t change, even as you had been given, not for the first time, the evidence of how volatile a faith in friendship can turn just short of two hours ago.

Knowing that Daisy didn’t turn her back to people, not even to her father after all he had done wrong, knowing she chose to see the good in people and to put her heart into nurturing it in them despite the risk of getting hurt in more ways than one, left you defenceless against her powers that had nothing to do with her genetic code. She was, even if distantly, the closest thing to a sister to you, older, due to her experience with Inhuman powers and in Coulson’s team, and younger, due to her pure heart and excitement about new things; once she had managed her powers which she had got about a half a year before you did, she became your guide and confidant; though you hadn’t dared to taint her with the knowledge of your pain.

While you had started search for the dress without her, she texted you barely a half an hour in; fresh out of a meeting, apologizing she’d only have twenty minutes before they’d be in the drop-zone for their current mission. Twenty minutes. And yet, she had made the time for you. Somewhere, thousands of feet in the air, in between preparing her mission gear, she had decided to sneak in a few minutes for you.

The knowledge alone eased the pressure in your stomach and gave way to a wholly different feeling, equally dizzying. She cared. Yes, you could argue that since she had been tasked to lead the division of Inhuman agents of SHIELD, it was her duty to respond – and at times, you reminded yourself of that, that you really weren’t special – but the fact was that she was. And she truly did care. You hadn’t been wrong to call her a friend yesterday; and Daisy-the-teenager couldn’t have had picked a better role-model in life. For most part anyway.

It didn’t matter in the slightest that Daisy Johnson had barely squeezed you into her schedule; it still carried meaning. And it would be enough, because she could be very efficient, sorting through the dresses you had considered so far as easily as if she had been slicing through the security system of the Pentagon – for a person with her hacking experience anyway.

A set of easy questions you yourself had been asking was her effective tactics.

Mission or fun? she had asked first, no doubt already knowing the answer as she went through the early picks. There was a reason why no dress had bare back, while all of them had necklines designed high enough to hide at least a strapless bra.

Me: They call it a mission to have fun, but I’ll be damned if I go without being ready other kind of mission.

DJ: Fair

DJ: Charming or sexy?

Your lips twitched in a small smile, your mind conjuring the image of Daisy’s face when she was typing the question. She was one of very few people – probably the only one – who could make you feel the teenage-like excitement about challenging authority. There was always a reason to the madness of doing so, but there was something about her attitude that always whispered of poking the bear for the sake of fun only.

Charming, you replied, almost regretfully. As much fun as it would be to see brains of some of those pretentious jerks you were about to meet short-circuit just because they were seeing an extra silver of flesh on a young woman – a thing that would make for as much of an icky feeling as hilarity – your mission was to represent, not cause havoc or seduce.

Blah. Colour-coordinating with anyone? she asked then and you chuckled at her poorly hidden attempt to fish for gossip – and at the idea of actually trying to do what she was suggesting. No. You were not going to go and ask Rogers what colour he was about to wear. Less so since chances were high that he was about opt for a traditional black tuxedo suit with a white shirt.

Me: Nope.

DJ: Come on! At least tell me who you’re going with?!!

DJ: You know this is a much of a secure channel as it gets

DJ: And you said it wasn’t really a mission, so it can’t be classified

DJ: …and I can’t find it within the system.

I’ll tell you if we survive it, you replied simply, even as laughter already bubbled in your chest, cheeks beginning to hurt from disuse and the sudden exercise as to stop you from grinning.

You should have known that she’d hack the system and go straight for the mission database unless you told her the details. Tony, bless him, threw a tantrum whenever she did that – which wasn’t too often, but it had happened before. On days when you allowed yourself to ponder, you wondered why he never told anyone – as far as you knew, that was, because no one came down on you, raining holy fire of wrath, despite it being obvious you were the cause of Daisy’s hacks – and why he tolerated it. Some days, you thought he was amused by it and felt bad for you, seeing you missed your former team, granting you connection with Daisy even if the way she went about it drove him absolutely nuts. Other days, you were sure he simply enjoyed a challenge and this was as good one of those as any – and he’d be caught dead before he’d admit in front of anyone that someone was able to crack into his system. Most days, you were content not to look given horse in the mouth.

Like clockwork, FRIDAY’s mechanical voice interrupted your thoughts:

“Agent Spectre, Mr. Stark would like to know if, I quote, you know anything about some punk kid sneaking into the mission logs again, maybe Little Miss Richter Scale, end of quote,” she stated, causing a snort of laughter actually escape you at Tony’s new and dead-on nickname. You’d have to tell Daisy that later – she’d have a good laugh at that

Me: You’re getting better and better.

Me: He’s onto you now though.

DJ: He should, he’s slacking, took him forever to notice

Sometimes, you wondered what would happen if Tony Stark and Daisy Johnson found themselves in one room and she’d tell him that to his face; but that was a thought to entertain another day.

“Thanks, FRIDAY. Tell Mr. Stark to relax. We’re safe, it is just Daisy.”

“Very well. Apologies for interrupting your free time, Agent Spectre. However, I was also tasked to inform you that Sergeant Wilson prepared enough lunch for an army and extended the invitation to join him to everyone on the team. Even to those who are currently on a mission out of state, which I find odd and, frankly, despicable.”

Even though the corner of your lips twitched at FRIDAY’s comment, your heart skipped a startled beat, a fist of cold feeling squeezing your stomach. The invitation was a nice gesture, even if not meant for you. You could read between the lines: the family the Avengers team had built themselves into, even if the second strangest you had ever seen, did not involve you. You were barely a part of the team, a temporary loan, so to speak, even as you had signed a contract. Extending the invitation to the team meant extending it to friends, to that very family. As kind and welcoming as Sam seemed, you certainly did not belong to that category.

The vibration of your phone startled you; the message as amusing as bittersweet.

DJ: Fine, keep your secrets, Ms Avenger

Right. Ms. Avenger. Case on point. You might be one, technically, on paper, but in spirit… hardly. At best, you were determined to try and prove that the way you controlled your abilities could be at least Avengers-adjacent. The harsh truth however, was that if anyone from your old team would have had it in them to become a true Avenger, it was Daisy herself. Alas, she was too busy running and flying the world with another team, protecting, teaching, and recruiting Inhumans... and saving the world in the process.

DJ: Crap gotta run

DJ: Number four is the one I think

Whoever you’re going with is gonna lose their shit when they see you, she added, once again making you snort, this time without humour.

Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen. If chances of becoming a friend to an Avenger were astronomical, chances that Steve Rogers would be impressed by you dressing up to the nines were outside of all the realms known to Thor himself. But it was a nice sentiment, you supposed; the flicker of affection towards the optimist in Daisy was a testimony to that.

Me: Thank you for the help. Stay safe out there.

DJ: You too

DJ: But from what I saw about yesterday, you got it

DJ: …Ms Avenger

Shaking your head, this time unable to stop the smile taking over your lips, you set the phone down and ordered the dress to be delivered express, and moved onto shoes and a handbag; you ignored the growling of your hungry stomach and distantly couldn’t but wonder if maybe there’d be some leftovers of Sam’s pasta to have for lunch later.

Tony was not exaggerating when he was talking about the charity auction being a mission. A mission required preparation; having documents land in your inbox along with an alert of high-priority intel relevant to your mission lightning up your StarkWatch yesterday evening, you had never been more grateful for being obliged to read up on something.

As you were putting the last touches to your make-up in the quinjet bathroom, you sent another mental thank you to Tony, because the extensive files on all expected guests, besides having potential to be useful to you during the event, gave you the perfect excuse as to why leave last preparations to the flight.

Naturally, the intel itself was a message with a bitter aftertaste, because it highlighted your role and tasks. Represent. Make small-talk. Show interest. Compliment a healthy amount; meaning bootlick a bit, if necessary. You knew the dance and it had always made your head spin in the worst way. To show enough admiration and knowledge about the world’s finest to look professional and a bit of a fan, but not as a stalker, even as there were people among the attendees tonight who would have probably appreciated a stalker-level interest and considered it a compliment.

