#traveling nurse worked at a medical facility for a time before leaving on his own terms to become a traveling nurse | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thenamesseven · 4 years

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Warnings: Mentions of fights and blood.

Word count: 3.1k

A/N: It’s finally here! I’m going to do a taglist so send me a message if you want to be added!

@guess--monster

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You have waited years for this moment, five to be exact yet now that you were parked in front of the prison your best friend was locked in, the place that he had been living in all these days since that fateful night your body was completely glued to your car seat.

Your hands had only left the steering wheel to turn off the car's ignition and your eyes were frozen on the boring looking building placed in front of you. Sighing, you reached up with one of your shaky hands to brush some of your hair out of your face, calming down had been impossible since this morning, in fact, you were sure it was a miracle that you hadn't suffered a heart attack yet. You could feel your heart pounding against your ribcage and you knew it would beat even faster as soon as you stepped out of the car.

Your mind was not better, there were a million questions running through it, echoing in your concerned thoughts. Would he remember you? How would he react when he saw you? Did he change or was he still your Jongho? And the most important question out of the thousands you kept coming up with.

Was he mad at you?

He was locked in that cell and wouldn't get out of it for a lot of years thanks to you. What happened that night had only been your fault yet Jongho took advantage of your shock to save you from the horrible fate that would have awaited you in court. No matter how much you and the best lawyers you had found for him fought for his freedom, his reputation as a gang member and the sins he committed for that night were stronger than the truth nobody believed and put your best friend behind bars for an eternity.

Jongho had every right to hate you even when you were here to get him out of this prison.

The plan didn't have any details yet, you only had the objective and even though you believed your life would totally change once your best friend was out of that cell he now called home you couldn't stop thinking it would be worth it.

Jongho deserved to be free, he deserved to live his life.

"Come on…You can do this" You whispered to yourself, finally opening the door to get out of it as you grabbed your purse "You owe him your life, you can't back out of this now"

Your voice shook as much as your hands did, you knew you couldn't walk inside in this state but fear was taking control of your body. The fact that you were planning to set Jongho free when the law said he should be locked up for more years than he could survive made you a bit paranoid. It was completely impossible that somebody would guess your plan on your first day at work but who were you trying to lie to? You've always been a good girl, rules were never broken by you and now, all of a sudden, you were planning an escape plan for your imprisoned best friend Jongho.

You were way out of your comfort zone.

"Identification please" The guard's voice who was standing on the other side of the fence snapped you out of your thoughts. Your eyes travelled up to him although you couldn't see much of his face thanks to the blue cap he was wearing.

"Uh yeah, sorry" Your voice shook a little as your hands instantly fished into your purse, getting your wallet and your ID out so he could check it.

He looked down at it before looking at you once again, now that he was entirely sure you were the same person in the picture, he signaled for his mates to open the fence and let you walk inside and deeper into the lion's dent.

"Have a nice day" He said with a small smile, nodding his head once in a greeting way as you walked inside. Too nervous to speak again, you only glanced his way and nodded back, fearing that he would somehow guess your intentions based on the tone of your voice.

With the sound of your high heels clicking against the pavement, you tried to take deep breaths as you walked into the prison, ready to face your best friend after so many years and ready to get him out of there as soon as you could.

In one of the hundreds of cells that were inside the building, Jongho laid on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Everyone had warned him of all the dangers that hid in prison. Psychos waiting to kill you, corrupted cops that wouldn't miss the chance to ruin your life, the lost of friends that were either murdered by somebody else or by themselves, the homesickness….But nobody had warned him about boredom and how dangerous it was for the mind to repeat the same exact routine one day after another. After his first four years locked up he needed some changes or his sanity would start to get damaged.

"I heard someone new is coming to work here" Min Yoongi, Jongho's cell partner commented out of nowhere. He was not much of a talkative person, Yoongi only started a conversation when his own thoughts got too scary for him to handle and he needed a distraction.

He didn't tell you this of course but Jung Hoseok, one of his closest friends, liked to gossip too much and sometimes useful information about other inmates slipped from his lips. Jongho had always been smart enough to keep his private information for himself.

"Oh really?" Jongho didn't care too much, the people working in this prison were as nice as….Let's just say they weren't nice at all "New guard?"

"New nurse" Now, Yoongi was one of the few people that always managed to hear about everything people talked about. No matter how quietly you talked, how secretive you were, he was always there listening, it was obvious why Hoseok was his closest friend, Yoongi was a fountain of gossip "Jaehyun, the guy from cell 67, hurt the last one so bad during a check-up that the poor guy ended up being too scared to come back to work"

"He was an asshole so whatever Jaehyun did, the guy probably deserved it" He muttered shrugging, keeping his eyes on the ceiling as they talked "Let's hope this one is better"

"I heard she is a girl, so she might be a bit more sensitive" Yoongi added, sitting up straight on his bed.

"A girl?" Jongho frowned, turning his head to move his eyes away from the ceiling and back to Yoongi just to make sure he wasn't just fucking around with him.

"Crazy right?" Yoongi scoffed "With all the pervs that are locked up in here I bet she won't last too long"

"Or maybe she is a badass and kicks all our asses" Jongho said with a small smirk, making Yoongi smile too in amusement "Who knows?"

Little did Jongho know that the nurse they were talking about would be you and that you were only a coward with a mission disguised as a badass.

“So this is where you will be working” The guard, whose name you hadn’t had the pleasure to discover yet, that had been guiding you through the facilities mostly showing you the areas that were empty of inmates, stopped once you reached the nurse office “Though, I would recommend you to bring a book or something to entertain yourself”

Your eyebrows arched up, curious at his advice “Not to many patients to deal with?” You asked with a polite smile. Not that you were disappointed by that, you had only wanted to work in this place to get Jongho out somehow, not to treat some people that could snap your neck before you blinked.

“If it’s a good day you won’t get any visits” He answered, hands in his pockets, relaxed as the two of you chatted. He didn’t seem to be looking forward to going back to his work and showing the newbie around seemed to be the perfect excuse to avoid that “Unfortunately, there are bad days too” He sighed tiredly, hinting that he had been present in more bad days than he would like.

“What would you define as a bad day?” You asked hesitantly, you weren’t sure if you really wanted to know what he considered a bad day. You were at a prison after all.

“Someone getting stabbed, beated to almost death, strang-”

“I think I get it now” You interrupted before he could keep listing horrible events that you didn’t even want to think about “I hope you all don’t go through bad days too often”

The guard smiled sympathetically “That depends on how well these guys want to behave” The two of you stayed silent for a second, it was obvious that the conversation topics between the two of you were slowly coming to an end despite his insistence of keeping the chatting alive “Don’t worry about your safety though, most of the guys here wouldn’t hurt you and the ones that possibly would are never left alone, a guard will stay with you if they think you could be at risk” You nodded at this information, partly glad at that.

Prisons were no joke and truly dangerous people were locked up in here, murderers and rapists were something you would have to deal with if you wanted your plan to go well. Although this kind of worried you, Jongho had been sentenced because he murdered somebody and even though newspapers made sure to let the world know that the life he ended that night was not an innocent one, he was still considered a murderer and a gang-member. Would they leave him alone with you if he ever needed medical assistance? Because if they didn’t, you were royally fucked.

“That’s a relief” You said with a small smile, hand going up to your chest as you let out a small sigh “I was a bit worried about that, I’ve never worked in this kind of…” Your voiced died down a little, not really sure about how to refer to this place without sounding scared as fuck or insulting “Kind of place”

“Don’t worry, the inmates behave most of the time” Not going to lie, the fact that they didn’t behave all the time wasn’t surprising but that didn’t make it less scary. The guard opened his mouth to say something else but a static voice coming from his walkie-talkie interrupted your conversation, signaling him that it was about time for him to come back to his real work. Throwing a small smile your way, he picked up the device and muttered a quiet ‘On my way’ before turning his attention back to you “Well, I’ll see you around miss” He said with a friendly smile, nodding his head as his feet started walking backwards “Good luck on your first day!”

You nodded, standing outside of the infirmary until he disappeared around the corner. Left alone in that hall you truly didn’t know what to do with yourself, despite his reassurance of the guards protecting you from any danger you couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by the idea of having to treat inmates. Jongho better not be mad at you or you would beat his ass.

Sighing you finally opened the door to what would be your work space for as long as you needed to perfect your plan and the situation didn’t improve. Nobody had told you what had happened to the last person that abandoned this position but by the blood on the wall poorly cleaned you could slightly guess what had happened.

“The things you get yourself into” You whispered to yourself, dropping your purse on the desk as you walked deeper into the dusty room, eyes scanning your surroundings and purposefully avoiding the blood stains on the white wall.

“That’s exactly what my mom tells me whenever she visits”

You were startled by the new voice coming from behind you, hands instantly going to your chest where your heart was pounding incredibly hard against your ribcage and breath getting caught in your throat, good thing you hadn’t been holding something like your phone or you would have dropped it for sure.

When you turned around to find the source of your almost heart attack, what you found standing there didn’t make it less scary. Your first inmate patient was standing by the doorway and by the lack of guards around him, you guessed he wasn’t considered a threat.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to startle you”

He was tall, like ridiculously tall. This guy was probably three head taller than you and even though it probably wasn’t his intention, his height only made him more intimidating for you. Although, the way his smile seemed shy and his eyes darted away from you gave away that he was being honest. His hair was blond and looked fluffy, how his hair managed to look better than yours in a place like this was a mystery but if you two would have been in a totally different situation you would have asked about the products he used.

This wasn’t the time to think of that. Dumbass.

“It’s alright, you just interrupted my daydreaming session” You said with a small smile in return, forcing yourself to relax and not be so on edge. Just because he was in this place didn’t mean he would try to kill you whenever he got the chance. “Can I help you?” He nodded to your question, less tense now that you had visibly relaxed and decided it would be a good moment to walk into the room too, always keeping his distance with you. He was probably conscious of your nerves and didn’t want to freak you out.

“I’m Mingi or inmate 2356 but you know, since numbers are difficult to remember you can call me by my name” His little presentation mixed with the friendly smile that stretched the corners of his lips upwards brought a smile of your own to your face.

“Well, nice to meet you inmate 2356” You joked with a smirk, leaning back against your desk as you crossed your arms on your chest, keeping down the bubbly chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips.

“Damn, she’s good with numbers, what do I do know?” He joked back, laughing quietly as he fidgeted with the hem of his orange clothes. “Let’s start all over again, my name is Mingi, nice to meet you” His smile widened when you finally chuckled, if his objective had been relaxing you in his presence then he had done a pretty good job.

“Nice to meet you Mingi” You said amused, not scared of him and his height anymore as your eyes travelled down his figure, searching any wounds that you could treat or anything that told you he was sick but to your surprise, nothing was found “You look fine to me, what can I help you with?”

“Well, you can say no if you don’t want to but I used to help the last guy that worked here, you know, we all have to study or work in here and since books were never for me I worked my way to the Infirmary!” He said with a proud smile, one that kind of make you think he was cute “So I was wondering if I could keep learning and helping you out, I promise I won’t mess things up and that I’ll take this seriously”

The way he kept saying that he wouldn’t mind if you rejected him but also kept lowkey trying to convince you made your smile even bigger. He seemed to be a nice guy and you honestly wouldn’t mind having some company around, it would surely make things a bit more difficult for you and Jongho but maybe if he even showed he could be trusted, you could tell him your true intentions and plans. Mingi could be helpful for sure.

“Okay, having some company sounds nice” You accepted, uncrossing your arms and getting ready to clean the room a little and organize everything on the shelves. There was so much work to do and so little time to keep friendly chatting with Mingi.

“Thanks God, I really didn’t want to go back to painting classes” He mumbled while watching you, pulling the sleeves of his uniform up so he could start helping you out in whatever you were planning to do at the moment.

“I’m assuming you weren’t born to be the next Van Gogh?” You asked chuckling, hearing how Mingi snorted.

“These hands were made to make many things but paintings are not one of them for sure” He answered and even though your eyes weren’t on him right now, you could hear the smile on his lips.

“I hope they were made to heal people” You teased.

“Were they? We’ll see” He said in a light tone obviously joking “So what’s your name? Since you don’t have a number I can easily remember” Mingi muttered teasing you about your greeting earlier, making you smile again.

“My name is (Y/N)” You simply said.

Mingi froze in his place, his smile only getting wider as he turned around to look at you. He had been having the feeling that he knew you as soon as he walked in the infirmary but he hadn’t been able to guess the reason why you were so familiar to him. Now that you had said your name, Mingi remembered how many times his friend had spoken about you, how easily was to make him smile whenever he remembered your shenanigans and oh god, let’s not talk about the picture he had in his cell of the two of you. Sure you looked way younger but Mingi was sure you were her, you were Jongho’s girl.

“Wait, your (Y/N)?” He asked genuinely surprised, making you stop your rearranging of the medicines that were on the shelves to turn around and look at him.

“I just told you” You snorted, not really getting why he was asking that.

“I can’t wait to tell Jongho you’re here” He said smiling warmly.

“You know Jongho?” You asked surprised, eyes glued to his face.

“Of course I do” He said as if it was the same obvious thing, pointing to the tattoo on his wrist “We were in the same gang”

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extravagantliar · 3 years

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The Team from Kirkwall and Scars;

So I should preface this with this is something that is highly researched in a purely speculative sense, and while I am not an MD nor do I claim to be, I have worked in specialty veterinary hospitals for the last eleven years of my life. I earned an associates in veterinary technology and medicine, before working for the past seven years in a surgical and orthopedic service while assessing wounds of all kinds, scars, and healing tissue, observing and monitoring anesthesia, before transferring to one of the biggest and the busiest ER facility in the coastal Carolinas, working partially for the surgery service and the ER/ICU unit attached. I have just very recently transferred to a dermatology and holistic clinic to round out my specialties.

While I am not a licensed nurse, due to my licenseture I am required to keep up with my more than basic share of first aid. I was also a sick child, leading to my fascination with medicine -- however, my compassion for animals won out. This is also well researched with sources and grading scales cited at the end of all of this!

Please enjoy my ramblings!

Scars are normal in the healing process. Almost every system can scar, besides bone -- those we can typically break and if we get all the pieces, we can even put those back together. However, with skin -- it’s a weaker form of collagen than what makes up our skin, a fibrosis crisscrossing in pronounced alignment in one direction forming the scar rather than flat, unblemished skin that forms in a randomised pattern. Hence why your skin has the distinctive blemish that can sometimes remain red for months after healing has completed, sometimes they remain injected and flush for years.

When it comes to crew that travelled from Kirkwall, all their scars look fairly newish --- and many think they must have gotten them separately, I posit a very different theory. I believe they all got them around the same time. You see, wounds heal based on a myriad of factors from immune system to the actual vascularity of the respective site. Facial wounds heal quicker on average.

With the crew from Kirkwall I do need to state that Varric, Cassandra, and Cullen have different immune systems. While we do not know exactly how lyrium works in the most practical of senses, I’d theorised that lyrium is something that had to be stopped slowly over time to prevent terrible side effects and and rapid, dangerous detox. It would also be something that could have lingering effects, due to how it is potentially metabolised by the body, but that being said ---

i. cullen

Cullen’s scar does look one of the oldest and most well healed, which may be due to his body still having some lyrium in it, his age and general prior good health help with that, while his trauma and stress from Kirkwall being a factor against rapid healing. However, the scar is in a place of great vascularity. It does still look like a very new scar from a healed wound, done with a knife of moderate sharpness or fist with a blade holding a blade. This is a moderately shallow healed wound. It is a clean cut and straight forward, but it looks much more settled than the rest, due to no inflammation. It looks like it received excellent medical attention with the potential for an argument that a Surgeon or Healer even tended to the wound at Kirkwall. It looks like the skin could have healed on his lip own its own, but due to jagged nature down by the lip, it could have been crudely apposed in the field by a novice or by Cullen himself, however it does not look magically tended to. Scar scale: Healthy, healed, mildly jagged, weak to strong uv due to placement, could heal further with strict skin care, no inflammation 0/5, appox age: 10 mon. to 1 yr before the start of DA: I ( care dependent )

ii. cassandra

In the case of Cassandra, her scars are a little more complex, but fairly uncomplicated.

The smaller of the two does look the newest as it looks more inected than the larger one. Of course, it looks finer, a graze with a sharp knife or a very close call with a sword, more likely an axe, if not a sharp curved blade due to the placement on her cheek. It has received excellent medical attention, however it looked shallow by nature, most likely a close call that is situated in a place of good vascularity, and the wound does not look to have cut into any deep layers of the dermis or into the muscle. It could have been apposed in the field, but most likely by an experienced doctor or healer. It is not unreasonable to think that if it was a deeper wound than my estimation, that it could be cleanly healed by a very experienced mage healer. Scar scale: Healthy, 80% healed, mild inflammation 2/5, good healing, good apposition of tissue, no obvious sutures, no degranulation present, very mild scarring, could possibly heal further with strict skin care, approx age: 14 days to 1 month before the start of DA: I ( care dependent )

As for her larger scar, it l would argue that it is the oldest of the bunch. It is much more settled and much less inflamed than the other. It looks moderately cleaned, crudely. It is hard to ascertain if the apposition of skin was crude, the blade in question was dull, or if Cassandra simply pulled whatever sutured it together out with her hands. It does look like it cuts into the dermis, however with how animated Cassandra can be, it does not look like it affects her muscles at all. It still does have some underlying redness in most images, however some scars can remain red and inflamed up to a year after the wound, but I would argue that the scar is mostly settled and it could just be darker pigmentation at the site of the scar which is not uncommon to have some discolouration ( lighter or dark ) on a scar. It looks afflicted by most likely a sword or a knife pulling away, due to the length of the wound. The wound looks well healed and is healthy overall. I cannot rule out magical healing due to Cassandra’s ranks. Scar scale: Healthy, healed, moderately jagged, weak to strong UV possibly causing it to looked more inflamed, mild inflammation 1.5/5, well healed overall, approx age: 8 months to 14 months before the start of DA:I.

iii. varric

Varric’s look the most recent. When we meet Varric he’s in the middle of a brawl. The wounds on his cheek look like scruffage from the fight. The underlying rounder wound also looks very recent. It looks like it could be from hand to hand combat or being hit with something blunt. If it scars, it will because of lack of care and continuing to shave over an open wound, leaving a small amount of discolouration. It looks clean, with good circulation, it is not actively bleeding and needs no major care. As for his nose scar it looks fairly fresh as well, however sits on top of a broken nose. It seems very shallow, from hand to hand combat, most likely from someone looking to break his nose again. Scar scale: Healthy, open fresh wound, first aid required, possibility for scarring if it continuously reopened, inflamed 3/5, approx age: 15 minutes to 30 minutes before the start of DA:I

I would state that based on the way that Varric’s wound look in this image, the way Cassandra’s look in this image, and the way that Cullen’s look in this image that my best estimate is that they were obtained reasonably around 6 to 18 months before the start of DA:I.

All of these images have been captured by me and colour corrected by tinting down the red and correcting with Varric’s main PSD.

ALL OF THESE IMAGES ARE FROM THE START OF DA:I. I cherry picked these images due to the look that you get at the scar and the minimal amount of colour correction, allowing as much of DA:I gradient to be seen without the OVERSATURATION OF RED OR BLUE. I am open to questions, criticisms, and anything in between!

[1] - This is the grading scale I used alongside my own wound rubric that I would be happy to post if needed [2] - Link to the paper my department was in for our study on ligament vascularity in dogs with CCL disease ( i will try to find my PDF, it’s a cool study ) [3] - PubMed Journal on Maturation of Scars [4] - Paper on scars and healing from Yale, published in 2000. @chantlight

#.op #.text #.From the Desk Of: V. Tethras ( Headcanon )#.long post

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everlarkficexchange · 4 years

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A Taste of Rebellion

Prompt #68 (submitted by @oakfarmer12): Dark Coffee Shop AU- Capitol Peeta runs a coffee/pastry shop in the poshest part of the Capitol nearby President Snow’s mansion. Capitol Katniss is a frequent customer. Things in the Capitol begin to deteriorate as the rebellion drags on. Are they sympathetic to the rebel cause?

Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to the characters, and I do all my own editing. Thanks to oakfarmer12 for the amazing idea! I don’t know if this will be what you had in mind or live up to any expectations you had, but I hope you enjoy it as well as everyone else who reads!

If Katniss is a little OOC, it’s probably due to her altered situation, living in the Capitol. She’s still a bit hardened, but not as much maybe.

Special Thanks to evestedic and eiramrelyat for their feedback! And of course, thanks to oakfarmer12 for the awesome prompt! I’ve really enjoyed writing it!

Written By: @acpoe82 (JHsgf82 on A03 and fanfiction.net) Prompt By: oakfarmer12 Rated: T (possible rating change in later parts)

Prologue:

It all started with a spark as most great revolutions do. And that spark, Katniss Everdeen is sorry to say, she has inadvertently kindled. Without realizing or choosing, she’s joined a fight‒and she is fairly certain she’s on the wrong side…

Another unexpected complication of this whole mess is a man‒a man who couldn’t be more unlike her, nevertheless, one she’s fallen irrevocably in love with. He is the man she now feels tied to, whether she wants to be or not. She’s sure there’s no getting rid of him‒he’ll probably follow her to the ends of the earth for the strength of what binds them, but the problem is, she wants to stay right where she was. He is the one who wants to leave, and he’s insisting she go with him…

And this turn of events, which has spiraled so far out of her control, is all due to a chance meeting in a coffee shop with a blond stranger on Katniss’s worst of days.

Part I

It’s a fluke that Katniss first ends up at Capitol Coffee, or, to use its full name, Mellark & Sons Capitol Coffee. Then again, perhaps, it was predetermined. She might think so if she believed in fate or anything mystical like that, and she’s not sure that she does. All she knows is that it’s no accident she goes inside. It’s the dandelion that draws her in…

The significance of the dandelion for Katniss goes back a number of years. Dandelions remind her so much of her father because they used to pick them together in the woods. They’d add them to salads or munch on them for a snack. She even brought a large bouquet of them home to her sister, Primrose, one day, and the look on her face was priceless. Their mother, who was a nurse, pointed out the medicinal uses for them and proceeded to snatch a few, for medical purposes, she said, even though they had plenty of top-quality Capitol medical supplies on hand. And Katniss gave the rest to Prim. Prim went nuts over them. Grinning from ear to ear, she proceeded to place them everywhere, in vases all around the house, in her hair, in Katniss’s hair… Prim always could appreciate the simpler things in life; proof-positive, she’d take a plain weed over the most elegant and expensive floral arrangement any day.

Memories such as this one have been rising up all day like bile. Katniss supposes it’s because today is an anniversary, and not a pleasant one. This particular anniversary is one she would love to forget but knows will be burned into her brain until the day she dies…

Katniss has been standing outside the coffee shop for who knows how long considering going in for a drink when she glimpses the freestanding chalkboard on the sidewalk announcing the specials. The drinks and pastries are written in the fanciest, most beautiful handwriting she’s ever seen, but it’s the drawings that really catch her eye: A loaf of bread, a bird, a sunset in various hues of colorful chalk, and a dandelion. Her stormy eyes fix on the bright yellow weed-herb. It’s the most intricate representation of a dandelion she’s ever seen outside of a formal plant book. It’s as if the thing has sprung from the board and come to life. Whoever this person is who draws on the specials board has an artful hand and has truly missed their calling. Then again, maybe he or she only knows how to doodle.

Despite being a Capitol citizen from an esteemed family, Katniss doesn’t frequent Capitol hotspots. A simple girl at heart, she prefers nature to high-end boutiques, her father’s old hunting jacket and a simple bird necklace to furs and strings of jewels, a home-cooked meal to Haute cuisine, and the company of herself or a few close family members to lavish social gatherings. In fact, Katniss has always felt kind of like an outsider here in the Capitol, never truly believing she belongs in the lap of luxury. It’s just one of those things, she supposes, as if she was born in the wrong place, in the wrong century, even.

But that’s nonsense, and Katniss is practical. She knows it’s senseless to imagine things differently than they are, even though there is one particular thing she really wishes was different. Even so, it’s best she accepts the way things are. There’s no use complaining about what you do or don’t have, especially when you have much. And she does.

Katniss and her family have never wanted for anything; they have everything they could need or want, and even more since that fateful day, that is, save for one thing. But what-if thinking is as useless as gazing off into the distance, pretending you’re elsewhere, which consequently, she often does…

Katniss’s favorite place to be is the woods, the one place she feels utterly at peace and closest to him. Even her room is one giant simulation of a forest, and she’s been known to spend hours gazing at the walls, just staring at the greens and browns until they all blended together and she could practically hear the songs of the birds, the chatter of the small creatures, and the trickling of a nearby stream, until she’s been transported there fully in her mind.

But it’s not all from imagination. Katniss has actually visited the woods in reality many times, and she’d wanted to do so today, but with the Hunger Games impending, it would have been next to impossible…

***

If she could have, Katniss would have traveled north, across the border and into the lush forests of District 7 where her father used to take her as a child. There are an abundance of trees and animals there, and they would take their homemade bows and go hunting. It wasn’t that they needed food‒they had plenty‒they hunted for the sport of it. But that wasn’t to say they wasted the meat. Her father never believed in being wasteful, so everything they killed was either eaten or used in some way‒to make a pouch, a knife sheath, a utensil, even a purse for her mother or little sister. Her father said he got the idea from native peoples who long ago lived on this land and used every part of an animal.

As far as archery went, Katniss had enjoyed learning. It quickly became her favorite activity, and she got really good at it. Her father always insisted she never show her skill, though, even if it was being practiced in school. When she’d asked why, he told her: “You never know when a certain skill may come in handy, Katniss, and you might not want others knowing just how good you are at it.”

At the time, she didn’t understand. Didn’t most people want others to know when they were good at something? For the bragging rights. Well, not her, perhaps. She always preferred keeping a low profile, never craving the attention of others, save for her father. Having his praise was enough.

Alongside her father, Katniss had learned the thrill of the hunt, and with that, she’d discovered how much she enjoyed the taste of wild game. Somehow, it tasted even better than the delicacies of the Capitol, that is, all except for lamb stew, her favorite dish. Unfortunately, she’d never seen any lamb roaming about, so killing one and cooking it into a stew to see if it tasted different was out of the question. The Capitol must get them from somewhere, though.

Lamb stew aside, the meat Katniss and her father came home with tasted the best. Perhaps it was the natural flavor on her tongue, the lack of processing and additives, but she suspected it had more to do with the satisfaction of knowing she’d brought it home herself, through her own skill. She’d tracked and felled the beast, always doing her best to ensure a quick, clean kill, usually straight through the eye and into the brain or piercing a vital organ so as not to let the animal suffer as her father had taught her. She couldn’t explain it, but somehow, a meal she’d had to work for gave her far greater pleasure, each bite being synonymous with triumph.

Those were the happiest times of her life…

*** How Katniss wishes her father were here with her today. If he were, he’d be off work, so she’d ask him to take her to their favorite place. They’d leave just before sun-up when the world is dark and still, and most of the Capitolites, including her mother and sister, are sound asleep. They’d stealthily sneak out of the city and into the woods of District 7, but not because anyone would stop them‒at most, one of the Peacekeepers guarding the border might raise a brow or perhaps ask for identification, for what Capitol citizen would want to leave and go to the districts? But, no, they’d do it for the excitement of it all. For Katniss and her father, there was always something alluring about remaining invisible.

But there’s no use wishing or thinking about him at length, because he’s gone. Gone forever.

