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kookiebunnii · 4 years

Text

d4u || c’s get degrees

sept. 2018. this is my first time having a class with guk. we like to make bets on things to satisfy jungkook’s competitive instinct and the reward is usually food-related. i guess this quarter will be no different.

pairing: bestfriend!jungkook x reader

genre: slice of life

word count: 2.4k

warnings: n/a

sept. 2018

If there was one thing Jungkook loved, it was competition. You still remember the phase where he’d respond “bet” to anything you said, even if it made no sense.

Let’s have Chinese takeout for dinner. Bet.

Don’t forget your keys like you did last time. Bet.

If you say “bet” one more time, I’ll throw your Widowmaker mousepad out the window. Bet.

He’d always be the one to suggest playing rock, paper, scissors for the last slice of pizza, betting that if a coin turns up heads then you would have to do the dishes tonight instead, or begging you to play some new video game with him so he could 1v1 you over a large sum of five dollars. Maybe it was the adrenaline he craved or the fact that he could rarely find something he was not skilled at. However, after all the years he’s known you, he has realized that he’s finally met his match. You always watch uninterestedly as the coin lands on tails and Jungkook howls in pain over the kitchen sink. Similarly, you grew used to noncommittedly charging him $5.00 on Venmo as he repeatedly demands a rematch because the game was bugged or his character was lagging.

Perhaps the boy was known for being good at everything, but it seemed that luck was always on your side.

Breaking out of your reverie, you watch as Jungkook dashes across the apartment in search for something. While you spread Nutella over a piece of lightly browned toast, your eyes follow his frantic movements in amusement. Biting into your breakfast for the day, you hum happily as the chocolate-y flavor spreads across your tongue.

“What are you looking for e-boy?” you ask before taking a sip of the milk in your cup.

“I can’t find my penny board…have you seen it?” he starts opening all the cupboards one by one, as if his skateboard would be in the kitchen shelf next to the canned spam.

“I hid it,” you casually state, hiding your grin behind a nibble of toast.

He stops in his tracks, looking you dead in the eye before calmly replying, “And why would you do that?”

Brushing the crumbs from your fingertips onto your plate, you skip past him to respond in a chirpy tone, “Every time you used that cursed thing you’ve come back with a new cut or scrape. We’re running out of my favorite Hello Kitty band-aids, so I’ve decided you need a break from your precious board.”

He seems to be ready to retort something back in response, but with one look at his right arm he’s forced to agree that maybe he should rely on his own two legs for the next week or two. Huffing indignantly, he grabs the other piece of toast you’ve left for him on the plate and begins spreading generous amounts of the hazelnut spread while you get ready for class.

Surprisingly, you and Jungkook have the same class this quarter on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Since the two of you were different majors, you never really discussed schedules with him and only ever really asked about his classes to know when you should expect him to be at home. However, it turns out that this class in question is notorious for being an easy pick to fulfill a GE requirement all students had to complete for graduation, so you couldn’t say it was a complete surprise that the two of you were simultaneously enrolled.

Minutes later, you cover your mouth as you yawn at the doorway, watching Jungkook sling his backpack over his shoulder. He freezes, mumbling something that you assume is a list of all the things he needed for the day to ensure that he doesn’t forget anything.

As he does this mental recital, you reach up and smooth out some hair sticking up at the top of his head. He’s rather tall, so you do your best to tip-toe and ensure that the gel in his hair is adequately spread over his brown locks to make him look as presentable as possible—which you admit must be tough for the poor gel product. He flicks you gently on the forehead as soon as he notices you holding in your laughter over this thought.

“I know you’re thinking something funny about me again. Stop.”

You give him your most innocent smile before heading out the door, slipping your earbuds in to listen to your regular “commute tunes” playlist.

After the short bus ride, he gently bumps into your side to get your attention. You pull out your earbuds and give him a questioning look and soft shoulder bump of your own. Based on the mischievous look on his face, you knew that the premonition you had this morning about Jungkook’s competitiveness was a warning sign.

“Since we have the same class this quarter, how about we bet on who will get the higher grade?” he grins happily, his whole body seemingly lit with excitement.

“Are you sure, Mr. Film Studies major? This is a philosophy class,” you quip, watching as masses of students trickle around the two of you like slippery salmon in a never-ending stream.

“It’s not like you’d have an edge either Miss International Business major” he laughs, and you can hear the confident tone in his voice. Jungkook genuinely thinks he has a chance.

How cute.

Right before you two enter through the classroom door, you pull him aside. The confident way he leans back to look at you tells you that he knew you wouldn’t be able to reject his offer. You never backed down on his challenges, and that’s why he liked you so much.

“Loser treats winner to Korean BBQ,” you state plainly, casually glancing down at your phone to check the time. Two minutes before class starts.

“Sure.”

Satisfied, you head into class and look around for two empty seats that were side-by-side. It wasn’t a habit that you were used to, since you rarely had friends in your university courses. However, with Jungkook beside you, it felt like a natural and customary reaction to scan the room for two empty seats instead of one. It was like pulling out two plates for dinner every night, stopping at a bakery when your cravings hit to buy your favorite dessert and a slice of banana bread to-go, or sending him a meme as you scroll through Reddit that you knew would make him laugh. You were unconsciously conscious of him.

The weeks passed like a summer’s breeze, so enjoyable that you’re left awestruck until it’s over. You enjoyed dodging around Jungkook’s questions whenever he struggled with the homework, watching him nap on his notebook while you took lecture notes, and distracting him with text messages when you didn’t want to pay attention in class so that he wouldn’t be able to either. It was almost like high school again, back when you used to be able to spend time with him and mess around in class with the teacher being none the wiser. Before long, finals had come around and you were feeling a little nervous to say the least. Jungkook refused to tell you what he got on the midterm, and by extension his grade in the course, thereby keeping you in the dark. Your grade wasn’t terrible, but you knew that Jungkook wasn’t a complete dummy because he always performed well when he was focused. Free Korean BBQ could do that to a man.

“Do you want to study together?” you ask, finding him laying on the couch and playing a racing game on his phone. You watch as his round eyes focus on the screen intently, waiting for him to blink.

“Sure. I’m not helping you though.”

You laugh, bringing your face close enough that it was right above the phone in his hands. Making weird faces to distract him from his game, you reply, “As if. I’m just checking to see how behind you are in this class.”

He finishes and tosses his phone on the tabletop. Looking at you disinterestedly, he pinches one of your cheeks and gets up when you wiggle out of his grasp. It looks like he’s going to get his stuff, so you head into your own room to prepare your books for a productive study session.

One of the highlights of your university was its library. You always came here to study instead of studying at home or going to a café. Being at home was sometimes distracting, especially when you could hear Jungkook roasting his team over voice chat well into the late night. Given how much you were consuming at your new barista job, you also decided to avoid places with delicious pastries, lest you wanted more feelings of disappointment during your next weigh-in at the doctor’s.

Finding a table with space for two, you sit down and begin pulling all of your supplies out of your backpack. Your enjoyed studying with a particular organization of notes and texts, so you had your favorite animal post-its on hand. Using them to indicate the beginning of your lecture notes, you begin going through what you’ve written with a light yellow highlighter. After doing this for a few pages, you peek at Jungkook’s work to find him doodling in the margins.

Leaning over, you draw a cute stick figure pointing to Jungkook’s doodle in awe. To get the full effect, you include a speech bubble of the character saying “WOW!”

He smiles before giving your stick figure a gorgeous mustache and top hat.

Surprisingly, the two of you get a lot done that day. You expected to be consistently distracted, but Jungkook kept to himself whenever he was really focused. Maybe he was always like this with studies he was interested in, but either way you quite liked how focused he was being. His wide eyes were trained on the text in front of him as he absentmindedly tapped his pen against his cheek in thought. Once in a while the pen tilts dangerously close to his mouth, and as you catch him proceeding to take an unconscious bite of the cap, you pull his hand away in alarm.

“You have a habit of putting things in your mouth. Perhaps you’re into that, but for your health let’s not,” you chastise, pulling the pen out of his grasp and tapping him on the head with it.

Grinning, he proceeds to try and bite your shoulder. You almost screech in alarm at his attack before remembering that you’re in a very public library with students already taking notice of the way you were practically falling out of your chair in horror. Clearing your throat and straightening your jacket, you give Jungkook a dirty look before turning away to focus on your textbook again.

Finals turned out to be much easier than you anticipated, which matched up to the past experiences you’d gathered from previous students of the course. It was clear to you that you and Jungkook had over-studied, but what captured your interest with greater intensity was the final grade in the course. As you happily noted the bright 97.6% flashing back at you on the screen, you could practically taste the yummy samgyeopsal on your tongue. Guess what makes food even better? When it’s free!

You slide over to Jungkook’s room and peek inside, hoping he wasn’t in the middle of a game. Luck finds you again when you witness him exiting out of the League of Legends application on his setup and spinning around in his bright orange gamer chair to greet your new intrusion. He quickly pulls his headset off to hear you better, to which you respond by diving face-first onto his bed and rolling up in his blanket like Y/N burrito just to bother him. When he makes a sound of annoyance and begins prying the sheets off you, you know you’ve attained your goal and begin helping him unravel you.

“What do you want?” he prods you off the bed so he can redo his sheets.

“Have you seen your PHIL grade yet?” you begin pretend-boxing with his back as the punching bag. He doesn’t seem to like this very much either, because he quickly spins around and grabs onto your fists to stop you.

“I have. Guess you’re taking me to KBBQ tonight?” he tries to tickle you out of spite, but you know he’s in a good mood. You’re rarely this playful with him, preferring to silently annoy him or treat him more like a troublesome younger brother to look out for. But what can you say? A free dinner peaks your mood.

“What’d you get then smartass?”

He pretends to think for a bit with his hand on his chin, “You first.”

Confidently, you stand up to him and puff your chest out in pride while jabbing his chest with each digit that comes out of your mouth.

“97.6% baby. Anyways, there’s this new spot 15 minutes away Luce told me about, I think you should treat me there-”

“Hm, 97.7% here baby,” a smirk sliding easily across his features as he mocks your previous tone, “What was that about a new place?”

Wide-eyed, you demand to see his grade on the university’s portal page. There’s no way this slick kid managed to get a higher grade than you…especially by a tiny percentage point! He’s got to be joking, maybe betting that you wouldn’t actually fact-check his claims or something…

Alas, as he shows you his screen while laughing in crazed triumph, you feel like breaking his obnoxious rainbow-lit keyboard as he runs around his room doing victory laps. You always thought luck would be on your side, especially when it came to studies, but perhaps you had used up all your free passes this year.

Breezing past him, you head to your room to find a light coat for the evening and your car keys. Jungkook seems to find that following you as you complete this task is entertaining, because you have to try your absolute best not to look at him as he tries to get your attention by making his typical crackhead expressions.

“Put on one of your weeb hoodies with the anime chicks and let’s go.”

“Wind out of your sails Y/N?”

He grabs you by the shoulders in an attempt to spin you around, but one well-aimed knee to the balls later, Jungkook seems to enjoy lying on the floor clutching his precious package more than teasing you with his antics.

Mental note: never make a bet with Guk again.

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suntrastar · 4 years

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abstract: chapter 3

chapter 2!! you can also read it on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 9520. i am deranged. someone euthanize me i beg you.

Author’s note: jesus fucking christ. this is so long for no reason. probably kind of poorly written. that is okay though. i really really appreciate the support you guys have given me for the last 2 chapters!! i was a bit iffy about joining tumblr but i’m glad to be here now :) please comment and reblog!! i appreciate it so much!!! ily all ok now enjoy this mess!!!

“You want to paint me?”

Rina looks at you, shocked, mouth agape, lone cherry tomato speared on her fork.

“Yeah,” you say, and smile with your straw still in between your teeth. “You in a field of flowers.”

“You want to paint me in a field of flowers?”

“Yes- that’s literally what I just said.”

The bustle of the restaurant is loud enough to drown out the rising volume of her voice. Thankfully. She’s being excessive, again- as if this is the first time she’s ever been the center of attention- but you’re fine with it today. You almost like it.

Today, her enthusiasm is almost contagious.

“I know,” Rina says “Duh. But, like, it’s just so crazy to me that you want to put me in your second solo show ever- I mean, why me?”

“Because,” you say, and almost leave it at that, just to mess with her. “Because you’re my best friend, and the whole thing is focused on people I know. And your hair would look so good with poppies, and-”

“I’m your best friend?”

“Obviously,” you say, even though to her, it might not be that obvious. “Who else?”

“That is so sweet,” she says, and leans back in her seat, dramatically clutching her hands over her heart. Rings sit on each of her fingers, gold and heavy stone. “You are too nice to me.”

She’s really milking it. But you’ll let it slide.

Rina gives you a self-satisfied smile, which you return without too much trouble. She’s so overwrought and showy with how she sits, limbs sprawled all over, like they’ve been blown into disarray by the wind. Her hair, still glossy red, is parted down the middle and made up in two French braids, tips just barely brushing her shoulders. The hair ties don’t match.

She has no best friend. She probably has, like, five other people just like you, who she calls on when she feels like it, whenever she wants company, when she feels like humoring someone. Or when she wants someone to listen to her talk.

It comes as part of the lifestyle- can you really blame her?

“I know,” you say, veering back on topic. “Bucky gave me the idea.”

You do it on purpose.

Her eyes go wide.

“Bucky?” She says, incredulously. Like she doesn’t believe you.

The feeling of being incompetent comes quick in a flash, and it takes too much to put it away.

You’re not incompetent- his number is in your phone, after all, isn’t it?

“The Winter Soldier, I mean,” you say, and the words feel all wrong in your mouth.

“No . Shut up. You are not on first-name basis with the fucking Winter Soldier.”

“Oops,” you say.

Her jaw drops.

You’re grinning too hard. She didn’t expect this from you- you didn’t expect this from you! You take a bite of your food, some garlicky chicken thing you can’t pronounce the name of, to delay your response. It gives you time to think of what to say next.

Rina waits, stunned into silence.

“We’re… talking, I think,” you say. “I asked him for his number.”

“And he gave it to you?”

“Yep.”

There’s a story there, that you won’t tell her.

You texted him a day after class, on Tuesday. Was that too soon? You didn’t care, your mind was too muddled with so many other things- icy blue eyes and different techniques for drawing wrinkles and this week’s shopping list and the best color that went with orange-red, and the laundry that you still hadn’t done.

You were too giddy to get smart with it- all you sent was a simple Hey.

All he sent back was a simple Hi.

Then, once you had read over his message too many times, you turned your phone off and pretended it never happened.

It’s too nerve-wracking. And pointless. You’re going to see him on Monday again, anyway! There’s plenty of time to text him- everything doesn’t have to be so immediate- you’ll get around to it before then, for sure.

You just have to stop thinking so much.

“I cannot believe you,” Rina gushes, and from her expression, you believe her. “You’re all grown up! I am so proud of you. That man is delicious, I cannot-”

“Do not describe him as delicious, oh my god.”

You burst out laughing as Rina raises one eyebrow, filled in dark. Her eye makeup always kills. “Am I wrong?”

“Well… no, but…”

***

Steve leaves, but Bucky stays back at the end of class to help you clean up. Acrylics again, and it’s the second-to-last class, so you had finally brought out the canvas.