But despite the slight nausea hitting you when leafing through the files, you had appreciated the out Tony had given you, whether it was intentional or not; because with an excuse of mountains of intel to try to learn by heart, you didn’t have to sit opposite to Steve in the quinjet in awkward silence. Or worse, trying to make small talk with him, just as awkward. Or, in the worst-case scenario – which would be in the direct conflict with one of the mission’s laughable objectives, specifically trying not to kill each other – fight with him.

And you probably would have done exactly that because there was no way Captain America himself had been wrestled into this the same way you had. They might have had to twist his arm to make him go with you, but not to go. He had been given a choice and chose to attend, despite the concerns you had voiced. And you probably hadn’t been the only one, which meant Steve had to be hyperaware of the potential security issue and he deliberately ignored it. Of course. Why wouldn’t he? He was Mr. Captain America and nothing could ever happen to him; be it because he thought there was no danger and you were allegedly making it bigger deal than necessary or – which drove you all high up the wall and made you want to punch him into his damn perfect teeth or at least punch his stupidly firm pec – the threat was nothing he couldn’t handle.

Goddamn him.

You crumbled the fabric of your dress between your fingers in a firm grip as you breathed through the rush of pure indignation with him being a brave stubborn dismissive dumbass and breathed in slowly; you held your breath for a few seconds, and only then released it along with the grip on your dress. You blinked at yourself in the mirror and repeated the action, arranging your face into a neutral expression at least.

Tony might have as well come up with the idea to send the intel solely to prevent you from attempting to strangle Steven Grant Rogers before you even landed, so it would be polite to honour his efforts.

When you finally exited the bathroom and entered the main space, you found Steve in one of the seats with a tablet in his hand, the screen dimly illuminating his face. He looked up as you approached, rising to his feet almost as if on instinct, his lips slightly parted for a brief moment. His gaze glided over the dress from where it brushed your ankles, over the line of the skirt, the slit reaching mid-thigh opening and closing as you walked, revealing a silver of your leg tastefully and covering you again, then over the waist, V-shaped neckline ending mid-sternum, short sleeves with delicate frills. For a moment, the intensity of his gaze surprised you; but then you realized that he was committing the dress to memory to find you easily in the crowd in case any Avengers-related business came up.

Then, an obtrusively gentle thought nudged at your mind; he was an amateur artist. You had got a glimpse of him several times, a sketchbook and a pencil in his fingers, look distant or extremely focused on the paper in front of him. He could appreciate beauty – and the dress you chose was without doubt an embodiment of it. The glimmer of it was subtle and the sparkles sparce; in the rich dark blue blending into a purple just as dark, it resembled the sky just after dusk, with the first stars coming out. Whether he had a sense for fashion or not wouldn’t matter – the dress was, at least in your eyes, gorgeous. Not flashy, not too shiny to attract too much attention, but with an idea making up for the otherwise simple design.

When Steve met your eyes, the light of the quinjet made it appear as if there was a tinge of pink in his cheeks. And there actually might be, since his eyes lingered on the dress for a moment too long; which wouldn’t be a crime if you weren’t already wearing them, making it seem like he was staring.

“You look beautiful,” he said, the soft tone making it sound almost as if it escaped him unwittingly.

It was the most ordinary of compliments and yet, it surprised you that he had even paid it. Perhaps it shouldn’t have, as he was a product of his time – a time in which if men didn’t compliment a woman’s appearance, they were probably called louts. And yet. Even with that knowledge, something akin to warmth fluttered in your chest, a brief smile passing over your lips, the silent ‘thank you’ the least courtesy you could give in return.

If he had tried to commit your dress to memory, you’d allow yourself the same luxury. A quality black tuxedo with a faint navy-blue glint, pristine white shirt, a black bow-tie. His outfit would be but a drop in the sea, nothing that would stand out among those of other men; but you had the advantage of him being easily found in the crowd thanks to his physique alone. The broadness and strength he radiated could carry the weight of the world – and it felt like it did – narrowing beautifully into the trim waist in a ratio not even a loose jacket could hope to hide, let alone such well-fitting one which seemed to accentuate it a little more than was strictly necessary. With him towering over about ninety-five percent of people and having shoulders wider than about ninety-nine percent of the usual present company, he was truly hard to miss.

Unfortunately, it also made him an easy target who was truly hard to miss indeed.

And now you were staring and he was no doubt aware – it was impossible not to, less so with how much attention he paid to things. So you stood there in silence, awkward one, precisely the one you had wanted to avoid and yet managed to reach it in thirty seconds flat – but at least neither of you were yelling. Yet.

As glad as you were to see that Steve Rogers had clearly decided to leave whatever disagreements you had ever had back at the Tower for the sake of this mission, trying his best to be the exact opposite of antagonistic, you were not going to tell him he looked extremely good to make things even more awkward. You wouldn’t even think it, as right as the assessment was. It would be inappropriate, even as he had complimented you first. You needed to be professional. There was a task at hand.

Right. The mission.

Steve was still watching you, something akin to curiosity in his gaze.

You cleared your throat, nodding towards the tablet in his hand.

“You were going through the files on the guests?”

Steve blinked, seemingly snapped from his thoughts.

“Yes. Have you?” he asked as he laid the tablet on the seat, straightening to his full height again; it was ridiculous how tall he seemed in the low-ceiling cabin of this type of quinjets. There was a faint smile on his lips, no tension in his jaw as he watched you; he already knew the answer and he wasn’t trying to provoke you.

Small talk it was.

“Yes, Captain,” you replied dutifully. You would swear a little twinkle of humour appeared in his eye – but it was probably just the lights reflecting in his cerulean blues. “Yesterday and today. Should be more than enough to represent properly.”

Alright, it must have been humour, because the corner of his lips twitched now at the lightest trace of defiance in your voice. Then he smiled fully, the spark burning brighter, your stomach somersaulting a bit.

Who were you kidding you had no idea; he looked more than just extremely good and handsome. In a different kind of suit than you were used to, bright eyes with their blue accentuated by the colour of his tuxedo, with uncharacteristically relaxed features and even a smile aimed at you, the beauty of him seemed so surreal you might have as well entered another dimension. Which, given your experience with Coulson’s team, was not unplausible. And yet, your heart fluttering had nothing to with fear as he went to sidestep you.

What was wrong with you today?

“Well… good. I’m sure you’ll have the two remaining objectives handled as well,” he said kindly.

You blinked, neurons firing in all directions, heart leaping to your throat. Surely, he didn’t just—the two remaining objectives. That wasn’t--- that didn’t mean anything. He probably didn’t receive the same documents, his mission package different from yours as he was one of the original Avengers, the strategist.

And yet, a worm of curiosity had already chewed its way through to your brain, an itch you needed to scratch otherwise you’d go crazy. Certainly, he couldn’t have implied-

He stepped out towards the bathroom, only to be stopped in his tracks by your impulsive words.

“Can I borrow your tablet for one more moment?” you blurted out, clearly taking him by surprise; but not unpleasantly. “I just… I just want to check on some of the guests again.”

“Sure.”

With the same faint smile adorning his absurdly handsome face, he took a few steps back to reach for the tablet, unlocking it for you and opening the file with individual documents for you to browse before taking his leave.

You weren’t sure why you needed to check – if you were a sucker for pain, needing to know your assumption he had only received three objectives was correct – but you opened the mission overview anyway.

A lump grew in your throat as you skimmed through the document, your stomach suddenly unbearably warm.

He didn’t mean it. He forgot there were four not three objectives, a sharp voice in your head argued, instantly opposed by another, even if less insistent, reminding you that Captain Rogers was believed to have eidetic memory and you had seen his impressive memory indeed in action before.