Katniss misses her father terribly; it’s an ever-present ache, but it’s especially difficult today, on the 10-year anniversary. Yes, it was exactly ten years ago to the day that her father was killed…

*** He had a fancy job in the Nut, the principal military facility supplying the Capitol. It was a rather long commute to District 2 by train, which resulted in him getting home later than her mother liked, but the job was good, so it made it worthwhile. He’d worked there ever since Katniss was a small child, and that’s where it happened…

Her father’s death was called a freak accident, but Katniss knew better. She knew that was just a cover-up. The excuse was far too flimsy; there were too many blanks left unfilled by the official who came to inform and compensate her family for their tremendous loss. And besides, she knew her father. He was beyond cautious in all he did, and he’d told her about how things worked in the Nut, secret things, even‒and those kinds of ‘accidents’ didn’t just happen.

No, it was the rebels; it had to be. Although nothing was ever confirmed or televised about it, there was speculation. And Katniss, for one, was certain. She knew it was those filthy, treacherous rebels who were responsible for taking her father away from her.

Everyone in the Capitol knew of the rebels. They’d been taught from a young age about the rebellion and the Treaty of Treason, about the ungratefulness of the district people and the despicable lengths to which they would go. They just couldn’t accept the class distinction or their lot in life, and they just had to come after those who had more than them.

One would think they’d have learned their lesson after the Dark Days. Wasn’t the annihilation of an entire district and the penalty of the Hunger Games enough for them to stay in line and live peacefully? Although, in Katniss’s mind, they’d gotten off easy, especially considering the generosity shown by the Capitol in allowing for a Victor each year, even more so in bestowing riches and food upon said Victor and his or her district. The Hunger Games were a punishment but also a gift of hope, and the districts should be grateful.

But there will always be those who desire more…

In the Capitol, they’d been told the rebels were no longer a threat, but Katniss could argue with that. Even if the alleged attack on the Nut was a feeble attempt at best, it had taken her father from her, and thus, she would forever despise the rebels. Not that her hatred could do a damn thing to bring her father back.

Their selfishness infuriated Katniss, honestly. Didn’t they think she knew about hard times and loss, too? Case in point, she’d been only 13, and her sister only 9, when they lost their father.

Losing a father at such a pivotal age was hard enough when not combined with having a mother who checked out afterward. When their father died, their mother went into a deep depression. She stopped working as a nurse in a Capitol hospital; she could hardly get out of bed and barely spoke, and she basically ignored her two daughters. They, fortunately, had plenty of money coming in from their father’s settlement, so putting food in their mouths wasn’t an issue; although, for a time, Katniss had to practically force-feed her mother. And with a mother who was basically useless, it fell to Katniss to buy and prepare the food, take care of their home, and raise Prim.

Prim helped her out as best she could, but for a barely teenaged girl just hitting puberty to be responsible for an entire family was absurd and unfair. In Katniss’s mind, there was no excuse for the way her mother reacted, and henceforth, she vowed never to ‘fall in love.’ It was ridiculous, after all, to feel so strongly for someone as to become a shell of the person you once were and neglect everything and everyone around you when they’re gone. Katniss refused to take a chance on becoming such a pitiful mess should something happen to her hypothetical lover. Thus, the teen years were somewhat lost on her. She didn’t really have many normal experiences that teens have, least of all those related to guys.

*** Katniss refocuses on the specials board outside Capitol Coffee. Now that she’s seen the dandelion, it’s decided‒she will go inside. She doesn’t care so much about meeting the artist, but it’s like a sign, or would be, if she believed in signs. Today is different, though; today she does… So, she quells lingering thoughts of sorrow and revenge, hardens her expression, and pushes through the door to the coffee shop. A little bell tinkles announcing her arrival.

Katniss immediately takes a look around. The coffee shop isn’t very large, but it has plenty of seating in the form of round, mahogany tables and chairs. There’s also a lounge area with plush armchairs and a sectional couch. The space is softly lit by pendant lights, and Katniss is transfixed for a moment because she swears the hanging lights almost look like dandelions in their white, puffy stage when they’re ready to spread their seeds. The decor is sparse, mostly paintings of settings and people. It’s eclectic, yet simple. Katniss isn’t sure how to describe it, but if she had to sum up with one word, she’d call it…homey. There’s almost a small-town atmosphere to it, and in a way, it reminds her of a den, an escape from the outside world. If she can’t be in the woods today, she supposes this is an acceptable alternative.

The people are scattered throughout the seating area and at the bar in the back, all dressed to the nines as most citizens of the Capitol do. Her fellow Capitolites keep well-caffeinated as a general rule, so coffee shops are popular, but it’s not exactly peak coffee hour. And right now, most people will be working important high-profile jobs, shopping, or indulging in whatever frivolous activity best suits them.

Katniss thoroughly surveys her surroundings as she’s been taught to do. “Always be aware of your surroundings,” her father used to say. He taught her to not only use her eyes but all of her senses, including a more elusive kind, a sixth sense. He said she had it, and he assured her that, although he hoped she’d never experience it, she’d know if she was ever in danger. He said she’d just feel it in her gut.

Katniss has never experienced real danger, and she certainly shouldn’t have anything to fear in a posh Capitol coffee shop not far from President Snow’s mansion, but she always takes precautions‒it was a lesson that stuck with her. The most she’s ever had to worry about was being ogled by strangers while walking the streets of the Capitol. This has happened several times, but there’s one particular time she recalls vividly…

*** It was a few years back. Katniss was heading to the store when she passed a man on the street, and she caught him watching her. Although she pretended to ignore it, she definitely didn’t like the look he had. His eyes seemed to burn into her like fire as he looked her up and down, undoubtedly appraising her body. Said man was an older man, probably in his forties, at least twenty years older than her or more.

She felt that sense of danger her father spoke of then; it was like the dread she imagined prey feels when it’s being stalked. But she wouldn’t give him the opportunity to pursue her. He did begin to follow, so she put the hood of her cloak up and headed away from the store and into a larger crowd, hoping to lose the creep. That’s when he called out to her.

“Hey, it’s me!” he shouted, pretending to know her. And then he suggested they go for a drink and catch up.

Of course, Katniss had never seen the man before in her life, and if he really knew her, he’d use her name. At that moment, she wished she’d brought her bow. Although she couldn’t just murder a man in the street, or even injure him, for the Peacekeepers would be on her instantly, she could at least scare him. And it would bring her a sense of peace to have her weapon. Of course, that wouldn’t bode well for her, either. Weapons weren’t allowed on the streets, only by Peacekeepers, but even if they were alone in some alley and she had her bow, she still didn’t think she could take a shot at him, as much as she might want to. It wasn’t like shooting an animal.

Fortunately, she was able to lose the man in the crowd, but it had frightened her. From then on, she always wore her hood up when she went out in public. And it worked out for the best, especially considering she didn’t enjoy idle conversation with random strangers.

*** Thinking back on it, Katniss secures her hood tighter around her face and makes her way to the long bar in the back, where she assumes they serve the drinks. There’s no stupid illuminated sign shouting out the obvious, which she actually finds refreshing. Instead, the bar is lit with more of those dandelion lights, smaller ones. Along the way, she passes a woman dressed in layers of multicolored furs and wearing a giant hat made of peacock feathers.

Katniss doesn’t buy into the latest Capitol fashions, especially not the color-changing skin. She doesn’t wear alluring or tight-fitting clothing, either‒she doesn’t have the breasts for it but wouldn’t even if she did‒so it’s strange that the man on the street took notice of her, let alone leered and so boldly pursued her. Today, Katniss is dressed as she usually is, in a long, asymmetrical tunic with chiffon edges, leggings, and boots. The tunic is green, as is a large portion of her clothing, and the leggings and boots are black. She wears a velvet cloak over her clothing, also green, which she usually keeps the hood of up‒to discourage people from talking to her.

In spite of that, the woman in fur and feathers glances up at her and smiles, probably out of politeness. Katniss merely gives a curt nod as her eyes quickly dart away, for even that was more social interaction than she typically likes. And today, of all days, she wants to be left alone; she just wants to have a drink and go.

She finds a seat at the end of the bar and slides onto the stool. Not long after, a man steps out of a back room and approaches the bar.

He’s approximately her age, dressed in a plain white, slightly snug t-shirt, and he has a white apron tied around his waist. He’s medium height, stocky build, and his hair is ashy-blond and falls in waves over his forehead. When he sees her, he stops dead in his tracks and does a double-take.

He resumes walking toward her, and she then catches sight of his eyes. Blue. The bluest of blue. So blue they look plucked straight out of the sky. She also notices that his face seems oddly familiar… Maybe it’s just the kind of face one feels like they know, but she’s never experienced such a thing before.

“Hello.” He stands before her now, smelling of cinnamon and dill and giving her the kind of smile she imagines he greets old friends with. “Welcome to…” He stumbles over his words as if he’s forgotten the name of the business he works at‒perhaps he hasn’t worked here long. “Capitol Coffee,” he quickly inserts, his pale cheeks growing rosy.

Katniss eyes him warily, and upon deciding she doesn’t get a bad feeling from him, she removes her hood. Revealed is her dark hair, falling in a double dutch braid down her back. She brushes back the ringlets framing her face, which have partially obscured her vision, and tucks them neatly behind her ears.

The man’s lips part, and he stares.

Katniss is trying to figure out why. She doesn’t think herself beautiful by any means; she’s not fashionable and her features are plain, and she isn’t into makeup. She does, however, wear a sweep of mascara and forest green eyeshadow, which perfectly matches her cloak‒it wasn’t her intention, but green just happens to be her favorite color. Prim had convinced her to try the makeup one time, and she even helped her select some that would complement her gray eyes and olive skin tone. And she ended up liking it, so she kept it up.

The man continues to stare.

His intense, focused gaze should unnerve her, but it only makes her curious. Maybe it’s because the delicate blue of his eyes is serene, or maybe it’s because he’s not looking at her in a lascivious manner. Or, maybe…maybe it’s because he’s nice to look at.

As for her looks, they’re wholly unimpressive, even though it’s not the first time she’s gotten such a reaction from a guy.

Katniss doesn’t like feeling on display, at all, but this man isn’t looking at her hungrily as other Capitolite men have, such as the one who chased her through the streets. Rather, he’s gazing upon her almost…reverently. There is more appreciation than desire in his eyes as if he’s looking at a piece of art in a museum. That thought makes her even more uncomfortable than if he were ogling her…

The man is still staring, and it begins to get to her. Her cheeks heat up, and she’s tempted to put her hood back up. She reaches for it, but then he blinks slowly, and she becomes distracted by the longest set of golden eyelashes she’s ever seen. She’s wondering if they’re real when his eyes flit shyly away.

“Sorry, uh…you just look…familiar,” he finally utters, rubbing the back of his neck.

She considers telling him he does, too, but that might come across as flirting, so she says nothing. In fact, neither of them speaks for at least several seconds longer than anyone should remain silent in a normal situation such as this.

The man looks directly at her again, his expression more subdued now. “So, anyway, what can I get for you?” he asks, giving her another friendly smile.

“Well, um, I…don’t know…” Her eyes dart from side to side. She isn’t an alcohol-drinker, though she’s tempted to ask him for something alcoholic, perhaps a drink with just a bit of alcohol added to it. For…comfort. It’s silly to think of drink or food as comforting, but she supposes it can be. This craving must be similar to the way Prim gets about holiday cookies and chocolates; she says they give her a warm feeling. Likewise, their aunt, her mother’s sister, who lives not far from here, is very fond of caviar, and when she eats it, she says she feels like the finest lady in all of the Capitol. Could alcohol bring about that same effect for her? Katniss wonders. But she doesn’t even know enough to know what to ask for, and that would be embarrassing.

The blond barista smiles warmly at her indecision and points to the specials board. “Take all the time you need,” he says genuinely.

Katniss glances up at the board on the wall, and she’s reminded of the chalkboard outside, the one that brought her in. There are more drawings on this board, and they are just as impressive as the ones outside‒Mr. or Ms. Artist has done it again. Her eyes flit across the doodles as she peruses the menu. No alcohol is listed. Perhaps it’s too early for that. But no, she thinks. This is the Capitol, where there’s no shortage of fine food and drink and no one ever needs an excuse for indulging to their heart’s content at any time of day.

But Katniss doesn’t know what to choose. Meanwhile, the barista is leaning his side into the counter, waiting and smiling.

“I, uh, like the drawings,” she stammers, pointing to the board. It’s her best attempt at stalling and breaking the tension, and she’s curious.

His eyes shift upward, then back down to her. “Thank you,” he replies.

She’s confused. Are they his, or is he just taking credit for them?

“They aren’t much, just something I scribbled in my spare time,” he answers her unspoken question.

“You’re the artist?”

“Well, I don’t know if I’d use the term ‘artist,’ but I do enjoy sketching and painting.”

Oh, the modest type…

“I only dabble in it,” he goes on to say, “and my skill level isn’t much, but I guess anyone who produces art can call themselves an artist.” He smooths down his wrinkled apron. “So yeah, I guess I am.”

Just accept the compliment, she demands with her eyes. She doesn’t give them often, after all.

“Well, I don’t know anything about art, but I think they’re good.”

“Why thank you.” He gives her that warm smile again, and this time it does something funny to her stomach. She lowers her eyes and stares at her hands.

And apparently, she’s broken some kind of seal because it doesn’t take long for the blond guy to show his true colors. Most notably, he’s not nearly as shy and awkward as she first thought.

In fact, since those initial awkward moments, he only becomes smoother and more confident in his speech and mannerisms with each passing minute. She can definitely tell he has a way with words and with people. He’s witty and charming, too charming.

Katniss lets him do most of the talking. It’s safer that way.

After a few, mostly one-way, verbal exchanges, he apologizes and asks politely if she’s decided on what she wants.

She hasn’t.

“May I suggest something?” he asks when she hesitates. She nods. “Do you like hot chocolate?”

“I don’t know. Never tried it.”

“You’ve never tried hot chocolate?” he says with an incredulous wrinkle of his brow. He looks so flabbergasted that she might as well have said she eats dog stew and spends her days frolicking through the woods picking berries.

She shakes her head at the ludicrous mental image.

“Well, then, it’s decided. You have to try it. And ours is the best, by the way. I promise you won’t regret it.”

The barista leaves for a few minutes and returns with a large, steaming mug. He places it in front of her, and her nose is immediately ambushed, in a pleasant way, by hot air and the scent of chocolate. It smells peaceful, somehow, like the way the house did that time Prim attempted those homemade chocolates. She tried to shape them like woodland creatures; they looked awful, though Katniss would never say that to her face. But the important thing was, they tasted good.

“Careful now,” the man says. “Blow on it first and test it. Don’t burn your tongue.”

Katniss scowls at him. She’s not a child; she knows how to drink a hot beverage. Regardless, he’s right, and she follows his advice before taking a cautious sip.

And she doesn’t regret it, not one bit. In fact, from the first sip, she knows she’s a goner. No other taste will ever live up to the sweet nectar caressing her tongue and gliding silkily down her throat, she’s absolutely certain. And she’s tasted a lot of fine food and drink. There’s just something about it…hot chocolate…it’s not just the sweetness but the warmth it creates in her belly, unlike any other hot beverage. It tastes like…comfort…home. It’s exactly what she needed today.

“Like it?” He asks.

She nods and eagerly takes another sip. And he’s clearly pleased.

“I can’t believe you’ve never had it.” The guy shakes his head, and his broad shoulders follow suit as he silently chuckles. “Where’ve you been living, under a rock?”

She scoffs. “Well, have you ever had venison?”

His look is part confusion, part disgust, though he tries to mask it. “Like, meat from deer?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, no. Can’t say that I have.”

“Didn’t think so,” she rebukes.

“Am I really missing out?” he teases. Obviously, he doesn’t think that sounds appealing. He’s clearly wondering why a person would eat something like that when, here in the Capitol, they have the finest foods in Panem at their fingertips.

“Yes. You are.”

“Well, bring me some next time,” he says. She’s sure he’s bluffing, but she plans to do it. She wants to wipe that grin off his lips. Or, maybe she’ll bring him a squirrel instead and force him to eat that.

Wait. What is this? Talking openly. Joking. Discussing bringing him meat and force-feeding him squirrel? And dare she say those shyly flirtatious little glances he’s been tossing her way. How has this man gotten her to lower her guard this much already? It makes her a bit uneasy, even though she still gets no sense of alarm from him.

What is alarming, however, is that she thinks she might like him already‒this guy whose name she doesn’t even know.

“Next time?” she questions.

“Yeah. You are going to come back, right? I mean, you liked the drink, so…” There’s a hopeful glint in those deep blue eyes which seem to change color when the light catches them just right.

Katniss presses her lips together. “I might.”

He smiles at her again‒he does that a little too often, but she thinks she likes it. Although she’s not crazy about the initial flip of her stomach, afterward, a nice warmth settles in; it’s almost like sitting by a roaring fire. She fiddles with the handle of her mug, then raises it. Her lips linger on the lip of the cup as she stares out into space for a bit before finally taking another drink.

Katniss continues sipping at her hot chocolate, and it’s nearly gone in a few minutes. She’d planned to take her time savoring it, but it’s just too good for that. After a while, she notices the barista has been watching her with a concerned look on his face.

“You know, nothing says comfort like hot chocolate,” he says. It feels like a leading remark.

Comfort. Yes. But how does he know that’s what she came looking for? He can’t possibly. It must just be something said about this particular drink, or…maybe this man is perceptive.

She’s beginning to change her mind about him, no longer feeling as though he’s completely harmless. In fact, he might be extremely cunning. He looks and acts sweet and innocent‒he’s practically the male equivalent of Prim‒but she suspects he’s trouble. Maybe even dangerous… For one, he’s managed to break down her immediate defenses and get her talking, even joking around with him.

“You know, if you want to talk about something, I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

And now he wants to know more… She’s sure this guy is just one of those kind, helpful types, probably full of plenty of unwanted advice, too. But no man, no one, is as pure as he seems…well, maybe Prim. Her alone.

Yet, there’s this seemingly genuine sweetness about him, and that face…those blue eyes, the dimples, the strong, square jaw, which she’s sure could be the undoing of many a woman, though not her. Yes, she’s convinced‒he’s definitely dangerous.

“Why do you assume I want to talk about something?” she asks skeptically.

“Just an instinct,” he replies.

Katniss tightens her lips. “Well, it’s wrong. And…even if I did, why would I tell my troubles to a perfect stranger?”

Something lights in his eyes then, and she can’t quite read his expression. It’s frustrating to not know what he’s thinking.

“But don’t you think sometimes that’s easier?” he finally speaks.

“What?”

“To unburden yourself to someone you don’t know well. They have no…,” he pauses, “connection to you, and you’ll probably never see them again.” After a tick, he adds, “Although, in this case, I hope that’s not true.”

He’s a smooth operator.

She doesn’t justify it with a response.

But maybe he’s right; maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to confide in someone once in a while. She’s so used to being the caregiver and the protector that she’s never thought about someone looking after her needs, be they physical or emotional. She doesn’t even really tell Prim her deepest thoughts.

But no, she knows nothing about this man. He could be trying to lure her into a false sense of security; for what reason, she doesn’t know, but it’s suspicious. She just can’t believe he’s as genuine as he seems.

“If you don’t want to talk, I understand, but I just don’t think there’s anything wrong with confiding in someone,” he persists. “Sometimes it’s best to get what’s bothering you out, so it doesn’t eat away at you.”

Why is he pressing this? Can’t he see she doesn’t want to talk about it? It’s frustrating her almost to the point of tears, and she doesn’t want to do something stupid like cry in front of him.

Abruptly, she stands and pulls up her hood.

“Oh, I’m-I’m sorry.” He holds up his hands in a placating manner. “Wait, please don’t go. We really don’t have to talk, at all. We can just sit here in silence.”

But it’s too late. The damage is done, and she just wants to get out of here as soon as possible.

“How much for the hot chocolate?” she asks curtly, digging into the pockets of her cloak.

“Uh, it’s…no charge,” he mutters.

“What?” Gray eyes lock on blue. “No. I don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss.”

“I won’t,” he says.

She shakes her head. “No, I have money.” After all, she doesn’t know his motivations, and she hates owing people. He tries to argue and makes up some crap about first-time customers being on the house, but the look on her face cuts him off.

He gives in and tells her the price, and she plunks the money down on the counter and walks out. She makes it about halfway to the door, fighting the urge to look back the entire time. She loses the battle and subtly glances back over her shoulder, and he’s watching her walk away.

*** Katniss’s decision to return only two days later is partly out of guilt and partly the desire to see him again‒because, like it or not, he’s been on her mind. She tells herself it’s because she behaved so badly when he was being so nice. Therefore, she needs to make amends. It’s the right thing to do; it’s what her father would tell her to do.

She doubts he’ll be thrilled to see her after she left so rudely in the middle of their conversation. And she understands. How was he to know what she was going through and that she didn’t want to talk about it? He was just trying to be nice.

But the point is moot because when she arrives, he doesn’t seem to be there. Katniss looks around, even cranes her neck, trying to get a peek through the ajar door to the back. No blond guy in sight. Instead, behind the counter is a dark-haired man wearing black clothing and gold eyeshadow, who looks strangely familiar.

“Looking for someone?” The man with the eyeshadow stealthily approaches her.

“No.” She shakes her head, but then hesitates. “Well, actually…last time I was here there was a blond man…”

“Ah, you must be talking about Peeta.”

“Peeta,” she nods, “yes.”

The man observes her, grinning faintly, waiting for her to go on.

Katniss releases a small breath. “Yes, well, Peeta knows how to make this drink I like.”

The man with the gold eyeshadow smiles knowingly. “I’m sorry, he’s not here, miss. But I can take a crack at that drink of yours. I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Oh. Um, yeah okay…” What else is she going to say? Her eyes flit to the doodles on the chalkboard, though she knows precisely what she wants. “Hot chocolate.”

“Ah, I see Peeta won you over.”

“What?”

“That’s his drink of choice, too. He’s always pushing it.”

The strangest thought pops into Katniss’s head then–she wonders how many women Peeta’s flirted with while taking their orders, like she thought he was with her. But maybe that’s just the way he is with everyone. In a way, it irritates her to think she’s one of the many or that he was just trying to sell her stuff. But she shakes it off.

The man with the eyeshadow goes to fetch her drink and returns not long after. He sets it down in front of her, and she taste-tests it. Although it’s very good, there’s something different about the one Peeta made. She doesn’t say so, however, and simply thanks the man. As she sips at her hot chocolate, it comes to her why this man looks so familiar.

“You were a stylist in the Games, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was. But I…,” he hesitates, “retired.”

He seems a bit young to retire, and Katniss isn’t sure she believes him. Whatever the cause, there’s definitely more to it than he’s letting on, but she’s not going to pry.

“I’m Cinna,” the former stylist says.

“Cinna.” That’s right. “Pleased to meet you. You were great in the Games.”

“Thank you. And you are?”

“Katniss Everdeen,” she tells him.

“Everdeen,” Cinna says her name slowly, thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just think I came across an Everdeen at one point.”

Katniss decides not to think too much about his comment, and instead, she enjoys her drink. She doesn’t stay as long as the last time, even with the abrupt leave, but she decides to go ahead and like Cinna. He’s down-to-earth and friendly, and he lets her be, unlike Peeta. It should be a relief to be served by Cinna rather than Peeta, but it’s not. She still has that gnawing feeling in her gut that she gets whenever she leaves something unfinished…

*** Katniss waits a few days, then goes back again to Capitol Coffee. She takes a seat in her usual spot and removes her hood; she looks around, but she doesn’t see Peeta. Inwardly, she groans. It’s foolish to come here a second time looking for him, probably to no avail, but still, she needs to apologize. She takes another look around and is prepared to leave before anyone sees her and comes over to take her order when she hears a small grunt. It comes from beneath the table. She places her hands on the bar and leans forward to take a look. And that’s when she sees a curly, blond mop poking out from the underside of the counter.

Katniss casually glances over the edge, and the corners of her lip reflexively curl up. Peeta is down there, bent over, fumbling with something, and he seems to really be struggling.

“Need some help?” she asks. And Peeta jumps up, barely missing knocking his head against the bar in the process.

He quickly stands up. This time, he’s dressed in black, stylish yet casual, and his curly hair has a messy bedhead look to it. He glances her direction, and when he locks eyes on her, she swears his face lights up.

Peeta approaches, smiling tentatively, his blue eyes twinkling. “Heyy,” he drawls. “You came back.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles, lowering her gaze to her hands. She wonders if Cinna told him she was here before.

“I’m glad.”

Her eyes dart up to his face. “You are?”

“Yeah.” He smiles widely, as if he can’t help it. “I am.”

They have a genuine, real moment before Katniss lowers her gaze, her cheeks warming.

She hates that Peeta has this effect on her every time‒it must be because he’s so free with his flattery and says things that can easily be misconstrued.

It’s then that she notices the weight of her necklace against her chest, but not the bare skin over her sternum as usual; it has popped out of its resting place. She takes the pendant in her hand, tracing the embellished wings of the bird and thinking of her father. The necklace is simple, gifted to her by her father many years ago, just because he loved her, he said. She assumes he chose a bird because it’s part of nature, and he knew she loved that. She stares down at the bird, still unsure which breed it is. She fiddles with it some more, finally tucking it back inside her shirt when she catches Peeta noticing it.

“Look,” she speaks up, deciding to get straight to the point. “I wanted to tell you that…I’m sorry about the way I acted last week,” she rushes the apology out of her mouth.

“Oh.” He blinks a few times, those long, golden eyelashes fluttering like tiny butterflies. “You don’t have to‒”

“No, I do. I was having a bad day. I’m not usually like that,” she blurts the last part out, though she doesn’t know why. It’s completely untrue. She’s always like that, and Prim would testify to it.

Peeta simply smiles, and Katniss instantly feels all is forgiven. But then again, Peeta is different. He seems not at all the type to hold a grudge, and his face backs it up. His eyes and lips seem to say there was no need for an apology in the first place. But she feels better now.

Now that that’s out of the way, the mood seems to lighten, and Peeta leans against the bar, smiling, of course. “So, what’ll it be, sweetheart?“

Sweetheart? She scowls at him, and he lets out a throaty chuckle.

“I take it you don’t like that.”

She keeps the scowl plastered on for confirmation.

“I’m sorry. I only call you that because you never said your name. You can’t expect me to just know it, can you?” He grins.

“You never asked, and you didn’t say yours, either,” she retorts, even though she’s already learned his name from Cinna.

“That’s true. Fair enough; I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“That’s okay,” Katniss says obstinately.

He does something unexpected then. He folds his arms and stares her down, his countenance determined. He’s going to make this difficult, of course.

“Shall I guess, then?” he finally says.

Katniss rolls her eyes. Even though it might be entertaining to have him try and guess her name, she’s not interested in games. She shakes her head. “No.” She pauses a moment before mumbling, “It’s Katniss. Katniss Everdeen.”

“Katniss Everdeen.” His blue eyes shoot skyward, and he strokes his dimpled chin. “I like it. It’s unique.” He looks back at her. “Do you want to know mine?”

“Not necessary,” she tersely replies. And she can’t tell whether the hurt in his expression is real or not. “And I’ll have hot chocolate, I guess.”

He recovers quickly. “Can’t get enough, eh? Had to come back for more.” He gives her a little wink, and she wants to pull up her hood and hide in it.

What happened to the shy guy she first met? Was that all an act?

Peeta seems to take the hint and tells her he’ll go and make her drink. He leaves for several minutes but returns empty-handed.

Seconds later, a tall, beautiful woman comes up behind him. Her hair is thick, platinum blonde, and crimped, undoubtedly a wig; she’s wearing black lipstick, pinkish-purple eyeshadow, a frilly minidress, black, translucent stockings and black high heels. Katniss is baffled by how she can walk in those things all day.

“Here you go, Peeta. You forgot this,” the woman says sweetly, handing him the steaming mug.

Peeta’s pale cheeks flush lightly. “Well, that’s embarrassing,” he says. A small smile graces Katniss’s lips. “Thanks, Portia.”

Portia? That’s right. She was also a stylist in the Games, like Cinna; in fact, she was his partner, Katniss recalls. She’d thought she looked familiar when she came out.