Canvas means more fun, but more mess. More paint splatters on the tables, more brushes with clogged-up bristles.

Bucky doesn’t smile as he says bye to Steve, and it makes you feel a certain type of way , but you stick to business. Cleaning supplies are pulled out, paper towels are ripped from the dispenser. Bucky starts on the tables while you roll up your sleeves and start the sink, preparing to start on the brushes.

God- these brushes.

If these brushes were washed incorrectly, you would cry. They’re new, and high-quality, and the bristles are still soft and not yet frayed or discolored, and the handles are made of thick, clear plastic, and they come in different sizes and styles, and you can barely believe it, but they all even have rubber grips.

They’re really nice brushes.

“You didn’t text me back,” Bucky says.

You wish the sink was loud enough to swallow all sound, swallow you up within it.

Still, you look over your shoulder, giving him a pained smile while he scrubs at a spot of dried paint. He looks back at you, but you can’t tell what he’s thinking.

Of course you didn’t text back- thinking less is way harder than it seems.

“I wanted to,” you say, “but I got nervous. Sorry.”

You turn back to the sink. It’s a little easier to breathe without having to look at him.

“You got nervous,” he repeats, voice still so unreadable.

Is he mad? He always looks mad, always sounds mad- you can’t ever tell if there’s anything behind it.

“Yeah,” you say, and shrug, like it’s no big deal at all, like you chicken out of things all the time, like texting is always such a cause for concern. “I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know.”

Ugh.

The sink water slowly circles the drain. You don’t look past it, only keeping your eyes on the sink and the remaining brushes- it helps calm your heart, a little. Bucky is probably on the last few tables. All of the paintings have been neatly propped up on the drying racks.

Bucky painted his entire canvas yellow.

You are so dumb.

“Um, okay” you say, shutting off the sink. The really nice brushes are all neatly piled up on the counter on top of a folded paper towel, washed and drying. “What if I was like, ‘hey, Bucky, after this class ends and I’m not your art instructor anymore, would you want to meet up sometime?’”

You turn back around and lean against the sink. It’s an effort that deserves applause- you look so collected, while your heart is beating way too fast, and Bucky, its forever opposite, just stands behind a table, spray bottle in hand.

Your hands are sweaty.

He nods slowly, and it’s a victory in and of itself- the action nearly has you weak at the knees.

“Meet up,” he repeats, voice low, like a halfhearted growl. Disdainful, kind of. “Like a date.”

You wipe your hands on your apron. It’s a totally normal, totally relaxed movement. But then you’re wishing that you wore something cuter- was this sweatshirt really the only thing you had? Do you not own, like, a blouse, or something? Didn’t you just do your laundry?

Fuck, you’re being annoying.

“We don’t have to call it that,” you say. “We can just… hang out. Eat something. Go on a walk.”

You say it casually, but honestly, you like nice dates. Dates at art museums, dates at fusion restaurants, dates at movie theaters showing indie films in foreign languages. Anything eccentric, haphazard. Spontaneous.

But you also like seeing him smile, and you like to talk, and you like to be listened to- and he is giving you that.

This is a different type of everything. It’s all upside down, inside out, twisted over in itself. You have to approach it all differently, maybe it’s because he’s too quiet or too famous or too dangerous or whatever the hell, but none of it matters.

What matters is that you want it.

You’ll realign your compass.

“Okay,” he says. “I like walks.”

“Great,” you say, and go on without hesitating, because long nights have you tired and hesitation is for the weak, “I like you.”

Bucky Barnes, real, unfitting name James, clutching dirty paper towels and a spray bottle, smiles at you.

It’s wrong, but you could just bite him.

A sudden, unprompted thought hurls through your mind- you want to paint him.

***

The last art class.

It was once long-awaited, but now, you’re actually sad to see everyone go.

You buy a tray of cookies. It’s the least you can do- everyone has been so nice to you, so respectful and cooperative. Everyone has made things fun. You don’t know if you were doing anything right, but it sure as hell has been enjoyable.

Crumbs might get in the paint, but’s a small price to pay.

“Knock yourself out,” you announce.

The tray is set out on the middle table. You forgot the package of napkins back at your studio, so you gesture to the paper towel dispenser.

Then you long for the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes, because unlike these people, they wouldn’t be looking so dead at the prospect of free cookies.

You shake your head and return to your perch, tucking your feet behind the legs of the stool.

Eventually the conversations trickle out, slowly turning the room warm and lovely and bright. You listen in, a little, savor it, and hop back up. There’s nothing to do- might as well make some idle chitchat, one last time.

Shonna uses a small brush to add purple highlights to the feathers of a pigeon. It’s gorgeous- and you don’t even like pigeons- but you like her painting style and the jewel tones she’s adding amidst the grey, and the orange beak, and the washed-out yellow background she’s painting over.

“Wow,” you say, and she adds another purple highlight with a flick of her hand. “I cannot stop looking at this pigeon.”

“Thank you, honey,” she says, without looking up.

She’s too focused for you to stay for too long- you have to leave the pigeon for others. Marcie waves you down and gives you the latest update about her son, abandoning her half-painted rose while she launches into a bit of a tirade- her son wants to pierce his nose, isn’t that ridiculous?

“Hey, I wanted to pierce my nose when I was his age, too,” you say, and spout something about self-expression that makes her frown.

Ahmed chimes in. You have no idea what the blob he’s painting is supposed to be, but you like it. “I’ve been trying to tell her the same thing! These kids are modern now- these are just the things they do!”

“These are just the things we do,” you echo.

Marcie heaves a heavy sigh.

***

You head over to a few more tables, and it goes by too fast and too slow, but then you’re suddenly there in the back, with your star student, and your…

With Bucky.

“I really like how this is turning out,” Steve says proudly, as you approach them.

Then, he adds, almost childishly, “Don’t look until I’m done.”

He has a half-eaten sugar cookie sitting by his paint water.

“I won’t look” you promise, and all at once, you’re almost emotional- he is such a nice guy. He’s like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. “Don’t worry.”

Steve nods, pleased and nervous at the same time. You pointedly look away from the painting as you slide into a seat, across from Bucky and his yellow canvas.

Yellow and black canvas. He’s hunched over with a fat-bristled paintbrush in hand, adding black stripes, blobby and unevenly spaced, but still unbelievably straight.

It is all so cute.

“Very bumblebee-esque,” you say, and his forehead creases. “I like it.”

Steve smiles.

Bucky adds another line. He didn’t take a cookie. He should’ve- the chocolate-chip is so good.

“Thanks,” he says.

And Steve just smiles wider, and you almost kick him under the table, and Bucky gives you an unsmiling look that turns you to jelly.

Hat aside, he is looking exceptionally pretty today. All hair and eyes and bone structure- it makes you want to do something, like reaching out and grabbing him by the collar of his jacket. Like running a hand over his jaw. Catching his stubble under your fingertips.

Parting his hair down the middle and French braiding it.

Taking a picture- it'll last longer.

“I'm going to miss seeing you guys around.”

Steve gives you a surprised look and shakes his head. He has one arm protectively curled around his canvas, even though you’re still not looking.

“Oh, I’m sure one of us will be seeing you around,” he says, and grins.

You glare at him.

Bucky laughs.

***

The goodbyes aren’t as bad as you thought they would be.

People leave with a simple goodbye and a brief thank you, shrugging on their coats and gingerly clinging to their still-damp artwork. Marcie makes you promise her that you won’t pierce your nose. One woman who would always come to the class with a huge coffee cup sets her painting aside to sweep you into a hug.

It’s very gratifying.

Steve and Bucky linger.

Shonna does, too, but for a completely different reason.

You want to give her Rina’s contact. She probably has some painting class available, if Shonna’s interested in that sort of thing, if she’s okay with being around so much personality.

And you also want to give her your contact- so she can keep on sending you pictures of those birds.

“One sec,” you tell her, and reach for your purse, sitting on the counter.

Bucky is standing closeby, remarkably closeby, and you accidentally brush against him.

He goes rigid.

But you’re busy pulling out a pen and a scrap piece of paper, and then you’re using the counter as a hard surface to write against, shoulders angled away from him, and you’re talking all the while- you don’t have the spare second to be concerned.

“This is my email,” you say, adding a smiley face after the address. “Send me your art. And, like, talk to me. Send me your grocery lists, if you want- I don’t care. Here.”

Shonna takes it and gives you a smile. There’s a glimmer of something in it, a knowing.

“Thank you,” she says, and laughs a little, and you suddenly fiercely miss your mother. “I’ll keep the last bit in mind.”

She looks past you. Steve, standing a few feet away, holding the canvas he still hasn’t shown you, nods respectfully. And Bucky, standing near the counter, still near you, even though he’s looking at you like you’ve scalded him.

“I’ll leave you to it,” she says.

You almost ask, “to what?” But she’s already left- Shonna and her pigeons are gone.

Steve steps up fast to take her place.

You still have no time to think.

“So, this is the finished product,” Steve says with no preamble, and with a great flourish that makes you laugh in delight, he turns the canvas around.

Oh.

Wow.

You’re not dizzy.

But you will be, if you keep on looking at this- a tangle of vines on a wall, with blooming flowers in what should be the wrong colors, dappled in light from a window you can’t see, drawn from a strange perspective. The leaves are really big and the vines are really small, and then it’s flip-flopped, and he has a hot-pink underpainting that he didn’t fully cover, so there’s pink in the leaves, pink on the wall. Pink in the un-pink flowers.

“Fuck,” you say, and then go quiet.

Steve tenses.

Now you have two very strong men looking at you weird.

You should probably fix that.

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say,” you say, stumbling over your words, feeling cotton-mouthed. “There are no coherent thoughts going on in my head right now. I’m just- where did this even- how did you even come up with this?”

“I tried to do that thing you said,” Steve says, sounding uncertain. He shifts and the painting moves with him, sending pink flickering over your eyesight. “No empty space. Because it’s boring.”

What is this called, again? Artists supporting artists?

“It is boring,” you say in agreement, and your voice comes back to you, all at once. “And holy shit, you pulled it off so well. I’m obsessed with the pink underpainting- it’s everything. You literally invented pink. And can we talk about these vines? How long did it take you to draw them all tangled up like that? And the flowers- you even gave them little stems, ugh. And all the colors! And this lighting- I’m sorry, I have too much to say.”

Like watching a flower bloom, Steve unfurls at your praise, blush deepening with each compliment. It’s so wonderfully endearing, and internally, you sigh in relief.

“Thank you,” he says, and bursts into the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. “Also, we have one more question.”

“We?” You ask, and Bucky clears his throat.

You turn to him.

Already, you have a whole slew of problems- you have to sketch out an emerging idea and place an order for new brushes, ones with rubber grips, and you have to cook dinner when you get home because lately you’ve been ordering too much takeout, and you have to organize your closet, and you have to give an adequate and peppy response to whatever Steve is about to say-

You’re bursting at the seams.

There isn’t much room for anything else. Any concern.

“You have something to say, Bucky?” You ask, and waggle your eyebrows.

He doesn’t crack a smile- just how you like it.

“I do,” he says, smugly, and then says your name in a way that ties your stomach up in knots, that has you thinking of flowers and chiffon.

“We were wondering if you’re free tomorrow,” Steve says, and then invites you out for drinks, for tomorrow evening.

So you’ve passed the initial threshold of friendship, and now you’re onto group drinking! That’s exciting- and you’ll get to see Bucky, and you’ll get to postpone that tedious process of planning out a date- a hang-out, and you’ll have an opportunity to show up in something besides jeans and sad sweatshirts.

There hasn’t been a chance to show it off to him, yet, but you can dress.

Steve mentions another friend named Sam, who might join, too, if that’s okay with you.

“I’m cool with it,” you say. “The more the merrier, right?”

He has to be a decent guy, if Steve associates with him, and you like new people.

But doesn’t Steve also associate with, like, Tony Stark?

That man is oh-so problematic. He rolls out with a new scandal every month. He’s had enough scandals that he could release a line of red-and-gold-themed calendars- with the dates of each scandal marked in. Each month could have its own photo, too, coinciding with the dates.

Tony Stark, making peace signs at a court hearing. Tony Stark, wasted on a yacht. Tony Stark, in the middle of an interview where he bashes people who have absolutely nothing to do with him.

“That sounds like fun,” you say, and Steve lets out a breath of relief, “but I have to ask, about Sam? Is he, like, a…”

An Avenger? A genetically-altered individual? A prominent public figure with a stupid amount of money?

“He’s a really nice guy,” Steve quickly says.

“He’s a pain in the ass,” Bucky says, immediately after him.

***

As it turns out, Sam Wilson is not a pain in the ass.

He is really nice, but more importantly, he is funny.

Bucky texted you the address a few hours ago. You walk into the bar and at once, you’re assaulted by an excess of dark- dark floors, dark lighting, dark accents on the decor. None of it is dingy, just low-lit. It’s a nice place.

It might be a little too nice- nothing like the sticky-floored, rowdy sports-themed bars you usually hit when you’re in the mood to get hammered.

You catch the back of a head, wavy brown hair and thick shoulders, in a booth tucked into the corner. Steve, sitting opposite him, against the wall, catches your eye and waves you over.

Next to Bucky is a guy you’ve never seen before, Sam. Black skin, close-cropped hair, looking over his shoulder to flash a grin at you. Even in a simple shirt, you can tell that he is built.

He’s an Avenger, then. Maybe.

You’ve just barely slid in beside Steve, and you’re grinning and making some dumb comment about the disaster that is the New York subway system, when Sam fixes you with a gleeful look and leans forward.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says, casting a side-eye at Bucky. “I’m not joking when I say this- I was starting to think that Barnes made you up. He’s always doing crazy shit like that. Anyways, you will not believe why I’m actually here.”

You humor him, because why the hell not? “Why are you actually here?”

Already, you can tell that he has that vaguely-ironic, purposely-stupid sense of humor, which you always find absolutely hilarious. And you want to know what he means by crazy shit.

Bucky looks up at you for a few charged seconds, telling you something you can’t decipher, and then ducks his hand back down to stare intensely at his drink. Something amber, with ice cubes.

“I’m here to make sure that you don’t feel bad. Because these two fossils,” Sam says, and Steve winces, “can’t get drunk. But I can! So if you wanna get trashed, I’m game.”

Under the dimmed lights, Sam’s teeth shine perfectly white. All of Steve’s friends seem to have perfectly white teeth.

“It’s because of the serum,” Steve says, and you just gawk.

They both can’t get drunk?

Because of their fucking superhero vaccine?

“What the hell,” you say, and rest your elbows on the tabletop. Bucky’s gaze follows your arms, starting at the hems of the sleeves, trailing up to your shoulders. “That’s so… Steve, if you can’t get drunk, then why are you torturing yourself with that beer?”

“It’s for the feeling,” Steve says quietly, blushing pink, and Bucky is still quiet, and you have a feeling that this has something to do with nostalgia, or World War II, or something. The good old days.

Sam catches it too, so he buts in, quickly bringing the conversation back to something less layered, less wired.

He’s a man with nothing to hide. He tells you who he is with no hesitation, without trying to skip over or disguise anything- he’s open. He’s a war vet, too, and now an Avenger- he’s the Falcon. He has, he says, a pair of fancy-ass wings. And the coolest outfit.