It didn’t matter. You were making a big deal out of nothing; and ocne you came back from this excuse of a mission, you needed to have your heart checked, because the irregularities in rhythm and the palpitations upon simply reading had to signal an underlying health issue.

But it was right there, in his device, in one of the documents he had just been reading through. The overview.

Location.

Time.

Two names.

Four objectives.

Four objectives which were no doubt written down by Tony, given the choice of words and their existence to begin with, because no one else would have treated an official document this way.

Make Avengers look good; Look good; Have fun (includes using Stark/Avengers card in the auction); Try not to kill each other.

You felt your cheeks heat up even though there was not a single reason to feel that way. You were a grown woman. You had been complimented countless times before, in much more flattering ways, though less playful ones. Steve was just being… polite. And a little teasing, trying to put you at ease, probably thinking you couldn’t handle yourself, having been informed about your… reluctance to attend the auction. His niceness was in overdrive since he had been literally given orders not to treat you as if he wanted to kill you. He didn’t mean it and even if he did, you had no business reacting this way.

But still. It seemed that Steve Rogers decided that for the sake of the mission, he would more than just leave your differences of opinions behind for the night; he decided to truly work hard on the one single objective that did not come easily to him. There was no other reason for that, but despite your better judgement, it brought a ghost of a smile to your face, one that felt a little stupid.

As you heard him open the door, you were quick to close the document and tap on a random one concerning the guests, just in case Steve would want to check. You pretended that you were too immersed in reading to address him as he walked to you, but there was no need.

The gentle swing of the quinjet slowing down made you forget about whatever he had been trying to imply alarmingly fast.

You were almost there; in the lion’s den. It was time to pull yourself together, be the picture perfect this mission required even if you were not. Just because your idea of a useful mission was different, you wouldn’t treat this one with any less focus or professionalism; even if you’d rather find yourself tied-up and gagged an abandoned warehouse in a middle of nowhere, with no back-up in sight, than kept a fake smile plastered to your face for hours.

Avenger or not, your task was to represent. And so you would, conveniently with the man who represented the goals and values of the team better than anyone else ever could. You’d do your best to support him in that, and you’d do so while fulfilling all the objectives of the mission indeed, even if you doubted that you’d be any better than an accessory the size of Steve’s cufflink. You doubted that Steve Rogers would need the slightest support in charming rich people and the staff alike.

Just for that, you mentally added a fifth objective, an objective anyone drawing up the document should have added themselves. For Steve, it would be not to be a dumbass and not to get himself hurt, hit by anti-serum, kidnapped or killed. For you, not to let any of these things happen to him.

It wouldn’t have been an issue in the first place if it was anyone else with you, but since Steve goddamn Rogers had decided to--- no. Not today. He truly was trying to be bearable. You’d meet him halfway; but you’d be damned if you didn’t keep your eyes open.

“I forgot to tell you earlier,” you murmured as the quinjet touched down on one of the rooftops on a nearby hotel, courtesy of Tony’s negotiating skills – his irresistible charm, as he would say – earning you Steve’s startled look. “You clean up well too.”

His shoulders sagged, eyebrow arching subtly, but his surprise melted into a slight smile again. “Thank you. Shall we?”

Like the gentleman he had been raised to be, he offered you an elbow as the ramp of the quinjet opened for you to step out. There was no need – you had walked on far worse surfaces than this in heels before, you had been forced to run and kick in them too – and you had to physically swallow the remark that would inform Steve about that. But you’d be an idiot to not see that he didn’t offer you an arm to be condescending; he did so to be nice. You could work with nice.

“Thanks.”

And with that, you stepped out, counting steps until you’d walk into the lion’s den indeed.

To say that functions, balls and auctions were not your scene would be a serious understatement. Not in the sense of you being unable to tackle them, no – you had plenty of experience – but in the sense of you absolutely despising them. Specifically, you couldn’t stand what people pretended to be when in that environment; and that included you.

It hadn’t always been like that; visiting events like this started off pleasant. People in luxury robes with wide smiles and subtle laughs echoing in glimmering halls were a thrilling environment before. Before you could fully understand what was happening, before you could read the room. It was only much later when you’d identify these events as necessary evil when working for SHIELD and the time between the two points was a long journey.

Your father would have sneaked into these, either in his own ways or through your mother’s alleged renown status; and you, naturally, went with them. She’d often leave you and your father to your own devices, charming guests into adoring her, speaking of her dedication to both her work and her family, particularly to her daughter, her tone speaking louder than her words in the case of the latter; contempt.

Meanwhile, your father was the complete opposite. He had you joined at his hip, a crutch for when his own tactics of pretending to be someone truly indispensable to SHIELD failed. If people roaming higher circles of society didn’t recognize him as the god’s gift to humanity he hoped to come across as, you’d come in; a charming young lady ready to take the world by storm, his beloved daughter, his pride and joy. Errors made that day, that week or past months didn’t matter – they didn’t exist at the moment, your performance always painted as perfect for the sake of the bragging.

It was a divine experience to receive so much praise, him sounding so earnest in front of all those people; it got sicker and more twisted the older you got, seeing the mask slipping on and off as it suited him, knowing that in the discomfort of home, you were none of what he described you as that to him. And yet. To be finally loved and seen as exceptional by your own father, the one person who had always believed in you and told you so; who wouldn’t want that? Just a taste; like melting hot chocolate on your tongue, thoroughly warming your very being, the softest of blankets that turned scratchy the moment you left the room, snatched away to leave you out in the cold reality of being born a hope and growing up a failure. But those moments, those moments you craved as much as you hated them. Because you knew they would never last.

It was one of the many contradictions of your childhood and adolescence, one of many topics of your therapy sessions that seemed to have no end. It reminded you of what Lincoln always said – that every Inhuman had a purpose and that every Inhuman’s power reflected, to a point, who they were. The way you felt you were often being pulled in two directions, loved and despised, dotted on and ignored, obedient and rebellious, to be exactly who your father had always intended for you to be and find your own path – or pretend you could, for a bit at least, to give him a glimpse of a real disappointment; all goals in direct opposition to each other. You were surprised your ability wasn’t the same as Alisha’s who could literally split herself into several images of herself. But you were hardly an overachiever, were you? You had learned long time ago that perfection was out of your reach, no matter how much you’d cry and bleed and clawed your way through to it, only to see the top of the mountain move when your fingers had almost touched it at last. And on top of that mountain; people like Steve Rogers. The man who could shove it into anyone’s face that it wasn’t that the summit was too high; it was just that they were too small of a person. That you weren’t enough.

It wasn’t fair to despise him for it. But it wasn’t fair that some of these people could insult you to your face and imply you were a lesser Avenger – while representing them nevertheless – and you had no chance to truly fight back without somewhat proving them right.

About a hundred and then some boring conversations later, encounters in which you felt your skin crawl because you hated rubbing elbows, facing fake smiles and carefully crafted politeness with veiled insults weaved between the words of those who could afford it, you were ready to take a break and you were afraid it was beginning to show too.

Captain Steve Rogers, of course, did not seem tired of pleasantries in the slightest; the golden boy still roamed among the crowds, more than willing to engage in any conversation, shaking hands and rubbing elbows indeed as if he had been born to do exactly that. Crowds loved him and that was a fact, whether what Tony had insinuated was correct or not and Steve couldn’t stand this kind environment either indeed.

You had to give it to Steve, however – and truly, you should have expected it, because this was Steve Rogers, originally a little man who could not stand people looking down at others, less so diminish someone’s worth, and he was the protector, the ultimate good guy, the perfection personified – the encounters you had handled side by side with him did not see you neglected. Quite the opposite. If someone didn’t recognize you, which applied to the majority, he was happy to introduce you, or, as it had been in most cases, he had you introduce yourself and only then he highlighted your importance to the team if anyone seemed less that impressed.