So, she works here, too. Had Cinna convinced Portia to go along with him when he left? And why? Why would a person give up a good job like Stylist in the Games? Maybe Cinna was lying and they were both fired, although that seems unlikely, considering they were the best ones. Their Tributes were always the best-dressed, at least in Katniss’s opinion.

“Sure thing, boss.” Portia winks at Peeta.

Boss?

When Portia’s gone and Katniss turns back to Peeta he has this look on his face like a child who’s just had his favorite toy taken away. It’s probably because Peeta thinks Portia ruined his fun by saying his name.

“So, it’s Peeta, huh?” Katniss says with mild interest, deciding to throw him a bone and play as if it’s the first time his name has been revealed.

“Yeah. Peeta Mellark.” He places the mug in front of her and comes a bit closer, extending his hand‒he smells even more strongly of spices today. Tentatively, Katniss accepts it, and he wraps his large hand around hers.

His hand is warm and a bit rough, but it’s not exactly unpleasant when his fingertips graze her wrist. As for his shake, it’s gentle but firm; he even adds an extra squeeze near the end. It lasts about 3 to 5 seconds, and oddly, Katniss is sorry to see Peeta let go.

After they’ve retracted their hands, Peeta steps back and motions for her to drink. She nods and takes hold of the thin handle, bringing it to her lips. At the last second, she remembers to test it and blows on it a few times.

“Mm” escapes her lips upon finishing her first cautious sip. She’s already missed this flavor.

“Good?” He raises a brow hopefully.

“Uh, yeah. Really good.” Katniss’s nose wrinkles up. And different. It’s not the same as the last time he made it.

“I added a little something to it,” Peeta says, noting her appraisal of it.

At that, Katniss’s eyes widen and shoot up to his. “What?”

“Don’t worry, Katniss.” Peeta chuckles. “I didn’t poison it or anything. Just added a little cinnamon.”

“Oh. Cinnamon.” She takes another sip and decides the flavors work well together. Still, he should ask her before he just goes and does something like that.

Partway into her cup, they strike up a conversation, and this time, Katniss joins in more.

“So, you’re the manager here,” she says.

“Owner, actually,” Peeta corrects, but not in an arrogant way.

“Aren’t you a little young to own your own business, Peeta Mellark?”

“Well, I am 25, Katniss Everdeen. “And I don’t do it alone.”

“Oh, yeah. You run this place with your father and brothers, right?” she says, recalling the sign outside; although she’s never seen anyone resembling Peeta working here.

“No,” he says, rather sullenly.

“Oh. Sorry. I saw the sign, so I just assumed.” It seems like she’s pried, so she’s prepared to let it go, but Peeta continues.

“It’s okay. It was supposed to be that way,” he says. “You see, my father…he died a few years back, just as we were preparing to open the coffee shop. He…got sick, and would you believe it, all the best medicines in the Capitol couldn’t do a thing for him.”

“Peeta…I’m so sorry.” She can relate, of course. She had no idea Peeta lost his father, too, and only someone who’s experienced that can truly understand.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I wanted to open the place anyway, in honor of my father. I was encouraged to name it something related to the Capitol, especially being so close to Snow’s mansion as it is. I know Capitol Coffee isn’t very original, but they were satisfied with that. I had the Capitol logo engraved on the sign, and they let me keep the Mellark & Sons sign up, too.”

Katniss puts on a faint smile. She wants to say she knows how he feels, but she isn’t quite sure how to get the words out, and she hates when people say that sort of thing, anyway, so she just listens as he continues.

“My brothers were supposed to help me out, and they did for a little while, but then they just stopped. They had lives and families and no time for it. So, I hired some outside help. I, uh, hear you met Cinna the other day.”

So, he knew she came in before…damn him.

“Well, Cinna is my partner in the business.”

Katniss simply nods, but she’s curious as to why Cinna gave up his position as Stylist to come co-run a coffee shop. She’s not normally one for gossip or digging for information about other people’s lives, but it’s just so unheard of. She decides to ask Peeta why Cinna left, but all Peeta gives her is the trademark ‘he wanted to pursue other endeavors.’ Does he not know, or is he keeping something?

Katniss shrugs it off, and they fall into a more casual conversation. She feels more at ease talking to him now, especially after his confession about losing his father. It’s a horrible thing to be connected over, but she does feel more connected to him now. Still, she doesn’t give him any information about her family, only tells him about her mangy furball of a cat (it’s actually Prim’s cat, but she’s certainly not going to mention Prim to a total stranger). After that, they stay on safe topics like the weather, food and drink, and hobbies. She finds out he does, indeed, enjoy hot chocolate, but he also likes tea. He takes it without sugar. And he’s a painter.

When she reveals that she hunts, Peeta guffaws and says, “So, that explains the venison.” The corner of her lip tilts. “Which, I’m still waiting for, by the way,” he teases.

Just for that, Peeta Mellark, you’re getting TWO big fat squirrels! She vehemently thinks at him. She plots tossing a rabbit in, too. She’ll fix the meat up real nice for him and only tell him what it is after he puts it in his mouth and chews it up some.

This makes her smile and puts her at ease, but she doesn’t reveal, this time, about her father.

***

Katniss continues to return to the coffee shop almost daily over the course of the next two weeks. She almost always has the hot chocolate, but occasionally she orders a different drink and sometimes a pastry. The cheese buns become her absolute favorite; she gets voracious over them. One time, Peeta gives her a vanilla latte, and he even makes a leaf out of foam in it. She stares down into the mug and smiles, thinking of the forest.

She and Peeta fall into an easy back-and-forth. She usually allows him to do the talking while she occasionally comments or asks a question. There’s some banter between them, which occasionally verges on flirtatious, but she’s growing accustomed to not letting it make her uncomfortable. Instead, she tries to relish the warm, fluttery feeling she gets in her stomach sometimes when he looks at her a certain way or compliments her. And Peeta is good. He’s good at making her feel good. He has just the right balance for making a girl feel special without taking it too far. At least, it must work wonders on most women‒and she wonders about that…does Peeta talk like this with other women? She’s a different story, of course, although, she’s been doing her best to just enjoy the attention she’s getting from a nice, attractive guy.

But eventually, Peeta wants to know something ‘real’ about her. And as soon as he says it, she tenses up. What does he want to know? She feels as though her muscles are almost paralyzed, and her mouth has gone dry.

It’s clear from Peeta’s face that he knows he may have crossed a line, probably because of the way she reacted the first day, but he doesn’t completely back down this time.

“Okay, how about we start out simple?” he says.

“Simple?”

“Yeah. You know, friends tell each other the deep stuff, right?”

Friends? Deep stuff? She keeps her cool. “The deep stuff? Uh oh. Like what?”

“Well, like…” Peeta thinks for a moment. He strokes his chin. “Hey, why don’t we make this interesting?”

Interesting? Oh no. What does that mean?

“Let’s play a little game.” She eyes him warily, and he just smiles.

“I don’t like games,” she protests.

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun!”

The game is called ‘Real or Not Real,’ and the objective is for them to say things they think they know about the other person or guess at them, and the other person will verify if it’s true (real) or false (not real). Peeta says it’ll be a fun way for them to get to know each other better.

Katniss doesn’t like the sound of it one bit, but Peeta’s so excited to play that she gives in.

He does, indeed, start simple.

“Green is your favorite color. Real or Not Real?” he says.

Katniss nearly laughs. Well, that certainly wasn’t a ‘deep’ question, sounded more like something a five-year-old would ask. But she answers. “Real. But that’s not tough to figure out.”

Peeta snickers. “No, I suppose not.” He glances at her attire, lots of forest green once again.

“Yours is…” She ponders a moment, considering his clothing choices. “Black?”

“Not Real.”

“White?”

“Not Real.”

She goes through almost the entire array of colors only to hear ‘Not Real’ every time. She’s already getting sick of Peeta’s little ‘Get to Know You’ game, but she keeps trying. Finally, she guesses orange, not really thinking it could be right, but she’s nearly out of colors, and it’s either that or pink.

“Real,” he says.

“You’re joking.”

“Not in the slightest. But not bright orange. Muted. Soft, like the sunset.”

Oh, he’s one of those guys…

They continue the game. Peeta’s enjoying it, and for Katniss, it’s tolerable, but she is considering cutting him off, or at least limiting how many questions he can ask her in a single encounter, she allows it.

“Next one.” This time, he leans across the bar. Instinctively, she backs up on her stool when he gets too close for her comfort. He smirks at her. “You like sweet, hot things. Real or Not Real?”

She nearly barks out a laugh at his phrasing, but she holds it in. Is he making a joke? Flirting badly? Or, is he just that cocky to be referring to himself? And if he wasn’t insinuating that, she just thought of him as a ‘sweet, hot thing.’ She cringes inwardly. Oh, of course, he must be referring to her drink of choice.

“Real. You must be a genius,” she jokes. He raises a brow. “The hot chocolate, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was referring to.” When he winks at her she wants to crawl into a cave.”

***

They play the Real or Not Real game a little bit each time she stops in. Usually, it’s pretty bland stuff, slowly growing more personal than the first colors question, but one day, he asks a question she’s not sure she wants to answer.

“That necklace you wear was a gift, Real or Not Real?” he asks, his expression more serious than she’s ever seen it. It’s almost as if he knows. Or, perhaps he thinks it’s from a guy.

“…Real,” she says softly after a pause, her eyes shifting to the counter. Her answer is followed by a tense silence, but after a moment, Katniss does something completely uncharacteristic‒she pulls out the necklace and lets him get a good look at it. “It was from my father.”

End of Part I

Author Note: Well, what did you think of Part I? The next part (s) will be a bit much more exciting, but I hope you enjoyed the initial buildup. This will either be two or three parts, btw, depending on how long it gets. The next part is mostly written, just needs some additions, tweaking/editing. So…stay with me?

Teaser: Katniss comes back to the coffee shop at night, finding the place completely transformed and Peeta in a different sort of attire. Peeta tells Katniss stories of Snow and of the Victors coming into the place. Later, Peeta and Katniss watch the Reaping and the Hunger Games together, and Katniss becomes invested in a certain young Tribute. Will Katniss have any role in his/her fate in the Hunger Games? Will Peeta and Katniss grow closer? Will some of the Victors we all know and love show up?

FYI: In this AU, if you didn’t notice, Katniss and Peeta are older than their would-be tributes. So, it still takes place surrounding the 74th Hunger Games, though Katniss and Peeta are not in them. And my apologies, but I couldn’t remember how Portia was described in the books. I tried to look it up, but I didn’t find much, so I kind of went with the movie version.

@oakfarmer12

#Springtime Edition 2020 #acpoe82 #oakfarmer12 #prompt 68 #submission

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singledarkshade · 3 years

Text

One Unanswerable Question

Summary: With nothing to do, travelling back to the TARDIS, the Doctor finally asks Rory about his father. Sequel to The Doctor And The Nurse, A Fishy Tail, Getting To Know You, Kernel Of Stubborness, Home Sweet Home, Party Time, Sewers, Bookshops And Slime. Making Old Friends and And Donna Makes…

Rory ran through the corridors of the ship, the replacement part the Doctor needed to fix the engines gripped tightly in his hands, while several of the mercenaries who had taken over the ship chased while shooting at them.

“Run,” Markis the security guard who was accompanying him snapped when they reached the security door, “I’ll hold them back.”

Rory turned to the older man, “I can’t leave you.”

Markis pushed him forward, “This is my job. Our only chance is for the Doctor to get that and fixes the ship. Go.”

Rory stared at him, trying to think of a way to persuade him not to do this.

“GO!!!” Markis yelled again, pushing Rory through the door before shooting the controls to close and lock it. Helplessly Rory watched the door shut on the other man who continued to fire at the invaders. Knowing Markis couldn’t survive for long, Rory started to run again. Rory was sure he was fitter than he had ever been after all the running since meeting the Doctor.

They had stopped off on the planet Keeridas because the Doctor thought Rory and Donna would find the place fun. They’d landed a few streets away from where the leisure cruiser was sitting. It was massive and the Doctor flashed his psychic paper to get them onboard as visitors so they could join the ‘street festival’ and try the samples all the restaurants had out amongst the entertainment. Typically, the ship was taken over by a group of invaders who started them out of dock, damaging the engines so they were unable to change the heading, meaning they were now somewhere in space far away from the TARDIS. The Doctor somehow managed to persuade the Captain that they could help, which was why he was now sprinting from one end of the ship to the other holding the one thing they needed to take the ship back.

As Rory made his way through the corridors, he hoped not to run into any more of the invaders between here and the engine room. His luck didn’t hold out and Rory was soon dodging laser blasts again. With no other choice Rory continued to run, slamming into the man shooting at him. They both fell to the floor and wrestled about a bit. Rory had no way to win, the man fighting with him was a trained soldier and easily overpowered him. Rory managed to slide his hand into his pocket and pulled out the medi-pen he had, slamming it into the other man’s arm Rory prayed it was a sedative.

Relief filled him when the other man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he dropped unconscious. Rory grunted as he managed to push the man off him, and lay trying to catch his breath for a moment. Forcing himself off the floor, he picked up the engine part again.

Rory pushed his hand through his hair, “Okay,” he sighed to himself, “You can do this.”

Taking a deep breath, Rory started to run again. Finally the engine room was in front of him, and just through the open door he could see the Doctor running around keeping everything going until Rory arrived with what he needed to fix the engines, which would allow the Captain and his people to take over the ship again.

Pushing with his last bit of strength Rory reached the engine room and handed his friend what he’d been waiting for.

The Doctor grabbed it, running over to install the part while Rory slid down the wall to catch his breath.

“Donna,” the Doctor called the moment he finished, “Tell the Captain to hit the button now.”

“Gotcha,” Donna replied and a few moments later the sound of the ship jumping to life.

“Well,” the Doctor slid down the wall to sit by Rory’s side, “We did it.”

Rory laughed, “You did it.”

“You made it through this ships to get me that part despite the man with guns,” the Doctor reminded him, “Stop putting yourself down.”

Shrugging Rory sighed, “I guess it’s my default setting.”

The Doctor stared at him intently, trying to decide whether or not to pry deeper into his friend’s past.

“I’m not used to being the one people reply on,” Rory chuckled, before adding, “Not personally anyway other than Amy. I was always Rory who tripped over his own feet or who stammered his way through any supposed lie.”

The Doctor clapped his shoulder, “From the moment we met, Rory I’ve known I can count on you. Look at everything you’ve done. You’re amazing.”

Rory gave a small smile.

They both looked up as the captain of the ship came over the speakers.

“Attention all. The intruders have been removed from the ship and our engines have now been repaired. We are returning to the Planet Eredis,” the Captain announced, “All facilities will reopen within the next few hours and those who were not planning to be on the ship shall be allocated a place to stay until we make it back.”

The Doctor smiled, “See. We will be back at the TARDIS…” he paused and calculated, “Three days.”

Rory nodded before asking, “How are you going to handle doing nothing for three days?”

“Oy,” the Doctor nudged him, “I can relax.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Rory smiled.

The Doctor clapped his shoulder, “Come on, we should go check in with Donna and get some rooms for the rest of the trip.”

*********************************************

The leisure ship they were on, now it had been repaired and managed to get rid of the intruders, was nice. Rory offered to help the medical team with anyone who had been injured, but thankfully there were not too many people injured so he wasn’t needed after a few hours. Donna had staked out a spot by the swimming pool and threatened them with bodily harm if they disturbed her.

Wandering round the ship Rory found a hydroponics bay. Walking around it was nice, but it seemed to be a spot not many people came to and he didn’t want to be on his own after everything so instead headed to the main thoroughfare. He found a perfect spot on the observation deck which let him watch the other passengers and sat to simply people-watch.

“Alright,” the Doctor said taking a seat beside Rory, “I’m bored.”

Rory chuckled, “That took longer than I thought it would.”

“What are you doing?” the Doctor asked.

“Just people watching,” Rory told him, “I used to do it back in Leadworth when Amy was busy. Watching people going about their lives, seeing families together. I like that.”

The Doctor nodded and they sat in silence for several minutes watching the people below. After a few while, the Doctor sighed, “Do you want a drink?”

Rory chuckled, “You lasted three minutes.”

“I just feel like a drink and something to eat,” the Doctor defended himself, “Thought you might want something too.”

Rory nodded, “Why not.”

Clapping his shoulder, the Doctor headed to the café near them.

The Doctor glanced up to where Rory sat. It was interesting to see how he could simply sit and watch people go past him. Once he was served the Doctor started back up to his friend, pausing as he saw a look of pain in the younger man’s eyes briefly before he shook it away. Following Rory’s eyeline the Doctor saw a little boy sitting with his father, who was reading him a story. Heading back up to the observation deck, the Doctor sat beside Rory again and placed the tray between them.

“Rory,” he said after a few minutes, deciding it was time, “Can I ask you something?”

Shrugging Rory replied, “Sure.”

“Why are you avoiding your father?”

The Doctor watched Rory become very interested in the pastry he was eating.

“Rory…”

“It’s a long story,” Rory tried to brush past it.

The Doctor looked around, “We appear to have plenty of time.”

Rory frowned, “Why do you care?”

“Because I’m your friend,” the Doctor reminded him, “And I saw how the calls you were getting upset you.”

Rory sat in silence and finished the pastry before taking a long drink. Finally, he said, “I was ten and we were going on holiday to France for a few weeks over the summer. My mum had friends living there we were visiting. I caught a stomach bug on the last few days of school, so we had to push our trip a week.”

He paused and the Doctor remained silent waiting for him to continue.

“My dad packed up the car and we started off early,” Rory continued, “I still wasn’t feeling great, so I fell asleep in the back seat. I woke up when…” he took a deep breath and managed to continued, “…when the truck hit us. The guy behind the wheel had a heart attack and lost control, he survived.”

“What about your family?” the Doctor pushed.

Rory took a slow shuddering breath, “My mum was killed instantly, my dad was hurt and I barely had a scratch,” he rubbed his eyes, “While my dad recovered, I was sent to my gran’s to stay.”

The Doctor sat in silence, simply waiting for Rory to continue his story.

“I thought it would only be for a few weeks, a month at the most,” Rory shook his head, “But at my mum’s funeral, he turned me and said that I had to be good for gran. When I asked how long I’d be with gran, he simply patted my head and left.”

“Rory…” the Doctor started, not sure what else to say.

Taking a quick drink, Rory continued, “I thought I’d done something wrong, that my mum’s death was my fault because I’d been sick and had to postpone our holiday. So, I tried to make it up to him,” anger filled Rory’s voice, “The only times I heard from him was my birthday where I got a card and a present, I’m sure my gran bought, and at Christmas exactly the same but I wrote to him every Sunday, telling him all the good things I’d done that week,” He trailed off in memory from a moment before shaking himself and continuing, “I thought maybe if I worked hard enough then he’d know I was a good kid and wouldn’t be any trouble. I managed to skip two years and left school at sixteen because of that thinking. I then started my nursing degree. When I graduated, I sent him an invitation because I wanted my dad there, but he didn’t come. Didn’t even contact me.”

The Doctor rested his hand on Rory’s shoulder in silence.

“He started calling me about a year before I left Leadworth,” Rory said, “I ignored the calls as much as I could, but finally I answered. He wanted to talk to me,” he let out an annoyed laugh, “Now I’m an adult he wants to talk. Where was he when I needed him? I was a kid who’d just lost my mother and I needed him, where was he then?” Rory snapped, visibly forcing himself to be calm, “I told him no and to leave me alone. He tries every few months and we go through the cycle. Amy always says I owe him nothing and she’s right.”

“She is,” the Doctor said softly, “You are amazing, and if he couldn’t see this then that’s his problem.”

Rory gave him a soft smile before he checked his watch, “I promised to help the medical team since they’re short staffed.”

“I’ll meet you for dinner, we can try tear Donna away from her sunlounger,” the Doctor nodded as Rory darted away.

As he watched Rory wander away, the Doctor leaned back. There was one question he hadn’t asked, which was the one question Rory wouldn’t be able to answer.

Why had he not blocked his father’s number?

#fic #doctor who #rory williams #tenth doctor #alternate universe

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classic-laugjhing-hollywood · 3 years

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Phyllis Virginia "Bebe" Daniels (January 14, 1901 – March 16, 1971) was an American actress, singer, dancer, writer, and producer.

She began her career in Hollywood during the silent film era as a child actress, became a star in musicals such as Rio Rita, and later gained further fame on radio and television in Britain. In a long career, Daniels appeared in 230 films.

Daniels was born Phyllis Virginia Daniels (Bebe was a childhood nickname) in Dallas, Texas. Her father was a travelling theater manager, Scottish-born Melville Daniel MacNeal who changed his name to Danny Daniels after a disagreement with his own father over his ambition to change from the medical profession to show business. Her mother was a stage actress, born Phyllis de Forest Griffin, who was in Danny's travelling stock company when their child was born. At the age of ten weeks her father proudly carried her on stage even though there was no part in the play for a baby. The family moved to Los Angeles, California in her childhood, and she began her acting career at the age of four in the first version of The Squaw Man. The same year, she went on tour in a stage production of Shakespeare's Richard III. The following year, she participated in productions by Oliver Morosco and David Belasco.

By the age of seven, Daniels had her first starring role in film as the young heroine in A Common Enemy. At the age of nine, she starred as Dorothy Gale in the 1910 short film The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. At the age of 14, she starred with film comedian Harold Lloyd in a series of two-reel comedies, starting with the 1915 film Giving Them Fits. The two eventually developed a publicized romantic relationship and were known in Hollywood as "The Boy" and "The Girl."

In 1919, she decided to move to greater dramatic roles and accepted a contract offering from Cecil B. DeMille, who gave her secondary roles in Male and Female (1919), Why Change Your Wife? (1920), and The Affairs of Anatol (1921).

In the 1920s, Daniels was under contract with Paramount Pictures. She made the transition from child star to adult in Hollywood in 1922 and by 1924 was playing opposite Rudolph Valentino in Monsieur Beaucaire. Following this, she was cast in a number of light popular films, namely Miss Bluebeard, The Manicure Girl, and Wild Wild Susan. Paramount dropped her contract with the advent of talking pictures. Daniels was hired by Radio Pictures (later known as RKO) to star in one of their biggest productions of the year.[which?] She also starred in the 1929 talkie Rio Rita. It proved to be one of the more successful films of that year, Bebe Daniels became a star, and RCA Victor hired her to record several records for their catalog.

Radio Pictures starred her in a number of musicals including Dixiana (1930) and Love Comes Along (1930). Toward the end of 1930, Bebe Daniels appeared in the musical comedy Reaching for the Moon. However, by this time, musicals had gone out of fashion, and most of the musical numbers from the film had to be removed before it could be released. Daniels had become associated with musicals, and Radio Pictures did not renew her contract. Warner Bros. realized she was a box office draw, and she was offered a contract. During her years at Warner Bros., she starred in My Past (1931), Honor of the Family (1931), and the 1931 pre-code version of The Maltese Falcon. In 1932, she appeared in Silver Dollar (1932) and the successful Busby Berkeley choreographed musical comedy 42nd Street (1933) in which she sang once again. The same year, she played in Counsellor at Law. Her last film for Warner Bros. was Registered Nurse (1934).

In 1934, Daniels and husband Ben Lyon, whom she had married in June 1930, garnered press attention while having to testify against Albert F. Holland, a 36-year-old World War I veteran with a history of stalking Daniels. Holland had been under the delusion that he had attended school with Daniels and that they had married in Mexico in 1925. In 1931, he broke into Daniels' hotel room in San Francisco, confronting and terrifying her, and had to be removed by security. He was arrested and committed to the Arizona State Asylum. Holland escaped from the institution in 1932 and began sending over one hundred and fifty threatening letters to Daniels. Arrested once more, he was again placed in a psychiatric institution. Following his release, another confrontation took place and Holland was again arrested. A lengthy trial in Los Angeles took place, with Holland conducting most of his own defense, including a lengthy cross-examination of Daniels' husband, Ben Lyon. Actress Doris Kenyon, a friend of Daniels and Lyon, testified for the prosecution. Ultimately, the jury found Holland to be mentally unfit and he was committed to a psychiatric facility for an indefinite period. Daniels and Lyon subsequently moved to London.

Bebe Daniels retired from Hollywood in 1935 with her husband, film actor Ben Lyon, and their two children, and then she moved to London. In February 1939, Daniels and Lyon co-starred in a series of commercial radio shows, the Rinso Radio Revue, recorded in London for Radio Luxembourg. They and Bebe's mother Phyllis all went back to the U.S. on 14 June 1939, leaving Barbara and Richard in Los Angeles in the care of Phyllis, and then returned to London seven weeks later. After the start of World War II, they worked for the BBC, most notably starring in the comedy radio series Hi Gang! Born from an idea by Ben, and with most of the dialogue by Bebe, it enjoyed considerable popularity. A few years later, Daniels starred in the London production of Panama Hattie in the title role originated by Ethel Merman. The couple remained in England through the days of The Blitz.

Following the war, Daniels was awarded the Medal of Freedom by Harry S Truman for war service. In 1945, she returned to Hollywood for a short time to work as a film producer for Hal Roach and Eagle-Lion Films. She returned to the UK in 1948 and lived there for the remainder of her life. Daniels, her husband, her son Richard and her daughter Barbara all starred in the radio sitcom Life with the Lyons (1951 to 1961), which later made the transition to television.

Daniels married actor Ben Lyon in June 1930. They had two children: daughter Barbara in 1932 and a son Richard (born Bryan Moore in 1935), whom they adopted from a London orphanage. In an issue of the contemporary magazine Radio Pictorial, she explained how she saw Richard peering through the railings and instantly thought "A brother for Barbara".

Daniels suffered a severe stroke in 1963 and withdrew from public life. She suffered a second stroke in late 1970. On March 16, 1971, Daniels died of a cerebral hemorrhage in London at the age of 70. She died eight days after her co-star Harold Lloyd. Her remains were cremated at London's Golders Green Crematorium and the ashes returned to the United States; she was interred at the Chapel Columbarium at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. Upon his death in 1979, Ben Lyon's remains were interred next to Daniels'.

A biography Bebe and Ben was written by Jill Allgood, a personal friend who worked with them at the BBC.

#bebe daniels #silent era #silent hollywood #silent movie stars #classic hollywood #classic movie stars #golden age of hollywood #old hollywood #1910s movies #1920s hollywood #1930s hollywood #1940s hollywood #1950s hollywood

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yutaya · 4 years

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Discord was all, “what would Danny be like in an AU where he was CEO instead of the Iron Fist?” and then they were like “What would WARD be like if he was the Iron Fist instead of CEO?”, and I was like “wow interesting question and I kind of want to answer but also I have to go to work ttyl” - and then I didn’t reply for like, a week and a half, but - here we go.

So. A role reversal AU where Danny is the CEO of Rand Enterprises and Ward is the Iron Fist.

So maybe in this universe, it wasn’t Madame Gao who approached Harold with an offer to save him. Maybe it was Harold, desperately searching for any way to prolong his own life, who hears whispers about shadows who don’t die, that there’s an organization, and Harold doesn’t even hesitate to offer them a deal in exchange for immortality. It’s nothing to Harold to dip his company into criminal enterprises, after all. He even suggests a solution to the possibility of his straight-laced business partner hindering their business - a plane crash related solution.

But the Hand likes to believe they control everything, and in this universe, it was not their idea to approach Harold Meachum and acquire Rand as a resource. The audacity! This man thinks he can come and use them, an outsider, using their substance, and doesn’t even have the honor to offer a true sacrifice in return, only that which he wouldn’t mind giving up and which he may even be planning on doing with his company and his business partner anyway?

So the Hand says, interesting proposition, meet us in one of our upcoming base locations where we may be able to discuss terms and your supplying the building for our next facility there, and then just as Harold so eagerly suggested a plane crash for his business partner, he finds his own travel to Anzou cut short.