“Wait,” you say, and you’re suddenly dying to know, “what does it feel like to fly?”

His eyes light up.

“You know when you’re trying to sleep, and then you randomly get that feeling that you’re falling, and your stomach does that thing?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s like that, but you can control it. It’s fucking amazing.”

He launches into a whole spiel, talking your ear off about the feeling of high-altitude wind on his skin and aerodynamics and some science-y things you don’t understand, and you get your own beer and enjoy the sweet feeling of getting buzzed on a weeknight, and as the edge you constantly have on yourself shifts, the seats shift, too.

You don’t know how, but you end up next to Bucky, in between him and the wall. Not touching, but close. Sam is across from you and Steve is next to him, and all of a sudden they’re talking about Chex Mix.

“If the Avengers were Chex Mix pieces,” Sam says, throwing the word Avenger around casually enough to make Steve’s hesitations seem horrendously uptight, “I would be the garlic chip. The best part of the whole damn bag. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah, those chips are definitely the best part,” you say, adopting a mock-seriousness. “And Tony Stark would be one of those knobby-ass, crunchy little mini breadsticks.”

Sam mirrors your expression, nodding gravely, like what you’re both evaluating is a highly intellectual subject. “I completely agree. And for Rogers- man, you’re a pretzel.”

You narrow your eyes. “Square or circle?”

“Uh,” Sam says, turning to survey poor, unprepared Steve, looking equal parts bewildered and embarrassed. “Square.”

“Great choice. And Bucky?”

“Bucky…” Sam hesitates, and the briefest smile flashes over his face before he schools his expression back into objectivity, “Bucky is one of those original Chex squares. Sorry.”

“That’s cold,” you say, and Sam smiles again, and leans all the way back in his seat, bringing his hands behind his head.

“He’s not one of the yellow squares, though- those are actually good,” Sam starts, grin growing wider by the second, and you can’t tell if it would be rude to laugh. “He’s not one of those squares with extra seasoning, either. Bucky is just one of the plain brown squares. The wheat squares, or whatever the hell. Have you ever, like- have you ever wondered what the sole of a shoe tastes like? Or the eraser on top of a pencil? That’s what those taste like- that’s what he is. Just one of the plain Chex squares.”

Your jaw drops.

A roast like that from a halfway drunk man is absolutely scathing.

Bucky just levels a glare.

He’s used to this, you think. Is that his crazy shit? That he never reacts to anything?

You’re definitely a little tipsy- this is obviously no time to get wasted, but the edge has certainly been taken off, the corners of your world having gone hazy. In a lull, you watch a well-dressed man standing by the vestibule doors lean past your field of vision and receive what you think is a kiss on the cheek.

Without thinking, you lean close to Bucky and cup a hand over his ear.

Maybe he won’t react, maybe he will, but you’re not going to give him the time for either.

“I think that you’re the garlic chip,” you whisper loudly, and you’ll probably cringe yourself into oblivion over it when you're sober, but you think he shivers- and then he snorts.

“Thank you,” he says, and Sam putters out, giving you an amazed look.

***

“Heyyy,” you say later, turning to Bucky, when time has passed and you’re no longer on the subject of Chex Mix and he’s still a little too quiet. “What’s up?”

He’s quiet and troubled, drinking what might be whiskey like it’s water. Is it whiskey? You didn’t think that people actually drank whiskey- just kept it around in crystal decanters and silver flasks to look cool, like they’re main characters in a movie.

“The sky,” he says dryly, like you didn’t say that same exact shit when you were in middle school, hopelessly thinking that it was the slickest comeback.

“Very funny, James,” you say, and he huffs, and you feel a brief flash of panic, and then you’re almost apologizing, when he grins.

You know maybe three whole things about him, but you’ll press yourself up against him right here and now, under the low light of a fancy bar, with rain sliding down outside the window panes, with his friends right across the table. You don’t care.

His friends can tell.

“We’ll be right back,” Steve says suddenly, making a very showy display of getting up with Sam. Both of them send you obnoxious grins and suggestively raised eyebrows.

Bucky glares. You can’t stop smiling.

“You kids have fun,” Sam calls, and you laugh.

Just you and him, then. The mood shifts fast, turning from one thing to… another. Bucky’s eyes reflect the window outside, falling dark and darker, and you’re slipping, too.

“You look really nice,” Bucky says, and his eyes dip down in the slyest fucking move- you’re almost proud of him for it, for having such game.

A spark of heat flashes through you, as he takes you in slowly, like he’s trying to savor it.

You opted for a slightly tighter shirt, and a pair of jeans, but they’re your nice jeans. The ones without any weird streaks of paint on the thighs. And you wear a beaded necklace, and in your ears, a pair of fun, delicate hoop earrings, dangling with charms in the shape of crescent moons.

“Thanks,” you lean back, into the wall, letting your voice drop to match the tone of his. “You do, too.”

He just stares at you, unamused. Still dark, and dangerous.

Purple chiffon, you think, and marigolds. The flower was meant for another friend, but she’ll have to manage, because now, you can only see Bucky with marigolds, with no room for anyone else.

“So,” you say, before the silence carries on and makes you do something stupid, “Done anything fun lately?”

He tenses. Again.

There’s all these things that you know you can’t ask him, things about his job and his hobbies and his metal fucking arm, which you still haven’t seen- which you’re fine with, but, like. It’s the fact that he has a metal arm in the first place- he is so detached from everything you know, and you aren’t sure if you know how to navigate it all. You don’t think he knows how to navigate it, either.

He’s hesitant, you think. But not unwilling.

You’re just going to roll with it.

”I watched a movie today,” he says, sounding so smooth that your clutch on your drink wavers. His eyes are raking you over, cold.

Red marigolds. Not the orange ones. Red marigolds with the little golden borders on the edges of each petal.

“Which movie?”

He shakes his head. “I forgot the name”

“Okay, well, what was it about?”

“Talking dogs.”

You laugh and he smiles, and then you feel light enough to float. “Talking dogs?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he takes a sip. His mouth is very pink. Layers, you think, layers and overlapping, to make the fabric look hazy. Washed-out. “They talk when their owners aren’t home.”

“That sounds right up your alley,” you say, and you’re giggly and he’s all smiley and maybe you’re being embarrassing, but whatever, because he’s looking at you like he’s never been smiley with anyone else before, and you really, really want to lean in.

You’ll wait.

***

Sam comes back with Steve a little bit later, but it isn't until you’re getting ready to leave when he brings it up.

“You’re good for him,” Sam says, while Bucky and Steve have gone to pay. Your drinks are on him- how chivalrous. “Honestly, you’re probably too good for him.”

You laugh as you shrug on your jacket. “Doubt it.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. You realize at once that he’s about to say something heavy, something concerning. “He has been through some fucked-up shit. It’s not his fault, obviously, but it’s always there. He’s never going to get over it. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. He just stays awake, for like, three whole days at a time. Sometimes he just disappears. He never tells anyone where he goes. Sometimes he does this thing where he-”

“I get it,” you say quickly, and he must be able to see your sudden dread, because his face softens.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I just want you to know- that that’s what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Thanks,” you say, and zip up your coat, and then pat your pockets even though you know you have everything, just so you have an excuse to not say anything. Sam gives you a long look, before sighing and pulling out his phone.

Obviously, Sam is trying to tell you that Bucky is damaged.

You’re not in the business of fixing things, but you’ll take him as he is anyway, because...

“Sam?” you say, and he looks up from his phone.

“Sometimes,” you start, and swallow down whatever anxiety is starting to surface, “Sometimes he’s being all quiet and moody and angsty and whatever, I get that same feeling that you’re telling me. But then, like, he just does something. Like, he’ll make a joke, or say something, and then it’s like-”

You struggle with your words- it’s like everything you want to say is there, but you can’t reach it. Sam slides his phone into his pocket, and Bucky is coming back, with Steve in tow, moon and sun, peas in a pod. You wonder if Sam makes their duo a trio, if he’s the third invitee to their slumber party, or if he’s just on the fringes.

“It’s like- It’s like, okay. Like, I know who he is and it’s all okay.”

He nods, and smiles at you, and you sincerely hope that he isn’t just on the fringes.

***

The paintings of your parents are finished- and they are good. So good. Every detail is there, every color. Every line. The wrinkles and the flowers and the lace neckline of your mother’s dress. Looking at them makes you feel so proud- it’s been forever since you were able to properly convey your thoughts onto canvas.

They’re big, too. Larger than life. You’ll have to rent one of those orange U-Haul trailers to transport them.

On a new canvas is Rina, only halfway painted. She looks good too, even though right now she’s just a head and a torso and two floating feet, because getting the colors on her legs right is harder than you thought. It’s tricky to paint the shadows and contours without her legs just looking bruised- there’s so many flower stems overlapping with the skin, so you don’t have a lot of room to work with.

You’ll figure it out.

You might be a little in over your head, actually. Confident- a little too confident. You don’t even have this painting done, and you’re itching to start on another. A possible recipe for disaster, but every time you have a spare second, in the shower or on the subway or when you’re trying to fall asleep, you find yourself thinking about it.

Not in bits and pieces the way most of your thoughts are, but a fully formed concept; a real, true image brimming with fullness, already starting to spill over into everything you do.

You have it all figured out. You know what techniques you’ll use. What composition, what colors.

You text Bucky.

Nothing crazy. You know you could scare him off, or maybe not, not anymore- by the end of the night at the bar last week, you sat next to him and bumped up against him and whispered in his ear, and right before you left he flicked the charm on your earring, watched it sway, and then he smirked- and you almost died.

You text him Hey, and then set your phone on the farthest surface you can find, pointedly avoiding it. Rina’s calves need attention- you have paint to mix.

Ten minutes later, your phone rings.

You can’t help it, you’re weak-hearted- you drop everything and dash to your phone, dodging your carts of supplies and hopping over a stack of toppled canvases that you never bothered to pick up, and pick up on the third ring.

“Hi,” you say into the receiver, slightly out of breath.

“Hi,” he says, and he sounds slightly out of breath, too.

“Um,” you say, and laugh a little, with the heady rush of nerves flooding in, “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”

“I called because I’m a slow texter,” Bucky says.

You feel so fluttery. When was the last time you felt this fluttery?

“Oh. That’s okay. I was just wondering if you... wanted to meet up sometime soon? Tomorrow, maybe?”

Tomorrow is Saturday, a day off. For you, at least- do Avengers get days off?

“Okay,” he says, and you swear he sounds pleased. You want to cut straight to something else. Skip, jump, leap over all of these steps, so you can get to what you really want to tell him. “I think I can do that. Where are we meeting?”

“There’s this little cafe we can… we can head there first, I’ll text you the address, but I have this idea,” you say, and wait for his invitation to continue, with your heart beating dangerously fast, thrumming like it might just burst through your ribs.

“What’s your idea?”

Thank you, you almost say, but don’t.

The steps are skipped, formalities disregarded- you just tell him.

It’s the perfect time- there’s that currently rare, pretty daylight that grows with each passing day streaming in through your windows unfiltered, blocked by no blinds or curtains. You pace a little, at first, right in the sun, and then sit down on a stool, toeing the smooth wood floors beneath, cradling the phone.

You start it off simple, with the marigolds.

Red marigolds, you specify, because you feel like you have to. Then you delve deeper, into chiffon and lighting and this thing you want to try out with layering, where two elements that overlap go by a completely different color scheme. Like, you say, like the flowers are red and the clothes are black, but the places where they meet are electric pink or orange or blue or something else unusual and distracting.

Save for the sound of his breathing, Bucky is quiet. You can tell that he’s really listening, probably sitting down somewhere and focusing on you, not doing some other task with your voice as background noise. He doesn’t interrupt when you go off on a tangent about the importance of natural lighting or contradict yourself with opposing statements on color choice, or when your words start to deteriorate, when they start pouring out so fast that they slur together and become less than coherent.

Your mind is going even faster- you can see the image even when you blink.

Something at the back of your thoughts tells you to stop, to slow down. You need to chill out.

But the idea is so vivid, so you can’t- you don’t, not until the idea is totally exhausted and you give a final sigh and go quiet, not until after giving what could count as an entire fucking speech.

When Bucky speaks again, he sounds tentative.

“I… like it,” he says, and maybe he’s holding his phone at a bad angle, because his voice is quiet.

“You do?” You say, instead of asking something else, with a sudden bad feeling in your gut.

“Yeah. But…”

You know what he says without him having to say it.

It feels like you’ve been punched.

The picture behind your eyelids burns brighter.

“That’s okay,” you say in response to his unsaid words, speaking too late, so that it's obvious that it’s not okay.

Your heart is sinking, as if it has any right to, as if he’s in the wrong. How did you go from high to low so fast?

You scared him. You put too much pressure on him too fast- it’s exactly what Sam said, that he’s all levels of wary and weird, and little things can set him off, because of everything that he’s been through-

Even if he was someone else, though, even if he was normal, he would still say no- anyone would say no to being given such a request out of nowhere.

Well, Rina didn’t, but she doesn’t count in this situation, does she?

“Sorry,” he says.

That hurts worse.

“Don’t apologize,” you say quickly. “It’s not like it’s not going to work now- I mean, it’ll be fine. Are you still down to meet, though?”

“Sure,” he says, too late.

***

Bucky Barnes does not like anything in his coffee.

He takes it black, black like his clothes, black like his soul, black like whatever other emo shit you can come up with.

It’s not that funny anymore.

Still, you keep up with it- you’re funny and talkative and charming and everything else, because you don’t know what else to do. The subject will be broached, it’s inevitable- you’ll broach it, even, but you still have to figure out how.

He’s subdued. And wearing his stupid hat, again, and you would give anything to knock it off so you could really see him, and he’s cautiously cradling his mug in a way that makes you ache everywhere.

The cafe is busy and decorated with a specific aesthetic, one that you would call manufactured bohemian. Potted plants and quirky photographs and drinks that all have fancy and ridiculous names. The baristas wear yellow aprons, and if you have a membership card, every tenth purchase gets you a free sugar cookie iced with a smiling sun.

Your cappuccino foam is dissolving. Sometimes, even though it’s mostly tasteless, you swipe it up and eat it with a spoon. Today, it seems like a bad idea- frivolous in the face of his silence and your unmotivated charisma and this stupid idea lingering between you two, like a friend that’s overstayed their welcome.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, and wonder why you feel so jumpy for saying it. “For bringing that thing up yesterday.”

To your own credit, you still sound confident.

He looks at you so darkly that you wonder if you should be afraid. Have there ever been others in your seat, afraid?

You’re not afraid.

“It’s fine,” he says, and continues staring at you like it’s not fine.

“I’m just- I was just thinking out loud,” you say. You feel like you have to explain yourself, prove something to him, so that you won’t wilt. “It was just an idea that I thought could be cool. I told you because, no , wait. I mean, I know that I- fuck. I’m sorry that it made you uncomfortable. That was really dumb of me.”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over, and you shiver.

He looks bored.

Which is unnerving and terrifying as hell, because you have this carefully hand-crafted, precisely-cut image of who you are supposed to be, and it is not meant to be boring in the slightest, but he's bored, and you’re going to lose it.

“I said it’s fine,” he says, monotonously, giving the sudden impression that he’s about to leave. But he’s just sitting in his seat, unwrapping his hands from his mug and setting them on the table, while your hands are on the verge of shaking. “It didn't make me uncomfortable.”