Contrary to what you would believe, his words and demeanour, however, pushed the icky sensation of the scene away rather than intensified it. Unlike your father, Steve didn’t have you trail after him. He didn’t belittle you to lift himself up. He didn’t boast about his brilliant decision to reassign you to the team since you were so useful When he spoke of you as the new addition to the team, he didn’t highlight your most recent accomplishment either, not with a condescending or patronizing tone or words that would make it sound as if he as saying oh she saved a few people just two days ago, including Natasha Romanoff, someone give her a candy.

Steve didn’t speak of you as if you were hisachievement, didn’t speak of letting you join the team, of the cooperation being his or their choice.

“We are honoured to have her join the team,” he’d say instead.

“With every mission she takes on, she proves how fortunate we are that she is one of us.”

“Her contributions to our common goal are invaluable.”

“She is an essential part of our team and we are thankful she continues to make this world a safer place with the rest of us.”

On one hand, it was almost sweet; on the other, it was irritating. You didn’t need him to earn you their respect and it should make you livid he was trying to do that, to play the hero who’d rush to your rescue. To a point, it did, because you could fight your own battles; but this battlefield tended to make you slip into a mindset you hated – made you slip into a skin you hated wearing. Still, Steve’s tendency to make it his personal mission that you were not overshadowed by him – a futile effort truly – should make your blood boil, because there he was, the world’s mightiest saviour in action again.

But the way his body language changed when someone eyed you as if you were an unwanted addition to the conversation seemed to whisper of other things than self-proclaimed white knight needing to sweep in; it expressed itself as a personal insult to him that your supposed brilliance was not acknowledged. It seemed almost as if he was gesturing to you wildly with his large palms, his voice as if demanding from the people he spoke to: do you really not see how amazing she is? Are you an idiot? Naturally, he was doing so in much distinguished manner, but that was how it felt.

You were certain someone must have got to you before Tony did back in the park, landing a hit to your head or two, causing a microtrauma that only now manifested in your entirely skewed perception and hallucinations. They must have, there was no other plausible explanation. Or maybe you had actually died; laying your life for Natasha’s would have certainly been a worthy cause. Or perhaps it wasn’t so dramatic and you had simply slipped into a coma and this was some weird manifestation of your brain recovering.

And yet, you had a feeling that if you pinched yourself, you would still feel as grounded in this strange reality as you did now, the intense surge of affection for the man still overwhelming, the satisfaction of seeing the swellheads meek and slightly embarrassed at Steve’s tone upon them dismissing you curling hot in your core. You needed to stop revel in it so much.

But be as it might, despite trying to carefully shield yourself from the effect of Steve’s very public words of appreciation due to knowing it wouldn’t last, you felt yourself grow taller than you ever had been in an event like this. You didn’t feel as obliged to smile politely just for the sake of pleasing others, even as you did smile. Despite the presence of Captain America, larger than life, you felt confident and powerful, even if this kind of feeling normally only came when you were on a mission with the target already in your pocket.

And yet, this surge of courage – and all the wondering about what an alternate reality you had entered – didn’t make the game of social chess less exhausting or brought it closer to your ideas of fun. After almost another hour of wandering on your own, tending to every conversation necessary and even those less necessary, you did find yourself in a need of a break and you liked to think you deserved one.

Naturally, fate – if there was such thing – did not grant you such courtesy.

When you finally did find yourself at the bar, it was one godawful encounter later – a single polite conversation that had sucked all life out of you, all of the little glow you felt you had gathered swept away with a single snap of fingers. It was unfair. It was unfair that your mother still had such hold on you after a lifetime of you being nothing but a bug on her windshield as she tried to drive into the sunset of her own glory, even months and months after her final abandonment.

The matter was only worse since it wasn’t even her. Just a distant colleague – her superior, no less. A few minutes, every second dragging since the moment Doctor Franklin had mentioned your mother, and you were ready to hit the bar for something far stronger than champagne.

“Ah, I knew I saw a resemblance. You must be so proud to wear your mother’s features and name. A strong woman, a survivor, truly dedicated to science, exploring the wonders of the nature of Inhuman transformation. Examining her own genetic code to be able to share fascinating facts of the uniqueness of her case. Even the draft of her study was most intriguing… pardon me, what was it that your abilities are after you, unlike her, simply acquired powers like everyone else?”

It shouldn’t have affected you; but it did. With what felt like chunks of metal in your stomach, the tickle of nausea in the back of your throat, you were almost proud you managed to hold somewhat of a smile, actually uncertain if the woman was clueless in the matter of politeness and tact or whether she was making a calculated insult.

“I’m afraid the exact nature of my abilities is classified, ma’am,” you replied. The words, even if they should feel full of vindication, tasted bitter on your tongue.

Trust your mother to finally find her exceptionality and built the pinnacle of her career on a flaw in her genetic code. Of fucking course. Making herself the centre of attention while being the primary source of that attention at the same time; what a brilliant move. Someone should give her a damn Nobel. You really were doing something wrong in your life.

So truly, you felt like were entitled to a breather as you walked away with a polite nod, trying not to throw up in your mouth as the world got slightly blurry at the edges for a moment, your heart pounding, knees feeling a little weak. You felt the sticky remnants of Doctor Franklin’s words linger on your skin, resisting the urge to rub it off.

You deserved a shot of something stronger. You weren’t sure anything weaker than absinth would do the trick and help you snap from the strange haze your body slipped into; but facing the man behind the improvised bar, you couldn’t make yourself ask for that however.

Well-aware that you needed to keep at least some face since the mission of the evening was to represent, you opted for vodka, small shot only. And despite the weary conversations, you didn’t forget: in addition to representing, you wanted to be ready to fight whoever could possibly go after Rogers. As much as you’d like to get wasted to feel actual nausea instead, something tangible and real like the burn of the strongest alcohol known to mankind, you couldn’t. Vodka it was.

You turned the shot bottoms-up, focusing fully on the hot trickle down your throat, the fire dampening all your other senses; and for a few second, it was bliss.

Until your nostrils were hit by an unfairly familiar cologne and aftershave, a deep timbre soaking into your bones whenever spoken despite how much you tried not to let it do exactly that.

“Having fun as we were ordered?”

You froze, shame, indignation and the alcohol lightning you up like a wildfire.

Great, Mr. Morality is here, you thought darkly, setting the glass down, turning to Steve with poorly masked annoyance. Annoyance which was quickly wiped out, the flames licking at your gut put out.

You expected his face to be full of judgement, anger and disappointment; but much like his voice had been, you realized, it was free of any bite or sting, simply showing light amusement and compassion, a slightly worried crinkle between his brows.

His voice had been quiet, purposely so, as not to attract lookers-on. It was a little naïve – to think he could walk in anywhere without at least ten pairs of eyes following him – but it was nice of him that he was trying not to embarrass you by publicly calling you an alcoholic.

But the gentle mix of emotion adorning his expression only made your stomach twist. It was a great paradox really; it would be so much easier to deal with tonight if he was being insufferable and judged you. But that bastard, the irritatingly handsome bastard, was being simply amazing. A much greater person you could ever be. And he didn’t mean to, probably – but he was just screaming exactly that to your face with every little action he had opted for tonight.

Not his fault, not his fault, you tried to remind yourself as he continued to watch you, curiosity sneaking into his gaze now.

Make Avengers look good.

Look good.

Have fun.

Do not kill each other.

Do not kill each other. Got it.

“Guilty as charged,” you said finally, the light tone you had hoped for not coming out quite right; but he didn’t hold it against you.

“Nothing to be guilty about,” he said, shrugging subtly. “I… might have gone for one of those myself had it had any effect on me.”

Right, you realized. Supersoldier. Accelerated healing, fast metabolism. You did happen to know he burned off most things even faster than other men built like mountains. Shorter and less broad mountains, that was.