A plane crash may be too showy for the Hand’s usual tastes, but Madame Gao does appreciate the poetic-ism of it.

In another world, Wendall took Heather and Danny with him on his trip to investigate the Anzou facility. In this world, Harold took Ward, for another “lesson” on “being an effective business man”.

Did he bring Joy as well? Spin it as some family vacation time in China after daddy’s business meeting is through? Intend to have Ward watch her while he conducted the more unsavory parts of his business?

If Joy and Ward are both on the plane:

-A: Joy, like Heather, dies in the plane crash, leaving Ward as sole survivor. This would absolutely devastate Ward, and not really work, I think - maybe it would be convenient to create a whole “fueled solely by revenge and with nothing left to lose, Ward channels all his energy and stubbornness and drive into destroying the Hand who took his baby sister” plot line, but… that’s like, Darkest Timeline content, and it makes me sad to think about, and also Ward is at his core more of a “protector of those he loves” guy than a “dark and vengeful” guy, so.

-B: Both children survive the crash. Their father does not. Joy is devastated, and ten years old, and Ward’s first priority is to prevent his little sister from freezing to death on a snowy mountain top in the fucking Himalayas. So how does this go? Ward and Joy both grow up in K'un Lun. Joy wants to go home to Danny and Heather and Wendall and their company, so when the pass opens fifteen years later, she takes off, and Ward goes with her, because of course he does.

Maybe in this world they’re closer, still brought together by living through their father’s death and by having to present a united front against the sharks in the water, even if those sharks are monks sneering at the foreigners this time instead of businessmen looking to tear down the children running a company, but without Ward isolating himself, going down a path of drug abuse and mysterious injuries. Without Joy going to college and law school and struggling to prove herself next to her “prodigy” big brother.

These Meachum siblings go back to New York and to a Danny Rand who lost both of his siblings and his uncle in one fell swoop, who was left alone but for his parents. Wendall and Heather, to their credit, are kind and loving parents who hug him and do their best to support their child through the entire family’s grief and talk to him about death and such, but they are still adults with jobs and responsibilities and a whole lot of workload dropped onto their plates in the fallout of the entire Meachum family’s tragic demises.

How does Danny fare, left all alone? He grieves. He’s lonely. He’s angry at the circumstances, at faulty planes, at the shoddy craftsmanship that must have gone into it because it’s easier to rail against that than the idea that sometimes these things just… happen. He’s even guiltily angry with the Meachums, for leaving him. But he’s also Danny Rand, who came out of tragedy and abuse a kung-fu master ball of hope and light.

So Danny makes the best of things. Maybe when he gets a little older, hits his teenager years, he starts going out. Gets really good at slipping away from his security guards - learns to be light on his feet. Goes to skate parks, marvels at some of the tricks the other kids can do, and starts learning a bit of parkour, just because it’s cool. Maybe he explores the city he only really saw before from penthouse balconies - makes friends with hole-in-the-wall restaurant owners and moving company workers and homeless dudes in the park. Maybe he visits Chinatown, Harlem, Hell’s Kitchen.

Maybe Danny ends up with connections all across the city, and in this universe, all those Rand Enterprises ads about being “for the family” and “there to support people” are a little more true than in another universe where the Hand was pulling Harold’s was pulling Ward’s strings. Wendall and Heather and business school teach Danny not to just give away all their products at cost when he takes over after Wendall either decides to retire early or just steps down into a lower position as part of a planned, gradual transition for the company, but maybe Danny helps set up programs to help get their product to disadvantaged groups without immediately inviting the board to oust him.

Maybe Rand is heavily involved in philanthropy. Maybe a certain portion of those funds go to research on aircraft safety, and to families of plane crash victims. Maybe Danny still always separates out brown m&ms.

And then, one day, two adults show up claiming to be the long dead Joy and Ward Meachum, with a fantastical tale about surviving the plane crash and being raised in a monastery, and coming back now to reconnect with their old friend. They do not say that the monastery was part of a village that only connects to the rest of the world every fifteen years, or that the people there are all part of a cult dedicated to fighting a shadow organization of undead ninja criminals, or that, by the way, Ward punched a dragon in the heart and his fist glows now, because they are not idiots, but it still seems a little too good to be true. Danny wants to believe, but his parents caution him, and Danny’s fingerprint in an old ceramic gift won’t necessarily help ID Joy and Ward Meachum. Still, let’s say the Rands are a lot more willing to civilly work to gain proof one way or the other, and Joy and Ward don’t take offense to the need for verification, and somehow they figure it out and commence awkwardly trying to reconnect now that they’re all adults with different life experiences and nothing turned out how they’d expected it would as children.

And maybe the Meachum siblings get wind of the Hand in New York, or the Hand gets wind of the Iron Fist in New York, and they kind of try to keep Danny out of it but HA like that was ever going to work; they finish fending off a group of attackers in their new penthouse living room and once the ninjas disappear through the top-of-a-skyscraper-window they turn to find Danny standing in the doorway with an army’s worth of Chinese take-out in his arms and his mouth gaping.

They try to play it off. Danny points out that he literally just saw them fighting off fucking ninjas who left through the penthouse window and also Ward’s hand was GLOWING. They hesitantly explain, already formulating a backup plan to insist ‘no officer, Danny was super drunk last night, really,’ in case he calls the mental hospital on them. Danny, to their astonishment, listens seriously to their story, nods, and announces that there are some people he thinks they should meet.

CUE DEFENDERS. How does Danny know them in this AU? Probably through Claire, let’s be honest. He probably keeps bringing random bystanders he finds in trouble on the streets to the hospital and paying all their medical bills, managed to make friends with half the nurses in the city, and was super concerned when one of the hospitals was attacked by ninjas and one of his nurse friends died and another abruptly quit and all the officials were being very hush-hush about it, but Danny has connections with the part of the city that people like to ignore, and there were witnesses that night in the homeless and the street kids and the struggling immigrants working night shift across the street, and he tracks down nurse Claire in Harlem to make sure she’s alright (and to gush about her mother’s cooking, wow, Claire, I didn’t know your family owned a restaurant, that’s so cool!)

…and maybe a few days in to the whole “wow some people claiming to be my childhood friends back from the dead have appeared” business he goes to visit his girlfriend at her struggling dojo that she refuses to let him help with and finds! Claire! learning martial arts! Cool!!

And some other shenanigans, idk, how do timelines work, somehow Danny’s protagonist luck and sunshine power means he manages to meet all the other Defenders at least once somewhere in-between starting to sneak out when he’s fifteen and getting himself adopted by the entire city by the time he’s twenty-five, and then all this Meachum-vs-the-Hand stuff is happening and the city’s favorite billionaire is in the thick of it, and lol guess what Danny your girlfriend has secretly been a member of the Hand this entire time, yeah she didn’t have the “Danny hates the Hand” thing as a reason to hesitate on telling him this time but also their relationship was moving a lot slower when he wasn’t hiding in her dojo from hitmen, so forgive her if she hadn’t quite gotten to the family conversation yet -

- but that’s all part of a lovely universe where K'un Lun makes Ward and Joy more of a unit, and Danny was forced to make other friends with a whole city to choose from rather than just an abusive monastery cult and Davos. Let’s rewind.

Fifteen-year-old Ward is on the plane with Harold. Ten-year-old Joy is at home, staying with the Rands for the duration of Daddy’s boring business trip.

The plane goes down.

Ward finds the pilots with black creeping up their veins. He finds Dad, dead in the snow. He’s at a loss, and a little sad, but also, guiltily, relieved.

He’s free.

He’s also stranded on a snowy mountaintop and likely to freeze to death, cold and alone and without ever seeing Joy again.

Ward is stubborn beyond belief. He has an iron core of contrary asshole-ness that got him through 30 years of abuse. He never gives up without a fight. He never gives up, period.

He picks a direction, and starts walking.

There are monks. Maybe he didn’t find his own salvation. Maybe the monks saw the crash and came to investigate, and found a teenager trudging through the snow. But he wasn’t collapsed in the ice. He stubbornly insists that he might have made it on his own, that they didn’t rescue him. He’s not helpless. He’s not.

This one has fight, the monks murmur to each other. There is fire in his spirit.

They take him back to the village, where there is warmth, and food, and dry clothing, and a tree that smells like brown sugar. Ward wants a phone, so he can call the Rands. Explain what happened. Talk to Joy.

We don’t have phones here.

Fair enough, it is a monastery on top of a mountain in the Himalayas. Ward doesn’t know why anyone would want to live in a monastery on top of a mountain in the Himalayas, but he doesn’t really care. There must be a way they get down the mountain, for supplies and stuff. There must be a way people get up the mountain, to visit the monastery. Ward wants to go home.

The pass is closed. K'un Lun sits on another plane of existence. The pass only opens once every fifteen years, and then it is guarded by the Iron Fist, to protect us from the Hand. You can not leave.

Ward has managed to walk himself right into the clutches of a new enemy. These people intend to imprison him.

Ward has never been a planner, but he has tenacity in spades. Over the next month he makes 21 escape attempts.

“There’s no point,” says one of the bratty monk children that’s taken to following him around. Ward knows this one is the child of the head monk here. His father taught him to look out for political details like that. He doesn’t know the kid’s name, and he doesn’t care. David or something. (His father was always disappointed in Ward for failing those lessons too.)

Ward ignores him. He takes off into the snowy wind - walks and walks and nearly freezes in the cold and when he finally spots lights in the distance and makes his way to salvation, it’s just fucking K'un Lun again.

He doesn’t give up. He doesn’t. But. It might be smart to recuperate. Conserve his resources. Break into the monks’ plum wine barrels. Serves them right if their captives steal their stupid wine. Stupid monks.

Some asshole makes a remark about his foreigner status. Ward swings a punch at them. They take him down in two seconds, and laugh about it. They sneer at him, mock him.

He’ll show them.

Ward trains in their stupid kung-fu cult school. The teachers are harsher on him than all of their students, he can tell. They’re trying to break him. Jokes on them, Ward has survived Harold Meachum for fifteen years. In another life, he makes it for thirty, kills the bastard, and thrives. This is nothing.

The harder they try to break him, the stronger the steel in Ward’s spine holds him up. Fuck them, and their fucking pass, and their kung-fu cult, and their pretty little prison. Ward claws his way to the top on pure spite.

He becomes the Iron Fist.

The monks have grown complacent, after fifteen years. They send him outside, into the pass, alone and away from the village even as he’s expected to guard it. The Hand could travel between the outside world and K'un Lun. Anyone could.

Idiots.

A bird flies overhead, and Ward feels triumph.

He’s finally going back to New York.

In New York, at Rand Enterprises, there are Danny and Joy. After the tragic death of her remaining family, Joy is adopted by the Rands. She keeps her last name. She acknowledges Heather and Wendall as her parents, but still calls them by their first names. They all go to visit Harold’s and Ward’s graves every year, on the anniversary, and also on their birthdays, on Father’s Day, sometimes just when they’re passing by or having a bad day, or have life milestone news to share, like when Joy gets into law school, or when Danny is thinking he might want to let Joy and his parents handle the business and become a nurse.

Both times Joy and Danny get older than Ward ever got to be, they hole up in one of their rooms together and go through 3 bottles of wine, and their parents don’t ground them in the morning. Danny visits Joy on campus, and she rolls her eyes but grins as she introduces him to her friends. Joy holds Danny’s hand while he comes out to his parents as bi. Danny and Joy put all the brown m&ms in a dish in front of an empty seat, for Ward, even though he was never a part of that game with them. When they play monopoly, no one ever uses “Ward’s piece”. In this universe, Joy and Danny are the close siblings - not codependent, like Joy and Ward were, but best friends, in a way that Joy and Ward weren’t.

Joy did not have to fight tooth and claw to prove to herself that she could live up to her father’s legacy or her brother’s reputation. She becomes a cutthroat business woman with a strategic mind, but she also knows how to put away the shark teeth in her personal life. Danny grows up on neither the hope of seeing the rest of his family again nor with the weight of having to start over and make new friends. He, Joy, and Ward were isolated kids, and he and Joy stay fairly isolated once Ward is gone, since they still have each other.

Danny has a sunshine nature, and he still learns the names and faces of all the Rand employees. He still chats cheerfully with all the delivery people and waiters and checkout clerks that cross his path. But - he’s not as lonely, here. He’s more content in his upper-class world, schmoozing at the charity galas even if he’d much rather be camped at the refreshment table, and he talks to the catering staff just as much as the bigwigs he’s supposed to be networking with. He puts on his tuxedo and accompanies Joy to orchestral concerts, and he is absolutely the big gun his family breaks out when they need to show a client someone earnest and hopeful and who truly believes in the good of their company.

When Ward comes back, he may lose his temper on the security team at Rand. Just a little. He’s come so far, and he’s waited so long, and he’s SO CLOSE to seeing his baby sister again, and these idiots think they can stop him?

So maybe he breaks past them. It’s not the smartest move, but. Dad always said Ward didn’t think things through. And Joy is right there, only a few floors away. He won’t be stopped now.

He busts into her office. Joy threatens to call security. Danny rushes in, and they stand side-by-side, a united front, examining this stranger claiming to be their dead brother.

Ward’s goal, all these years, has mostly been about getting back to Joy. But he can’t deny that when he thought about her, sometimes he’d think about Danny, too. It was unavoidable - they share so many memories, after all. It’s always been Joy-and-Danny, and big-brother-Ward, their whole lives. Joy-and-Danny-and-babysitter-Ward. Joy-and-Danny playing make believe and Ward, being an asshole.

So Ward stands frozen in the doorway, and just as he’d exclaimed “Joy!” when he burst in, he now breathes “Danny?”

And Danny and Joy have always been the more hopeful of the three siblings, the two who want to believe, who can look at a package of m&ms and think ’it’s a dream come true.’

They look at the way the stranger hasn’t made any move to hurt them, and the way he looks like Ward, and the way he can’t keep his eyes off of Joy, but not in a creepy way like so many businessmen they’ve had to deal with: in a way that seems so relieved and hopeful - and they run a DNA test. Joy is right there, after all, and there’s no question about her identity. They’re literally standing in their pharmaceutical company. They pop down to one of the labs and Danny asks Eva if she could do him a favor, pretty please with a cherry on top, and Eva laughs and says “you got it, Mr. Rand,” and Danny whines “Eva, I keep telling you, it’s Danny,” and Eva grins and says “whatever you say, Mr. Rand,” and basically Ward is Ward and they’re in for some complications what with all the telling Wendall and Heather they have to do and the reviving Ward legally they have to do, and the getting to know him again after fifteen years of thinking he was dead, and Joy definitely snaps at some point down the line and screams at Ward and cries and hits his chest going “you left, you left, you left,” and Danny had gotten used to telling Ward’s ghost all his woes and relying on an idealized version of him and is now suddenly remembering with trepidation what an asshole Ward actually was, and. it’s gonna be a rough time. It’s gonna be a rough time, but they’ll get through it, because they all refuse not to.

….And maybe we still have to deal with the part where Ward is the Iron Fist, and the Hand are in New York, and maybe Ward doesn’t actually give a flying fuck about stopping the Hand or anything that fucking monk cult kept going on about, but the Hand sure does care about manipulating the Iron Fist into doing its bidding. And Ward may not care about K'un Lun, but like HELL is he going to sit back and twiddle his thumbs when those assholes inevitably threaten his family.

“You will not touch them,” Ward seethes, and suddenly his fist is glowing and he’s beating the assailants up, and his fist is glowing and is that a tattoo, and Ward’s FIST IS GLOWING.

“What the fuck, Ward.”

“Right,” Ward says, pushing back his hair. “There’s something else I should tell you.”

#iron fist #role-reversal AU #ward meachum #Danny Rand #joy meachum #my stuff #the immortal iron fist #🖕ward meachum🖕#Danny Rand sworn enemy of toxic masculinity protector of hope and light

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silent-era-of-cinema · 4 years

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Phyllis Virginia "Bebe" Daniels (January 14, 1901 – March 16, 1971) was an American actress, singer, dancer, writer, and producer.

A biography Bebe and Ben was written by Jill Allgood, a personal friend who worked with them at the BBC.

#bebe daniels #silent era #silent hollywood #silent movie stars #golden age of hollywood #classic movie stars #classic hollywood #old hollywood

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venusloveslobotomies · 4 years

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Pyromania (Bucky x Reader)

A/N: This is my first time posting writing and I would love literally any feedback at all! I’m honestly terrified to put my shit writing out there but I may as well suck it up and just do it! The ‘reader’ is Korean and her last name is Kang. The face reference is optional but it’s helped me get a better idea in my mind of how she looks.

Summary: (Winter Soldier-Endgame Insert) You’re an enhanced HYDRA agent who negotiated her way out of being a weapon. You’re now the nurse/ aid of the Winter Soldier. You end up escaping with him and follow him in and out of danger while slowly developing feelings for each other.

Words: 1950 (approx) Chapter: 1/?

Kang Y/N, age 16

I think one of my worst habits is looking at the clock. I know he’s scheduled to arrive back at 9pm for check-up but that will never stop me from obsessively glancing at the clocks in the hallway, in the kitchen, in his room while I methodically go through the nightly routine. Pick up toiletries and first aid kit, hand in the dinner slip for his food, eat dinner myself, change the sheets, pick up his night clothes for the week from the laundry. I find myself done, having gone on autopilot and finished the routine quicker than usual. I hang around near where the soldiers usually file in after the training session. A few other nurses happen to be there too, waiting on their soldiers. Given that there’s only six of us with supersoldiers, we know each other quite well.

All the other nurses are assigned to other enhanced, are put on general service, are sent on missions or are thrown into the front lines of warzones and therefore operate on different schedules. “Hey Kang, how’s big-shot Soldat going, huh?” Sasha offers a grin and I shake my head at the tall Russki. “He’s well. So far. How’s your girl going?” “Great as far as I can tell! She’s not the most talkative though. Bit of a shame. Bet you and Soldat are getting along perfectly,” I send him a disappointed glare but it doesn’t take long to crack into a smile. It’s hard to be frustrated with Sash. He’s too nice and too young. Well, he may be older than me physically but he entered this work much later than I did, not that I had a choice. “Don’t forget which one of us is the Level 7, Vasiliev. I’ll kick your ass and you know it,” I prod his side and make a show of adjusting my armband with a large ‘7’ embroidered onto the red cross. He feigns fear but before he can continue with his teasing the doors open and in file the soldiers. I lock eyes with my soldier before waving to Sash, “See you at showers, yeah?” He sends me a thumbs up and saunters off behind his soldier. Soldat has already begun marching towards his room. I jog to catch up with him and almost start telling him off before I see the glint in his eyes. There’s so little room for fun around here and he’s rarely in a good enough mood to be teasing so it’s difficult to be annoyed. Once we arrive at the room however, he sits down and the extent of today’s training becomes clear. I can see his bloody face and twitching metal arm. Ok, so maybe not so much in a good mood. “Might need to relocate my other shoulder,” His Russian is harsh and unnatural but not accented like mine. It’s different to the other soldiers and guards here, who are all native speakers. I make a mental note of his tone before I pick up the clothes, first aid kit and toiletries and we walk towards the showers. He tries to take them from me but I smack his hands away and force him to walk in front of me. Now, the showers leave a lot to be desired. A large room with lockers and shelves in the center and lining the left and right walls are blue curtains containing a shelf and a shower head. On the back wall are sinks and mirrors. At least we have hot water and it was clean. But the smell of blood and misery clung to the room no matter how often it was cleaned. Soldat led the way past several of his fellow soldiers before sliding the curtain shut in our usual spot. Unlike the nurses who served individuals like Sasha and I, the soldiers were unfriendly to the extreme with each other, no sense of community or friendship. I’m not complaining though. I enjoy having my soldier to myself, he’s easy to get along with and it was already far too stressful getting used to just him. I didn’t need others to deal with. They’ve all got different personalities, none of them easy-going, and one of them has anger issues. He strips the soaked training clothes off and hangs them carelessly on the shelf before kneeling down and allowing me to examine his injuries. A few cuts, presumably from punches, on his face, blood still dripping from his nose and mouth, a broken rib that’s quickly healing and his shoulder is bruised and tender but not dislocated. I mop the blood off his face and mutter to myself in Korean. He listens with interest. He’s been learning Korean from me lately, giving us more time together since we’re given a block of time to study. All the soldiers must know 30 languages and any extras to the ones already taught (like my Korean dialect) are accommodated with a block of study time. I double check his rib. Definitely broken but also definitely healing. The enhanced healing still freaks me out. I was not taught about how to deal with it when I went through my two years of medical training. I had to get used to it and teach myself. I realise I’m going to need to get morphine from the officials. Otherwise we won’t be sleeping tonight. “Would you like me to get you a recovery day?” I ask in slow, deliberate Korean. I can give my soldier any number of recovery days throughout the year, being his nurse. It usually means an extra day of study rather than training and extra food. Or being sent to cryo. “Ani,” He shakes his head, “I have the mission next day,” His Korean isn’t perfect, which is endearing since he’s perfect at practically everything else. I shrug in response, though I’m upset he refuses most recovery days. I do know that the officials are meticulous about whether the quality of a soldier begins to degrade but he hasn’t taken any for a long time. “If you say so,” I sigh but continue disinfecting his cuts and then tell him to wait. Slipping outside I can see Ira and Nadiya are stripping their outer layers off. Although I haven’t had much opportunity to experience outside life I know nudity like this would not fly outside of this environment. Here, nudity is hardly any issue. The soldiers are used to it for physical examinations and medical exams and their nightly routine. Nurses are unbothered by nudity since we perform plenty of medical duties requiring naked soldiers and all that. So, we all exchange a few words while hanging our dresses, armbands and hats up and putting our shoes on shelves. We talk about the quality of the food going up since the sixties and whether we’re supposed to attend a medical training session in the next month or so. We’re updated annually on the medical advancements outside of our little world. I slide back into our cubicle and find the water running. I step further in and my underclothes are immediately soaked. He turns around and offers me a tired smile, twirling the end of my braid with his normal fingers. I smile back and take a shaky breath. I set about washing the sweat out of his hair with shampoo and while he rubs the blood off himself, I begin scrubbing his metal arm. The blood, sweat and dirt builds up easily in the gaps and if it were left to him, the stupid arm would be rusted by now. I went out of my way to request special cleaning equipment for his arm and luckily was granted it. While we do this, we speak in Korean to help his learning and after a while he seems to relax. It never fails to surprise me when his aggressive personality melts away into the calm man that only I see. I massage his tense muscles with the aid of the hot water and eventually it’s time for dinner and ‘winding down’. For wind down, some soldiers, like a particularly angry man, are sent to the psychs for an hour before they’re put in cryo or bed. By the time we’re out, everyone’s already begun changing, nurses and soldiers alike. There’s no interaction between soldiers, they seem to be in their own little worlds, but the nurses are happily socialising with each other. I change into clean underclothes and my night dress - a white, floor-length dress with an apron and pin my armbands securely on my upper arms - while I listen to Sasha talking about the pains of acquiring painkillers from the officials. Paracetamol, ibuprofen and other basic drugs don’t make a dent in the pain our soldiers endure. Quicker healing is great and all but it’s considerably more painful. It takes a lot of convincing as well as a full medical report to get the higher-ups to give us the morphine they need. We all agree and chime in to add points to strengthen the argument. Eventually, we all clear out of the steamy room and continue chatting all the way down to the living quarters. Two of the soldiers split off with their nurses for cryo prep and we all wave, knowing it’ll be awhile before we see those four. The guards in this part of the facility must be constantly unnerved by the sound. Usually the base is all business, soldiers and guards and nurses silently carrying out their schedules but the six of us that cater to the supersoldiers are unafraid to be happy and loud. It creates a sense of community and we wouldn’t get that outside of this environment. In any case, the guards can’t touch us unless we pose a direct threat. So, we all spend our time walking laughing and talking in a blend of languages. All of us are multilingual since we travel with our soldiers. So, the guards and officials, who often only speak German or Russian or both are even less comfortable since our usual chatter is a mix of Ukrainian, French and pieces of German and they presumably really don’t like not understanding what we’re saying. It’s mostly just a lot of joking around and bagging on each other for whatever we can think of. It’s nice but also a bit strange. Even to me. Back when it was only Soldat and I, these hallways were silent as ever. It was a different time. This whole thing is recent since it was only in the early nineties that the other soldiers were created. Then their nurses were assigned and even then, we were acutely uncomfortable around each other. But I’m happy with the way things are now. As we split off into our rooms, the hallway goes quiet again and it’s time for winding down. I get called to the side by an official. I could laugh at how obviously uncomfortable he is down here. He should be in an office upstairs, getting ready to go home. There’s a good reason why the higher-ups don’t come down here anymore. He hands me a file to prepare for the mission tomorrow. I accept it and watch him walk back to the elevator. I realise Soldat has gone back to the room without me. As I walk back, I think about how strange it is that all twelve of us are out right now. We’re only taken out of cryo for missions. Ira and Michael and their soldiers completed missions the night before but spent the day training anyways. I presume the other three are going on assignments tomorrow since all of us were released from cryo at the same time this morning.

Part 2

#bucky #barnes #buckybarnes #buckyxreader #marvel #marvelxreader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky fic #pyromania fic

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anotheronechicagobog · 5 years

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Back In Chicago Jay Halstead x Fem!reader Warnings: none Word Count: 1,501

I let out a nervous breath as I stood outside of Gaffney hospital. I hadn’t been back to Chicago in two years. I left after getting my nursing degree I applied to be a travel nurse with an agency that supplied nurses to medical facilities in need. It was amazing I spent two years travelling and helping in a new region of the world every four months. It was the best decision that I made and I was confident of that. My dad, however, was not. He got incredibly upset and went as far as trying to forbid me from taking the job, his protests were quickly shut down by my moms who both reminded him that I was a grown adult who could make my own decisions.

As a result, I haven’t spoken to my dad in over two years. Now, I am here standing outside of his workplace. Taking a deep breath I walk through the doors to the ED. Walking up to the front desk, I gain the attention of a nurse sitting at a computer. “Hi, I’m here to see Dr. Ethan Choi when he has a free moment? My name is (Y/N) Choi.” After I told the nurse my name I saw her eyebrows rise in surprise at my last name, “Sure, please take a seat.” I watched the nurse scamper off behind another set of sliding doors before taking a seat. I pull out my favourite book, knowing that I could be here a while. Whether that's because he is busy or because he’s making me wait him out for going against his wishes. Moments after I had read through the the first paragraph I hear, “(Y/N)?” Looking up I see my dad. “Hi, dad.” He’s standing a few feet away, looking at me tentatively. Walking up to him is nerve-racking. I’m engulfed in his arms before I can say anything else. “I missed you, dad,” I say, choking up a bit. “I was so worried that you’d still be angry.”

“No... Not angry, worried yes, but uh, not angry. How are you? When did get back? Are you already staying somewhere or not?”

“I got back a couple of hours ago and came here.”

“You came straight here? To see me?” He asked quietly, his dark eyes showed how much he hoped that was the case. “Yeah. Well, I’ve been talking to moms with my satellite phone when I could... And I’ve been sending you postcards, but I don’t even know if you live at the same address or if you were just throwing them away once-”

“I didn’t throw them away. I would never have thrown them away.”

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “I know that you’re working, so when do you get off? Maybe we can go get some dinner?” Dad smiled. “That sounds like a great idea. My shift ends in three hours. Maybe you can meet me at your mom’s restaurant and we can have a family dinner?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Dr. Choi? Is everything alright?” A professional looking woman with her hands held together delicately in front of her asked. “Yes Ms. Goodwin, I was just reuniting with my daughter (Y/N). I haven’t seen her in two years because she’s been working abroad.”

“Oh, well, hello (Y/N), it’s very nice to meet you, but Dr. Choi you need to head back to your patient.” She said while smiling and tilting her head sympathetically. “Of course, (Y/N), I’ll see you later.” He kissed the top of your head before walking through the sliding doors, back to work. “I hope you enjoy being back in Chicago.”