If that was true, then you wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place. You wouldn’t be stumbling over yourself to say something so simple.

It takes considerable effort to keep your gaze steady. “Okay. But I still- I just want to say a thing really quick.”

“Say it.”

He’s being mean.

But this thing has been eating at you for a while now, so you don’t care.

“Um, so, we’re really different people,” you start, and before you second-guess it, you adopt your speaker voice, the teaching voice, the smart one. He has to know this about you- you’re smart. “And you obviously have all of your own things going on in your life that I can’t even imagine, and if you ever want to, like, talk about it, I’m here, but I also don’t care.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You push on.

“Like, it’s not important to me. If you want it to be, then it’ll be, but if not, then it’s whatever. I'm not- when I see you, I just see you. Does that make sense? Like, I don’t really think of any of that other stuff? If I’m supposed to, though, I’m sorry. I… I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

You don’t get nervous often, but you let out a small, nervous laugh.

It’s like your heart and head and lungs are suspended, frozen in ice while he takes your words in. The door to the cafe chimes and a large group of people step in. Middle aged women, all wearing athletic clothes. Devil’s ivy grows on the wall farthest from you- how chic- with vines snaking forward in your direction, reaching for you in green and streaky white.

He smiles.

All you see is teeth and creased eyes and a low, uncreased brow- you want to kiss him.

“Tell me the idea again,” he says, and leans back in his seat. He crosses his arms, and you watch his forearms shift and strain against his shirt, and then you clear your throat and look away and try to focus.

You inhale and gather everything, hoping that this time, you’ll be able to make it make sense.

***

One thing spirals into another. Your words were building and building, rising like a crescendo, overwhelming you to the point where you just said it outright, and-

He’s now in your apartment.

He is literally in your apartment.

You watch him survey the area- the clutter, the mismatched furniture, the crooked posters and photos and artwork hung up on the walls. The subpar paint on the walls that you didn’t choose, the cabinets made of old wood with newly replaced handles.

The entire place is creaking, becoming worse for the wear with each passing day. You could probably afford nicer, but it doesn’t matter, because you love it here- you’ve formed an emotional attachment that goes beyond sad paint and constant repairs. Your home is cozy.

But right now, with Bucky in here, it’s suddenly cramped.

“I want you to sit over here,” you say, and facing a great window, rounded on top with those gorgeous little decorative swirls, which is your favorite part of the whole place, is an armchair. It’s a steal you found at an antique store, with little tassels lining the back of the seat, upholstered with the tackiest floral print you’ve ever seen, but it’s perfect for what you’re trying to do.

The sun is shining strong and unfiltered- he’ll be lit up.

Bucky sits. He looks on edge, and beautiful.

You want to make this easy for him. But you might be too swept away in him to make any efforts- you’re still in shock that he agreed to this in the first place, so disoriented with him being here, in your place, that your trains of thought keep on derailing.

You’re closer than you wish you were, closer to losing it.

“Perfect. Give me one second.”

You go to your room, which isn’t really a room but a sectioned-off alcove with a bit of wall blocking it from view, no door- weird architecture, but whatever, to retrieve your supplies. Tape and the neatly folded swatches of fabric and your camera.

Photography isn’t your thing, but you need reference material.

When you return, he’s looking pensive, and dazzling. His arms fall tensely on the sides of the chair, but his hands dangle so gracefully, and the light catches his face and colors it golden- you are going to lose it when it comes to painting his eyes. They’re blue, but you see them as suns.

“You look great,” you say, and he blushes. You’re ready to pounce, right now.

The fabric is a little bit awkward. It has to be draped upon him- Bucky bristles at your actions in a way that tells you he’s never done anything even remotely like this before, but you persist, and he lets you.

“Get out of the chair really quick.”

“Okay.”

Bucky gets out of the chair. You hop up on it, to tape the corners of the fabric to the ceiling. It’s a flimsy attempt, but they hold and flutter just fine.

He takes you by the hand to bring you back down.

“Careful,” he says, as you make the daunting two-and-a-half-foot descent, and he squeezes your hand in his gloved one before you make him sit down again.

You are buzzing with electricity. Another point to him- that was smooth.

The loose ends of the fabric are tricky, You try at first to tape them to the back of the chair, moving back behind him to reach. Bucky’s head stays perfectly still, and the chiffon looks wrong. It looks weirdly stiff.

So you drape one on him like planned, sort of dripping down his shoulder in a bunched-up purple river, and let the other hang freely, swaying a little from the fragility of the tape.

You move back around to face him.

“This is perfect,” you say, and grin, because this is finally happening. “You look perfect.”

He’s staring all intensely again. You want to come close to him, tell him how lovely he looks, straight out of a dream. You’re so pretty, you almost say, but you have some semblance of rational thought left in you- and so you stay quiet.

The camera dangles from its strap around your neck. You take it in your hands and power it on. The settings are adjusted, and you fiddle with the shutter speed and focus and everything else before bringing it close to your eye, expecting this dream-

He’s all tense, again.

It’s the lens, you immediately think, even though that doesn’t really make sense. You look like- you look like him when he does his things. Lenses and targets and crosshairs. How is this thought so immediate?

You’re just trying to take a picture.

“Relax,” you say, and it does absolutely nothing.

“I am relaxed,” he bites out.

He’s really not. There’s something shifting in his face, something discontented, a brewing storm. His hands are starting to harshly curl into the armrests, digging at the upholstery, distorting the flowers.

The chiffon looms.

“Fix your hands. Like, move them- no, turn them back,”

You’re stooping over to fully capture him, almost ready to take a knee.

His hands flex and stay as they are, stressed and taut and not right, and the rest of him is still so-

You bring the camera down.

***

He’s in this ugly chair, surrounded by fabric, and you’re pretty and wearing a pale pink sweater, and you’re aiming a camera at him, for a picture, but he feels like a target.

White-hot adrenaline and cold and dark dread pull at both sides of him. He feels like a total mess.

Is this they all felt- how they all feel, when he is aiming at them? He tries to do things differently, now, but the tragedy still takes place, the trigger is still fired- the deed is still done. Karma, he thinks, retracing its path, coming back to bite him through you.

You’re frowning. He wants to apologize.

You take the camera down and let it dangle from the strap at your neck. He just had your hands in his- he wants them back and wants to get as far away from you as possible.

“This isn’t working,” you say, and straighten back up, placing your hands on your hips. You look powerful, and he might be trembling from clenching his jaw so hard. “You are not relaxed.”

“I’m not,” he agrees, and you sigh and fix him with a look that isn’t pity- he’d bolt if it were pity, but steely resolve.

You take the camera off your neck, and gently bend over to set it on the floor. Then you sit down beside it, wincing as your knee makes a noise, and giving him a bemused little smile that he wants to just-

Your head level with his knees as you sit, cross-legged. Hands splayed over your lower thighs, careless and carefree. Your posture slouches a bit, relaxing the way he is not, and it's relieving.

His hands grip the chair like a lifeline.

“Why isn’t this working?” You ask, more yourself than him. “You were so- nevermind. Or, Let’s… um, wait. Maybe- Can I?”

He’s always thought of you as so put-together, a born speaker, but now you’ve been stammering and stuttering all over his heart, and he doesn’t know what to do.

You reach out with your hand, hesitantly, wavering. The scar smiles pink.

He nods- his head nods, his body is moving outside of itself, and he feels sheltered and exposed, nearly covered in purple fabric and vulnerable and sitting above you, all of him bared for you to see. Hot and cold.

Your hand goes on his knee.

He’s so alarmed that he almost lashes out- he wants to think, but you’re giving him no time to-

Your other hand is reaching out, tugging at his own, and you bring yourself up to your knees and lean back on the balls of your feet, balancing. Your head is still below his chest and tilted so he can’t see your eyes, and you’re holding his hand like it’ll break.

There’s a dry-erase board fastened on the opposite wall, next to all of the other eclectic clutter. It’s filled in with a to-do list- the words COOK SOMETHING are scrawled at the top in angry red marker. He focuses on the words as you play with his fingers.

You gently trace a thumb over the ridges of his knuckles; he’s suddenly so ticklish that he flinches and chokes on a word that he doesn’t know how to say.

You nudge his hand over to the side, drape the fingers down, and your other hand is still burning his knee, setting him alight-

You’re molding him. Setting him to look how you want, manhandling him in the softest way possible. Should this feel violating? Rude? It feels good- purposeful. He’s letting you do this, and his heart is beating hard, but he can still hear your breathing and his breathing and the white noise of the traffic on the street below, stories away.

You take your hand off his knee, and nudge at his left hand, and he thinks now, how fucking stupid this is- if it’s his fucking hand, why does he wear this stupid fucking glove?

He goes to work it off and you understand, and if he wasn’t wanting so badly to be still for you, stay here as you take your picture, he would grab you by the necklace you’re wearing and drag you closer.

The glove is pulled off and dropped to the floor and the silver of his hand winks in the sunlight.

“Oh,” you say softly, and there’s a crack in your voice, and his voice would crack too, if you asked him to speak.

There’s this look on your face. He doesn’t know if you want to hold his hand or kiss it or put his fingers in your mouth, it looks like all three and he is all unfurled, too, because he is sitting back in this ugly armchair and you’re holding his hands again, and you’re backlit by the sun- like a vision sent straight from the sky.

You fix his hands.

This feels intimate- more intimate than kissing, or anything else. This feels like skipping steps.

After a moment, you pry your hands off of his, and lean back.

Wordlessly, you take the camera and stand up, and you fiddle it and back up, back to where you were at first, far away. Then you’re bringing it close to your eye, looking at him through a lens, and the shutter clicks once, twice.

You bring it back down.

“You got it?” He says, and his voice sounds rough- he sounds parched.

You look at its little screen and bite your lip. “Yeah.”

“Can you come here for a second?”

You look up at him and he’s glad that he couldn’t see your eyes before- they’re dark. “Yeah.”

The camera is tossed to the side, again, and you walk like you’re floating. The steps have been skipped, but Bucky will have to go back to them anyway- he doesn’t like to leave any stones unturned-

And so he waits until you’re close enough, and then tugs you down by your sweater- he doesn’t want to hurt you, and he’s reaching and reaching-

You laugh or smile or do something else sweet, but he’s too caught up to tell. He pulls you down to him, and surrounded by you and sunlight and fluttering purple chiffon, he kisses you.

41 notes · View notes

grim-faux · 3 years

Text

2 _ 27 _ Sad Little Shadow

First

The hallways sat empty, much as they always were when he snuck away to wander aimlessly. Endless open passages, winding and twisting. The staircases he stumbled upon only ever go down, some ladders too, only guided him deeper into the depths of thick shadows and teases of twilight. He only ever seemed to sink perpetually into this place, but never really went anywhere at all. He supposed that was lucky, given he might not ever find his way back up with how far he delved without supervision.

Shimmering screens and television boxes gifted to him offered reprieve, but why would he ever want to leave? The world was nothing, he learned that. An empty void, cruel and punishing, which offered bitter disappointment to those intent on seeking... more. And the despair, the reality of everything he was once so certain of. In the wake of his hardest lesson, he was promised a place. Somewhere, always waiting. If he wanted it. His needs were so basic, what else could he possibly want? Except for one, which could not be supplied….

“Hey!” he called, without concern or woe. Yelling through the empty corridors, receiving no sound back, not even the resonance of his own voice. “HOI!”

No one returned the cries. No one ever called back. No one searched for him. It wasn’t like the place was dangerous, at least… not when he was around. He made it safe. He was always very careful. Regardless, somewhere or another time, the kid would run off.

That wasn’t new at this point. Every time, he did try. He made an effort. Wanted them to stay close, keep in his sight. It wasn’t hard, if the doors stayed closed. None of them wanted to stay still for too long. No one wanted to stay with him. Eventually, each and every one.

Mono turned the corner, trying once more. “Hey! Don’t be afraid!” He lowered his arms to his sides and rocked back on his heels, frown deepening. He frowned a lot lately. “Here! Where you?”

Without fail, every time. The moment he turned his back or was flat out careless, he’d lose track. They left him. Eventually. That never changed. Still, he went on calling and carrying through the hallways. The light jammed around door panels glittering, as he rushed past. Coattail flashing, feet… barely hitting the solid, hard floor. Very much a floor, in an ambiguous hallway, anywhere, in any building. Nothing bizarre or frightening here. No matter where he searched, how far he ran. It was only and always a vague, obscure building somewhere.

Resigned that the other kid was… gone. He didn’t know where. He didn’t want to think about it. This time, he had been certain it would be all right. He was all right. He could protect them! They didn’t… no one wanted him. They didn’t understand. They hated him! Gone! Good riddance!

Cheeks flushed and eyes shimmering with hot tears, he bottled up the hurt. It wasn’t hard to find his way back to that one room, and the chair. Always waiting. Perpetually patient. Endlessly faithful. The one object he looked forward to confiding his pain in. The one thing that never left him, in this lonely place.

The door was always open, as it would always be. This was his place. This is where he kept himself, where it was most safe. Nothing could find him here.

Not even….

Patches of the slate walls rupture with rolling, foul ripples of bubbling tissue. A gargantuan orb sweeps beneath the wet shutter of its lids, blinking. The ceiling too, crumbled here and there as gooey rolls of flesh hung out. As he rushed to the chair, poised at the focal of the disturbing scene, the floor splint and creaked upward. A gnash of cackling voices filled the room, in the dark shadows within the sweaty hills, teeth grin.

“NO!” Mono barked. He clambered onto the chair and held the backside, curling his legs beneath his ever wonderous coat. “You don’t look at me! You can’t Ļ̶̉ò̷̠o̴̪̅k̵̨͗ ̶͖̀Ă̷̦ ̵̮͠M̷̫͘Ë̷̬́!̶̜̈́”

The Thin Man stole his chin from the cup of his palm and gaped at the dingy, cracked walls surrounding him, the furniture out of place but the only memorabilia of the departed occupants. To one side of the wall, a long desk with a sliding door; upon it sat the smashed record player. An empty bookshelf, the bulk of its knickknacks lay on the floor, along with half the shelves.

A perfectly drab, dusty room. No weeping orbs staring, no teeth a snapping. Natural decay of plaster and paper, not the decay of bones and tissue.

That dream haunt. He didn’t like it. All dream haunts were terrible, but some worse than others, some harder to shake out of.

In a deliberate heave, he pushed off his knees and stood slowly. This room had no window and was detached from another wing of the dwelling, along with the kitchen… he supposed, social gathering area? This side of the abode was more for personal entertainment and privacy.

He flashed through the dim hall, making his trip quickly to those gathering areas and the dining space. When he insured the kitchen was quiet and the transmission scarce, he entered. The counters and cupboards received a brief glimpse, he sized up the functioning but untouched refrigerator. Aside from the dull erosion of hospitality, nothing is out of place. No crumbs, packages, discarded spoiled foods. He can feel the few starved insects gaze up at him, pleading for a bit of something, anything.

With a crackly sigh, the Thin Man searched through the upper cabinets. He picked out a box of chewy meat sticks and departed the depressing, barren space.