You felt you head instinctively tilt to side a bit, contemplating what he said without spelling it out. He didn’t seemlike he needed a strong drink. In fact, he seemed perfectly like a fish in water among the sea of piranhas of people – and yes, you were aware that was a harsh judgement on some of them who were indeed rather pleasant to talk to – but Tony’s words echoed in your head.

He’s good at rubbing elbows, even if he hates it, he had said. Steve was exactly that; but apparently, he was also pretty great at hiding his distaste.

Of course that he was, you thought bitterly, even as a hint of compassion nudged at your mind; just because he was good at disguising it, it didn’t mean he didn’t feel just as sick filling the role of the most excellent companion.

“You could do it just to feel the heat,” you suggested half-heartedly, regretting the words as soon as they left your mind.

You had to phrase it just like that, didn’t you.

Steve watched you with unnerving intensity for a moment, before he seemed to shake off whatever dark thought had occurred to him, a small smile appearing on his face.

“That is true, but somehow it’s even more disappointing if that’s the only consequence, you know?”

“…right.”

He cleared his throat, your gaze falling to his bowtie as he released you from the trap of his gaze.

“Either way. Would you like to dance?”

Your head snapped back up, shock no doubt painting your face, rendering you mute. He wasn’t--- oh he was.

Despite your expression – one painfully resembling of a deer in the headlights of an off-road SUV coming at it at hundred miles an hour – he seemed unfazed, a slight twinkle of amusement in his eye barely noticeable in the otherwise genuine demeanour. You frowned, suspicion dying out as fast as it had arisen.

Whatever motive he had to ask, it couldn’t hurt the mission, you supposed. And it would be impolite to decline. You had promised yourself to meet him halfway in his attempts to be civil; and he had gone far beyond that. For the past two weeks, not having confronted you about either the flash-drive situation nor the went-full-spectre-in-a-public-park incident, that had been him being civil. Tonight, he was courteous even. Pleasant. Kind. You had no idea why he hadn’t sought you out to get answers or scold you, nor why he went this far out of his way to treat you like this tonight, but you had enough common sense not to poke even as it had been eating away at the back of your mind.

You just needed to accept it and be thankful, and needed to aid the common goal; and maybe, just maybe, revel in it and store the memory for later, even if such luxuries only burned with emptiness once they were gone.

But how could you do any different?

“Sure,” you said simply. “Why not.”

How could you feel any different when his lips smiled half-heartedly, but his eyes showed true warmth? A startling warmth almost; but it was nothing in comparison to the heat of his body when he offered you his elbow and led you to the small dancefloor in the adjacent room with only a few high tables lining the walls; it was nothing in comparison to the soft jolt of electricity that ran through your nerves all the way down your spine when his hand took yours carefully, eyes fixed on your face, checking for any sign of discomfort when he pulled you close at the first notes of a waltz.

Up close, without either of you screaming into each other’s faces, he was painfully beautiful; you knew that. You knew that already, because you had played the forbidden game of imagining what it would be like to see his face from this distance; but the reality of it was startling, a tingle of a thrill and pain at once. Inches close and miles away from reach. To be at the receiving end of the look in his eyes, painted partly by delusion and the aforementioned hits in the head you had probably suffered, was the sweetest torture.

It was impossible to ignore his firm but gentle grip, his confident lead; a wall of perfectly controlled muscle, hard planes of his body and yet its surprising softness and warmth, leaving your head spinning and sending your thoughts to an indecent dangerous direction; what would it be to feel him even closer? What would it be like to—

You’d never know. For a large part, of your own doing; for another part, of his own, because you had never met a more irritating person in your life and you had met a quite a few. He was impossible in his very unique different way – even as you knew that was tainted by your own perception – he was impossible in a way you couldn’t but want anyway.

“You’re a wonderful dancer,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, snapping you from your useless musings back to reality.

Yeah, thanks, I was signed up for ballet class about as soon as I could walk, because it should have helped my posture and body coordination in preparation for working for SHIELD before I could attend martial class lessons. Because a kid younger of six years getting punched would have been a bad image for my parents. Not that I knew any of that at that time. Anyway, I had to rediscover my love for dancing much later on-

You cut off your train of thought, swallowing the unnecessarily hostile and dark truth. Instead, you reciprocated his easy subtle smile, something inside your quivering at the casualness and sincerity of the compliment.

“Depends on the lead, right?” you murmured.

Mentally, you sighed, cursing yourself for your loose mouth.

You could have said something along the lines of you too, and it would be an understatement; Steve’s lead indeed was firm but not forceful, elegant ease without a shred of indecency, his sense of rhythm impeccable, which was much more than you could say about some of your companions on the dancefloor. But no; you chose to mention his leading skills, instantly circling back to what was bothering you – you having standing up to his lead as a Captain before and him not mentioning it. He had kept blissfully quiet and here you were, dangling the topic you should have been glad had been put to rest in front of him as if you wanted him to take the bait no matter the cost.

You really must have been hit in the head; or perhaps you were finally returning to normal yourself.

But Steve Rogers was a man of many faces and surprises up his sleeves, apparently. His smile only widened briefly at your note, eyes flashing with amusement, before a little frown creased his brow.

“Don’t sell yourself so short.”

You gulped. Again. He complimented you with such ease, as if it was the most natural thing in the world; and it seemed like he meant every bit. The way your heart fluttered at that ached pleasantly. Hadn’t it been for the sober voice in the back of your head, telling you were on a borrowed time of this kind of treatment, it wouldn’t ache at all. It almost, almost didn’t.

Because the one word you had left out when thinking about his lead on the dancefloor, having avoided it on purpose, was safe. You entered an uncharted territory tonight; you knew Captain America’s lead from your numerous missions you had been chosen for under his command. And even as you had challenged his leadership before, you trusted him on that front. But tonight was a very different thing; and still, he somehow emitted the same aura, in a considerably more intimate way.

It was terrifying.

But as much as you were taken aback, with no clue how to even respond to that, your instincts – probably all over the place, because had you been in sound mind, you would have run for the hills before accepting his offer in the first place – whispered you were safe indeed.

And if you’d turn it into a joke, you’d be even safer.

“If that was a reference to my height, I’d like to point out everyone is short compared to you. And that is with all the extra inches--- that my heels have.”

Oh for god’s-

Your fingers flexed reflexively on his arm; your hand in his would have twitched if he hadn’t held it so firmly. You did not just say that, did you? Closing your eyes briefly, you felt your face burn hot, the furnace of Steve’s body suddenly feeling like ice in comparison. Why on Earth did you talk about inches? First feeling the heat, then this, damn Freudian slips, damn his well-fitting suit and handsome face-

Bless him, his chuckle was good-natured and not in the slightest dirty – then again, you should have expected nothing less from the golden boy, shouldn’t you? He wouldn’t hold it against you and had it been anyone else, you would have been grateful, much like in any other situation. But this was him and tonight your mission was literally to avoid this kind of embarrassing phrasing.

“You know what I meant,” he said, not unkindly – much to your relief and irritation.

You hummed noncommittally, still processing this was somehow a reality you had found yourself in. A reality in which Steve Rogers was a pleasant company, kept you close and safe enough that you had spent several moments with your eyes closed while dancing without fearing you’d end up with a broken ankle, a reality where-

“I wanted to apologize.”

-he just said he was sorry.

Your eyes snapped open, your step, a second nature you barely needed to think about, faltering just a fraction. You found your footing with the very next step and perhaps not even Steve had noticed; but he for sure must have noticed the undiluted shock that overtook your features.

Yet, he held calm in the face of your awe and bewilderment, gaze fixed on yours whispering of nothing but sincerity and regret indeed.

He was apologizing.The sudden lump in your throat was the only thing in physical reality that felt real at all; the rest truly must have been but a fever dream. That and the frantic beats of your heart.

“For what?” you asked quietly.

You weren’t trying to be petty, if he truly was apologizing. You meant it.