“Thank you, Ms. Goodwin. I should get going but I hope you have a nice day.” We go our separate ways, me walking out the door. I took a giddy breath. I had been so afraid that he would still be angry. I am not even five minutes away before I hear gunshots.

Instantly I dropped to the ground and hid behind a cement tree planter. Looking in front of me I realize that I hid on the wrong side of the planter, as there are two groups of young men shooting each other in the middle of the road right in front of me. Fuck. While taking slow breaths I try to slowly scoot to the side of the planter that’s farther from the men so that I’ll at least have some cover from the men and their weapons before moving to the back. I managed to make it halfway behind the side of the planter I hear sirens. Oh, thank goodness. I have made it to the back of the planter when the cops arrive. Two teams park their cars in my line of sight and, strangely, none of the four are wearing the usual CPD uniforms. The vests and badges are there though. One of them, a blonde woman, notices me. I give her a thumbs up to let her know I’m fine. After nodding slightly she turns back to the action.

It takes ten minutes for things to go to hell. The shooters have dispersed and are running in multiple directions, causing the police officers to give chase. One man rushes past me as he’s evading police throwing the gun behind him, most likely trying to throw it on the ground. Instead, it hits me in the eye. The cop who had been chasing him (tall, white, brown hair) tackled him, but the shooter really didn’t want to get arrested, because he was able to flip himself and the cop over and start a fist fight. I place my left foot on the gun that was thrown. I didn’t want to touch it but I didn’t want to leave it out in the open either. In another attempt to get away the shooter elbows the cop in the gut and moves to run back around the planter. Before I could register what I was doing I had scooted over so that I could kick him. While I aimed for the shin, I ended up hitting him much higher. I watched as he fell, double over in pain, his hands clutching his crotch. The cop, clearly still in pain from the fight, made his way over to arrest the still groaning and doubled over shooter. He chuckled, “You really did a number on him.”

You were sitting in the ED, your frazzled dad had left the room to call your moms and let them know what happened. The curtain opens and in walks in, not Dr. Rhodes, but the cop who you helped catch a shooter. “Hi, I’m detective Jay Halstead. I just wanted to stop in to see how you were doing, and thank you for your help.”

“Hi, I’m (Y/N) Choi, and it was no problem.”

“Wait, Choi as in Dr. Ethan Choi?”

“Yeah, he and my mom dated in high school, created me, and then split up when he went into the military. Boy was he surprised when he came back and found out my mom was in a very committed relationship with a woman. Sorry, I just realized that I’m rambling.”

“No apologies necessary, it was nice to hear about something that didn’t involve bullets today. You didn’t answer my question though, how are you?”

“Well, I have to stay for twenty-four hours for them to monitor my eye. The gun scratched my cornea, and since that could result in a infection or blindness, so, yeah. I have to stay here for twenty-four hours with tape over my injured eye.”

“That sucks.”

“Could be worse.”

Jay and I talked for a long time, introducing ourselves and talking about our lives. Jay with his experience in the military and the intelligence unit, and me with being a travel nurse.

“-And then she went into labour! I have to say it was the most stressful thing I’ve ever had to do because we were the only ones in the clinic besides her five-year-old son because the storm had gotten horrendous while everyone was out on a trauma call and the clinic was just so understaffed. It took eight hours but she had a healthy baby and survived the birth which was just amazing and-”

“(Y/N)?” My moms and dad walked into the room to see you speaking with a handsome stranger.

“Detective Halstead.” My dad says in his ‘I was in the military and can kick your ass’ voice. “Are you here collecting a witness report?” Jay’s posture immediately straightened. “No, just checking on the woman to helped catch a dangerous suspect.” Your dad gave a non-committal sound and continued to stare Jay down. “Well, I guess I had better get going. Here’s my card, call me if you need help, to report a crime, or want to get dinner? I hope I’ll see you later.”

“You will,” I responded smiling brightly, completely ignoring my moms giggling and dad glaring.

#chicago med #chicago pd #one chicago #ethan choi #jay halstead #ethan choi x reader #jay halstead x reader #sharon goodwin #hailey upton

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novaviis · 5 years

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sick!dick au part six.

because I really couldn’t keep that last one hanging for too long. also, thanks to @caramelmachete for giving me the idea for the diagnosis.

part one. part two. part three. part four. part five

Wally doesn’t rush off the plane. When the plane lands and taxis to the terminal, the lights come on and passengers start bustling, gathering their luggage from the overhead bins and shuffling down the aisle – but Wally just sits there, white as a sheet, until the person behind him clears their throat and gestures to the aisle to let him out. Trying so fucking hard to keep from shaking, he gets his bag and joins the flow of passengers off the aircraft, mindlessly shuffling up the gangplank and into the terminal. No one asks why his hands are shaking, why his eyes are red, or why his skin is so pale. It’s a large airport in the middle of the night, and everyone is tired and focused on getting home.

So, when Wally just stops between the rows of chairs at his gate, his bag strapped over his shoulder and his head hanging low as he stares at the ground, no one notices. It’s entirely quiet in the terminal, the murmur of voices and footsteps fading as the other passengers head home.

Wally’s too scared to check his phone, but knows that he has to do it or he’ll stand there until morning. He’s already exhausted, running on too little food and too little sleep as he chases a cure for his whole world around the globe – but not he’s not sure if it was all worth it. He’s not sure if he has a home to shuffle off to in the middle of the night anymore.

Taking a deep breath and willing himself to move, Wally slips his phone out of his pocket and turns on his cell data. A missed text from Tim. Wally’s knees buckle, and it’s all he can do to shift himself into an uncomfortable chair to keep from falling. With all that pent up energy from the past seven hours suddenly exploding, he can’t open the text fast enough. Dick’s voice, distressed and panicked and in pain, echoes in his head.

Hey. Dick’s okay. Sorry, my phone got knocked out of my hand. Things got a little scary for a while, but he’s alright. Just asleep again. Doctor says it might be best for you to come back soon. That’s all for now, I guess. I’ll keep you updated. Take care, man. TD

Wally’s phone falls into his lap. Digging his hands into his hair, he crumbles in on himself and just lets himself sob out all that pent up fear and adrenaline and relief. The prognosis doesn’t sound good but anything is better than gone.

As much as he wants to just run to his destination now, he knows he’s not likely to get a welcoming answer in the middle of the night. Once Wally’s gotten a hold of himself somewhat, he picks up his bags and checks in at a cheap hostel and spends the next several hours between restless sleep and staring at the ceiling clutching his phone, dreading a call to tell him that his whole world went out with a whimper. He’s beyond exhausted by the time the dawn comes, but he can’t stand lying in an uncomfortable cot any longer and heads out as soon as the sun peeks up.

Wally arrives at the In-Care facility nearby Singapore General Hospital. He doesn’t make it past the front desk, the staff won’t let him in because he’s not on Thomas Grayson’s list. Even explaining that he’s Thomas’ distant cousin’s husband doesn’t cut it. Wally decides that he’s had enough of hurdles and closed doors. He’s come all this way, he’s not leaving without answers. So, he uses his powers to run to the nearest alarm, an emergency assistance button far down the hall. The clerk at the front desk only looks away for a moment, but it’s all Wally needs. He uses his speed again to check what room Thomas is in, and then runs past the security before anyone can even blink.

He hesitates at the door with his fist raised before gathering the courage to knock. The man who answers the door, with the chain lock still on, is in his early 40’s, and in all honesty doesn’t look too much like Dick – but those piercing blue eyes are an unmistakable family resemblance. However, the ashy patches of discoloured skin that litter his body catch him off guard. Thomas brushes him off, says he doesn’t have any appointments and doesn’t need anything, and nearly shuts the door. Wally tells him he doesn’t work for the facility, he’s here because he needs to talk to him. Thomas tries to shut the door again, but Wally shoves himself in the way, bracing his hands on the edge of the door and the frame, pleading, because he’s here for his cousin, Dick Grayson. Chances are he has the same thing Thomas does, and if Wally doesn’t go back to Gotham with answers he’s going to die, please.

Thomas pauses, eyeing Wally up and down before asking “John and Mary’s boy?”. Wally nods, and for a moment it looks like Thomas might turn him back anyway. However, after he closes the door, there’s the rattling of the chain coming off, and the door opens again. Thomas lets Wally inside. Wally steps in awkwardly, a little overwhelmed by the kidney dialysis machine, and the way everything in the apartment is pretty much fall proofed – but it’s also covered in incredible photographs, and he peeks around a corner to see a fully functional blackroom for photography. Thomas clears his throat, and gestures to the couch. It’s a vision of what Dick could be in the future, even if he makes it through this downward spiral – confined to one space, pale and fragile.

Wally takes a seat, and waits for Thomas to take up his own chair before launching into his explanation. He’s Dick’s husband, and Dick’s started getting sick over the past two years. He explains what Dick’s symptoms have been, and how they haven’t been able to find a proper diagnosis without his family records, because his immediate family is killed, and “well… the rest of you have been hard to find.” Thomas just listens in silence before commenting that he’d heard about the tragedy that came over that side of the family years ago, but his parents had left the Circus life and he’d never known them that well.

But, if Dick needs his help… Thomas gets up and walks over to his computer. He prints out a stack of paper, info he’s already had on file, and clips them together before handing them to the younger man. Wally’s vision narrows down to the text. Their family has a rare hereditary form of it that starts with seizures and migraines due to small tubers growing in the brain, which can then lead to tubers growing on other organs, like in Thomas’ case, the kidneys. Thomas also gives him copies of some of the few medical documents in the family, from his parents, who suffered the same illness. Wally is overwhelmed with gratitude, and as much as he’d like to hug the man, he can tell that Thomas isn’t exactly the hugging type. He’s only sorry that he has to come and go so quickly after getting what he needs, because he needs to get back with this as soon as possible. Thomas assures him he doesn’t mind, and he has a photography project to go work on anyway, so he doesn’t have the time for company. With the promise to find some way to thank him, Wally takes the documents and heads straight to the airport.

As he sits in the back of a taxi swerving through traffic, he takes out his phone and sends Tim one text.

Tuberous Sclerosis Complex. WW

The next twenty four hours are a complete blur. Wally manages to get a flight from Singapore to Tokyo, from Tokyo to Las Angeles, from Las Angeles to Dallas, Dallas to Atlanta, and fucking finally Atlanta to Gotham. All the while he’s only got his dingy travel back, his phone, and those papers pressed and protected between the pages of a hard cover colouring book he bought in the Tokyo airport specifically to keep them safe.

He’s running on fumes by the time he makes it to Gotham. With barely enough patience to stop at the front desk and show his ID to be let in, he races up to Dick’s room and nearly trips through the door, holding the Documents out and thrusting them at the closest Nurse checking over the still form in the bed.

Too still. The Nurse shifts in clear confusion as she takes the papers, and Wally’s sure she’s talking, but everything just sort of – slows down. Because she’s moved away just enough for him to see Dick, and he’s white and still laying on the bed, eyes closed and lips just barely parted and… suddenly Wally’s head is too hot, like all of the heat in his body has been confined to a roaring inferno in behind his eyes and in his chest, searing his throat shut.

There was a moment amid the chaos of trying to find Thomas Grayson and then racing home, Wally can’t even remember exactly when, that this thought crossed his mind. That he’d come home and he’d be just a little too late. That he would walk in and Dick would be gone, and none of it will have mattered. That he would have let Dick down in the one thing he’d wanted if the worst came to pass. Dick just wanted him to be there. He just wanted Wally to be there to hold his hand if he slipped away and Wally let him down, he let him down, he let him down-

But then Bruce’s hand is on his shoulder, strong enough to shake him. Wally is exhausted, jetlagged, hasn’t slept or eaten properly in days, and it takes him just that one moment too long to realize that Dick’s heart monitor is still beating. He’s still breathing.

The Nurse has already taken the documents and called the Doctor. There’s talk of gene tests and an MRI and new treatments, but it all fades into background noise compared to the steady, strong beeping of the heart monitor.

Wally stumbles over to the bed. He’s aware that the others are in the room (Bruce, Alfred, all the siblings), but his focus narrows down to Dick. He can barely keep himself up, so he sits on the edge of the bed and smoothes the hair back from Dick’s forehead. Dick’s eyes open. Even that one miniscule movement looks like it takes all of his energy, but it’s the most beautiful goddamn thing Wally’s ever seen when those piercing blues look up at him. It’s just a shame that his vision goes blurry with welling tears after only a second to admire them.

“Hey, babe,” Wally smiles. “Did you miss me?”

Wally doesn’t really expect Dick to answer, much less understand him in this lethargic state. Dick stares up at him for a while, and Wally is just happy to card his fingers back through his hair and let the past several days drain from him. But then Dick shifts his hand just enough to wrap around Wally’s on the sheet with a barely-there squeeze, and it’s all Wally can do not to sob as he leans down and kisses his forehead.

#birdflash #dickwally #sick!dick

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vssoise · 4 years

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Lesvos

I've been procrastinating writing this blogpost for a long time because it's felt like I'd have too many thoughts to effectively capture on paper and that it would be too rambling. But it's about time now, during my last evening in Mytilini, while my housemates cook food for my farewell dinner/party tonight before I leave tomorrow, that I get to it.

Mytilini and Moria.

I was so looking forward to this trip for such a long time. I was determined to keep a journal while I was here, to document the things I saw, the people I interacted with, to bear witness to the events. However, it was a perfect storm of circumstances that have forced me to have to leave for the States two weeks early. Before I arrived on the island, we knew of the Golden Dawn and other fascist groups holding rallies in the city of Mytilini and on the road to Moria, but then Turkey opened its borders and things got worse. The school at the One Happy Family community center, where my organization, Medical Volunteers International, operates a refugee medical clinic, was burnt to the ground by suspected fascist activities. This paused MVIs activities out of the clinic, and as fascist rallies started becoming more frequent, with some even attacking NGO workers and breaking car windows, there was an exodus of volunteers at the same time as Greece started tightening restrictions on NGO activities and migrant/refugee processing. They even suspended their cooperation under international asylum laws, rejecting new arrivals. A fascist group physically forced one refugee boat back into the water as they made land, resulting in the drowning of a child onboard. Then COVID-19 becomes a serious threat. There is one confirmed case on Lesvos, being treated at Mytilini hospital, but no known cases elsewhere. NGO activity is further hamstrung, and the local government makes no effort to facilitate aid to people trapped in the camp.

Fascists, fires, a pandemic, a volunteer exodus, restrictions on NGO activities. I've been frustrated at not being able to do anything about it all, despite being here. I know I could be more effective once I'm done with school, but even MSF and Kitrinos, two of the bigger medical NGOs still operating, have had to scale back their work. It feels like I came all this way to try to make a difference, and aside from about a week's worth of seeing patients, I wasn't able to do anymore. At times this has felt more like a poorly planned vacation than a trip to help people.

I also noticed that I wasn't as phased by much of Moria's situation: the open sewers, the poor hygiene, the burning of plastic for fuel, the rampant scabies, the five families living in one tent together, because it all felt very familiar. Like any slum I've visited in India. We are rightfully enraged about the EUs treatment of the refugees, and the conditions they've been forced to stay in. Perhaps justifiably more so because the EU has significantly better developed infrastructure and more money than does a country like India. But it made me consider why circumstances I get angry about here don't provoke as strong a response in my back home. Why do I more readily accept the status quo in India? I had this thought in a different vein a few years ago when I realized I treated service workers differently in India than in the States. Not that I treated them badly or dismissively here, but that in the States, be it due to a more common language or a less internalized sense of class structure, I found I'd treat service workers like people like me who are working a job. Potential friends, whom I treated as true equals in the sense of actually engaging and invested conversation. Whereas in India, I realized I never extended the same idea of possibly being friends to those who worked there. It was always cursory pleasantries, but never with the underlying idea that this person is a "real" person just like me, with a life outside work.

Perhaps it's just silly or privileged or stupid to have been thinking this way. Perhaps it's normal to think this way, as we can't be friends with everyone we meet and so we draw up those invisible divisions to make our social lives more feasible. Either way, the discrepancy between my thoughts/actions in the States vs in India was noteworthy to me, and one I have been conscious of not propagating further.

People.

Aside from that overarching frustration and general cloud over my thoughts however, the people I coordinated to room with are fantastic. As are the others I've met here. The house I'm staying in houses me, a German/French medical student, a German nurse, an Italian junior doctor, and a Spanish Antifa activist, and the landlord is a Syrian refugee who arrived on the island four years ago.

The translators we work with who become fast friends quite quickly include a Palestinian, a Burundian, and a man from Burkina Faso, the latter two of whom speak predominantly French, forcing me to improve my French significantly, having entire conversations for entire evenings in an entirely different language.

Then there are the coordinators of the different NGOs here. There's a German retired GP who made the decision to extend his trip in light of all the changes because he knows that now the need is highest and it feels wrong to leave. His family understands and supports his decision. There's an Irish lady who works with unaccompanied minors, i.e. kids below the age of 18 who have lost or been separated from their parents, aunts, uncles, or any family at all, but have somehow managed to cross an ocean to get away from the people literally destroying their homes. She teaches them, cares for them (sometimes as simply as giving them a place to shower), and more recently put one in touch with a lawyer to delay his deportation due to turning 18 and therefore being able to be tried as an adult. A 17yo kid, running away from the Taliban in Afghanistan, having had his family killed in front of him, arrives in Greece finally hoping he's safe, only to be deported to Turkey, where he knows and has no one. There's an American journalist who started an NGO to teach refugee kids to film and document their lives, giving them skills, and the ability to bear witness, but more so, just giving them something to do. He's stayed to document the EUs mismanagement of this refugee crisis. And there's a Russian teacher who runs a school for minors and children of refugees so they have somewhere to go and don't miss out on some form of education while their parents do what they need to to get by.

And lastly, I met the settled refugees in Greece, including my landlord from Syria and his friends. Got a haircut from one of his Iraqi friends, met some other friends of his in the Olive Grove, the overflow camp surrounding Moria.

The people I've met here are incredible. From all over the world, trying to do what they think is some good for the people they know are in need, in conditions where the vast majority of people would not stay in.

The remind me that everyone we interact with is just another human being, and force me to consider my own biases that I didn't realize I held until this trip. I didn't realize I unconsciously put up a guard around people who didn't speak the same language as me, or more accurately, people who didn't speak the same language, and, I'm ashamed to say, were doing poorly socioeconomically. Having traveled all my life and seeing the ends of the socioeconomic spectrum, I always thought I was very accepting and comfortable around any conditions. But be it a product of internalizing the presentation of certain types of people as dangerous or undesirable, or a core poor judgement on my part, I realized I was being defensive. It was clear to me when I was sitting across from this person on the bus, obviously living in Moria. I remember feeling an almost subconscious desire to avoid conversation. But then the Irish lady asked him if he was on his way to school, to which he excitedly replied yes, and showed her his notebook. I noticed it in myself again when we were surrounded by refugees as the Irish lady spoke to the boy about to be deported, and I found myself feeling uncomfortable, or even unsafe. But these were literally kids. 10 years younger than me, having seen and experienced so much more than I could imagine, gathering around to listen to how they could maybe help one of their newly acquired friends. I couldn't understand when I started feeling this way. I even jumped into a jog for a couple steps before very ashamedly catching myself when a homeless man in Atlanta tripped behind me.

What exactly am I scared of? Where is that insecurity coming from? And why, of all people, is it directed at those who are least fortunate? I hate that I've had to ask myself these questions. But I'm glad that I have. I think these questions are exactly those that many people in the world need to be asking themselves right now as well.

Life.

Living here has been a unique experience as well. Since my arrival, I knew my housemates were a special group of people. I've always only seen it on TV shows or in fiction, the idea of communal living, or a family of sorts formed out of the people you live with. Even in the States, my roommates and I very much kept to ourselves and led our own, parallel lives. But somehow, and perhaps because of the relative non-fancy-ness of our accommodation, that's exactly what happened with us. We would cook together every night and have dinner, go out for drinks with the other teams and organizations, spend afternoons together just talking. And the scaled-down lifestyle was something I was slowly getting used to as well. The relatively spartan bedroom with the creaky and drafty windows, the limited facility bathroom with the hot pipes running along the walls and the shower I can't stand up in, the "kitchen" with one working burner, knives more blunt than the spoons, and poorly draining sink, the laundry machine that no one knows how to work shorter than 5 hours, the cafe cat that started staying with us for food since the covid-19 lockdown, the tiny living room space that everyone gathers in both because it's the only option and because we're all new here and subconscously I'm sure want to spend time together with familiar faces. It's a simple life, with people you like around you, doing work you enjoy and find important. Life in Dayton with all the other things I normally do to try and fill my time seems so far away. I haven't watched a youtube video in two weeks, when I usually spend at least a couple hours watching back home. I've cooked more often these couple weeks with these blunt knives and poor kitchen than I did in Dayton over two months. I've learned new, inexpensive dishes. I've met and befriended more new people.

As my last post captured a snapshot of what I could see as my potential future, I think this trip captured a snapshot of what I think I wish my life could ultimately be like at least intermittently, if not always. When I do this kind of work that I already feel satisfied by, that feels important and fulfilling, I realize I don't feel that underlying insecurity or restlessness than makes me want to get involved in other things. I started Dayton Driven because I was too restless in medical school, for example. This feeling here reminds me of when I felt similarly in Geneva, just, finally, content.

I know there are other things important to me too though, in normal life, if not within this parentheses. I may not be able to be the Irish lady or American journalist, but perhaps I can be the German retired doctor, still being involved, still doing what I think is right, and still holding on to the other things important to me. Saara said something to me a couple months ago that I didn't realize would become something I'd think of quite often. She said, "If you ever feel like you are torn between two things and have to give up one, then you have the wrong two things." Maybe that's true. Maybe I can have and do every thing that I want. Maybe I can make it happen.

Well, it's at least pretty to thinks so.

#blogpost

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tisfan · 5 years

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Indenture

Square: O1 – Mechanic for WinterIron Bingo and K5: Kink: Virgin for tisfan’s Tony Stark Bingo Title: Indenture Participants: @27dragons and @tisfan Warning: None Rating: Explicit Characters: Tony Stark, Bucky Barnes, Valkyrie Tags: indenture, sci-fi AU, gladiator, virgin kink, anal sex, oral sex, fingering, mechanic Summary: See the galaxy on a two year work-contract. Well, Tony Stark figures, can’t be worse than home. When he ends up on Sakaar, in the hands of a gladiatorial team, it might be his mechanical skills they’re interested in… or it might be his virginity. Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18921301 Word Count: 14,587 Posted for @winterironbingo and @tonystarkbingo

The holographs in the space port flickered the outgoing fares and destinations. He knew exactly how many credits he had left -- a novelty in and of itself, but not a particularly good one. If he put all his credits together, and presented it to a ship captain, he would arrive at his destination, utterly destitute. With no place to live, no contacts that he dared to impose on, and without a local sponsor. Under those circumstances, he’d be lucky if he wasn’t dead in a gutter in a week’s time.

All he wanted to do was get away.

But that didn’t mean he needed to be stupid about it.

“See the galaxy,” one holo advertised, “on an indentured ticket.”

Small print showed that he could sign himself up for a job, selected after a series of tests and aptitude exams, for free passage to any of a list of destinations. Tony thumbed down the list -- there it was. Malibu. A two year contract, food and housing and work… and he could get to Malibu with his nest egg intact.

And he had skills aplenty to offer. He glanced over his shoulder -- ridiculous; he wouldn’t be missed until tomorrow at the earliest -- and then poked at the More Information icon on the holo.

The display swirled into an infodump, and he scanned it quickly, memorizing the address and route to the testing office. At the bottom, a cheerfully bright line advised him to make his appointment now. He reached out, and then hesitated, just short of letting the holo scan his thumbprint. No. Who knew what kind of strings his father would pull to force Tony home, if he was able to find out where Tony was? He pulled a stylus from his pocket instead and summoned a keyboard, tapping in the name: Tony Edwards.

That was innocuous enough, he thought. And even if they did guess what name he was travelling under, there had to be thousands, maybe even millions of Tony Edwards in the galaxy.

He tapped the Register button, and the screen flashed his appointment time -- only an hour away. Good. Just enough time to mildly injure his thumb so they’d have to accept a secondary contract signature. He glanced down the street and then looked back at the holo, which had gone back to its colorful enticements.

He was leaving. Today.

(more below the cut)

He made it to the testing facility, an engine burn obscuring half of his thumbprint. The waiting room was packed with hopefuls, aliens and human alike. A scruffy raccoon, talking with a tiny, moving twig in a pot, was sitting next to the only empty seat in the place, and he glared at Tony with intelligent, black eyes. “Tell ya what, Groot,” he said to the potted creature, “the neighborhood’s going to hell. Look at all these humies.”

Tony didn’t have to endure the raccoon for much longer; Rocket was called back for testing in less than twenty minutes of waiting. The sapling waved at Tony over Rocket’s shoulder.

Time passed. The holos were mostly full of advertisements for different indentured positions -- cleaning and catering on passenger cruisers, healers and nurses, street cleaners on a wide variety of urban planetary systems. Tony wasn’t a bad student, even for subjects that didn’t interest him, but he hadn’t even heard of half of these systems. Outside the Core, probably.

“Edwards?”

“That’s me,” Tony said, gathering his bag and slinging it over his shoulder as he stood.

“Thank you, Mr. Edwards, if you’ll come with me, we apologize for the wait, there’s been quite a crush recently, people looking to start over in a new life, which is just what we offer, and some trade skills in the meanwhile,” the woman said. “All of our positions come with a pressure-free offer; we’re simply interested in discovering where your unique skill set will be most useful. All indenture contracts are held by a bondsman; your bondsman is your contact to People Placements. All of your basic health needs will be provided, shelter, food, medical care, adequate rest and relaxation. If you experience any problems with these necessities, your bondsman will direct you to our People Resources department and investigate your complaint. Here you are. While you wait to see your health and physical assessment coordinator, please start this test series which will question you on a number of aptitude and skill packages.”

The room was full of more holo advertisements, each cheerfully talking about his opportunities. She waved them away with a single swipe. “Hard to concentrate, isn’t it, Mr. Edwards, when they keep blinking at you. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Tony said, and waited until she’d left the room, closing the door behind her, before sitting at the small desk and waving at the test to start it.

Most of it was laughably easy. There were a few subjects that he stumbled over -- obviously, he wasn’t fit to be a cook, after the way the test had buzzed irritably after only a handful of guessed answers in that subject. But once the program had veered into technical aptitudes, Tony was answering questions faster than the terminal’s limited processors could keep up.

It was actually sort of fun, in a childish way, and Tony found himself grinning as he swiped through the questions, daring them to try to trip him up.

He wasn’t sure how long the test went on, and then there was a knock at the door. “If you’re quite finished, Mr. Edwards, your test results have been stirring up interest. I’m to escort you to get your physical right away. The planetary representative for Sakaar is expressing an interest in your skills, but the only ship for that system leaves in less than two hours.”

Sakaar was a name Tony had heard -- a destination planet for gamblers and gamers where the chief draw was a massive system of gladiatorial games. Though if they wanted him based on his test scores, obviously, he wouldn’t be working in the pits. Repairing or programming displays and scoring machines was more likely.

He could think of worse things to be doing for two years. And more importantly, it got him off the planet quickly. He picked up his bag and opened the door. “Sure, sounds fun,” he said. “Lead the way.”

“I’ll ask some basic questions as we walk, Mr. Edwards,” she said, “just formality. Speak your answers, they’ll be recorded. Are you fully immunized? Family history of heart failure? Any food or medicine allergies that you are aware of--” She continued to fire questions at him as fast as he could answer them, including “What is your sexual history, please?”

Tony nearly stumbled over his feet at that one. “Uh. None. You don’t have to worry about any diseases or anything here.”