The child was deep-deep asleep when he chanced upon this location, and he left the little bundle in a cupboard while he went off to do his patrols around the city. He doesn’t expect the child to be present when he roamed back to this area – honest, he doesn’t expect anything of that child – yet, Mono remained in the perfectly decayed but hospital apartment. The lack of foraging did put the Thin Man off, but he didn’t mull over that at first.

Usually, when he returned from his wandering, the boy would pop out of hiding and follow under foot, or in the least peer from a shadow while hidden, keeping his distance but observing. As if some other creature might have dragged on the hide of the Thin Man’s guise, and invaded through the front door.

He took full advantage of this change, and secluded away to another room for some reading and quiet; only periodically emerging to wander through the corridors, lost in thought. Nothing in the literature he acquired does anything to satisfy his questions, nothing addressed his interests. Empty books, vacant passages – like the empty corridors he wandered, while he was only a boy. Lost. Searching. Seeking the things that ripped out of his grasp.

Not once did he encounter the child, his younger-self, in the residence. The kitchen, as he certified moments before, remained untouched. What was he chewing on? Was he even eating?

Long ago the boy left the room he first deposited him, and scurried into another room. A gaping wound sat at the wall base, beyond the edge of a drawer set. This is where the transmission cued him in, it was strongest in this small chamber. The Thin Man does not know if the crack opening goes back further, but by focusing he can discern that the wall did open through behind a large pile of discarded clothing along the floor. The connection is strongest somewhere in there.

“Child,” he crooned. He leaned low to the wall and tapped at the chipped plaster. “You need to eat something. Something that is preferably food.” He grimaced at the thought.

Children could go some (un)healthy while without the need to eat, but still he is concerned. This boy can’t resist exploring through the abode, exploring the rooms until he’s on the verge of collapse. Particularly, while he-himself has settled in for some inactive time, the child and their shared transmission, occasionally blipped out as the boy took on distance. Got away from him for the childish need for space and separation, most likely.

Not a sound nor a flicker from the child. This all began to perturb him. A fresh prism of moods, he concluded. Some new event or another set Mono off, as was the case. He was helpless to intervene while without hint or grasp of the initial cause.

Within the boards, a scuffle of something moved about. The child could be hurt, for all he knew.

“Child,” he tried as before. “This food is very good. You’re hungry, are you not?” He took the meat stick and broken it out of its wrapping. He set the piece down, not directly by the crevice but near enough. “Won’t you come out?” He knelt and tilted over, enabling him to peer into the dark interior.

No sign of the child. He wasn’t even graced by a scratching this time.

“I’ll let you alone, then.” The Thin Man shifted back in a glitchy flash, a shadowy outline trailing. The one bulb in the ceiling dome sputtered, as he turned and departed the room.

It was tempting to drift around the dwelling and ponder through this issue, wait out the child. However, Mono seemed resistant of his presence, and for that it would be best to make himself scarce. Give the boy a breather and give him space to come around on his own.

When he stalled at the main entry door, hand on the doorhandle, he was despaired that the child didn’t reappear to confront him. For the briefest moment he held there, but only fleeting. In a glimmer he dissolved, as if he was never there.

The Pale City never dried out. The roads never saw sunlight, runoff trickled down the cement walls of the looming skyscrapers continually. Even when the downpour took time off to recharge, the rain founds it way into everything; dry hollows in the walls, the abandoned clothing, even the food buried in cabinets.

The Thin Man was unfocused as he idled through the shops and offices, browsing the usual books lined on the shelves or folders jammed into filing cabinets. He perused the covers and spines, the colors and thickness of the tomes – not seeing but searching. Endlessly. He tried to reign himself back on track, but questioned where his focus should align with. The Tower was the pivotal of his intent, but where to begin understanding that. He never thought of it much since evicting it from his haven, even when he acknowledged it was ever present. He forged the barrier to repel its grotesque presence, it used his powers to perpetuate the Signal and entrap the residents of the Pale City. He and They existed and cohabitated and held a symbiotic relationship. It promised safety, shelter.

It was a cold building that eternally hungered, and no amount – no grand banquet, no endless supply, absolutely nothing – would be enough to satisfy its empty, rotten core.

Perhaps if he was more prone to speculating about his place in the world, his eventual future, he would have grasped why the Tower was so lenient with its tethers. It knew everything and toyed with him for its own amusement. He was only a child.

This outing was going nowhere. He grabbed a few random pamphlets along with a discarded shirt, and left the office. He took a roundabout way on his return, flittering through other stores and browsing over salvageable merchandise that caught his fancy. The evidence of other children was apparent in several shops, as evident by the ravaged foods or imparted speek.

Children had basic needs. Food. Shelter. The little travelers settled when this criterion was met. They did marks on the walls, warned others of dangers, told their stories. The things they had seen, the other children they met. The pack they lost.

Sighing, the corners of his lips turned down. The Thin Man spun from the forlorn spot of the wall, only suspending his impulse to flicker out for a scarce instant to peer at the far end of the aisle. In the corner and a little hidden by an eroded, tilted metal rack, the branches extend from the hollowed clothing slumped to the tiled floor.

The feet have already regressed into the pant legs, the visible hands are an ashen shade. Nothing was left of the head, excluding the appendages stretching out of the shirt collar and high into the ceiling crease above. A distinct block shape formed, with a veiny network webbed across the surface.

In a glimmer he was gone, leaving those lonely messages to speek to open air and the vacant store aisles.

Returning to the skyrise was uneventful, as it was while he was alone. No delays or stutters, always moving and never stopping – not for anything. Far better now that he was fully restored, and scarcely could recall how much of a drag it was when he first departed the Factory. He didn’t care to think of that period….

The first area he checked post entering the residence, was the kitchen.

Nothing is out of place. The Thin Man set the sack of procured items on the dining table and went to the cupboards, opening one after the other to check if supplies had been tampered with. He knows damn well this is pointless, but he was driven to confirm this kitchen was left untouched.

He’ll give the boy the benefit of the doubt. Often Mono went off and ransacked some other kitchen. That did happen. However, the boy was always inclined to some pilfering of the shelter’s kitchen, before he went off exploring. Even now, the child was present in the abode. Had he not ventured out at all?

Enough of this. The lights in the kitchen dim as he flashed, tempering the crawl of time and moving through the corridors. He traced the source of the transmission, reaching the same room the child secluded to. Once he solidified in the room, the somber gleam returned to its normal radiance.

The food he deposited beside the wall’s break went untouched. This child! What the Tower? Was he still alive?

“Child! What are you mad about?”

Somewhere within the wall, muffled scratching and a thump. Good. He was alive.

“You come out this instant, or so help me. I’ll tear down this wall!” The bulb above flashed and crackled. “C̵͍͌H̴̪̔İ̷̭L̶̫͆D̸̹̆!̷̜̓” And like that the, the dome light in the ceiling burst sending shards of glass and cinder over his hat. The Thin Man took a step back and glanced up.

Reel it back a bit. This wasn’t helping.

“Mono.” He rubbed a hand to his face. “You have to come out. You must eat something. At least, let me know that you are alright, and then, I will go away. Child? Please.”

For a very long time he stands, waiting. The static hummed across the walls, pressing at his thoughts. It was time for him to go, then? That would be for the best. If he left—

Before he could flicker, movement pricked at the edge of the cranny. The paper bag inched out, but not entirely into view. He was granted the featureless backside of the paper mask, the wearer downcast.

“It never fails, I do something which agitates you,” he crackled. “Then you scurry off and hide in a little hole, with all your thoughts and doubts crammed into your head.” He shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “While that leaves me to puzzle through and figure out how to appease your… fit. You are… bewildering.” He reached into his pocket and produced one of the atrocious plushy toys. He stooped and set the insulting thing beside the untouched – insect riddled – meat foods. “You are quite content to isolate away, feeling morose. Nothing is ever good enough for you, is it? Hmm?” He braced an arm across his thigh and bowed low, the already shrouded crack pitched into a bleak veil of black.

“Hurt’u.” The word(s) was so faint and graveled, he almost missed the speek. The Thin Man dipped down further. “D’nt mean. S’not th’ght better. Was bad. Shu’dnt. Hurt'oo. Hurt.” The boy fiddled with the edge of his coat, while he stayed huddled, as if expecting a fierce reprimand.

What… was he talking about?

“Did you have a dream haunt?” he groused. “Is that what this is all about?” The paper bag swiveled.

“Mon’ser. Tri'd take. Aam’made worse. Was pro’tek. Made n’danger.” The little heap of coat swayed with a sigh, or gasp. “Was t’hurt. N’mon’ster. E’smashed. Break’u. D’nt… n’left. Ran’way. D’ran. Not right. Th's danger. M'hurt You. Was bad.”

At first the Thin Man hung there baffled by what the boy was trying to convey. Where to begin? How did this make him an exiled wreck? He worked to put together the words, and unthread the pattern. Monster. Hurt. Break. It comes together, what happened on the stairway some while back. That event lay far from his thoughts, the encounter so fleeting.

“Are you hurt?” The boy had been so spry following the stairway incident, he didn’t think to check him over.

Regardless, the paper bag shifted in an indolent no. “Y’hurt. Did th’t. S'gone. Made go. I... hurt.”

Two wires connected under his hat, and it clicked. “Me? Hurt?” The shape dipped back into the shroud of the crack.

“Child. Get out here and take a look at me.” When the boy did not emerge, the Thin Man reached to the cranny and tapped the floorboard with a finger. “Here. Right now. I won’t repeat myself.” It takes more coaxing, another tap of his finger. “G̷͜ě̴̬t̴̟̎ ̸̺̿O̴̘̚v̴͚͘e̵̛͜r̴̬̂ ̸̭̇H̴̝͌ȅ̵̩r̴̦̈́ë̴̬́.̷̱̿” It is impossible to do anything with this child.

Finally, the paper bag and the shoulders of its wearer brave the outside air. Only at the threshold of his hideaway. The child winced but didn’t struggle when the Thin Man snared his elbow, and hauled him closer to his knee.

“Look at me, Mono. Look at me. Do I look hurt?” The Thin Man had to fit a finger beneath the boys chin to break him from his personal raincloud. The vacant cutout holes of the paper mask gawked up at him, but the child uttered no response.

“Nothing in this world can harm me,” the Thin Man stated. “I have no fears, no enemy can touch me. I bow to no threat.” Great nor small, he credited, unspoken of course.

The Thin Man never cowered in the face of his younger-self, he simply accepted that… his fate was right. It was his time to rest, while the younger-one took on the role left empty and waiting. Given how it all turned out, it might’ve been the kindest act his own man in the hat left to him.

Never lied to him. Failed in stealing him away from his calamitous fate. Didn’t do… anything. Nothing could have been done to prepare him. The man in the hat merely surrendered, and let him discover himself. However bitter that turned out.

The child Mono gaped at him with that ridiculous paper bag, tilted. He reached his free hand over to the Thin Man’s grip, on his elbow, and petted his knuckle.

With a brisk inhale, the Thin Man stole the hand away to rub at his face. “You haven’t eaten. Let’s take care of that.” When he flickered into standing, the boy recoiled a step. “Cease that nonsense, child. I am not hurt. You can clearly see that.”

The child picked his way around the insects and pulled up the meat stick thing. He kept the blank stare of the paper bag fixed on the Thin Man, as he tore off a few chunks of the food item. “Y’r okay?”

“Yes,” he rustled. “The perils of the city are minor inconveniences to me. Trifles easy enough to ignore.” He observed, as Mono shuffled in closer and crouched down beside his shoe.

“S’coz tol.”

That was beside the point, but he wasn’t about to go off on a fresh tirade. The boy hiked the paper bag up to his nose and ate, while keeping that unwavering line of sight on him. It barely occurred to him the age of that food, sitting out of its packaging. Crawling with vermin.

He grimaced when, as expected, the child held up a chunk of the stale food. The face only partially hidden, held the most deliberate expression. With a diluted stutter, the Thin Man leaned down and took the offering. “I’ll try that later,” he muttered. “Now you. Let’s find something more palatable.” He slipped the bit of food into his breast pocket and began to move away. Barely two steps, and the child was grabbing at his ankles.

“Go? S’where?” he rasped. "Not n’stay. W'leave.”

He was forced to halt, or he would tramper the boy. “Kitchen,” he hissed. “I’m going to the kitchen. That food is old.” He scooted the boy aside with his shoe and moved, unobstructed. The child was still grabbing at his ankle as he tried to walk; all he could do to mitigate this was glitch ahead, try and keep a few sprints beyond the boy.

For the longest time he couldn’t get this child out of a wall, now he can’t get that same boy away from his heels. This kid was driving him up a wall.

“Move. Mono. Shoo.” He began with checking the upper cabinets, since the child was so insistent on being right in the way of all the doors. Where were those biscuits? “Here. HereHereHere.” While unsupervised, Mono clambered onto the countertop and was hauling open cabinets. “Food. Take this. It’s right here.” A cacophony of dishware tumbled out of the cabinet when a stack of cups flipped off the shelf. The Thin Man glitched and sputtered.

Mono lunged off the counter and ducked into a cupboard.

Well, that didn’t last long.

The Thin Man dropped the food package on the counter and leaned back, knocking his hat askew as he settled against the cabinets. He looked over at the door of the cupboard, shut tight. This was hardwired, he had to remind himself. How long he would hide away this time? That, he didn’t know. He was a smidgen disappointed, but it was largely disheartening.

A murmur hissed from the cupboard as it edged open, and the paper bag peeked out. He watched the boy ‘sneak’ out and grab one of the cups off the floor. The selected cup was hefted up to the tall thin man.

In most of these buildings, the water lines remained in some functioning order. The city was perpetually operational, managed by aimless caretakers with little to no conscious thought to the tasks they sustained. Just as the electricity ran through the separate grids of the districts, not that the televisions needed electricity to fulfill their purpose.

After filling the cup with clean water, he returned it to the boy. Resolved to stay out of the way, the Thin Man clicked over to the table. He took a seat across from the provision sack left there and rummaged through his coat. The boy aligned with his most essential task, began poking through the cupboards and pulling out packages. The Thin Man tucked a cigarette between his lips and slouched on the tables surface.

From his patrol, he held a general idea of the course to take. The route was safest, but it might test the child’s aptitude with his powers. Unless the boy was suddenly receptive to assistance – exclude getting corralled in an imploding building – the child was uncooperative in all situations. Stubborn little thing….

A package of food smacked the tables surface.

He puffed smoke, observing as the boy hefted himself off the chair. The child just about tackled the wrapped food thing and shoved it across the tabletop, tearing at the waxy coating as he went. The Thin Man slipped the arm on the table away, while Mono scooted closer.

“I don’t have an interest in that,” he muttered. When he was forced to lean back due to proximity of the child, he reached over to the bag and shuffled through for one of the books. Mono merely watched him, paper bag perched precariously on his brow as he munched on whatever he finally picked out.

“Sure y’okay?” Mono mumbled, through food.

The Thin Man worked at peeling pages apart. The book was completely dry, but the sheets remained adhered like glue and difficult to work with. Some of the marks remained comprehensible, unless the damaged paper tore.

“Yes. I’ve told you this. Why do you persist to ravel that subject?” And now the child was sneaking to the edge of the table. Towards him.

“Wuz hit,” he whispered, as if he was answering himself. “Forg’t check.”

He raised a finger to Mono’s chest and pushed him back. Sort of. “No. You forget to take care of yourself. I have a not for those woes.” He set the book aside and rubbed at his eyes. This unyielding child.