Naturally, you had a good idea what he was referring to, but that was part of the reason why it was so puzzling; more so since he now knew what the intel was about, since he was aware who exactly you put in danger by failing. Then again, the fact you were both here despite it told you all over again that he didn’t let that bother him too much.

But even with him deliberately ignoring the threat…

Yes, he had not acted very thoughtfully, but whether you liked it or not, he wasyour superior, he had put together that mission and so you understood the frustration he had felt at the moment. Hell, you had felt it yourself – you would have yelled at yourself too. And looking back, you knew that some of your momentary view of his behaviour and attitude, of his actions, stemmed from the fact you had been disappointed in yourself too; and that most time, he did in fact realize he could do wrong and that he in fact did care for every single member of the team. He probably did give a damn about the fact that you – your spectre anyway – got shot. He probably cared about the fact that two days ago, you left a big damn opening when you projected in public without making sure you had someone in your corner.

You weren’t sure that there was any need to apologize, even with him yelling at you in front of everyone to the point where you hadn’t been able to stand it and a few tears had escaped you – because damn, did he touch a nerve – even if he had been a bit of an asshole.

Most people apologized because they felt the need to ease their conscience, to keep up appearances; but seeing Steve now, the soft and strict lines of his face, told you that he was apologizing for your benefit mainly. It would be sweet if it was so irritating.

Golden boy. Shoved straight to your face. You could never be as good as him, because he simply wasn’t human – and you were the Inhuman from the pair. God, he had his hands on you and he didn’t even try to cop a feel or anything for crying out loud. He was being kind and respectful and so damn beautiful and tall.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he said slowly, gaze intent as if he wanted to make sure you absorbed every word. “I shouldn’t have done that to begin with, but the witnesses made it even worse. And all you did was making a quick decision in a difficult situation, according to your best conscience no doubt. I might not have agreed with it, but you still didn’t deserve such treatment.”

“And you’d do the same,” you added.

You almost slapped your hand over your mouth as soon as the words were out.

This was what happened when you felt safe. You talked back. Dammit.

You could see – and feel, because his chest was practically brushing yours, something you were hyperaware of even as you tried your best not to be– him breathe in to retort.

You really needed to have your head checked out. You should have just taken the apology and cherish it, like any normal person, even if it irked you that Steve Rogers was capable of self-reflection and had enough strength to admit his shortcomings. He was simply better than everyone else. It was easy to see that with no emergency in sight, but that didn’t make it easier to accept that and act accordingly every second of the day.

Yet, you tried at least now.

“Sorry! Sorry. Don’t push it, Spectre. Got it,” you blurted out, fixing a quick smile and you would have sworn you had seen a sparkle on mischief in his blue irises under the indignation. You cleared your throat. “Apology accepted, Captain.”

His relaxed his tense jaw, gaze softening further; painfully so.

“Thank you. And I thought you knew you could call me Steve.”

Golden boy – case on point. You swallowed, unable to keep the swirl of warmth in your chest from creeping into your voice even as you knew you were diving into dangerous waters with reckless abandon by following his request.

“Apology accepted, Steve.”

If your voice was warm, his smile was half the power of the sun, heating your very bones, your heart stumbling in your chest. You should run; you should run because you were never going to receive a gift like that again and the longer you basked in it, the worse it would be when it was gone. But you had already established that sometimes, you couldn’t help but throw caution out of the window despite knowing how much it would hurt later when you’d have to go and scramble to gather it again, hadn’t you?

And so when the song blended into another, the smallest squeeze to your fingers a wordless question, you nodded against your better judgement.

Steve’s smile grew a fraction, feet quick to adjust to the new rhythm, the air around you warmer another few degrees. It was hard to let his apology and kindness linger in the air and not react to it; even as you needed to breathe in and out a few times, eyes examining his face carefully as to predict whether what you were about to say would come back stabbing you in the back.

“I’m sorry for my outburst too. I… acted emotional.” As you recalled the traitorous tears that had escaped you, you thought that to say that was an understatement, but Steve didn’t seem to hold it against you. Instead, he listened with unnerving intent to all you had to say. “Which isn’t an excuse, but I’m still sorry. I… didn’t exactly watched my tongue. I mean, I didn’t-“

-I didn’t mean what I said, you wanted to say, your voice dying in your throat at the startingly gentle blue of Steve’s eyes, your breath hitching at the sudden vice squeezing your chest. This moment, whatever it was, was becoming overwhelming fast; and you found yourself unable to force the words out.

Because they weren’t true; you had definitely meant a few things, your anger with Steve snapping you back when you had been this close to gathering intel on something that threatened, without exaggeration, his life, just because he had been outraged at… whatever, that was very real. Much like him, you had had a reason for your outburst; and for that itself, you couldn’t apologize. Not when you wouldn’t mean it. Not when he was looking at you like he’d trust anything you said. You couldn’t but reciprocate his honesty even if it should earn you an official demerit from Captain America himself.

“…I didn’t mean at least half of the things I said.”

Steve’s welcoming expression shifted in an instant, your heart already startling in reaction to the change, muscles tensing in an instinctual fight-or-flight response.

And then your brain caught up.

Steve was grinning. He was grinning with mischief lightning up his face bright, humour dancing in his eyes – good-natured humour without a single trace of offense, but maybe with a little speckle of surprise; and if you looked close enough and entertained the thought, pride.

And by god he was breath-taking, leaving you feel like you had flown too close to the sun for a moment unaware that the inevitable fall would kill you.

“Well, as long as it was only a half,” he hummed, his amusement audible in his voice too. There was a strange but not unpleasant tilt to it; almost as if he knew that if he simply accepted your apology right away, the situation would have had you run for the hills indeed. “Apology accepted, Spectre.”

You gulped, taking a wavering breath, flying just a little higher. “You know you can call me by my first name too, right?”

That was only fair, no? That was what you told yourself until Steve smiled softly and repeated himself slowly, this time with your name indeed. That was when you realized you really had caught yourself in a foolish indulgence, because the feeling washing over you was… nice. Very, very nice. His tone, his words were both indescribably nice, and so was the way he held you to lead your through the room without an ounce of indecency, and so was his proximity and his warmth. It was dangerously nice and you felt your chest, having briefly be filled with that tender fragile feeling, tighten instead.

And then Steve spoke up again.

“…and you’re probably right.”

Your eyebrows shot up, gasping; and had you any different company than a room full of important or at least self-important people dressed in black-tie attire, you wouldn’t have stopped your jaw from falling.

Did he just-

Stop the presses! you wanted to shout.

Did he just admit he himself was a hothead?

What peculiar kind of an alternate reality had you entered indeed to see Steve Rogers admit he had been a hypocrite?

This was simply too satisfying to be true.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m the best example,” he added.

You found yourself chuckling through your shock, earning a glare that might have no anger in it, but certainly emitted indignation and gravity. Except the corners of Steve’s lips were twitching.

Damn him. Damn him and his charming side. Since when did he have a charming side and engaged in self-reflection so deep?

Since always, an annoying voice whispered in your head, reminding you that at certain times, you were, in fact, very well aware that Steve Rogers was just as golden as people claimed – even if in way they couldn’t hope to fathom and neither could, not fully.

“Nah, I think it’s one of the very rare traits of yours that should definitely be copied,” you retorted cheekily, never having time to wonder if you went too far since Steve simply kept him mouth shut.

It was a good thing he did, because if he didn’t, you might get tangled in your lie; and might have to admit that you believed that while there were a few of those that shouldn’t be copied in order for the world to maintain some shreds of sanity, there were many more of those which, should they be replicated, would make the world a better place. He probably knew that anyway; he strived to be the example to all. He didn’t need to hear it from you, didn’t need to know that despite your disagreements, you felt everything but contempt for him, with respect on top of the list. And then there was the fact that you were not blind to him being literally meant to be built like the peak of man and looked precisely like it.