“Thank you,” she said, finishing up. “Walk through here, lift your arms over your head. The medical scanner will give you a brief physical, and then the Bondsman from Sakaar would like to speak with you.”

The scanner buzzed, flashing lights at him and spritzing him with an odd smelling mist before spitting out a series of hard light records with his vitals and statistics on it. There was a small red dot flashing at the corner of the display. “Very good. You’re healthy and good for travel. Miss-- Miss Valkyrie,” she sighed.

“What? I’m not piloting the ship,” the woman on the far side of the room said.

“We asked you not to indulge while--”

“This is not indulging,” Valkyrie said, getting up and rolling across the room with the practiced gait of the perpetually inebriated. “I have not yet begun to defile myself. You Edwards?”

“That’s me,” Tony agreed warily. Howard’s drinking had been half -- well, maybe more like 42% -- of the reason he’d left in the first place.

“Great, great,” she said, the smell of her booze wafting into his face. “We… uh, yeah… mechanic. We need a mechanic. How are you with integrated… uh, circuits?”

Tony opened his mouth to tell her that he’d built his first circuit board when he was three, but then realized that was exactly the sort of identifying information he should be keeping to himself. Maybe he shouldn’t have had quite so much fun with those tests. “Um. Yeah, integrated circuits, I can do those,” he said. “Most of my experience is with logic gates, but I can handle amplifiers, timers, whatever you need.”

“Fantastic,” she said, clapping him on the back. “Was indentured myself a while. Came out ahead, now I’ve got my own ship. Recruiter. Here--” She handed him a small, flat disk about the size of his palm. “This is your identification while on Sakaar; keeps the riffraff away. Wouldn’t want anyone to mistake that pretty face of yours for… an entertainer, right?”

“Entertai--” A couple of beats late, Tony got it, and had to suppress the blush that tried to climb out of his shirt collar. Sexual history, right. “Uh. Yeah, definitely... not.”

“Great. Standard terms,” Val said, “come on, this way, my ship…” she swayed again, her hips rocking alarmingly. “I uh, might have lied about flying the ship while drinking, but don’t worry. I’m very good. Two years service, one way ticket to anywhere you want to go. Standard bonuses, and intellectual prop… thingie. Don’t invent stuff, or it belongs to the Grandmaster. We gotta go.” She tapped her wrist to activate a ship-to communication system. “Get me on a flight path out of here twenty minutes ago. If I miss that fight tonight, I will be put out.”

Tony followed in her wake, caught somewhere in the tide between confused and bemused. He looked down at the identification disk and hoped it had a more coherent copy of his contract embedded in it. He could read through it while they were en route, if there was enough time. “How-- Miss. How long is the trip?”

“About four hours,” Valkyrie told him. “We’re going straight through the Anus. Don’t worry, I have a map.”

“The...” Tony hesitated, staring at her and wondering exactly what he’d gotten himself into.

Anonymity for two years and a free trip to Malibu, he reminded himself. He could endure almost anything for two years, right?

The ship was small, a pilot’s couch and a few benches in the back for passengers. Val took the disk out of his hand, “Like this,” she said, and unbuttoned his shirt until it hung open to his navel, swatting away his attempt to keep her from doing it. She pushed the disk flat against his bare chest and there was a brief jolt of searing pain, enough to leave him breathless and dizzy. “There you go. Belt in, I’m going to be in the air in three minutes, no matter what Tower says.”

Tony somehow believed her. He stumbled back onto the nearest bench and strapped himself in, and then looked down at the disk in his chest. He prodded tenderly at the tender edges where it was clamped into his skin. That was going to leave a scar. “Ow.” Valkyrie was ignoring him, waking her ship’s board up and running preflight checks.

Tony tapped at the disk experimentally, and it popped up a holo for him, a menu of options. He could, indeed, read his contract. He could also check on the remaining duration of his indenture, contact his bondsman -- Valkyrie, apparently -- and access the planetary information net, if there was one.

He nearly missed the fine print at the bottom of the menu that informed him that the device also served to track him and enforce boundary permissions. It would shock him again, he translated mentally, if he tried to run away.

“I do not care,” Valkyrie was saying into the ship-to. “Get it out of my way, or it’s gonna rain down over this pathetic planet.”

She disconnected, and then yanked back on the throttle, taking them into orbit at the sharpest incline Tony had ever personally experienced. Gravity crushed him into the bench, two g, five g-- his health monitor in the chip on his chest went crazy, reporting his vitals with increasing alarm.

Valkyrie whooped, swirled the ship around an incoming freighter like she meant to trade paint with it, and they broke free of atmo with a rush. “Juice him,” Valkyrie yelled, and the disk on his chest dumped-- a chempack into his bloodstream, helping to equalize the pressure. His ears popped.

Valkyrie sighed, letting the ship inject her with the same chemicals. She dodged several more incoming ships, skipped off a warship’s gravity well, and activated the hyperdrive on the cusp of smashing them into a space station. The stars went away, and they were in the hyperstream.

“And, now we just kick back and relax. You hungry, Edwards?”

Tony was still staring at the blur of hyperstream beyond the viewport. “I could eat,” he said vaguely. That had been impressive piloting. Or sheer dumb luck. Numbly, he wondered what happened to his bond if she ploughed her ship into an asteroid.

“Here.” She tossed him a ration pack, self-heating, and tore into one herself. “You’re going to be working with my top recruit. He… needs a special touch.” She tapped one of the buttons on the ship’s systems, pulling up a hologram of a handsome man dressing in gladiator combat clothing that showed off muscular legs, a ragged haircut, and-- a metal arm.

“Winter Soldier,” she said. “He’s a contender. If we can place in this year’s games? We’ll all be on easy street. We’re a team, you got that, Edwards. You, me… and him.”

“A team, sure,” Tony said. He reached out and grabbed the holo, pulling it closer and expanding it. “The arm... That’s what you need a mechanic for? Who built it?”

Valkyrie scoffed. “Hydra. I picked him up out of a bad situation a few months back.”

Yeah, Hydra was bad business. They knew their tech, though. Tony chewed on his lip a little, considering it. It wasn’t like anything he’d worked on before, and the challenge of it appealed. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “So he fights, and I keep the arm in fighting shape... What do you do?”

“Place bets,” Valkyrie said. “Arrange the fights, keep both of you supplied in gear. Promotion. We started fighting out on street corners for all comers, and I’ve just gotten him into his first amphitheater fight. Tonight. Only he’s glitched, all the stars fall and go black. If we can’t get him into shape, the gladiators are going to rip that arm off and beat him to death with it.”

“Tonight?” Tony squeaked. “So no pressure, then. Sure.”

“Welcome to my world,” Valkyrie said, raising her pod of juice at him.

The Soldier’s room was kept at temperatures barely above freezing, and he was still stripped to the waist, sweating as he paced. The arm continued to shoot bad data at him, sensory issues of every sort, sparking in the joints.

It hurt, but that barely registered over the panic that chewed in his brain. He made another turn of the room. The countdown timer in his head clicked over another minute. Hydra had built their weapon for complete control. The arm was a weapon and a restraint at the same time. The last fight, the hack that one of Val’s contacts had put on it was knocked loose, activating the beacon, and setting the self-destruct.

The cold kept it from turning him in, from sending word. As a last resort, he had access to one of Val’s pods, he could submerse himself in cryo, but if he did that, he wouldn’t be in any shape for fighting. They’d lose everything, and if she had to renege on her contract, then his would be bought up, too. They’d belong, entirely and utterly, to the Grandmaster. For life.

“Come on, Val, hurry up,” he muttered.

Heat cooked out of the arm, steaming in the air. He hurried over to the sink and dumped cold water on it, keeping the vents open for the most cooling.

Voices in the hall, footsteps.

The Soldier shook freezing water droplets from his fingers, hand going to his knife. It wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to steal him. The Soldier was valuable property on a hellhole like Sakaar.

The door opened on a man -- not much more than a boy, really, short and slight, with wide brown eyes and fluffy dark hair. “--ust me to do my part,” he was saying as he pushed through the door.

Those eyes swept the room and then zeroed in on the Soldier. No. The Soldier’s arm. He unslung the bag on his shoulder and he bent down to root around inside, apparently heedless of the Soldier’s defensive stance and ready knife. “Circuitry kit, circuitry kit,” he mumbled. “Where the hell-- aha!” He stood back up, brandishing a small plasteel kit. “Tell me you’ve got a space with good light so I can work properly.”

The Soldier sheathed his blade. He could break this boy with one hand -- the flesh one. “You’re the mechanic?” He didn’t mean it to come out like a challenge, but it did. Incredulous, really. Val was trusting their lives to this… boy? He looked more like one of the trembling virgins in the cathouses than someone who could initiate repairs.

“I know, I know,” the boy said knowingly. “Hard to believe. All this--” He swept a hand, encompassing himself. “--and brains? But it’s true.” He looked around again, and pointed at the table by the bed. “Sit over there, put the arm out where I can get to it. Why the hell is it so cold in here? Nevermind, we can talk while I work. Come on, Snowflake, chop chop, time’s wasting.”

This part, the Soldier knew well. He sat, cocking the elbow and resting it on the table’s top, activating the various slide panels that would let the mechanic at the innards. “Diagnostics, pain threshold 80 percent and dropping, timer reads seventy-eight minutes before Contain and Control protocols activate. Damaged sensor package, broken joints in thumb and index finger. Wrist rotation down 16%. Battery power overtaxed, complete shut down in thirty two hours, nineteen minutes.”

The mechanic’s eyes had flicked up to the Soldier’s face when he’d started the recitation, and they remained there for a few seconds after he’d finished the report, revealing a turmoil of thoughts and emotions. But then he nodded once, sharply, visibly reining himself in. He dropped the kit on the table and opened it, taking out a top-of-the-line scanner. “Okay. Given the time constraints, I’m going to start with disabling the C&Cs and then see if I can come up with a quick boost for the battery before I go to work on the sensor package. You’re the one fighting in a couple of hours -- what’s your priority for the fingers and wrist?” He was scanning as he talked, delicate fingers touching various panels on the arm.

“Finger first, then thumb,” the soldier said. “Fine control, opponent analysis indicates brute strength will be less effective. Armor contains very small weak points. If you increase pain threshold, the Soldier will be most efficient.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the boy said. He pulled a screwdriver and a long-nosed pair of pliers from the kit. “This is going to feel a little weird, probably, but let me know if it actually hurts.” He reached under the plate at the base of the Soldier’s shoulder with the pliers.

“Pain is irrelevant,” the Soldier said, “so long as it does not impede functionality.”

The boy’s face twisted slightly. “Pain conveys valuable information about the nature of malfunction,” he corrected. “I need all the data I can get, given the time crunch we’re under. Also? It fucking sucks.” He twisted, and a shivery twinge ricocheted up the Soldier’s neck. The boy withdrew the pliers, now holding a small chip. He dropped it into a drinking glass. “One down, three to go.” He tapped his way down the plates as if counting, and then went back in.

The soldier watched as the boy tinkered, flicking through tools with precision, talking the whole time. Explaining what he was doing, and the sensations the Soldier should feel. Observations about Val and dismay at her piloting. The Soldier watched as puzzlement grew. No one spoke to the Soldier during maintenance. The readouts and diagnostics told them everything they needed to know.

No one cared if the Soldier prefered the silver ration packs or the red ones.

Certainly no one had ever touched the arm like it was a pet, or a friend, with small loving pats from time to time, gentle fingers against the metal.

The Soldier licked his lips and tried to remember-- “What’s your designation, Mechanic?”

“What?” The boy blinked up at him. “Oh, yeah, we kind of skipped over the formalities, didn’t we? I’m Tony. And you are?”

“Winter Soldier, the American Asset,” the soldier rattled off, along with his serial number, then, “Barnes, James B.” And the briefest flicker of his old life… Before. “Bucky.”

“Yeah?” Brown eyes blinked once, twice, and then the boy -- Tony -- was back to work, sliding a jeweler’s screwdriver up inside Bucky’s glitched fingers. “You don’t look much like a Bucky to me.”

Something twitched at the Soldier’s mouth and when he considered it, he was surprised to find it was a smile. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“S’pose that’s true,” Tony admitted. He pulled out a small circuit board, no thicker than a pencil, and laid it on the table to examine it closely.

“That’s a trap,” the Soldier said, before his programming could stop him. He winced at the squeeze of mostly disabled control chips in the shoulder. “The board’s laid backward. It’ll explode if you tamper with it incorrectly.”

“Mm,” Tony hummed. “I can see that. Shitty thing to do. I mean, it’s your hand.” He picked the board up with a pair of tweezers and turned it over. “I don’t have time to make a new one right now, but we’re going to put that on the to-do list.”

“It is their hand,” the Soldier said. “The Asset is a poorly designed system with permission to utilize it. The Fist of Hydra.” The Soldier mouthed the phrases by rote, even if he didn’t believe them anymore. So much of the arm, so much of him… had become the Asset.

“Well, not anymore,” Tony said reasonably. “Val bought you, fair and square, just like she did me.” He pried a tiny contact off the circuit board and dropped that into the drinking glass with the containment nodes. “Okay, let’s see how that works.” He delicately wriggled it back through the vents in the Soldier’s finger to slot it back into place.

“Running internal diagnostics,” the Soldier reported. The arm went through a series of self tests and movement controls; the nerve tingler activated, shooting steel pain through his shoulder and spine, causing him to slip and utter a tiny sound of complaint. He unclenched his jaw and panted a moment before delivering the report to the Mech-- to Tony.

“Running diagnostics should not hurt,” Tony said. “That’s another thing for the to-do list. At this rate, it might be easier if I just built you a whole new arm.”

“Safety feature,” the Soldier told him. “Installed after the Soldier damaged a technician upon diagnostics.”

“Bullshit feature,” Tony said. “It’s one hundred percent possible to immobilize this thing without activating the nerve mesh circuitry.” He’d moved on to the thumb, and despite his annoyed tone, his hands were steady and gentle. “Whoever set it up like that was either incompetent or a sadist. Possibly both.”

The Soldier blinked. “Pain is an effective teaching mechanism.”

“It really isn’t,” Tony said. He pulled the thumb’s circuit and turned it over to check the connections for its self-destruct mechanism. “You catch more flies with honey, and all that. They’ve done studies and everything. Which doesn’t seem to sway the asshats of the world, mind you.”

The Soldier thought back on all his training under Hydra hands, that had been bought dear in blood and agony. The training of the girls in the Red Room, that he had supervised. The white electric torture inflicted on him for disobedience. Even Val, who he considered an excellent handler, had taught him the limits of his freedom with pain.

He wasn’t sure if he believed Tony, this… practically a child, really. He filed it away to consider later.

After.

If the fight went badly, there would not be time left to consider anything. What would happen, he wondered, to Tony, if the Grandmaster took his contract. He studied that serious, pretty face, the way his hands were long-fingered and graceful. If the Soldier lost the fight, chances were good he’d be dead.

What would happen to Tony-- perhaps worse.

The Soldier set his jaw. He wouldn’t lose the fight.

He had something -- someone -- else to fight for.

Tony continued to ramble as he finished the work, now peppering his unending dialogue with the occasional unflattering opinion of Hydra’s mechanics and building what seemed a never-ending list of upgrades and enhancements for the Soldier’s arm.

Finally, he sat back in the chair and swiped a hand down his face. “Okay. I can’t do anything else in the time limit; all the other fixes will take longer than we’ve got. And I need some supplies for some of it.” He flashed a smile at the Soldier that seemed to light up his whole face. “Don’t think I did half bad, though. Go on and take ‘er for a spin, let me know what you think.”

The Soldier didn’t even bother to run the diagnostics. He stood, fingers already moving for his knives, sliding them out and going through a complicated set of maneuvers, twisting the blades, throwing at the nearby target on the wall, miming a block, and coming within half a hair of slicing Tony’s cheek. With a deft flick, he removed a lock of that curly, fluffy hair and coiled it around the index finger on his right hand. “For luck.”

Tony was staring at him, his eyes round like plates. “Uh. Yeah. Luck.” He shook himself, then rolled to his feet and offered the Soldier his hand. “Good luck, Bucky.”

Valkyrie insisted that Tony accompany her into the stadium stands to watch Bucky fight. Tony tried to beg off, but she wouldn’t hear of it, towing him along by his sleeve.

It definitely wasn’t the sort of contest Tony appreciated, though he’d known acquaintances of his father who’d boasted of attending these very games. He slouched onto the bench next to Val and tried not to watch any more of the fighting than he had to, and tried not to call Val’s attention to him much, either, since her drinking, which hadn’t really stopped the whole time Tony had known her, ramped up rather sharply as soon as they’d taken their seats.

Val was talking with their neighbors, drinking, and placing bets through her handscreen. Their seats weren’t great, but at least they had seats. Hundreds of alien beings pressed together in the lower levels to watch.

The first few matches weren’t much considered exciting; fighting to a pin, or first blood. Despite the first blood rule, one contender died, as the first blood was his opponent taking his head clear off with a single slash of a microbladed whip.

Val laughed and toasted the dead man with a raised glass.

A batch of alien boys, younger even than Tony, were sent in to the stadium to fight an alien predator-beast, all bristling spines and vicious fangs. The children took it down, at the cost of one of them, and Tony watched, horrified, as one of the boys pleaded with the dead kid to get up, we won, brother, get up.

“I’m going to be sick,” he muttered, closing his eyes as the cheering swelled around him. How had he thought he could endure two years of this? He wasn’t sure he’d make it through two hours. He had to convince Val not to bring him back to the stadium anymore. Not that it would help much. He’d still know. He was sure the crowd’s roar could be heard from all over the city.

“And now, I--” the Grandmaster’s projected image towered above the crowd, a slender, human like man with white hair and elaborate makeup, wearing a glittery golden robe “-- would like to present our first title match for the evening’s entertainment. Fresh off the streets, looking to make a name for himself, originally from the great Frozen Wastelands of Siberia… I give you… the Winter Soldier.”

Val slammed her glass into Tony’s hand, drank straight from the bottle.

Tony didn’t even let himself think about it. He threw back the contents. Whatever it was, it was potent, a heated gasp at the back of his throat that immediately made him dizzy.

“And, defending their honor, all the way from Azzano… Strike Force Delta.”

Bucky walked out of his gate, dressed in black leather, a combat mask strapped over his face, tactical goggles in place. He was bristling with weapons, knives and short range pistols, various explosive and incendiary devices.

“Strike Force? Grandmaster, you son of a bitch!” Val raged. “He was supposed to go against just Crossbones, not the whole squad! They’ll tear him apart.”

Tony swallowed again, still feeling the burn of the alcohol. He had a good idea of what Bucky’s arm was capable of, after having worked on it all afternoon. But he had no idea of the capabilities of the squad Bucky would be facing. He found himself leaning forward, trying to look at them more closely as they emerged. “Rigged game?”

Val slitted a look at him. “Usually,” she said, shortly. “He’s still pissed at me.” Val leaped to her feet, yelling and screaming obscenities questioning the heritage and sexual proclivities of the Grandmaster. She went as far as turning her back on him to shake a bared backside before apparently getting most of her aggression out.

In the meanwhile, Bucky had raced away, moving faster than humanly possible, a blue of black and silver, for the closest cover, set up, and picked off one of the Strike members as they tried to flank him.

The crowd surged, roaring, and Tony moved with it, on his feet, fighting to see over the shoulders and heads of taller watchers. He didn’t want to watch, really, but he couldn’t, couldn’t look away. “Bucky!” he called, even knowing he had no hope of being heard over the noise. “You can do it,” he whispered. “You have to.”

One of his grenades went into the dirt, driving back a pair of them, and then he rolled, snagging a third. His knife was in the metal hand, and he used the captive as a human shield, dragging the body with him as he moved. He was brutal, ugly and violent, never hesitating.

Except when Tony cried his name, Bucky turned his head enough, and even behind those tactical goggles, Tony could feel the weight of that stare. He gave Tony a quick nod, and then broke the guy’s neck, off again. The arm was both weapon and shield; bullets deflected off it as he sprinted.

He was fast, graceful. Death as a dancer, moving into close combat range, his knife blurring from one hand to the other.

He lashed out with a kick that sent one of the Strike members flying, where he caught in the protective electrical netting that kept the fighters from accidentally (or intentionally) injuring the spectators.

The last one, yelling curses and screaming, charged him. Bucky took a blade to the arm, and the thing snapped off, leaving the man holding only the hilt. The arm was shooting sparks, the fingers spasmed helplessly.

Bucky staggered backward and the Strike member hit him in the face with the hilt, shattering the goggles. Even from that distance, Tony could see how blue Bucky’s eyes were, wide with pain. He sought Tony out of the crowd again and gave him a little salute -- like he was saying goodbye.

Tony shook his head, clenching and unclenching his hand. “Don’t you dare give up,” he said fiercely. “Don’t you dare.”

He whirled, flesh hand grabbing the all but useless metal one and-- the crowd was practically holding its breath, waiting for the Strike Team leader to deliver the coup de grace -- Bucky snapped the metal finger, breaking it. He shoved the metal arm against the Strike guy’s belly, wrapped around like holding a wrestling pin, the man curled around the metal arm.

Three, two, one--

The hand exploded with a brilliant white flare, a hiss of smoke, and then the Strike Team leader fell the ground. What was left of him, anyway.

The stump was blackened from fire, bloody from the kill, barely extending past Bucky’s shoulder.

But he was alive.

He was alive, and the winner.

Tony all but fell back onto the bench, gasping for breath as if he’d run for miles at top speed, choking in an effort to hold back his sobs of relief.

Val cheered wildly, finished drinking her bottle, and poured the last swallow or so over Tony’s head. “Go, get him, take him home,” she said. “I have wagers to collect.”

“But I don’t--” He was talking to her back, rapidly retreating as she shoved her way through the crowds. “--know where to pick him up,” Tony finished lamely. He sighed, shook his head to get some of the booze out of his hair, and went in the opposite direction, out of the stadium seating. Downward, was probably the best direction to go, he decided. Maybe once he got closer, there would be signs, or someone more or less official-looking that he could ask for directions.

More cheers and roars from the crowd as the next fight started. Tony pushed his way through, finding a dark staircase that headed down -- that looked promising. He was on a lower level, well lit but relatively unoccupied. There were doors along the interior wall.

A holographic map flickered near one door, and Tony slapped it, getting the basic layout of the gladiator ring. Something even louder than the crowd roared from one room, the wall vibrating as whatever it was crashed into it.

A lean man, maybe an Asgardian, leaned against a wall, absently studying his fingernails, as he lingered outside a room. “Come on, brother, I’m not waiting forever,” he said, then raised jade green eyes to watch Tony with a gleam.

It wasn’t like Tony had never been looked at, before, but he had to admit he felt somewhat naked without the protection of his name and wealth hanging over him like a mantle. Still, the Asgardian looked friendlier than the few others he’d passed. “How do you find a particular fighter?” he asked.

The man made walking motions with his fingers. “The doors are in order by fight. The closer you are to the center, the more prestigious your fighter.” He looked at Tony, mouth twitching up in a smile. “Are you a prize, dear child?”

“No,” Tony said shortly. “I’m a mechanic.” He started off down the hall, looking through the few open doors as he passed.

The hallway was endless, a huge spiral, and Tony’s legs were killing him. Had it really only been that morning since he was sneaking out of his father’s house, headed for the spaceport? That seemed a lifetime ago, already.

“Ah, there you are,” a voice bellowed, and not a familiar one. The -- person -- was huge and muscular and wearing armor that looked as if it were carved from crystal. “I ordered my fucktoy almost an hour ago!” A huge hand, attached to a recklessly muscled arm, grabbed hold of Tony’s shoulder and yanked him toward one of the rooms. “Look, brothers, it’s pretty.”

“Not--” Tony tried to pull free of that hand, but he might as well have been fighting off a brick wall. “Not what you ordered! Let go!” Damn it, his identity chip was supposed to protect him. He tapped at it with his free hand, trying to wake it up. “Let go!”

“Excuse me, asshole,” a familiar, exhausted voice, said, and as both Tony and the other brawler looked up, Bucky flicked a knife through the air. Tony had time to watch the light spinning off the edge before it buried itself in the brawler’s sleeve and pinned it neatly to the wall. Bucky already had a second knife in hand. “The next one will put you in no condition to entertain your fucktoy. This one belongs to me. That’s my mechanic.”

The brawler’s hand loosened, although it seemed more like reflex than choice. Tony’s chip stuttered a few times, sparked, and then he felt the current racing along his skin, like a breeze, to deliver a jolt to the man, who yelped and let go.

“Take him, and get gone,” the man said, cradling his shocked hand, the hair on his arm smelling burned.

Tony took several steps back out of the big man’s reach, then turned toward Bucky. “Val sent me for you,” he said. “Can you walk? Do you need help?”

“‘M all lopsided,” Bucky complained. “Keep over balancing for an arm that ain’t there.”

“Yeah,” Tony said, “I bet. Come on.” He tucked himself against Bucky’s side and slung his arm around Bucky’s waist, supporting. “Let’s get you home so I can fix you up, hm?”

“Home sounds good,” Bucky said. He leaned heavily on Tony, practically letting Tony drag him, as he occasionally gave directions. As they moved into parts of the city that looked more familiar, Bucky leaned into him a moment. “Have… have you been drinking?”

“A little,” Tony said. “But mostly she just dumped some on my head.” He poked at his chip. “Probably what made this malfunction.”

Bucky put his palm against the door, which screeched, and then got about half open. “Home sweet home,” Bucky said, pushing the door the rest of the way. “Maybe we can afford better digs.”

“I guess we’ll find out.” Tony helped Bucky to the nearest chair. “She was going to collect on her bets when I left to find you.” He scrounged around in cabinets and shelves until he found a first aid kit, then grabbed up his toolkit. “How bad is the pain on the arm?”

“I feel ev’ry bit of a hundred damn years old, and like someone ripped off m’ arm,” Bucky admitted.

“Excuse me, Mr. Soldier,” the holo-com flicked on and there was a miniature of the Grandmaster in the kitchen. “Mr. Soldier, congratulations on your win. We’re so very impressed with you here--” There was something blue and tentacle-y wrapped around the Grandmaster, who snuggled into it. “As a token of our esteem, we’d like to send you a choice virgin, to celebrate--”

“No thanks,” Bucky said, and then his jaw clenched as he realized what refusing the Grandmaster’s gift might cost. “No. Thank you. I already got one.” He made a gesture toward Tony.

“Oh… oh, well, then--” and the holo flickered out.

Tony bit his lip. “I might not be,” he said, opening his toolkit and rummaging in it as an excuse not to look at Bucky.”

“Don’t matter none,” Bucky said. “I’ll pick my own bedmates, not let him send me some poisoned slipper.”

“I think you might be mixing your metaphors, a little,” Tony said, but it made him smile, and his shoulders dropped from the hunch he hadn’t realized they’d been in. He pulled another chair over beside Bucky’s and straddled it. “Let’s see if I can turn off the neural feedback for your arm.”

Bucky reached out his right hand and touched Tony’s cheek. “Hey. Thank you.”

Tony looked up, startled. “I’m just... Uh. You’re welcome?”

Bucky leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes, and let Tony get to work. It wasn’t until he’d managed to get all the nerve clustering shut down, put a temporary cap on the end of the arm, and was helping the man out of his armor, that he realized that Bucky was wearing the lock of Tony’s hair, braided small and sewn in a loop, around a strap on his armor.

Tony paused, touching it hesitantly. “I guess it... helped?”

“Maybe it did,” Bucky said, and he covered Tony’s hand with his. “You’re th’ first person who’s treated me like a person and not a weapon in more’n fifty years.” He flicked his gaze up to meet Tony’s, those grey eyes warm and inviting.

“Oh.” Tony licked his lips, and then he wondered what it would be like to kiss Bucky, to be wrapped up in that big, strong body, to let Bucky take possession of his mouth, his skin. Bucky’s lips were thick and plush and soft-looking, and they were hypnotic, drawing Tony in...