Upon the moment of his inattention, the child evaded his hand and leapt onto his thigh. “Child! Get O̴̹̅f̵̢͒f̶̙͒ ̴̙͘M̵̻̆ê̵̞!̷͎͊” He latched onto the boy and nearly shot to his feet in a glitchy shadow, but restrained himself. Though he tugged and protested, the child more or less managed to get his arms snagged onto his suit. More or less. Sort of.

Mono yowled and held tighter to the thread. “How sure?” He wasn’t letting go. Somehow, he managed to get his toes locked in.

“Would you quit with that? Here. Eat something.” The Thin Man tried the tactic of releasing the boy in favor of grabbing a piece of the food. When he offered that to the child, it appeared to redirect his one-track mind. Mono accepted the morsel and plopped right down on his lap.

“B’t sure? How tell?” The child tipped his paper bag up his face and peered up at the Thin Man. He shoved the food to his face and gnawed at it.

“I took care of it. That’s how.” Scarcely, he did recall that the child should have the capability to mend his own injuries with minimal effort, but had yet to display that capacity. He had no more need for mending wounds. For the child he was tempted to try, yet he was not confident he wouldn’t… do more harm. As before.

“No more of this. You have more pressing concerns.” With the child preoccupied with eating, it was easy to pluck him up and set him back by his food. “You come first. You must eat and take better care of you. Otherwise… how will you be able to make sure I’m looked after?”

Mono drew his knees up as he ate his food, still watching. Maddening little doting hen. At last, the child appeared mollified and was fixed on his task. Once again, the Thin Man reached to the ratty makeshift sack and brought out a spare food container.

“When you have recuperated adequately, we do have a ways to go.” It was probably jam, or food paste. He didn’t bother reading labels, Mono ate anything. It was always important to make certain the items the child took interest in were edible. That was not so much of an issue, if Mono was kept fed.

The Thin Man exhaled smoke and took up the book he neglected. Before he settled in, he scooted a ways back from the table. Though realistically nothing would stop that boy, save for aimlessly wandering. He resumed picking at the pages, working to ignore the flat stare drilling into him.

At some point the Thin Man became lost in a daze, became detached from his surroundings; not quite reading but not expelled from the material. The literature didn’t provide substance, but he was not disconnected from absorbing sentence upon sentence into a blur of intangible conjectures and syllables. He missed the child drop off the table and scurrying over to him. Not until the little tugging worked up the side of his shin. He suppressed a sigh, but let it be. When Mono fell asleep, he could go… do some more investigating. When they began anew, he might chide himself for not exploring the constructed course more thoroughly.

The child climbed over his knee and scooted to his side, where he curled up and leaned against his coat. Mono just stared up, through the vacant cutouts of his paper mask. Just staring. The Thin Man did his best to ignore it and set a hand over the boy. It does surprise him that Mono doesn’t go ballistic and abandon completely… the child doesn’t react at all. That does unnerve him. Hopefully, this isn’t a new quirk; he could scarcely tolerate the faraway watchful eyes cloaked by patches of shades. He always suspected the child did that on P̶͓̅u̸͇͂r̵̲͆ṗ̸͔o̷͓͒ṡ̴̨e̴̜͋.̴͍̅

While the child was fed and pacified, he won’t bother. The Thin Man is content to leave Mono to recover in peace, he appeared to have torn himself up over this unfounded anxiety. Didn’t trust him, wouldn’t listen. It was no shock the child didn’t understand anything. He did not look forward to moving on, but it would be for the best. Mono didn’t appear to have the tenacity to keep this up.

#little nightmares #mono #the thin man #thin dad #little nightmares fanfic #little nightmares fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

Papillionlisse 3/6 (Gigi x Nicky / Jan x Jackie] - Pinkgrapefruit

[ chapter three ]

She slams herself against the back of the dorm doors, pushing it closed and humming to herself in happiness. She walked past Jan and Jackie studying at the coffee table in front of the warm fire, so they’re not in the room, but Crystal is - hunched and wrapped in her duvet, whispering charms to herself as she does wand movements with her fingers.

“If you two fuck tonight you better silence yourselves or so help me,” The brunette mutters, not breaking focus from the piece of parchment she’s wandlessly setting on fire, dousing, flying up and down and rolling up.

Gigi giggles in response. She’s the only one of them that’s vaguely relaxed and god help her, she’s going to enjoy it for as long as she can.

[harry potter hogwarts/beauxbaton au]

A/N - i love these babies so much!!! dedicated to molly for her adorable support and frey for being the greatest beta the world’s ever seen. Enjoy!

“I cannot believe I’m sharing a dorm room with two couples,” Crystal groans, her chin slipping off her hand and face falling onto the down duvet cover. She’s sprawled across her own double bed, Gigi and Nicky lounging on Gigi’s bed and Jackie and Jan on their end bed. It’s a Sunday, so none of them have any commitments although exams are coming up, and if Jackie hadn’t been pulled away from her textbooks, she would have been swallowed whole.

“I cannot believe I have to take your bloody exams,” Nicky raises her head off Gigi to whine before flopping back down. Gigi gently strokes her hand up and down the girls exposed forearm in a soothing motion as Crystal guffaws.

“Yeah, and you’ll beat us all,” Jan responds. She’s flicking flashcards above her head, using a floating charm and a lot of faith despite the room choosing this as a no-study time.

“Jan, chill.”

“Can’t. Care of Magical Creatures is a practical exam and I can only do it once.”

Most of the exams are just mocks - precursors to the actual exams that will be faced at the end of seventh year, but few, such as astronomy and care of magical creatures, go straight towards the end grade, which only stand to terrify the sixth years into actually studying. Some professions such as healer also require a proficiency test taken in the Summer, so Crystal frets quietly while Gigi teaches her the charms that never quite stuck (including a non-permanent sticking charm).

“Jan, you won’t fail, baby. You’re so good at it. And you talk about kneazles and nifflers in your sleep,” Jackie tries to soothe, forcing a sherbet lemon into the girl’s mouth, which breaks her focus and leaves the cards to fall on top of the two of them.

“Two weeks!” Crystal announces sarcastically.

“Two weeks. We’ve got this,” Nicky says staunchly. “Ou que dieu m'aide.”

“Want to go on a final Hogsmeade date before exams?” Gigi asks as she leans over the back of Nicky’s chair. She places the sharp point of her chin on Nicky’s shoulder and breathes in her coconut shampoo. Nicky turns as far as she can in the solid wooden chair, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“Of course, chérie.” Gigi flushes at the pet name - taken back to that night in the library as she looks over the table of scrolls and tomes of transfiguration and the tiny little pin cushions she’s using as practice.

“I’ll pick you up?” She likes the intrigue - they might share a bed, but she was raised on good old fashioned American rom coms - ‘You’ve Got Mail’ and ‘Sleepless in Seattle’. She refuses to give all that up. She’s going to take her lady on a good date if it kills her.

“I’d like that,” Nicky says, her voice low and more seductive than Gigi can handle.

“Come to bed soon,” Gigi whispers, lips pressed under Nicky’s ear. Nicky hums in agreement and Gigi feels it vibrate under her lips. She pulls herself away, making sure to walk away nicely just in case, before she slinks back down to the Hufflepuff dorms.

Gigi giggles in response. She’s the only one of them that’s vaguely relaxed and god help her, she’s going to enjoy it for as long as she can.

Nicky rolls into bed much later than she’s promised. Her fingers smell like new paper and her hair is loosely braided down her back, and Gigi pulls her against her chest immediately. Crystal (out of prior experience) has her curtains pulled around her, as do Jan and Jackie (although that’s entirely for their benefit), so they pull theirs too, so they can silence the area.

The second it’s secure, Nicky’s lips latch on to Gigi’s pulse point, the blonde straddling the girl’s hips without saying a word. She slips her cold fingers under her shirt, feeling the warm, taut skin of Gigi’s navel under her fingertips. Gigi shivers and giggles, leaning forward to capture Nicky in a searing kiss, hands moving down to hold the blonde’s behind, pulling her further on top.

Nicky lets out a slew of French curses as Gigi runs a finger down the curve of her spine.

“YOU’RE NOT FUCKING SILENCED,” Crystal yells across the room, and Nicky collapses on top of Gigi. She’s not embarrassed - not in the same way that Gigi immediately flushes red - clear even in the dark. Nicky slinks down the brunette’s body pressing a finger to her lips as she hooks her other hand into Gigi’s shorts.

She peppers kisses on Gigi’s now exposed stomach, pushing her nails into the girl’s thigh when she’s struggling to keep quiet and hoping - really hoping, Crystal will forget it tomorrow.

Gigi wakes up at the crack of dawn, grateful that Nicky seems to have tuckered herself out studying last night and isn’t yet rousing.

She somehow manages to roll out from under the French woman (she’s not quite sure how, but she’s glad) and pads to the bathroom to try and get ready. She’s practically vibrating with excitement, as she brushes her teeth and pulls her hair back into a low ponytail. She pulls on a Slytherin green tank top, a pair of shorts, and a black flannel, because it’s getting unsettlingly warm even for late May, and sets her black combat boots quietly by the door - making sure to shove her purse and her wand into her rucksack before she moves to wake her still sleeping partner.

She pauses before waking the blonde gently, picking Quaffle up from where he’d slunk in to fill the warm spot Gigi had left. She snaps a picture of them asleep together first, though, animating it, so it moves like all wizarding photos and she can watch her two loves snooze together. It’s stupidly cute.

Nicky manages to look pristine on a morning, so they exchange a chaste kiss and the French girl heads into the bathroom for a quick change and to brush her teeth. She comes out with her hair out of the braids, curly down her back, and a pale blue gingham dress that ends mid thigh. She pairs it with a pair of Gigi’s white converse that she’s basically stolen, and they leave a note, so the rest of the girls won’t worry. The gates from the boundary of Hogwarts to Hogsmeade open at eight a.m. on a Saturday, so they head out of the castle immediately. The walk is a leisurely forty-five minute stroll over fields and gently rolling paths or a twenty minute thestral carriage ride, but considering the fact it’s only half past seven, they take the time to walk hand in hand. It’s already warm and sunny outside, and the light licks the soft spattering of freckles on Nicky’s shoulders.

Their first stop is breakfast pastries and coffee at Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Room, and they get to sit at a cute little window table with armchairs that gives them a perfect view of the rest of the students as they trickle into the small station town. Nicky sips her latte as Gigi rather messily eats a danish pastry, letting the crumbs fall down onto her lap. Nicky leans forward to kiss the icing off her bottom lip, and the brunette flushes scarlet as once again her girlfriend has zero public shame.

They take ice cold smoothies to go as the sun seemingly refuses to feel remorse today, and walk hand in hand over to the shrieking shack, where Gigi educated the blonde on the history of Remus Lupin. They learn about him now in defense as one of the greats and his memorial is outside the shack. It’s one of those things Gigi finds fascinating, so she dives into every detail she knows, and by the end of the story they’re both warm and maybe a little more tanned and laughing at old stories of The Marauders her uncle told her.

They wander back to the town with sweaty hands intertwined, aiming to visit a few shops before lunch, and then sunbathe for the rest of the afternoon - maybe meeting up with Jan and Jackie if they venture out.

They head into Honeydukes first, stocking up on a few goodie bags for Crystal (one as an apology, one as exam treats, and one just because), sugar quills enough to carry them through the coming month, and some sweet treats for an end of exam slumber party.

Next, they head into Scrivenshaft’s stationary shop where Nicky picks up enough supplies to write a couple of letters. They sit on the benches outside with cold sodas Gigi collects from The Three Broomsticks as Nicky writes her letters. If she finishes them here, she can send them from the town post office instead of carrying them back up to the owelry. Nicky makes her girlfriend slather thick suncream on her exposed shoulders and back with the claims that her delicate french skin will burn without it. Gigi just chuckles. Nicky may have gorgeous freckles, but she’s also a golden tan colour that makes Gigi envious.

They end up in Zonkos just before lunch, so that Gigi can buy a new shade button - the last unfortunately murdered in the Shower Incident of ‘09. She can neither confirm nor deny her involvement, but she feels guilty, so she shells out a few knuts and even gets it gift wrapped in a cute paper covered in tiny snitches.

They end up meeting Jackie and Jan for lunch at The Three Broomsticks - the girls relaxing on a bench outside as they eat onion rings and burgers while sipping butterbeer. It feels like the perfect Summer day, and it makes Gigi feel like she could float away even though they all complain about feeling full.

They don’t have to walk far to find a quiet field to lie down in, and they end up just relaxing on the grass for hours, tanning and chatting and falling in love.

Crystal and the Gryffindor she’s been seeing for a few weeks stop by, and she looks so happy that they just let her carry on her way.

They only really start to contemplate leaving as the 4 p.m. breeze carries the straggling humidity across the open fields. They manage to catch a thestral carriage and cuddle up in the seats, folded into each other as Nicky falls asleep on Gigi’s outstretched arm. She presses a kiss to her forehead and the blond mewls, burying her face into the crook of Gigi’s neck.

A perfect day.

Their breakfast on Monday morning is both sluggish and high strung. Jan looks like she’s about to start crying any second - her care of magical creatures practical assessment happening in only an hour or so. Crystal is still mumbling wandless charms under her breath as she stirs her tea just by staring at it and butters her toast. Nicky is practically asleep on Gigi’s shoulder, having pulled almost an all-nighter for the potions exam on Wednesday. She’d clearly outlined her exam rules a few weeks ago in which she fully condoned all-nighters, as long as they weren’t the night before an actual exam.

She’d decided, since the charms exam was scheduled for four p.m., she could nap before it and all would be well. Gigi just blindly trusted her, knowing she would spend the rest of the day convincing Crystal nothing would explode.

Jackie stirs her coffee methodically, twice forward and once backwards, as she stares at astronomy charts she’s copied onto flashcards. She wordlessly feeds Jan a toast crust, and the blonde chews it robotically before going back to staring at the table.

“We can do this,” Jackie mumbles under her breath, looking at them like she’s making sure they’re all still alive.

Jan still looks close to vomiting, but she smiles weakly and nods, holding Crystal’s hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Team dumb with no talent, let’s go,” Crystal jokes, and the table just chuckles.

The rest of the hall is the same. The whole of sixth year looks like they want to drop dead over their porridge, Vanessa silent for the first time since OWLS, and Violet only hitting on the people closest to her, instead of flirting across the whole hall.

The bell for the first period goes off, and they all sit up straight.

“Into battle,” quips Nicky, and Gigi squeezes her arm. They’re all going to be just fine.

Fine might be an overstatement, Gigi realises as they come into the second week of exams.

They trade note cards and words of encouragement in between practical assessments, written work, and careers guidance meetings as if this fortnight isn’t already hellish. They may fall into bed together and wake up around the same time, but it actually takes more effort to see each other than it would usually with specialised study sessions running at all places at all times of the night. Astronomy study lasts from midnight to 2 a.m. every few days, so Jackie and Nicky crawl out of bed some days looking like zombies.