And still, his silence surprised you. Despite what you thought of him on better days, it was still a wonder he didn’t try to disprove you; he was full of surprises tonight.

Then again, that was probably the point.

“You know, Tony and Pepper would probably have had no problem coming here tonight,” you spoke lowly into to the silence that settled between you. “They just pushed us together to do something like this.”

Steve’s eyebrows jumped a bit, a brief smirk passing his lips.

“Well-aware. Does that bother you?” he asked, head tilted to side slightly.

You pondered his question for a bit, not sure why. You could have easily said anything, the first or the second or third lie popping up in your mind. But his genuinely curious gaze observing you as he waited for your response, his demeanour the whole evening, and his surprisingly open expression made you want to tell the truth again.

“Not that much. You’re not a bad dancer yourself,” you teased him lightly, feeling your lips permanently stuck in a smile now.

His own smirk melted into a smile again as well, soft crinkle in the corner of his eye.

“Thank you. I know I said it before, but you do look beautiful.”

You blinked.

There he went again, driving his point across; he wanted you to think, to believe perhaps, that his compliments were genuine, not a turn of speech. Why? And what could you even say to that when he kept looking at you like he meant it, the world around you blurring a bit, falling into but a background noise, years of training and his confident hold on you leading you through the dancefloor with ease still, even as the song must have changed again. Had it?

You wished conversation would come just as easy, even when emotions swirled in your chest wilder than your skirts around your calves.

“…thanks. Uhm, Tony said to buy something nice-“

“Mission accomplished, it suits you-“

“-I think he was probably sick of us clashing a lot lately,” you added quickly, almost speaking over him.

He was a lot smarter than people gave him credit for – after all, he had brought up the topic of your fight in an environment where it would have been rude of you to flee just in case you wanted to and he wasn’t called a master strategist for nothing – so he caught your attempt to deflect. And he graced it with brief silence, not pushing, letting your words hang in the air for a moment. Golden boy. Perfect. Too good.

“I suppose that’s fair,” he hummed, one corner of his lips rising higher, his smile almost boyish now. “Did I mention I was sorry?”

“Yeah... did I?”

“You did.”

“Good,” you muttered, blissfully lost in his gentle gaze, even as you had to crane you neck a bit.

The moment was sweet. Slightly electric. Surprisingly comfortable. Peaceful.

Peace.

That was a specific word. With a pang in your chest, it occurred to you that was precisely what it was that Tony intended to achieve when he assigned you to this. To begin to renew the peace that had been within the Avengers family before your presence disrupted it. And Steve had accepted the invitation with you attached to it because he saw the importance of the team holding together from the strategic point of view.

Tonight was a mission. Necessary networking, even as Steve had tried to make it feel like anything but, and necessary attempt at smoothening the relationships within the team. Yes, it was beautiful, but Tony himself had called you a Cinderella. This was but a fairy-tale. An illusion. A projection.

The very spectre of you and Steve, of you being a full Avenger.

Once tonight was over, you’d have to snap back, like you always did. And like always, the pain of what you had lost as a spectre, be it blood or a warm embrace, would linger too. Back in your cold aching reality.

But not in Steve’s; Steve would remain who he was, to the world, to his team, to his friends. To you. It had been a sweet sentiment, a good-natured attempt; and for the night, it lasted. Once again, you felt played by your own naivety, already feeling your waxed wings melting and slowly prepared yourself for the brutal landing.

You kept up your smile, even as you felt the pleasant hum in your ribcage fall silent, your eyes not burning, because there was no reason for it, was there?

“You have good friends, Steve,” you whispered, the blue of his gaze warming up with fondness as he no doubt agreed. “They might be nosy, but they mean well.”

“And they are your friends too,” he replied softly, the pang in your ribcage stronger this time. He believed that, he genuinely did. Maybe that was why it hurt so much; he had seen the worst of the world and believed in the best still; you could read it in his actions, in his expression right now.

But you couldn’t bear it anymore, your gaze falling to the smooth fabric of his bowtie, contrasting with the pristinely white shirt indeed, just as you had known from the start he would wear. Pure. The symbol of all goodness in your culture. Just like him.

You heard what he was saying and yes, it was a tempting thought you had fallen for before. That you could be friends with the team, that the others cared – but you could count the number of people who cared for you on one hand and still had fingers left. People cared for your abilities, admired them maybe, sure. But you were a realist. Even before the Natasha incident – which truly was just her doing her job – you knew and you kept repeating it to yourself, because entertaining any other possibility was dangerous: your abilities, your results or the lack of them, those were what truly mattered. To everyone. To your father, eventually your mother too, to your SHIELD team, to your fellow Avengers. To Steve too. Had those powers come in a different meatsuit than yours, it wouldn’t change a thing. You were just a casing for what they needed.

It wasn’t okay, but it was alright.

The thing was, you couldn’t make Steve admit that – not him. He was a good man – infuriating one, yes, not without fault, yes, but incredibly undeniably good in his core. All the Avengers cared for people too, you would be an idiot not to see it, but if there was one person who would try to look the furthest beyond the abilities you carried, it would be him. Perhaps that was the scariest part of tonight – of him being not only civil, but perfectly pleasant and meaning it. Because he was just that perfect.

And perfect was never in your reach.

“Sure,” you replied absently as you looked up again.

You could tell his own gaze never left your face; and he no doubt noticed the change. His eyes were roaming your features, searching, wondering and seeing; you found yourself slipping into a neutral mask, your way too relaxed stance straightening, muscles tensing.

You only tensed further when you recognized softness and understanding creeping into his gaze, his voice quiet.

“You know-“

You thanked your lucky stars when the song ended and you were allowed to step back from him with an awkward smile.

“I’m going to find the restroom, excuse me.”

You swallowed heavily upon seeing something akin to disappointment and exasperation on his face; but when you pulled away, he didn’t stop you, didn’t use his strength to keep you in place, leaving the choice – as much as he clearly not approved of it – to you. You tried to force your smile further, grateful for that if not for nothing else.

“Thank you for the dance, stranger.”

And with that, you disappeared to the crowd, well-aware that if he wanted, he could have followed, because even in the sea of robes, his eidetic memory told him exactly what yours looked like.

Getting a fifteen-minute break from people, one in particular, was more than generous and yet you granted it to yourself; because putting yourself back together took time. Not for the first time, you sent a silent thank you to Agent May for having taught you her ways of accepting your emotions as they were, locking them away for later and channel them in the right direction when needed.

If you counted your dances with Steve – even as you tried very hard not to think about them – it added up for almost half an hour of the breather you had planned when getting the drink. You needed to go back to work, back to networking, because it was getting late; you had no doubt there were still people to talk to, no matter how efficient your colleague had been.

As you walked the halls with a smile arranged on your face, nodding politely at people admiring the various pieces of art of all forms, from drawings and paintings to sculptures and installations, your gaze fell on one of auctioned objects.

You smile slipped, your steps faltering along with the steady beat of your heart; and then you forced the corners of your lips back up, nails digging into the back of your hand as you folded them in front of your abdomen, to stop yourself from running to the glass stand where what seemed like a very old artifact was laid proudly on display.

And by old, you meant thousands of years old. And you really, really prayed that you were wrong, that your mind was simply playing tricks on you to avoid the emotional turmoil of today, to-

“Son of a-”

Three more steps closer and the curse was on your lips before you could swallow it completely, heart thundering in your chest against the sudden tightness. You didn’t like to be wrong; but in this particular case, you really wished you had been.

But apparently not.

See, this is why we can’t have nice things, you thought to yourself as you released a wavering breath and took off in the search of Steve, as if you hadn’t run from what seemed to be particularly nice things yourself only a little over ten minutes ago.

You swallowed the panic rising in your throat as you caught a glimpse of him talking to an elderly couple, telling yourself that your discovery was the only reason for that. Because that would be plausible and completely valid; an appearance of what SHIELD called an 0-8-4, an object of unknown origin, was never good news.