The door slammed open, banged against the wall and screeched at the halfway point. “Are you-- are you molesting my mechanic?” Valkyrie bellowed, wine bottle in one hand and a glowing holo in the other. “The grandmaster said you were, an’ I did not pay for him to be deflowered by the likes of you!”

She shoved at the door again, kicking it angrily, as Bucky jerked backward, as if they’d both been caught in the midst of doing something more incriminating than not-quite kissing.

You didn’t pay for me to be deflowered at all, Tony thought. I’m a mechanic. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say it aloud, though, not with Val yelling and banging on things, too similar to Howard for comfort, and damn it, he’d run away from this. He caught himself edging behind Bucky and made himself stop. He couldn’t turn Bucky into a shield, that was unfair.

“Pipe down,” Bucky said. “I didn’t touch ‘im. Besides, virginity is an overrated social construction.”

Valkyrie blinked a few times, putting her wine bottle down. “Did you just… make a full sentence or something? I didn’t know you knew how to do that. Look, look, stupid social construct or not, virginity is both rare and valuable on Sakaar.” She wobbled in Tony’s direction a little, expression more drunk older sister, protective and somewhat condescending, rather than angry. “I’m not saying don’t give it to this lug, I’m just saying… make sure you know what you want, when you give it to someone.”

Tony gaped at her. That was... surprisingly sweet. “I’m... better off, I’d rather give it to someone I know and trust and like, than have it given away for me, like some kind of prize.”

“Up to you,” Valkyrie said. “I didn’t pay that much for you, you still get to decide. But consider it. I can put you in touch with a buyer, if you want. First times are over-rated. Awkward, embarrassing, never as good as you’d want it to be. Might as well get rich, right, Soldier?”

“And how many times have you sold your virginity?”

“Once.”

“This is a very uncomfortable conversation,” Bucky pointed out. “Sober up. I’m going to get some rest, and tomorrow, we’ll figure out how to spend our ill gained riches.”

“Yeah,” Tony agreed weakly. “Rest. It’s been... a hell of a day.” He looked around the tiny apartment as Valkyrie rolled her eyes and stumbled her way into a bedroom, the lock on the door clicking loudly. “So, uh. Where am I sleeping?” Tony wondered cautiously.

Bucky gave him a long, steady look. “You were an emergency acquisition. No place for you to bunk up, except my room. It’s a big bed, we can share it.”

Tony looked around the apartment again, but there wasn’t much in the way of furniture. It was Bucky’s bed or the floor, it seemed. “Right,” he managed, and waved. “Lead on.”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky said, opening another door to his cold-as-ice bedroom. “Val talks a big game, but she’d rip my spleen out if I did anything to you that you didn’t want.”

What about what I do want? Tony wondered, but he wasn’t entirely sure, himself, what that was, so he just followed Bucky into the small bedroom. “I’m not worried,” he said. “Not about you.” And that was... oddly true.

Bucky woke up with a jolt, as if he’d fallen a hundred yards before landing on a soft bed. His eyes sprang open and his heart was beating so hard in his throat he couldn’t have screamed around it if he’d wanted to.

It was dark, and cold, and--

He scrambled for his arm, his arm, his goddamn arm--

Instead of finding his arm, ragged and torn from his body, bleeding out in the snow, his fingers encountered warm, soft… snuggly.

Someone in the bed with him took a deeper breath and curled more urgently against Bucky’s side.

Oh.

Tony.

Tony was sleeping, half on him, a bundle of blankets and shivers pressed against Bucky’s chest, head pillowed on the shattered remains of his bionic arm.

“Hey--” he said, soft, trying not to startle Tony too much, but-- the feedback was getting to him. Bucky’d offered Tony the side of the bed that was away from the wall, so the boy wouldn’t feel like Bucky was pinning him in. But now it meant that Bucky was the one pushed all the way up against the wall.

“Mm?” Tony cuddled in closer, practically burrowing into Bucky’s side. “Jus’... jus’ need a min--” He froze, stock-still, for a count of three breaths, and then scrambled back. “Shit, shit, sorry, I didn’t-- oh fuck, it’s freezing over here,” he whined, his tone ping-ponging from apologetic to startled to indignant.

“Hey, shhh,” Bucky tried again. “S’okay, you-- were jus’ layin’ on a bad spot.” Bucky reached for the cap of the arm, trying to figure out what, exactly it was. “Could feel m’ arm fallin’ off, dreamin’ about it.” He gave up, waving his hand near the panel, bringing the room lights up slowly. “Can you see?”

Maybe he could, but Tony was, instead, staring at Bucky’s bare chest. Even with with temperatures close to four or five degrees, Bucky put out a lot of heat while he slept, and he’d woken once before, practically swimming in sweat, and he’d shucked most of his clothes, tossing them onto the floor over Tony’s shoulder.

“I, uh...” Tony’s gaze jerked up to meet Bucky’s, and he blushed furiously. “Sorry, I’m just. Um. Arm. Yes. I can... Let me take a look at...” He stopped, scrubbing his hands over his face roughly, and then took a breath and held it as he leaned in to examine Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hope you meant what you said earlier,” Bucky said, conversationally, trying to ignore the fact that he was dressed only in a pair of thin shorts and Tony was all but climbing into his lap to look at his busted up arm.

“What I said?” Tony’s hands were sliding over his shoulder, gentle and careful even through the feedback the arm was jittering through his brain.

“That you can make a new one,” Bucky said. “Ain’t like there’s much warranty on the old one left over.”

“Oh! Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can.” Tony curved his hand around what was left of the arm and lifted it a little. “I mean, it might depend on what kind of materials I can get my hands on, and how long we’ve got before you have to go back out-- oh! I think I see it, hang on a sec.” He stretched for his bag, precariously balanced on the very edge of the bed, and dragged it closer to fish out a pair of wire cutters. “Okay, this might pinch just for a second...”

The pain was as horrific as it was mercifully brief. Bucky blinked away spots and realized that his eyes were watering in reaction. But then everything went easy and still. “Oh, that’s better.” The complete lack of pain was shocking, like he hadn’t realized that so many parts of him still hurt. He’d sublimated so much of it, had adjusted to it, that he hadn’t even noticed it anymore. “Oh.” His eyes wouldn’t stop tearing up as he shuddered with relief.

“Are you okay?” Tony’s hand was hovering, not quite touching, his eyes wide and worried. “Bucky?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice rough. “Yeah, I-- maybe for th’ first time since this happened. It don’t hurt. Like at all.”

“Oh.” Tony swallowed, loud in the quiet room. “We’re gonna... When I make the new arm. We’ll make sure that doesn’t hurt. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky repeated. He wasn’t sure he knew who he was without the constant pain. Like the person he’d used to be was buried under it. “Come on, lay down, get some sleep. You look so exhausted, you’re makin’ me tired jus’ lookin’ at you. I know it’s cold--” He went to shrug and realized his shoulders didn’t move like that anymore. “But I run hot as Hel, an’ I can’t sleep at normal room temperature.”

“Yeah, I kind of noticed you run warm,” Tony said, wriggling carefully back down into the covers. “Why is that? You from an ice planet or something?”

Bucky shifted around until he had Tony in a little spoon position, keeping him in the warm circle of his body. “Enhanced metabolism. Healing, speed, endurance. I eat a lot, too. Val complains constantly.”

“Not enough to sell your bond, though,” Tony noted, snuggling in. “If we’re going to keep sharing, I’m going to need some more blankets. Tell me about her.”

“Val? She’s smarter than she acts,” Bucky said. He leaned his forehead against Tony’s back and waved the lights to dim again. “There was a war. She’s one of th’ survivors. She drinks to forget ‘em. Most of everyone she loved is dead. She told me, once. She was drinkin’ more than usual, had a bad dream. She’s brave, though. Stands up to the Grandmaster. Aren’t many here who do. She washed up here, years ago, fought her way up to freedom. Now she’s trying to challenge him for the championship. That’d be you an’ me. Oh, an’ she’s got a lady friend, comes ‘round once in a while, they get roasted together and make love with alarming frequency.”

“You’re just trying to make me blush, now,” Tony accused sleepily. “Does she... get mad? Throw stuff or, or break things or...?”

“Not s’much,” Bucky said. “Think the door frustrates her. She keeps sayin’ she’s gonna get it fixed. It sticks. Mostly, she sings. And cusses about the Grandmaster. I like her.” Bucky thought about that for a moment. It hadn’t really occurred to him, in a long time, whether he liked anyone. But he did. She was… sassy.

A little shiver ran through Tony’s body, and he seemed to melt, just a bit. “That’s good. She’s--” He yawned. “--hard to read. Was worried she might be like m’dad.”

Bucky pulled him in, smelling his warm, sleepy scent. “Don’t worry,” he said, yawning once. “I won’t let anythin’ happen to you. Need me a good mechanic.” With that thought, he nuzzled at Tony’s shoulder once, and drifted off again.

Tony woke with a jolt, not sure where he was, and then registered the icy tip of his nose, even if the rest of him was surprisingly warm. The previous day’s events scrolled through his mind in a blur, leaving him half-sick and half-triumphant and entirely overwhelmed. “Oh god,” he whispered. Had he really done all that?

And then woken in the middle of the night to pull a shorting wire from Bucky’s arm and maybe reveal entirely too much about himself? Not his identity, probably, but how best to hurt him, maybe. Tony bit his lip, but Bucky was still holding him protectively close, and Tony thought, if he had to trust someone, it would be Bucky.

But he was still going to get some extra blankets.

Bucky shifted against him, mumbling sleepily, and-- hello, morning wood pushed against the back of Tony’s thigh and Bucky rolled his hips, slow and sensual.

Tony’s breath caught. He had no idea what to do -- he’d been handling his own arousal for years, now, but he’d been carefully watched and strictly chaperoned and none of his near-agemates back in Manhattan had really interested him, that way, anyway -- and he had no idea what to do with someone else’s cock, pressed insistently against his leg.

All he knew was that he wanted to do something about it. His own dick was stirring, filling and firming with each heavy pulse of his blood. He couldn’t deny that he found Bucky interesting and attractive, and maybe that was just the sheer adrenaline of... everything, and the desperate need to bond with someone he could trust, but...

Biting down on his lip, Tony cautiously rocked his hips back, pushing into the heat of Bucky’s body, feeling that hardness against him.

Bucky made a soft, urgent noise, a throaty sort of moan that went straight through Tony, lighting his nerves on fire, and then that mouth was pressed against the back of Tony’s neck, tongue darting out to sample the skin right at the join of his shoulder. His hips rolled with Tony’s, a heavy, desperate rhythm. “Mmmm?”

Tony’s breath left him in a soft groan. “Yes, yes...”

At the sound of him, Bucky stiffened even more noticeably, and then, with a suddenness that took his breath away, Tony found himself on his back, with Bucky practically hovering over him. Misty eyes gazed at him, then-- “Are we awake?”

“I certainly hope so,” Tony said, breath coming faster as his heart sped up. He lifted a hand to brush Bucky’s hair back, skating his knuckles down Bucky’s cheek.

Bucky tipped his face, turning into Tony’s hand, kissing the fingers, then-- “Oh, we are.” He ground down, pushing against Tony’s hips, moaned softly, then, “Are you?” He did it again, rubbing them together with interest. “Stars, you feel good.”

The movement set sparks fizzling under Tony’s skin, more than any touch of his own had ever managed, and he gasped, rutting up against Bucky without even thinking. “Good, yes,” he managed. “Bucky--”

“Sweet, you’re so sweet, look at you--” Bucky murmured, and he nuzzled the side of Tony’s throat, kissing his neck, his jaw, peppering little kisses along his chin, before claiming his mouth. More aware of the way it juddered along his nerves, Tony noted that they were both fuzzy mouthed and sour from sleep before that all washed away as Bucky’s tongue slid into his mouth, flicking over his teeth and along the inside of his cheek.

Tony surrendered to it, and then answered Bucky’s explorations with his own, his tongue sliding along Bucky’s, testing the places where their mouths were sealed together. His hands curled around Bucky’s back, pulling them tightly together. “Bucky, I don’t-- I haven’t-- You’ll have to tell me what to do,” he admitted.

Bucky looked up at him, those beautiful eyes outlined with thick lashed. “Yeah? That-- I like that, you know. That ain’t no one else ever known you, no one’s ever touched you like this. You like it, me kissin’ you? Touching you?” He demonstrated, shifting so he was laying next to Tony instead, leaving his skin rippling with gooseflesh as he traced lines and swirls over Tony’s chest and belly, a teasing curl that got closer to Tony’s groin with each tempting whirl.

Tony shivered and shuddered under those light touches, arching into them eagerly. “I like it. I didn’t think it could feel like this, so...” He shook his head, out of words. “Kiss me again?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, spearing his hand into Tony’s hair, pulling him closer, thumb rubbing at Tony’s ear and came in to kiss and tease at Tony’s mouth. He licked his way into Tony’s mouth, breath a soft puff against Tony’s cheek. The scrape of his stubble against Tony’s chin tingled, sensation drowning every rational thought in Tony’s brain, leaving a restless cry of more, more, in its wake. Tony shivered again, and Bucky grinned at him. “You still cold, doll? Let me see if I c’n warm you up.” He disappeared under the blanket, sliding down to tug up Tony’s undershirt, licking at the skin of Tony’s belly.

Tony gasped, arching up into the touch. “Oh...” He pushed his hands into Bucky’s hair, mindlessly trying to direct that hot mouth where Tony’s body insisted it needed it most. “Bucky, please...” His hips were twisting, lifting, desperate in the search for friction.

Bucky laughed, a soft, amused sound that might have been humiliating -- did Bucky think he was cute? -- except that Bucky traced his finger up the length of Tony’s dick, from balls to crown, pressure over the material of his drawers that he’d worn to sleep in.

Tony let out a needy whine, then clapped his hand over his mouth, glancing toward the wall. Oh, god, how was he supposed to be quiet when Bucky was making him feel like this? “Bucky, Bucky, I need, please, I need...”

“Gonna take care of ever’thing you need,” Bucky told him, and did it again, slowly dragging his hand up, fingers trailing along Tony’s groin, a tease and exquisite torture, more than Tony had ever felt in his life, and still not enough. He wriggled and thrust up against Bucky’s hand, who just pulled it back. “It’s okay, I’ll get ya there, honey. Slow, breathe with it. Know it don’t feel like it right now, but it’ll be better if you take it slow.”

Tony whined again, but sank back down onto the bed, panting, heart pounding. He wasn’t sure he’d ever even tried to jerk off slow, too concerned with taking care of the need of the moment before anyone could suspect what he was up to. The very idea was maddening, a torment, and a delicious thrill up Tony’s spine. He tried to slow his breathing, to match Bucky’s easy pace, but it was next to impossible. It seemed he was one huge mass of heated sensation and aching need.

Bucky grumbled in the back of his throat. “This’d be easier if I hadn’t had t’ blow up my own damn arm,” he complained, then, “well, guess I’ll jus’--” He slid his hand down the front of Tony’s drawers, palm brushing against Tony’s skin, then over the head of his cock, smearing copious amounts of pre-come around. He mouthed at Tony’s chest, pushing Tony’s tee up as he went, until that hot, lush mouth closed on Tony’s nipple, tongue working the sensitive flesh.

Tony writhed, each breath coming out on a moan, the heat building until it seemed he had to be burning up. “Bucky,” he pleaded, “I’m so, so close, I just, oh god...” He shoved his hand over his mouth and bit down to keep from screaming as that heat and pressure exploded, a white burst behind his eyelids as his whole body shivered and shuddered through his climax.

Bucky flicked his tongue over Tony’s nipple again, a scrape of teeth against the pebbled skin, then he pulled back, cupping Tony’s cock and nursing him through the aftershocks until Tony was too sensitive and squirming away. “Ain’t you pretty,” Bucky observed, and when Tony opened his eyes, raised his fingers to his mouth and licked away the evidence of Tony’s spill.

Tony’s cock twitched at that sight, trying valiantly to push through its exhaustion. “You are so damned gorgeous,” Tony murmured, curling up to catch Bucky’s lips with his, kissing again and again, licking the taste of himself out of Bucky’s mouth. “That was so, so fantastic,” he panted between kisses. “I want to, I need to see you come, too, can I-- tell me what you want.”

Bucky kissed him, cuddled him, petting his arm and hair with fondness. It was comfortable, in a way Tony had never thought about, being utterly relaxed with someone else. “We’ll get to it,” Bucky said. “Just catch your breath, honey. I ain’t in a hurry.” Bucky kissed the tip of Tony’s nose, and then slid out of the bed, letting in a draft of cold air.

He rummaged around in a drawer and came back with a few things; a cloth that he used to clean up the rest of Tony’s spend, a bottle of water that he offered over and a small tube. “Just in case,” he said, then crawled back into the bed with Tony. “How do you feel?”

Tony drank a few big swallows of water -- it was almost too cold, just from being in the room -- and flopped back onto the bed with a contented sigh. “I feel great.” He tipped his head, looking at the tube. “What’s that?”

“Slick,” Bucky said. “Keeps everything from rubbin’ too much an’ making it sore.” He rolled onto his back, wordlessly inviting Tony to spread out over him, sharing his body heat. “You-- back in my time, we’d use hand cream, t’ you know, jerk it. This is like that, only… so I don’t hurt you.”

“Oh, lube,” Tony said. He might not have much (any) experience, but it wasn’t like he was entirely lacking in knowledge. “What the heck kind of planet did you come from that didn’t have lube, what--” He eyed Bucky’s face, gauging age. “--twenty, thirty years ago?”

Bucky made a soft noise. “Older than I look,” he said. “A lot older. You might not believe it. When-- I remember th’ first man to walk on our moon. Space travel. All this-- that was a dream and a wish when I was a teenager.”

Tony scoffed. “That’s, like... hundreds of years ago. Almost a thousand. You can’t be more than... thirty-five, tops.”

“Well, I wasn’t awake for all of it,” Bucky said, reasonably. “Cryotube got lost. I guess, in time I been awake and aware, I’m about ninety. Give or take.”

“You don’t look ninety, either,” Tony pointed out. “They had cryo back that far?”

Bucky ran a hand up Tony’s body, from his thigh and up his hip, over his ribs. “They’ve had cryo since the 40’s. The nineteen forties.” He leaned down, kissed Tony’s jaw. “It’s a long, boring story. You don’t want to hear it, an’ I want--” He plucked at Tony’s shirt, strange how he’d not yet managed to get his clothes off. “-- to see you.”

“Uh. Yeah, yeah, I can--” Tony sat up and reached back to pull his shirt off over his head. His nipples promptly tightened into hard nubs in the frigid air, but he was still snuggled up close against Bucky, who was putting off heat like a bonfire. Tony shoved at his pants, getting them the rest of the way off, and kicked them off the bed, spreading his arms in a little “here I am” sort of gesture.

“So damn beautiful,” Bucky said. “Wanna kiss you all over. You feeling okay, not too sensitive anymore?” He illustrated his point by licking over Tony’s nipple, puckered and stiff from the cold air, and it felt good, somehow more than it had before. “Listen to that, you like that.” Tony could feel Bucky’s lips smiling against him, before he practically devoured Tony��s chest, licking and sucking at the one side.

Tony wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck, twining his fingers in Bucky’s hair and holding on as if for dear life. Each flick of Bucky’s tongue, each delicate drag of teeth, was like a lightning bolt of pure need, shooting from Tony’s chest straight down into his balls. His cock was starting to swell up again, and he rolled his hips without even thinking about it, rubbing against Bucky’s body. “Ohhhh, god, that feels so good,” he said, breath hitching. “Thought... Thought we were going to take care of you next?”

Bucky leaned his chin on Tony’s chest to look up at him. “You bein’ relaxed an’ happy is taking care of me,” he said. “It’s fun, watchin’ you squirm around, listenin’ to the way you hitch your breath in. Ain’t never gonna be this way again, new an’ fresh. Want it to be good for you, want to be good for you, honey. Damn Val for sayin’ what she did. Your first time, it oughta be damn special.”

“It’s been pretty great so far,” Tony said, and it had been a long, long time since he’d felt this uncomplicatedly happy. And that was mostly because of Bucky. He ducked his head to catch Bucky’s mouth in another kiss, because kissing was fantastic, why had he not done more of that before? “Do I get to see you, at least?” he asked when he’d finally been forced to come up for air.

“Look all you like, honey,” Bucky said. “You already seen th’ horrific bits.” He reached for his shoulder, the stump, the scars. There was an expression on his face that Tony wasn’t sure how to read. Resignation, maybe. “And it didn’t scare you off.” He rolled his hips up. “You can help me with these, if you want.”

“I want.” Tony scooted back just enough to hook his fingers under the waistband of the thin shorts that Bucky was sleeping in. “You’re not horrific, not any of you. Hurt, some, but who isn’t? I think--” And whatever he’d been about to say dropped right out of his head as he got Bucky’s clothes off and he could finally see what had been grinding into him since he’d woken up.

Bucky’s cock was thick and long, just slightly curved, heavy and flushed with desire, and it was an odd sort of pride that swelled in Tony’s chest: that was his doing; Bucky wanted him. “Oh, oh wow, you’re... wow.”

Bucky scoffed. “Ain’t that different from yours, honey. Works just the same.” He took Tony’s hand, loose and easy, and let the palm brush down the skin, hotter even than the rest of Bucky’s skin, soft and velvety. The whole thing jumped and twitched under Tony’s fingers, as if it was begging to be touched, wanting his attention.

“No, I know that,” Tony said, but he couldn’t draw his eyes away, fascinated by the feel of it. “I just... it’s a different angle. And I haven’t seen all that many. Not in this state, anyway.” He flushed a little, focusing on what he was doing to Bucky’s dick so he’d have an excuse not to try to meet Bucky’s gaze.

“You can get t’know him, if you want,” Bucky said. “How it feels in your hand, or… you can put your mouth there, if you want. Whatever you want.”

A shiver ran through Tony, just thinking about it. “Yes. That.” He shifted his weight, slithered down Bucky’s body until he was curled into the warm cradle of Bucky’s legs. He hesitated, just for a moment -- what should he do next? What if he messed up? What if Bucky didn’t like it? -- and then huffed at himself impatiently. He nuzzled against that silk-soft skin with his nose and his lips, feeling that heat, breathing in Bucky’s scent, and then licked tentatively, a broad lap from the base nearly to the tip.

“That’s… that’s so sweet,” Bucky said, his breath coming harder, huffing out between his words, like he wasn’t completely calm, or collected. Like Tony had done that, too. It was a strange, heady sensation, a rush of power and exhilaration. And close on the heels of that was a desperate desire to do it right, do it again, make Bucky as wild and crazy with pleasure as Tony had been.

He licked again, and then again, spiraling like Bucky’s cock was an ice cream cone, trying to taste everything, to feel every little bump and ridge, testing, in search of the spots that got the best reactions -- pretty similar to the same spots on Tony, as it turned out, which made it easier. He lapped tentatively at the head, getting the sharp-bitter flavor of precome and a delicious moan.

He glanced up at Bucky’s face and blushed again at the realization that Bucky was watching him intently. He bit back the ridiculous urge to ask if he was doing it right and closed his mouth over the head of Bucky’s cock, dragging his tongue across it and sucking carefully. How hard was too hard?

Bucky’s hand closed on the sheets, tugging like he was trying to hold himself down as his hips rocked in time with Tony’s movements. Bucky shook his head back and forth, long hair getting into his face, eyes closed, mouth open, and he rocked back to expose a gorgeous, vulnerable throat. He said something in a language that Tony didn’t speak, but the tone was familiar enough, a prayer or a curse, but said with reverence.

“Okay, okay, that’s-- oh, god, that’s good, Tony,” Bucky said, but at the same time, he was struggling to sit up. “I… gotta know, if you want me t’ come like that, or, you want to move on, to the next step.” He was breathing hard, body coated with a light shimmer of sweat, steam practically raising off his skin in the cold air.

Well, that was hardly fair. Tony wanted it all, of course. How could he not, when Bucky was so gorgeous, and it was Tony who’d given him that pleasure? But he looked up at Bucky and knew he wanted to give Bucky everything, even if it was just this once. “Show me,” he said. “I want it all.”

Bucky drew him in for a sweet kiss, not heated much at all, just a brush of lip, a flick of tongue. “And I want to give it to you. Want to be the first, the one-- your one. So, I’m gonna talk you through it, a bit, an’ if it don’t sound like something you want any truck with, you just say, all right? We can always do it th’ other way ‘round, if you’d rather. I-- I mean, I ain’t got lots of experience with teachin’, but for me, helped that I, you know, knew what it felt like, before I tried stickin’ it to someone else.”

Tony nodded, doing his best to ignore the blush that wouldn’t go away. “I want you to... Want you in me,” he said. “Definitely, pretty sure, like... like 85 percent.”

“No foul,” Bucky said, spreading his hand wide. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stick with that. Jus’ tell me, we’ll back it up. I won’t be upset, ‘kay? Promise.” And he actually crossed his heart and then kissed two of his fingers.

The childish gesture made Tony laugh, and eased a knot of tension that he hadn’t even realized had been forming. “Promise,” he agreed. “What, uh, how do you want me?”

“Lay on your back for a bit,” Bucky said, decisely. “Spread your legs, no, not that wide, I ain’t a hippo. Just need a little room to work. Gonna slick you up and work you open. One finger, then two. Get you used to how it feels. See what you like.”

“Okay.” Tony shivered a little in the cold air, but mostly he was burning, aching for Bucky to touch him again.

Bucky picked up the bottle of lube, then looked at it, befuddled. “Well, fuck,” he said. “How ‘bout that. Forgot that I didn’t have two hands. Here, you-- yeah, get the lid off, would ya?” He cupped his hand around the shiny substance that Tony poured into his hand, blew on it. “Warm it up for you. Stuff is chilly half the time anyway, lucky it ain’t frozen, bein’ in here with me, and what would be the fun in that?”

“That... does not sound fun, no,” Tony agreed. He wriggled a little, trying to get comfortable, but mostly just flinching back from the cold sheets. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“Shh,” Bucky told him. “I’ll know when you’re ready.” He scowled again at the empty space where his other arm used to be, then leaned in, awkwardly cupping the lube, and kissed Tony, heat, and wanting, his tongue sliding in to taste. The way his tongue flickered against the sensitive inside of Tony’s lip, encouraging him to open his mouth, and then that tongue would move again, tickling at the corner of his lips. Bucky bit him, so light, teeth barely dragging against Tony’s lower lip, stretching it out.

Like all the kissing they’d done before was practice, and this was some sort of encore. Bucky kissed him, and kissed him again, and somewhere in there, slid his hand between Tony’s legs, and one single fingertip brushed along the pucker of his asshole, just a faint touch, but it sent currents straight up his spine; pleasure and weirdness and -- it wasn’t pain, not that, but it was odd.

Tony wiggled a little -- but that just made it stranger. “Oh, oh that’s... that’s different.”

“Yeah, little bit,” Bucky said, and he did it again, just that little brush, but after his hand moved, Tony felt… wet. And the next stroke after that was… more. A brush, but also with a smooth glide to it. Bucky’s fingertip circled the tight pucker that marked Tony’s entrance, and-- weird, but also squirmy. Embarrassing, really, if he had to be honest. Tony’s body spasmed on the next wave, clenching everything up, his thighs, his toes curled, hands balled into fists. “Shhh, easy does it. Here, kiss me again, it’ll help.”

Tony curled up to kiss Bucky, and Bucky drew it out, teasing and coaxing until Tony was swaying into the rhythm of it, losing himself in the slick slide of tongues and mouths and-- Bucky’s finger was in him, he realized suddenly, almost stroking him from the inside. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Bucky said, and he was smiling, soft and looking at him with eyes nearly black. “This okay?” He slid the finger in and out again, pausing as he got almost all the way out to twist around the opening, which shot sunbursts of sensation all up and down Tony’s body. “Looks like part of you is enjoyin’ it, leastways.” And Bucky flicked his gaze down to Tony’s cock, which was more than half hard. Aroused, but not yet urgent about it.