Crystal jokes one day that this has finally affirmed that Nicky is in fact human, and as much as Gigi wants to laugh, her girlfriend has never looked so exhausted, so instead she just pulls her close and turns her old notes into paper butterflies as a transfiguration practice. They all have to pick an origami shape to perfect and show, and since Gigi picked butterflies, the dorm is filling up with them. Nicky chose little birds, which she releases out the window, and Crystal decided scorpions would be fun, which she tosses into the fire as kindling.

Jackie perfected a phoenix, despite only taking the class part time, because she’s insane.

They tell her as much.

Jan just stretches and curls up into a ball around Quaffle. Neither of them have ever cared for transfiguration.

Gigi sits with Nicky outside the practical for potions when the stress finally hits her. She feels like she’s been boiled alive in a pressure cooker and someone’s just cracked open the lid, so the steam is finally being released as she sobs into the French girl’s waiting arms. Nicky chuckles softly to herself as she gently strokes her girlfriend’s back, the black robes a little bobbled and very soft after years of wear.

Gigi cries quietly until the bell for the exam goes off. The second it does, it’s like a switch is hit and she stands up - like a robot when you’ve pressed the activation. She brushes down her (still perfectly smooth) skirt and holds out her hand to pull Nicky up from where they were both sitting on the floor. Nicky squeezes the hand in support and Gigi nods.

“Slughorn won’t kill you if you’re a few minutes late, mon chérie,” Nicky whispers, chin pressed against Gigi’s shoulder blade as she stands behind her slightly taller partner.

“It’s just potions,” Gigi replies, staring straight at the large oak doors that stand between her and her second to last exam. “I can do potions.” She’s not convincing Nicky, but if she’s convincing herself, the blonde supposes it’s okay.

She gets an O for Outstanding in her final grades. None of them are surprised.

They’ve somehow all managed to fit onto Gigi’s bed - the green covers bunched under five seventeen-year-olds lounging around. Crystal has her feet on Nicky’s lap and her head on Jan’s, having claimed she’s being neglected. She has Quaffle sat like a loaf on her stomach, Gigi sat next to her, stroking him, so he kneads his claws into the soft, ribbed fabric of her tank top.

Jackie tries to toss a Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Bean into Jan’s mouth, but it falls and hits Crystal in the eye, so they start playing a game of ricocheting them off Jan’s face and trying to get them into Crystal’s open mouth. She mostly just ends up laying there, gaping like a fish out of water until Nicky tickles her foot and she squirms in a way that causes the cat to freak out and dig every claw into the pale flesh of her stomach. She yells a profanity, and the whole room bursts out laughing before they all remember the time and wince.

It’s three a.m.

Professor Longbottom is anything but lovely at three in the morning. Thankfully for the still silently giggling girls, they appear to have kept quiet enough not to have woken anyone, but it does spark something in Gigi.

She smirks to herself, prompting Nicky to poke her gently in the ribs.

“I know that look,” she says, eyebrows raised in amusement, and Gigi just raises an eyebrow back.

“Fuck,” Jackie says, looking between them. “This won’t end well, will it?”

“Who wants to play Quidditch?”

There’s a lull as everyone silently hopes she’s joking. To be fair - she’s the captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team and she’s damn good. Jackie is a Chaser for Ravenclaw, and Crystal and Jan are beaters for Hufflepuff. They’re all pretty fucking good.

Nicky on the other hand…

“Baby,” she whispers worriedly as the others pull on sweatshirts and grab their brooms. “You do remember I can’t fly.”

Gigi does remember. She remembers very well how she’d planned a romantic flight only to have Nicky turn white as a ghost the second they entered the Quidditch pitch. She remembers how the French girl had squeezed her tight and cursed under her breath muttering words Gigi couldn’t understand, and yet understood perfectly.

“It’ll be fine,” she assuages. “Just hold on tight honey, it’ll be fun.”

It is fun. It’s very fun. Once they sneak out and get over the whole not having balls thing, they have a whale of a time, swooping and diving around each other like they used to when they were thirteen and cared less. Or maybe cared more - Gigi forgets as the air whistles past her ears. She feels Nicky’s face pressed against her back and she takes one hand off the broom to squeeze one of the hands wrapped tightly around her waist, fingers clawing the fabric for anything to grab onto.

“You remind me of Quaffle,” she muses, which is the absolute wrong thing to say to your volatile French girlfriend when she is scared and tired.

“I better not remind you of your putain de cat,” she curses, fingernails digging in even through Gigi’s thick Slytherin team sweatshirt.

Nicky had previously commented that she thought they were all adorable in their matching Quidditch sweatshirts, so they’d gone to the house elves and gotten her one made. They’d had such an argument over the house she was in they’d ended up just getting Hogwarts and its crest sewn onto the front, and the light grey just made it look soft and warm. Nicky always looks soft and warm. This is a thought Gigi often has as she watches her girlfriend sit in bed, rereading Kurt Vonnegut with Gigi’s glasses on.

She’s really not ready to let her go.

They have to say goodbye at the gates, but, really, the whole day is one long goodbye.

Nicky says goodbye to Quaffle as she packs her stuff away neatly into her trunk, sneaking in Gigi’s white converse, but having to remove Gig’s cat multiple times, because he is a nuisance. He’ll come to France in September, but he seems really keen on getting a head start.

She says goodbye to her bedding, although she barely slept in it, and to the way Jan doesn’t wake up, and to morning yoga, and Crystal throwing things, and to Jackie reading softly in the evenings.

She says goodbye to breakfast (it’s waffles, and Jan is wide awake), and to the ceiling, which is a bright blue, and fills you with warmth just looking at it.

She says goodbye to Professor McGonagall, who might be one of her all-time favourite people, and she turns a napkin into a silver butterfly for her, making the woman crack a smile.

She says goodbye to Jan and Jackie being a disgusting couple at the same dining table, but makes them promise to write. Jan just scoffs and pretends she’s not crying, and reminds her they’ll see her at Christmas when they’ll all be smoking hot. Jackie doesn’t pretend she’s not crying. She just gives her her favourite astronomy book and tells her she’ll be missed.

Crystal gives a long-winded speech about how Nicky was like a family pet or something she’s pretty sure was just an odd English saying, and Jackie punches her, but she knows enough not to ask, and just lets the brunette hug her tightly, fixing the girl’s hair with a charm before she leaves.

She says goodbye to Gigi at the gate.

She’s not ready to, not really, but she gives it a go.

“I love you,” she says, earnest and raw.

“Je t'aime davantage,” Gigi replies and her eyes are whirlpools Nicky could fall right into. She’s pretty sure she already has.

“Impossible,” she whispers.

And then she lets go.

Genevieve,

I miss you so much! I am counting down the days until September arrives, I just can’t wait. I hope your summer is fun, I know you are spending it with your uncle, he seems wonderful - tell me more about him.

How are Janet and Jaqueline? You must tell them to write about Jackie’s time away from home (it’s a good thing they’re lesbians and cannot get pregnant). Does Crystal write over the summer? She told me she would get a butterfly tattoo for me and I do not know if she was joking. It sounds like her. How unfortunate.

I miss you and your stupid cat. I love you. I cannot wait to see you.

Write soon!

La tienne,

Nicoletta.

Ps: If you dare call me Nicoletta you will be dead before you can apologise. <3

#rpdr fanfiction #gigi goode #nicky doll #gigi x nicky #jankie #jan sport #jackie cox #crystal methyd #harry potter au #fluff #almost smut #terrible french #fucking adorable #papillionlisse #pinkgrapefruit #s12

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queenbirbs · 4 years

Text

the way home | Ch. 4 | Edward x MC

Pairing: Edward Mortemer x MC

Word count: 2,308

Warnings: language, violence, violence against women

Read from the beginning or continue on Read on AO3

Tag list: @writinghereandthere | @not-sewell

------

By the next week, they’ve sailed across most of the northern Caribbean.

Their crew hits a couple merchant ships and capsizes a few galleons. Captain Delaney is pleased when they manage to sink a frigate off the coast of New Providence, having some long-standing feud with the Royal Navy. Elena considers them to be kindred spirits in that regard. Attacking a royal vessel outright, though, paints a proverbial target on their back.

They anchor inside a cove on St. Fisher, a hole-in-the-wall port among the long string of islands in the Bahamas. Delaney sends the crew off in a jolly boat to retrieve supplies before trying for Cuba to hide out amongst the Spanish.

“He’s a moron for attacking them on their own turf,” Robert grumbles as they make their way through the town’s pastel-colored buildings.

Elena, too busy scanning the shoppers in the market, hums her agreement. The stall up ahead sells gaudy-looking trinkets that catch the sunlight as they swing in the ocean breeze. She wishes she could send one to her sister, somehow.

The cannonfire comes with no warning.

Discordant blasts echo across the port again and again and again with not a single pause. Thick, billowing clouds of smoke rise over the palm trees, darkening the blue sky. While everyone rushes deeper into town, Elena and Robert race towards the cove, slicing through the flora and fauna that block their path. Seconds before they reach the flat stretch of sand, he seizes her elbow and covers her mouth, just in time to muffle her cry at the scene before them.

Little Death is keeled over, resting on its starboard side as flames consume what remains above the waterline. Delaney is nowhere to be found. The crew who made it to shore in time lay sprawled across the beach. The whites of their skulls gleam amongst the blood and brain matter coating the sand around them, each shot execution-style.

“Their jolly boat’s missin’!” a navy officer calls out. “Search the island!”

“Shit. Fuck. Shit.”

“C’mon,” Robert growls as he swings her around and guides her back up their makeshift path. “We may not know this island, but--”

At the sound of men pushing down the path from town, he picks her up and bodily moves her into the forest’s thick foliage.

“What the hell are you--”

“Shut up!” he hisses, shoving her down into the cover of wide-leafed bush. “Stay here.”

“What’s your plan then, to offer yourself up on a platter?!” Elena grabs his coat and holds tight, preventing him from moving off. “That’s the stupidest--”

“I can distract them, give you enough time to circle back and find a better place to hide. They’ll shove off with me, then another ship’ll come by soon and need an extra hand.”

The sound of a pistol being cocked interrupts their hushed argument. In their crouched position, they both glance up to see swatches of dark blue uniforms peeking through the trees ahead.

“Come on out, now, the both of ye!” one of the sailors taunts.

Robert’s expression shutters as he rises to his feet and steps out onto the path.

“If it isn’t Robert Cutter himself!” the officer crows. “Performed quite the disappearing act on us a few years back. Looks like fate caught up with you, though, hmm?”

“Looks like,” he mocks. Two of the lackeys grab hold of each arm; he bites back a grunt when the officer punches him in the stomach.

“And where’s yer lady friend?” one of the sailors asks. “Come on out, miss. Don’t be shy!”

Realizing that staying hidden is a hopeless tactic, Elena makes her way out of cover. Three of the men whistle at her, while the officer leers at her with something akin to delight.

“I shoulda known the two of you would be mixed-up in this. Sinking a crown vessel, that’s child’s play for you two. Murdering a governor and an admiral is more yer style, idn’t it?”

As one of the sailors strips her of her weapons, Elena glares at the officer. Though she can’t recall his name, he’s one of the men who stormed the beach while defending the Admiral.

“We’re innocent of both those crimes,” she says. “Though I don’t expect you’ll believe me.”

His shoulders shake with a sardonic chuckle.

“No, I’m afraid not. Yer a pirate -- you only know how to do two things with that mouth of yers. The first is lying and the second is su--”

Elena grabs him by the shoulder and headbutts him. The officer caterwauls and clutches his nose. Blood trickles down his chin and drips onto his uniform in fat, red splotches. She hides her wince as Robert laughs long and hard, ignoring the sailors’ orders to shut up. “You bitch! I saw you make off with the Admiral. You dragged him inside that temple and sacrificed him to Satan himself!”

“She’s a witch?” one of the sailors asks.

“I thought she were a pirate,” another mutters.

“I’m not a witch,” Elena scoffs. “And, for the last time, I didn’t kill your admiral.”

“I don’t care what you are!” The officer yanks a handkerchief from his coat and dabs it against his nose. “Right now, yer a means to an end. We’ve heard all about the bounty on yer head. We’ll use you to draw Mortemer out. Besides, what’s better than catching one pirate?”

“Two pirates!” one of the sailors cackles.

“Well, technically,” Robert says, “you’ve already got two of us here--”

“Oh, shut up, Cutter!” the officer spits. “Take them down to the beach, men.”

The bickering around her fades to an annoying buzz as she trudges along the path. If they do manage to get word to Edward, she knows there’s no force that will stop him from coming after her. That he would be walking straight into a trap would cross his mind, and then he would do it anyway. Elena can’t fault him for it, because she would do the same. And, if it weren’t for the high probability of being executed, she would go along with it. But she doesn’t want their long-awaited reunion to be side-by-side at the gallows.

She comes to a sudden stop. The caravan of men behind her scowl and curse.

“What’re you doin’? Keep movin’!”

She digs her boots into the sand, lurching when the sailor beside her shoves her hard. Turning to catch Robert’s eye, she snatches the sailor’s pistol from his holster and takes aim.

“Run.”

Robert yanks free as she fires. The sailor shouts and grabs his bleeding arm, falling back when the other two come rushing forward. She twirls the pistol in her grip and smacks it upside another’s head, using the momentum to shove him into the bushes. The third man tackles her from the side and they crash down onto the sand. Struggling for control, Elena manages to work her leg underneath his massive form and lands a solid kick between his legs. The officer rushes over just as the man rolls off, clutching his injured pride.

“Restrain her, you fucking--” he cuts off his own order with a sharp cry. He collapses onto his ass, clutching his leg as blood soaks his white breeches. “She-- she shot me! Get that pistol from her, you idiots!”

A massive weight crushes her from behind and shoves her down onto her stomach. The sailor she shot slams his fist into her side, knocking the wind out of her. Elena gasps for air, choking on bits of sand. He plucks the pistol from her loosened grip with ease.

“Hold her down,” the officer demands. “She’ll be less trouble if she’s unconscious.”

Fear pounds through her chest when the sailor’s hand seizes a chunk of her hair and yanks her up. The last thing she sees is the pistol coming down.

Underneath him, her body goes limp. He waits a few more seconds before pulling a length of rope from his pocket. After tying her up with a decent-enough knot, he sits up to assess his arm and check on his crew.

“Oi,” he grumbles as he glances down the path, “where’d Cutter go?”

------

The brig’s interior becomes a familiar sight by the second day.

That’s how long Elena thinks she’s been down here. The solitary porthole above her head is caked with too much filth to let any proper light in. So, she calculates the hours by the sorry excuses for meals that they bring her. A few crumbs of hardtack and bits of dried mystery meat make up most of her diet.

Waking up on a cell floor with her hands and feet bound wasn’t an enjoyable moment. If she could rate it, she’d give it a solid zero out of ten. Especially when that immediate rush of panic ebbed to allow a fresh wave to roll over her: she was being carted along to be killed.

The one plus side of her new accomodations, though, is the cold wall of the hull. It’s as good as any cold compress against her injured body. What she wouldn’t give for one of those ibuprofens she stowed away in her duffel bag -- the bag that’s buried on the outskirts of town on Santo Domingo.

She hopes that Robert was able to escape. She hopes that he was able to get word to Edward not to come after her. She hopes that when Edward inevitably ignores the warning and comes anyway, she manages to intercept him herself. What’s that old saying about if wishes were horses?

Footsteps on the stairs tear Elena from her woolgathering. The slow, measured pace of them tells her who it is before he shows his face.