Except you were rather certain of its origin and that only made it worse.

Steve spotted you now, a small smile lighting up his face as if you hadn’t just taken an escape from when he tried to convince you were a part of the team in the friendliest sense of the word, gesturing to you lightly so the couple turned to you as well.

You smiled wider, squeezed your hand stronger. Too bad – the Lewises – had seemed nice enough when you had read up on them, were one of the rare attendees who were here for their genuine interest in art.

“Good evening, I am so sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Lewis, Mr. Lewis,” you said sincerely, introducing yourself as the lady already extended her hand to you, followed by her husband’s. “It is a pleasure to meet you and I would be very happy to talk to you if you’d be willing, but I need to borrow Captain Rogers for a little bit-“

“By all means, Agent, don’t let a couple of old folks keep you two,” Mrs. Lewis chuckled, gently touching Steve’s forearm as she smiled at him almost motherly. “Thank you, young man, it’s nice to see bright young minds interested in conversations about thought-provoking art. Do find us if you can spare another minute later.”

“I would personally use the words lovely couple, Mrs. Lewis,” you said warmly before turning to Mr. Lewis. “I promise to bring him back as soon as possible.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” Steve added as he covered her feebly hand on his, squeezing gently. “Agent?”

“Just a small issue, I’m sure it can be dealt with quickly,” you assured him in front of them, your face growing more serious the second you turned away, your voice falling so low only his enhanced hearing could hopefully catch it. “Thought-provoking art indeed. There’s an 0-8-4 on the items list.”

The way Steve’s back straightened, a sign of him turning mission-alert in an instant, would have been a treat to watch in any other circumstance, you supposed. But not in yours. And not in this case.

As you walked away, he followed your unhurried tempo, stopping by the displays briefly when you did, as if you were simply admiring the art. His face gave away nothing unusual happening beyond a minor inconvenience; you weren’t sure if he believed you were making a big deal out of nothing or if he was that good of an actor.

“Anything you encountered before? Potentially how dangerous are we talking?”

His voice had dropped too, but barely enough for you to hear. To an untrained eye, it probably looked like a normal hushed conversation, a couple – of friends – sharing opinions on the auction items indeed. Good. You didn’t need to spread panic on top of barely containing your own.

“Yes and no, I only recognize the symbols. And I can’t tell, but I wouldn’t underestimate it,” you uttered as you gradually moved closer, the artifact now in sight.

Steve stood diagonally beside you, barely a step behind your shoulder; he could keep his voice very low that way, practically whispering to your ear, while you could keep talking almost soundlessly.

“Should I recognize this? I’m not familiar.”

You bit back a bitter smile, stepping in front of the display together at last. The item itself looked unassuming; a stabile built of plates of metal, interwoven and reaching out of the tangle like tentacles. Except the surface of the plates wasn’t smooth; an intricate pattern of lines and circles rose slightly above it, a geometrical masterpiece only a few people on Earth knew the meaning of. Outside of Earth, well; you wouldn’t dare to guess.

The good news, hopefully, was that the sculpture meant to be in one piece was broken into two; that meant that if the effect was, like with many others you had encountered, tied to breaking the casing of whatever weapon it could be hiding, it had been out for a while and thus might not pose danger anymore. But you weren’t willing to take that chance.

“I’m not sure,” you whispered, almost choking out the words, wary of one word in particular as not to alarm anyone in vicinity just in case. “It is mostly Coulson’s team that handles all the… Kree mess.”

Short silence followed, only for Steve to draw in a shaky breath.

“…are you positive?”

It probably wasn’t meant to be a challenge, but you took it as one anyway, a flare of anger rushing through your veins, because was he serious? That was genuinely insulting. You spent practically your whole post-academy service to SHIELD with Coulson’s team following the trail of artifacts left behind by the lovely alien race Kree were – in fact, artifacts uncomfortably resembling this one. So yes, you were pretty bloody positiveyou were right.

You turned to Steve and took a step back to throw to his face – in as calm manner as was socially acceptable despite wanting to just spit it out – that you were pretty damn certain, because one did simply not forget a single thing about the literally blue aliens that indirectly gave them powers. Except you never got to make a single sound, because Steve’s eyes widened all of sudden, gaze still fixed on the display you had just turned your back to and his fingers closed around your wrist and tugged you closer to him again with surprising force given how gentle he had held you when you-- so not the time.

“Alright, point proven,” he whispered hastily, stepping back and releasing you before you could question him just turning from a gentleman of the year to a lout who just… grabbed a woman and manhandled her.

Frowning, you glanced over your shoulder just in time to see a faint light of the symbols dying out, your panic skyrocketing and making you forget all about your exasperation.

Oh. Oh, that was not good at all.

It recognized you. It sensed the Inhuman in you as you had unwittingly moved closer to it. It was reacting even sooner than the Diviner had, the first Kree artifact your team had encountered, whose symbols only lit up upon being touched by an Inhuman, or a person carrying Inhuman markers in their DNA yet to be turned into one.

“Sorry for-“

“It’s fine,” you interrupted his apology, appreciating it nevertheless. Yet, your smile probably turned out to be more of a grimace, bitter sarcasm bleeding into your tone. “Well, Tony said we should bid on something anyway, right? I’ve got my pick”.

Steve’s eyebrow twitched without a hint of amusement, but he didn’t disprove you, moving to scan the room for any vendor to start bidding indeed; you automatically reached for your black-tie-attire-friendly StarkWatch, to alert the HQ.

You never got to finish the message.

Steve never got to even step out.

A tell-tale metallic sound, a clink of a grenade hitting the tiled floor had both of you snap your head to the source, losing two precious seconds by looking for where exactly it landed, startled intakes of breath taken before a scream could gather in your lungs to warn people to get down.

There was no time to react. The screams aligned with the eardrum-rupturing noise of an explosion, a blur of a movement to your right and a force to be reckon with slamming into you.

Even without his signature weapon, Steve automatically threw himself between you and the grenade, pushing you down and shielding you with his body at least. The heat licked at your skin just as the pressure wave slammed into you both, sending you flying and crashing hard into the glass cabinet, Steve’s arm taking large portion of the brunt of impact.

A jolt of electricity rushed through your nerves along with the pain, a dull crack in your head, the edges of your vision blurring. You barely registered the stream of agents in black gear cutting through the clouds of smoke and vapour tear gas. Smell of copper and iron hit your nostrils, strong enough to make you nauseous; blood and fire. Steve’s cologne; then more blood. Lights and shadows bleeding into one, the former too bright for your smoke-filled teary eyes. The noise was deafening too – shouts and shrieks of terror you knew you should respond to, because it was your duty as an agent and as a half-baked Avenger.

But you didn’t seem to control your body for long enough to as much as lift your hand to check if the sharp pain in the back of your head was an open wound or not, let alone to climb to your feet as Steve’s voice echoed in your ears, warm hands firm on your waist, prickling sensations like thousand needles piercing through your skin all over.

The pain tore through every single cell of your body without warning, but you didn’t have time to find the cause or wallow in it; darkness enveloped you completely and you sank into its thick waters without a chance to fight it, until it swallowed you whole.

Next chapter

Series masterlist // S.R. masterlist

Hope you don’t mind a little cliffhanger, hehe... as a treat for reading! I wanna say I was really excited about this chapter, sneaking in something soft and fluffy in between the angst, but I’m excited to share everything so... yeah.

I would like to take a moment or two to thank you, again, for your comments. They give me a rush of joy and I read every single one of them more than once; they give me strength to continue even when sudden feeling of ‘this is meh’ attacks me and the thoughts you share ground me back in the story when I feel like I’m slipping away from where I wanted to take it. I cherish your feedback, no matter the form, so much. Thank you 💕

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers #captain america x you #captain america x reader #captain america imagine #agents of shield #inhuman reader #agent reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanficton #back and forth #anika ann

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