“How’s the leg?” she asks when the officer steps in front of her cell door.

Officer Horowitz levels a grimace at her, his lips turning inward with disgust. He drops the wooden plate in his hand and kicks it underneath the door with his good leg; the meager contents spill across the dirty planks. Elena glances down at her dinner and back up at him. “I’m giving your presentation a one out of five stars on Yelp.”

“That nonsense yer spouting has gotten old,” he spats. “It’s a good thing, then, that we’re about to anchor. You and yer pirate captain’ll be dancin’ in the gallows soon enough.”

She bites back that daunting feeling of failure and settles back against the wall with a shrug.

“Sounds like I don’t have much time, then. I guess I should come clean with my sins and all that.”

“I haven’t the slightest interest in hearing about yer--”

“Really?” She tilts her head and studies him. “You don’t want to know what I did with the Admiral?”

Horowitz bristles at the name, but shakes his head.

“I don’t want to hear the gristly details of yer sick, ritualistic--”

“For the last time,” Elena says with a dramatic sigh, “I didn’t kill him. I opened up a hole in the universe, and I put him in it.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“It’s not, really. It was as easy as tying your shoe. If you know how to do that, of course. I don’t like to presume.”

Crossing his arms across his chest, he scoffs.

“Then where is he?”

“I sent him to his worst nightmare: a place with no one to listen to him. There’s this remote island in the south Atlantic Ocean, about twelve-hundred miles from Argentina. Sorta like The Cask of Amontillado -- which you’ll sadly never get to read, it’s a great story -- but on forty square miles of uninhabited land. And without chaining him up or burning him alive.”

“You marooned him,” he surmises.

“Marooning him implies that I gave him some food and a gun. But I didn’t. The island won’t be discovered until 1767. The Spanish explorers name it Isla de Aislamiento -- that means ‘Isolation Island.’ Upon arrival, they’ll find the oddest thing: a human skeleton, wearing what appears to be a British naval uniform and a few medals.”

“I don’t believe a word you say.” Clenching his hands along the cell door, he sneers at her. “Yer a filthy, goddamned liar. How are you to know the future?”

“I read about it.”

Which is the truth, but Elena knows how little that will matter. After teaming up with Robert upon her first arrival back to her time, she found herself curious about Admiral Cochrane’s fate. After coming across a man with an identical rank and surname, she worried that she’d made a mistake and sent him farther into the future, that maybe he’d managed to escape and make something of himself. But the portrait of the other Admiral Cochrane, famed for losing the Battle of New Orleans, resembled nothing of the man she’d dealt with.

Eventually, one of Robert’s many contacts sent her the diary entry of a Spanish explorer that detailed their unusual discovery. They left the corpse where it lay and pilfered the medals to melt down and mash into coins. The entry was as good as any death certificate.

Judging by the look of disgust on his face, Horowitz doesn’t seem to find her explanation all that funny.

“I knew you were a witch the first time I saw you. No matter how you spin it, I know that you killed the Admiral. Watching you two hang will be the highlight of my year.”

He spits at her through the door and turns to go. Elena waits for the sound of his uneven footfalls to fade before she slumps back against the wall. Despite the heavy weight on her shoulders, she can’t help the small sliver of joy at knowing Edward is near. Horowitz had all but confirmed it, with his gleeful chatter about them hanging together.

She just has to make sure that part doesn’t come to pass.

------

References:

A few Uncharted ones, but they’re all very minuscule. Think of them like the hidden pictures puzzles in those Highlight Magazines they always had in waiting rooms when you were a kid.

#distant shores #edward x mc #edward mortemer #distant shores fic #choices #Kaila writes things #f: the way home

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antecedentlypod · 4 years

Text

EPISODE 1 TRANSCRIPT

-opening music-

Lorrie: [Flipping pages, muttering to himself] There. Ah, alright. The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse, read by Lorrie Adams. Take one.

[sighs] take three.

[mutters, sighing] The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse. Take fifteen.

-A cat had made the acquaintanceship of a mouse, and had talked so much about his great love and friendship for her, that he eventually convinced her to live in the same house and set up a common household.

”But we must get supplies for the winter,” said the cat, “or else we’ll starve. A little mouse like you can’t venture just anywhere, for one of these days you might get caught in a trap.”

They acted on his good advice, and bought a little jar of fat, but they did not know where to put it. Finally, after long deliberation, the cat said: ’I can’t think of a safer place than the church, no one would dare take anything away from there. Let’s put it under the altar and we won’t touch it unless we really need it.”

The little jar was safely stored away, but it was not long before the cat felt a craving for it and said to the mouse: “I’ve been meaning to tell you, little mouse; my cousin gave birth to a baby boy, white with brown spots, and I’ve been asked to be godfather. I’m to hold him at the christening. Would you mind letting me go out today, and looking after the house by yourself?”

“No, of course not!” answered the mouse, “Go for God’s sake! And if you get something good to eat, think of me. I sure would like to have a drink of that sweet red christening wine.”

Naturally, none of what the cat had said was true. He did not have a cousin, nor had he been asked to be godfather. He went straight to the church, crept to the little jar of fat, and began licking and licking until he had licked the skin off the top. Then he strolled over the roofs of the city and contemplated his opportunities. After a while he stretched himself out in the sun, and wiped his whiskers whenever he thought of the little jar of fat. It was not until evening that he returned home. “Well, you’re back,” the mouse said, “I’m sure you had a wonderful day.”

“It wasn’t bad,” the cat responded.

“What name did they give the child?” the mouse asked.

“Skin off.” the cat said dryly.

“Skin off?” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s a strange and unusual name, is it common in your family?”

“What’s there to it,” said the cat, “it is no worse than Crumb-thief, as your godchildren are called.”

Shortly after that, the cat felt another great craving. He said to the mouse: “You’ve got to do me a favor again, and look after the house by yourself. I am asked to be godfather once more and, since the child has a white ring round its neck, I can’t refuse.”

The good mouse consented, but the cat went clinking behind the city walls to the church, where he ate up half the jar of fat. “Nothing tastes better,” he said, “then what you keep to yourself.” And he was very satisfied with his day’s work. When he returned the mouse asked: “What was this child christened?”

“Half-gone.” answered the cat.

“Half-gone? You don’t say! I’ve never heard such a name in all my life, I'll bet it’s not on the list of proper names!”

Soon the cat’s mouth began watering once more for the delicacy. “All good things come in threes,” he said to the mouse, “I’ve been asked to be godfather again. This child is all black and has white paws, aside from that, there’s not a white hair on its body; this only happens once every few years, you will let me go, won’t you?”

“Skin- off! Half-gone!” the mouse responded, “Those are really curious names, I’m beginning to wonder about them…”

“Look. You can sit at home in your dark-grey fur coat and your long pig tail, and you begin imagining things. That’s because you don’t go out during the day.”

While the cat was gone, the mouse cleaned the house and put it in order, meanwhile the greedy cat ate up the rest of the jar. “It’s only after everything’s all gone,” the cat said to himself, “that you can really begin to rest.”

It was very late at night by the time the cat returned home, and he was fat and stuffed. The mouse asked right away what name had been given to the third child. “You won’t like this one either!” the cat said. “It’s All-gone.”

“All-gone!” exclaimed the mouse, “That’s the most suspicious of all the names! I have never seen it in print. All-gone; what’s it supposed to mean?” She shook her head, rolled herself up into a ball, and fell asleep.

From then on, no one asked the cat to be a godfather, but when the winter came and there was nothing more to be found outside, the mouse thought about their supply of fat and said: “Come, cat, let’s go to our jar that we’ve been saving, it will taste good.”

“Yes,” said the cat, “You’ll enjoy the taste just as much if you stuck your dainty tongue out the window.” They set out on their way, but when they got there, the jar of fat was still in its place, but it was empty.

“Oh!” said the mouse, “Now I know what’s happened,it’s as clear as day! Some nice friend you are! You ate it all up when you went to be a godfather. First the skin, then half, then–”

“You better be quiet!” yelled the cat, “One more word, and I’ll eat you up!”

“All-gone” was already on the tip of the mouse’s tongue, no sooner did she say it then the cat jumped on her, grabbed her, and devoured her. You see, that’s the way of the world-

[sighs] that’ll do, I guess.

[stretches, groans] My back’s killing me though. Gotta get this edit in and sent off. So, listening back to the recording it’s still not perfect. I guess I’ll have to do more takes! But not tonight. [sighs softly] I’ve been stuttering a lot more lately and reading aloud is still stupid hard. Thankfully Fish should be back home soon. She’ll be able to tell me if it’s an okay take, I think. [yawns] Take one of Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams. Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might fi- fuck!

Take six of the Far- take twelve of the Farmer and the Warbler, read by Lorrie Adams.

- Once upon a time, in a land closer than any of us might like, there was sky. Sky that went on for miles and miles, sky the milky color of cataract, sky you could choke on. There were many things under this looming infinity of clouds, but there is only time enough in this story for one.

A thicket. More precisely, one comprised of berry bushes. You know the sort, the kind you spot on a long hike or a narrow trail and consider plucking from before your mind gets the better of you, for fear of poison. Picture it, if you will.

No. Try again. The berries are darker than that, the thorns sharper.

Right. There you are.

The thicket surrounds a clearing in a tight circle, with winding trees woven through it whose canopy of leaves block out all but slivers of sun. In this clearing is a woman. She’s curled up there, shrouded by a pair of tattered wings. She’s larger than a woman, or any human for that matter, should be. Beneath her wings lies a bulging sternum, to allow for a set of lungs that would threaten to burst in any chest like yours or mine. Her arms bend at odd angles, her legs short and with a lack of any tailbone. She is curled there, she is ugly, for she is unknown to us, and she wails.

It is nearing noon, though she would have no way of knowing this. It is at this approximate time, though, that each day she crawls to the thicket and begins to worm her way through. Scratches and cuts litter and linger on her skin from yesterday and many a day before, but she ignores the way they catch on thorn and reopen to the biting air. Ignores the tickling trickle of red everywhere she can still feel. Because today is the day, she’s sure of it. She’s going to make it through. She’ll come out on the other side, torn and tired, but wilted wings still rising to flight. To feel that air beneath them would be to know true bliss. Still, she’s aimless in her endeavour. She can only feel in front of her, cling to the dirt and to branch and swat away the swarming insects that live between these leaves and settle on her skin. She marks them, on occasion, and cannot see the smear of gut and brown they leave upon her. Her sight was long since robbed from her. The thorns had sought her eyes, spiteful for the way she longed to escape the home they’d made for her, and if it hadn’t been the poke it’d’ve been the venom. And yet she pushes on through this impossibly thick jungle of a berry bush.

She makes it not even to the third’s way mark before she collapses into herself.

It’s two o’clock, perhaps, when she wakes again and finds herself in the center of the clearing, no further away from this prison than she’d started. She’s glad for the size of her lungs when they allow her the breath to properly scream them out.

If I might redirect your attention, dear reader, I ask you to imagine with me a cottage. For not far from this thicket, and its accompanying clearing, there lives a farmer. The winter had not been kind to his crops, nor the drought that followed it come spring, and what little livestock he’d kept in the barn out back fared no better. The cabinets are filled only with dishes and the occasional tin can. He stares numbly at the holes in his rotting wooden floorboards.

Hunger laces every dusty windowsill, every rusty nail, the sparse closet and the achingly bare kitchen as hollow as his stomach. He’d had coin stocked in a great lockbox, hidden in the loose backing panel of a dresser. This had gotten him along, for a while. The prices at the marketplace are forgiving if you know where to look, and he’s practiced enough to bargain if he paints a sympathetic picture. His stomach would be sated with apples that might’ve once been crisp, and loaves of near molded sourdough. But the lockbox is near empty now, and the pit in his belly grows impatient. He can feel it fold and knot and kick at him, seeking satisfaction by eating away at itself with sharp teeth and an ever unhinging jaw. He shudders at the thought, and more to know it will not cease until he’s swallowed himself up completely, throbbing with the wholeness of it, and leaving nothing but a sigh of relief through a house that would then know what it means to be full.

It’s when he’s taken his finger between his bared teeth that he hears the weeping song of a warbler from just beyond his door. His gut lurches at the sound of it. Go, it whispers, go and be fed. And so he rises to weary feet, sheep wool shears from the mess of tools upon his table now tucked into the back of his pants.

To follow this warbler’s cry is to follow the North Star to salvation, it seems, as his hunger reminds him in sweet growls that soon he will remember the warmth of meal-drunk content. How he aches for that small forgiveness, what one last small meal to a dying man might grant him some clear thought. And so he seeks it and nearly sobs with joy when he comes to the source of it. The thicket is foreboding, but no threat which he cannot face with the shears he unsheathes from his belt. He trims for what might’ve been hours or might’ve been days, but no difference is seen to him. Just a sense of soonness, and an excitement that bubbles up in him and threatens to spill out upon the final grinning snip. The warbler’s song stops short, and his eyes fall upon the frame of what he doesn’t dare to call a woman.

For what feels like an eternity, a heavy silence between them. She sees nothing, but the presence of another is hard to ignore. She reaches out to touch, to feel, to assure herself that this is no dream. She weeps upon the sound of approaching footsteps as the farmer crouches before her.

“No bird that’d been, then, but you, wretched creature, whose song had graced my ear?”

“Not a song, sir, but a sorrow, for I could not free myself of this place.”

The farmer nods thoughtfully, and rises to clasp a hand on her shoulder. “Come then, to your feet. I’ll fix you up with bandages and salve to soothe your wounds.” She clings to him and limps, wings dragging behind her, as he guides them through the worst of the thicket and along the path back to his cottage, a slow travel for how the thing’s limbs fall so heavy they threaten to sink her through the very crust of the earth.

“Rest here, on my cot, and I will fetch the bandages.” The farmer says, and so the winged woman lays upon the surface he sets her to.

How stiff a cot, she thinks, but does not voice, for the farmer had saved her life, and she is in no position to complain for an uncomfortable bed.

She hears the farmer’s return not long after, and shifts toward the sound of it. “I really must thank you. It had been set in my mind that I would die there, in that clearing.”

“I should not let that happen.” The farmer replies, “To die there in your state is a fate I would not wish upon the worst of men.”

“Then it is in your just mind to bring me from it, though I hold you under no obligation to treat what harm it’s done to me.”

“I should see you taken care of, for it would weigh on my conscience to leave you in this misery.” He says. This is enough for her, and so she falls into sleep as the farmer tends to her cuts and takes a wet cloth to her wings.

It’s the heat that wakes her. Barely licking at her toes, and then consuming the space around her, hotter every moment than it had been the moment before. If she had not worn her voice from her earlier sorrow she might’ve cried for help. She sees the oven door before her no more than she had seen the table she was set upon, nor the farmer rummaging for dough or seasoning her now searing skin. Where there is only hunger, a man must make do with songbird pie.

And so the sky waits above for wings that will not part it, a thicket begins to mend it’s shear cut path, and a winged woman howls as her flesh crispens for the chew of a starving man. And you, hiding under blankets from the dark, pretend that this land is far, far away.The end .-

The end. [sighs] Fuck it. I’m tired. That’ll have to do for now. End recording.

-credits-

#antecedently #antecedentlypod #antecedently podcast #antecedently transcripts

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