“All of me is enjoying it,” Tony said, though it still felt distinctly odd, but in a good way. “I like it, it feels...” He frowned, trying to put it into words. “Filling? That sounds weird.”

“Stuffed,” Bucky said, apparently agreeing with the assessment. “That’s what I always think. Stuffed full, that sort of… like a good meal and just… letting your body do its thing. Hang on a second, this might… stretch a bit.” Bucky pulled all the way out, and that left him feeling weirdly empty and his hips chased the sensation for a moment without any conscious awareness on his part to move, and then-- more of the slick, wet stuff. Bucky rubbed two fingertips over his hole, and then, slow, almost methodical, he pushed both fingers inside Tony.

Tony’s breath caught and he couldn’t quite let it back out, the stretch becoming a mild burn, not quite painful, but teetering on the edge of it. “Oh, that’s... Fuck, that’s a lot,” he finally gasped, when his lungs refused to hold the air any longer. “Are you, uh. Sure? That I can... I mean, you’re...” Bigger than two fingers, he couldn’t quite say. If only two fingers felt like this, how would he manage Bucky’s cock?

Bucky actually laughed, and that hurt for just a second before Tony realized that Bucky was blushing and laughing, more at himself than Tony. “I promise, it ain’t that big, no matter what you think, babydoll. Here, lift your leg a little, there, that’s it, see if that’s better, an’ just wait, once you relax a little more… then it gets real sweet.”

Tony moved his leg, and shifted it again, and Bucky’s fingers in him just kept pushing at him, even though Bucky wasn’t moving much at all, but it was strange and stretching and-- Tony closed his eyes and tried to focus on breathing. He’d been through so much worse, and this was, this would feel good, soon. Bucky had said so, and he trusted Bucky’s word, and he wanted to make Bucky feel good, too. With a quiver and a jolt, his body suddenly let go, and that stretch didn’t burn anymore, and that nice full sensation was back. Tony let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, yeah, okay, that’s better, that’s... that’s good.”

“There ya go, yeah, that’s… ahhh, look what I found,” Bucky said, and it was playful and teasing, and then-- something that Bucky touched, deep inside him, responded. Like he had when Bucky stroked his cock for the first time, or the feel of Bucky’s tongue and lips on his nipple. But more, so much more, almost too much more. Pleasure and a sudden, inescapable pulse of desire. “There, that’s nice, right?”

Tony’s eyes had flown wide and he stared at Bucky in shock. “What-- Oh shit, do that again!”

“Yep, that’s the whole plan, doll,” Bucky said, and he worked his fingers inside Tony’s body, pressure and light, brushing sensations that seemed to go straight from Bucky’s fingers, through his balls and right up his dick. “Sometimes, feels so good, you can come just from this. Others, you need a hand to help you along. Which I ain’t got one t’spare at the moment. You can rub it, if you need to, but if you come again, we’re done for the night. I ain’t aimin’ to make you so sore you can’t get out of bed.”

Tony considered that and decided to keep his hand off his dick for now; it felt so good, but he still wanted to see Bucky come. Wanted to be the reason Bucky came. “Later,” he said, and his voice came out breathy, a little hoarse. “Bucky, I want, I want you. Please.”

“Yeah, okay, it’s uh. You know what, let’s swap places, okay? I only for th’ one hand and I don’t want to squash you,” Bucky said. “And uh, you can control the pace, if you’re on top. You don’t have to go any faster than you want, and you can get off as soon as you need to. Okay? Just… gonna take you for a ride. And, you’ll uh, you’ll want more slick. Put it on me, so that’ll… yeah, just like that, oh--” Bucky’s voice spiraled up as they moved around and Tony put a hand on him.

It was even more awkward like this, Tony balanced on top of Bucky’s body, trying to lower himself onto a cock he couldn’t see, that seemed determined to slide away from him every time he tried to push down and back. He finally braced both hands on Bucky’s shoulders and curled his toes into the sheets, and Bucky reached down to steady himself and then-- oh, that burned, and Tony bit his lip hard, looking up at the ceiling and widening his eyes so they wouldn’t tear up.

Just like before, he reminded himself, just have to relax, just have to let it go. Thinking about it did not seem to be helping.

Bucky was probably getting impatient, his own pleasure so close at hand. Tony took a couple of shallow breaths and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Tony--” Bucky said, voice soft and easy, as if he wasn’t teetering on the edge of anything. “Hey… you’re okay. We’re good, baby, so good. You don’t gotta go any further, if you don’t want, if it’s too much. We can try again later, or never again. Hey, come on, look at me a minute, yeah?”

Tony managed to look down, and Bucky was looking back up, expression patient and gentle and... and concerned, like he was actually more worried about Tony’s enjoyment than his own. It hit like a blow to the chest, only warm and reassuring instead of cold and painful.

So not like a blow to the chest at all, Tony thought, and hiccupped out a startled laugh. “Sorry,” he managed, and giggled again, helplessly. “I just, it’s...” Another spate of laughter, until he had curled down against Bucky’s chest, unable to stop.

“Nah, I get it. Sex is pretty damn ridiculous,” Bucky said, “an’ here I am, an arm down and not really able t’ help you. Like to sit you right down on my damn dick, I swear to you, I would.” Bucky nuzzled at the top of Tony’s head, breath sifting through the hairs to tickle at his scalp. “It’s okay, really. First time I did it, came all over the girl’s thigh and ‘bout burst into tears, thinkin’ she was gonna hate me forever. She didn’t; she showed me what to do to get her off, an’ it didn’t involve my dick at all.” Bucky wiggled two fingers at him, making a gesture that both meant nothing and seemed to say everything at the same time.

If Tony didn’t know much about sex with another man, he knew even less about sex with a woman. He managed to get his giggling under control, but didn’t move for a moment, just breathing, feeling the heat radiating off Bucky’s skin and enjoying the closeness. He thought... Maybe, possibly, it had done him some good. He felt a little easier, a little calmer, now. “I want to try again,” he said.

He lifted his head and kissed Bucky, melting into it, trying to show how grateful he was for this, for Bucky’s patience and guidance and for making this so, so unbearably sweet. And, yes, awkward, but that seemed okay, too, like the sort of small flaw that made a handmade item more precious than a perfect machined one.

Holding that thought, cradling it close to himself, Tony sat up again and found his angle, and pushed. And there was that stretch, again, but the burn wasn’t so bad, more of an ache, really, like stretching a tight muscle.

Tony sank down farther, feeling Bucky’s thickness filling him, until he realized there was nowhere else to go; he’d taken it all in.

“--oh, god,” Bucky said, short, glottal, voice straining. His whole body was shaking under Tony’s, skin rippling with gooseflesh, and he rolled his hips once, pushing Tony up. He opened his eyes, wide, staring, like he was seeing something precious and perfect, dear and adored. “Yeah, that’s… that’s exactly right, baby. You’re doin’ it.”

And that look, god, what Tony wouldn’t do for that look. He braced his hands on Bucky’s shoulders again, and started moving, slowly. Lifting up and pushing back down, shifting the angle slightly, testing. Somewhere in there, his body gave in to the intrusion, gave way, and even the ache faded into pure pleasure. “Oh god,” Tony groaned. “Bucky, that’s--”

“Jus’ right,” Bucky agreed. “You’re -- so tight, Tony, I don’t think I’ve ever, not like this, never like this. Want you, want you so bad--” Bucky was gasping, his hand opening and closing gently on Tony’s hip as he rolled up just as Tony came down, setting some rhythm in there somewhere, like the steady beat of a drum.

Tony tried to reply, you’ve got me, I’m yours -- but his throat wouldn’t push the sounds out, just a harsh groan as he rocked into Bucky’s rhythm, sensation overwhelming everything else. Another small shift and -- fuck, yes -- he’d found an angle that dragged Bucky’s cock against that place inside him, a little jolt of pleasure that only made everything light up, sweeter and better.

Gasping, he grabbed for his own dick, curling his hand around it and squeezing tight, stripping it mercilessly, chasing sensation toward the finish line, trying to hold out only long enough to pull Bucky over with him.

“There, yeah, there, honey, just like that, you-- oh, you’re so sweet, Tony,” Bucky was babbling, almost senseless, and between words, he was touching as much of Tony as he could reach. “Yeah, that’s… squeeze down, baby, can you do that for me, can you-- oh, oh!”

Tony tried to do what Bucky asked. He wasn’t sure if it actually worked, but Bucky threw his head back, jaw hanging open and throat working as he came, thick pulses inside Tony’s body. Tony closed his eyes and let himself tumble over the edge, too, spilling over his hand onto Bucky’s stomach. “Oh god,” he gasped. “Bucky... god.”

Bucky managed a weak chuckle as Tony practically fell on him. “That was so good, honey,” he said, absently patting Tony’s back and hip. “Now, here’s the not-fun part. I’mma pull out, and you’re gonna find out the hard way that body fluids go from warm and wet to freezin’ and sticky in about point zero two seconds.”

Tony lifted his head just enough to give Bucky a sad, betrayed look. “Why.”

“I didn’t design th’ system, love, I just work with what I got,” Bucky said. “Roll over, this side, an’ I’ll let the blanket cover you up. Get you a washcloth and clean up a bit. Layin’ in the wet spot is not recommended.”

Tony grumbled, but did as Bucky suggested. He pulled the pillow over his head when Bucky got out of bed to get the washcloth. “I don’t want to get up,” he complained.

Bucky brought over a damp washcloth and gently cleaned Tony up, wiping away sweat and semen with a few quick motions. He spread a dry towel over the wet spot to cover it and then climbed back in, bringing his insane body heat with him. “You don’t gotta,” he said. “This is my bed, you c’n stay in it s’long as you want.”

Tony grabbed onto Bucky and snuggled into that warmth with possibly aggressive fervor. “Pretty sure our boss is going to have something to say about that, at some point.”

Bucky pulled the blanket up and nearly over their heads. “She’ll be sleepin’ it off a while,” Bucky pointed out. “We can lounge around most of th’ day, at least.” He nuzzled at Tony’s ear, kissed his jaw. “It’s good, we’re good here--” Bucky blinked a few times, his lashes closing slowly, and he drifted off to sleep.

Tony dozed for a while, but he’d never really slept much, and he was still sort of processing... everything. So eventually he sat up, leaning back against the wall where he could watch Bucky and the door, and pulled up the ‘net connection that his ident allowed. He had an arm to design, after all, assuming he could get his hands on some decent materials.

Which meant he was deep into schematics and engineering better joint solutions when Val slammed the door open. “Boys, we--”

She stopped dead, staring at Tony, her eyes moving from his crazy, sticking up hair, across his shoulders which might possibly have had bite marks on them, to Bucky, still mostly asleep and curled up with his head pillowed on Tony’s thigh.

“Really?” she asked, blinking. “One day. You couldn’t make it one day?”

Tony reached down and lightly brushed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, feeling a fond smile tugging at his lips. “No, I don’t think we could.”

#winteriron bingo #tonystarkbingo2019 #bingo fills #Tony Stark X Bucky Barnes #lemon

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bountyofbeads · 4 years

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How New Jersey’s First Coronavirus Patient Survived https://nyti.ms/3bOZjD5

How New Jersey’s First Coronavirus Patient Survived

James Cai’s case was completely new to his doctors. When he grew severely ill, he tapped a network of Chinese and Chinese-American medical colleagues who helped save his life.

By Susan Dominus | Published April 5, 2020 | New York Times Magazine | Posted April 11, 2020 |

On the evening of March 4, James Cai, a 32-year-old physician assistant, was languishing on a cot, isolated in a small, windowless room on the emergency-room floor of Hackensack University Medical Center, when the television news caught his attention. Before that moment, Cai had been in a strange medical limbo, starting midday on March 2, when he left a medical conference in Times Square because he had a bad cough. Instead of heading to his home in Lower Manhattan, he texted his wife that he was going to spend the night at his mom’s place in New Jersey. His mother was out of town, and if he had the flu, he could spare his wife and their daughter, a cheerful 21-month-old who clung to him when he was home, the risk of catching whatever it was. That was Cai: cautious, a worrier, overprotective, the kind of medical professional who liked to rule out the worst-case scenarios first.

At his mother’s home that evening, he waited until about 8 o’clock., when he thought the urgent-care facility nearby would be relatively empty, then headed over for a flu test. If it was not flu, he could think about going home. He put on a mask before the doctor examined him and learned that his heart rate was elevated, which did not surprise him: He could feel the palpitations. He got a flu and a strep test and asked for a Covid-19 test as well, only because they might as well be exhaustive; but the doctor told him he did not have the test, and neither of them thought much about it after that.

On March 2, many doctors on the East Coast still saw Covid-19 as an ominous but distant threat. Although several elderly people had died by then of complications from coronavirus in Washington State, the outbreak seemed mostly contained to that part of the country. Only two people on the East Coast had tested positive: a health care worker from Iran and a lawyer from New Rochelle, N.Y., whose results were reported the same day Cai went to the doctor. At the urgent-care center, the doctor reported that his chest X-ray looked normal, and the flu and strep tests came back negative. But the doctor was worried that Cai’s symptoms — that cough, surprisingly powerful for something that had kicked in so recently, and an elevated heart rate — were consistent with a possible pulmonary embolism, a clot in an artery in his lung that could prove fatal. He advised him to go immediately to the nearest emergency room, H.U.M.C., where they could give him a CT scan, which would provide a more detailed picture. Cai drove to the hospital and waited for his scan on a cot in a hallway. Not long after, he was moved to the small, windowless room, where he started to feel even worse: short of breath, feverish. He had diarrhea, and the brief walk to the bathroom nearby left him exhausted. He took a video of himself to show his wife, and in it he looks a little wild-eyed; he is breathing fast, as if he has just been chased and whatever was chasing him is right outside the door.

The next morning, March 3, not long after his CT scan, a nurse came to give him a Covid-19 test. The nurse was wearing full personal protective equipment, which typically includes eye protection, a respirator mask, gloves, a long gown and a head cap. The hospital had not tested him earlier because the C.D.C. guidelines at the time suggested that testing should be reserved for those who had recently traveled to China or come into close contact with someone believed to have the virus. Cai had not been there for years and to his knowledge had not been in contact with anyone who had tested positive. Now he thought they were just being thorough.

The following day, an infectious-disease doctor, Bindu Balani, a calm woman with a gentle delivery, came to see him in his room, also wearing P.P.E. She explained to Cai that he did not have a pulmonary embolism, but that they could see on the scan that he did have pneumonia, and that she would start him on antibiotics. Also, it became clear to Cai that something about the CT — a shading in one lung — had given them cause to test him for coronavirus.

Balani was measured when she explained this plan — they wanted to rule it out — but after she left, Cai started Googling symptoms from his stretcher in the small room and asked his wife to do the same. He saw that his symptoms, which had intensified since earlier that day, matched up almost perfectly with those of Covid-19: cough, heart palpitations, fever, diarrhea, chills, fatigue, shortness of breath. It would almost have to be coronavirus, except that there was no way it could be coronavirus: What were the odds that he, James Cai, 32-year-old mediocre basketball player, doting father, conscientious physician assistant, intrepid foodie, would be the first person in all of New Jersey to come down with it?

Cai hated being in that room on the emergency-room floor, where all night long he could hear people crying out in pain or wailing in grief. He tried to tune it out, to take in the consoling texts from friends who knew he was at the hospital. His fever kept spiking to around 102 degrees. The isolation only made him feel worse.

The next day, the hours passed slowly as Cai awaited the results of his test — until that evening, when Cai looked up at the television in his room. The evening news was showing a large image of a post that had just shown up on the Twitter feed of the governor of New Jersey, Phil Murphy. “Tonight, Acting Governor @LtGovOliver and I are announcing the first presumptive positive case of novel coronavirus, or #COVID19, in New Jersey,” the tweet read. “The individual, a male in his 30s, is hospitalized in Bergen County.” Cai’s heart rate, already too fast, sped up, and he felt the chill of his own sudden sweat. Please, God, don’t let that be me, he thought.

He held up his cellphone, shaking a little — from fever, from shock — and took a photo of the image of the tweet on the television news. He was sure that the governor was talking about him, and yet he was praying that he wasn’t. Soon after that, an emergency-room doctor came in and told him what he’d already known in the deep part of his psyche that always prepared for the worst: Cai was in fact the first patient in New Jersey to test positive for Covid-19.

Cai worked about six days a week for a medical practice that had four offices around the metropolitan area, most of them in heavily Chinese and Chinese-American neighborhoods like Flushing and Chinatown. Many of his closest colleagues and friends were immigrants and medical professionals like him. As soon as he saw the television news, Cai had texted the photo he’d taken to one of them, his close friend Yili Huang, a cardiologist in private practice and affiliated with Mount Sinai. “It can’t be,” his friend wrote back. Now Cai let him know that it was true: The test was positive. Earlier, Balani, trying to reassure him, said that even if he had it, he was most likely past the worst phase of a coronavirus infection: the first two days. “She didn’t lie to me, right?” he asked his friend. Huang tried to be comforting, “Of course not,” he wrote. But now that Huang knew that his friend really had tested positive, it dawned on him that Cai was alone in a room facing what could be a life-threatening virus, in a hospital where no one had ever encountered it.

Cai and Huang met five years earlier at a professional dinner. Each came to the United States when he was young, Cai at 14, Huang at 11. They instantly bonded over their love of the Shanghai waterfront and their similar accent (“a charming accent, very smooth,” is how Huang describes it). Huang had, among many of his friends, a reputation as a big-brother type — someone who followed up to see how your mother was feeling if she had been ill; who always finessed picking up the check; who lent money to his friends if he thought he could help them with a good investment. Cai called Huang his brother and considered him part of his extended family.

Just a few weeks earlier, Huang and Cai were catching up on the phone when the subject of the coronavirus came up. Huang, an optimist, reassured Cai that he didn’t think Covid-19 would ever be a crisis in this country, an opinion many of their colleagues shared. SARS, Ebola, MERS — none of them ever posed a public-health threat here. And soon it would be warm, when many viruses seemed to disappear. Cai was relieved to hear Huang’s assessment, but at the urging of his wife, he prepared for the possibility that the pandemic would reach the East Coast and do real harm. As early as late February — when people in New York were still flying around the globe, clutching poles on the subway, hugging friends hello — Cai made two trips to Costco in Brooklyn to buy provisions: frozen vegetables. Frozen fruit. Twenty pounds of rice. Protein shakes, just in case. Huang might have been sanguine, but his former supervisor at Mount Sinai, Paul Lee, a cardiologist, had posted warnings about what was to come. Many of Cai’s friends who were fellow Chinese immigrants were also stocking up. Like Cai, their family connections and exposure to Chinese media drove home how dangerous the disease was and how quickly it spread. If the virus became prevalent in New York, Cai knew what his family would do: They would lock down for two full months. No one would have to leave the house for anything.

The medical offices where Cai worked had put up a sign directing patients with a cough or fever to wear a mask, and to self-quarantine for two weeks if they had traveled recently to China. Cai never failed to wear a mask and gloves at the office. And yet he still did not see the virus as an imminent threat: He made plans to attend a medical conference and took the subway around the city to his various offices without wearing any protection. He and some of his Chinese-American friends, most of them first-generation, wore masks in public starting in January, reminded that it was a common-sense precaution by the devastating news from Wuhan. But then, in early February, a video ran on the local news showing a man violently attacking an Asian woman who was wearing a mask near a subway turnstile in downtown Manhattan. Cai — and many of his friends — stopped wearing them.

Now he felt he had let down his guard, and the worst had happened: He had tested positive. He felt real terror, as did the rest of his family. His father, who lives in Shanghai, reached out through various connections to doctors who had managed the illness there. His wife’s family was doing the same. Huang also was getting in touch with everyone he knew who he thought might be able to help. “I called up all my pulmonary friends, I.C.U. friends, infectious-disease friends — people I hadn’t spoken to in 10 years,” Huang says. He spoke to Chinese doctors from Shanghai who had been deployed to Wuhan, all of whom painted a dire picture of the damage the virus could do. He came to understand that many people recovered quickly on their own, even after a long illness; but he also knew that the disease could go from progressing slowly, seemingly harmlessly, to moving unfathomably quickly, even in otherwise-healthy people. The antibiotics Cai was given might help with a secondary infection, but they could not fight the virus. And there was no way to know what course Cai’s case would take.

Cai was anxious, and it seemed to him that the doctors were trying to keep him calm. They assured him that he was a young, healthy man. He remembers many telling him this would feel like a bad flu. But by March 6, his fifth day at the hospital, this no longer felt to Cai like any other flu. By then, he’d been moved to the third floor, into a negative-pressure isolation room — a room whose atmospheric pressure was so low, air outside flowed in, theoretically preventing any potentially contaminated air from flowing out. He had a pulse oximeter on his finger and could keep an eye on his own oxygen levels. He could see that they were unstable, sometimes dropping momentarily to a unnervingly low level of saturation — 85 percent — before shooting right back up. In a healthy individual, saturation levels typically remain above 95 percent. “I have difficulty breathing now, too much phlegm,” he wrote to Huang. Especially when he lay flat, his oxygen levels fell. “I need to get up and take a deep breath.” He felt as if he had been swimming under water, then surfacing to try to get relief — but his breaths were never deep enough to provide it.

The care he was getting was not always comforting. A nurse came in at some point to take his blood pressure and temperature, but his voice was fearful. “Turn your face away,” he told Cai. He placed a thermometer on the tray and told him to use it himself.

But his main anxiety was that his condition would deteriorate — that his lungs eventually would be so compromised that his oxygen levels would drop to a degree that endangered his life. The mechanism is both complicated and simple: If not enough oxygen reaches the organs, the intricate gears and motors of the human body start to fail. He frequently texted Huang. He was scared, he told him. He asked for reassurances that his friend would not let him die there. Of course not, Huang replied. Huang hoped he was telling the truth.

Cai’s world was reduced to the size and reach of his phone. To pass the time, he watched videos of his daughter over and over and stared at a picture of her in his arms. He would have yearned to video-chat with her but was afraid that it would be too upsetting for her — and maybe for him. They could never explain to a young toddler where he was and why he couldn’t come home, and so he and his wife decided not to tell her anything. He knew she had to be confused and suffering, and the thought of that was bound up with his own confusion and suffering.

The evening of Saturday, March 7, Cai was afraid to go to sleep. He was barely able to talk without collapsing into coughing fits. Earlier that day, he started receiving oxygen from a tank through a nasal cannula, a flexible tube that sits just inside the nostrils. But as he monitored his oxygen levels from his bed, he could see they were dropping. Even with the extra oxygen, his saturation level was as low as 88 while lying down, suggesting his lung functioning was weakening. He started to worry about acute respiratory distress syndrome. From there, he knew intubation could follow, a procedure that involves putting a tube down a patient’s throat and connecting the lungs to a ventilator. Cai knew that the I.C.U., where the ventilators were kept, was on a different floor; if he started to crash — if his vitals indicated that his organs were in imminent danger of starting to shut down — how were doctors going to intubate him and transport him to the ventilator in time to save his life? He’d seen patients die from respiratory failure in less than 10 minutes.

Cai’s family and friends were continuing to communicate with doctors in China and passing on their advice and suggestions. It was common practice during the Covid-19 outbreak there to give patients a second CT scan to provide a clearer view of the progression of lung damage; the so-called ground-glass opacities on the lungs common with Covid-19 could easily be missed on an X-ray or mistaken for something else.

Earlier that morning, Cai told the infectious-disease doctor on call that weekend that he wanted a second CT scan, a suggestion made by top doctors in China, who thought they could help his doctors in New Jersey understand the progression of the illness. The doctor seemed disinclined. They would determine treatment based on oxygen levels, which they were keeping an eye on. Simply moving Cai to the scanner risked exposing health care workers to the virus. Decontaminating the room that held the scanner would also take time, during which the scanner could not be used. (H.U.M.C. did not make some doctors involved in Cai’s care available for comment but responded in an email that they followed “C.D.C. and/or evidence-based protocols” that were “different from protocols physicians from China were advocating.”)

At around 10 a.m., Cai’s phone rang. His friend Huang wanted to talk with the infectious-disease doctor on call. He spoke to her on speakerphone so that Cai could hear. We are formally requesting a second CT scan, Huang told her. She explained, as Cai recalls, that it wasn’t necessary and most likely wouldn’t change the course of treatment, whatever the results. He pressed her on how confident she was about their treatment — and if so, on what basis? She had never treated a Covid-19 patient. How could she dismiss the collective wisdom of doctors in China who had seen thousands? Cai’s oxygen levels were not getting better, despite the antibiotics; Huang had the sense that the doctors at Hackensack did not fully appreciate how quickly patients could take a turn for the worse. The doctor said she would bring it up with Cai’s physicians.

Cai’s boss, Dr. George Hall, also made a call, not long after Huang spoke to the infectious-disease doctor on call. He spoke with another doctor on Cai’s caregiving team, a hospitalist named Danit Arad. Arad had agreed to share her phone number with Cai’s mother, who had passed it on to Hall. Hall, who is 64, studied at one of the most prestigious medical schools in China before immigrating to the United States in 1987 and opening up four medical centers throughout the city. A father figure to Cai, he, too, had been in touch with contacts in China, including a nephew in Yangjiang, who ran an infectious-disease hospital, to get insight into Cai’s case.

Hall explained to Arad that the Chinese National Health Commission had just published the seventh edition of guidelines on how to treat coronavirus. It was true that they were based more on clinical experience than on published studies, but he urged Arad to follow some of its protocols, which included prescribing two drugs that were commonly given to patients in China soon after they showed symptoms like shortness of breath: chloroquine, an antiviral drug once used to treat malaria, and Kaletra, another antiviral that had once been used to treat H.I.V.

At the time Hall and Arad were speaking, practitioners were struggling to gauge the utility of treating coronavirus patients with chloroquine or a derivative called hydroxychloroquine, which is used to treat autoimmune diseases like lupus. Since then, the picture has hardly become more clear. Two small studies from Marseille, France, published in March found that hydroxychloroquine and azythromycin, an antibiotic, yielded encouraging results in patients with advanced disease; but a close replication in Paris, published soon thereafter, found the drugs ineffectual. Yet another study, this one from China and published online March 30, found that patients who were mildly ill and took hydroxychloroquine fared better than the control group of mildly ill patients who did not receive the drug. When Trump called hydroxychloroquine “a game-changer” on March 19, many researchers considered his enthusiasm premature and possibly dangerous. Practitioners started stockpiling the drug, and doctors worried they would not to be able to provide it to autoimmune-disease patients who relied on it. On March 28, the F.D.A. approved the emergency use of chloroquine and hydroxychloroquine in treating patients with Covid-19, but European regulators are awaiting more data.

As for Kaletra, a study in March in The New England Journal of Medicine found it did not help patients suffering severe illness related to coronavirus, though researchers left open the possibility that it might be more effective earlier in the course of treatment.

Arad knew at the time that neither drug had been through extensive clinical trials or had F.D.A. approval. She listened patiently to Hall and expressed her concern that his suggestions did not conform to standard medical procedure or C.D.C. guidelines.

Hall understood the need for evidence-based medicine as well as she did, he told her. But this was life and death. Under those circumstances, sometimes you don’t wait for standard procedure, he said. If it came to it, he was sure Cai would assume the risk. Hall suggested that he could provide Arad with a full translation of the guidelines, which had not yet been published in English; Arad, Hall said, took him up on the offer.

Lying in bed that night, Cai feared that he would close his eyes and never wake up — that he would slip away, essentially drowning in his sleep. He was being given oxygen, but even still, he saw his numbers trending downward — in the 80s. Concerned, he messaged a WeChat group that included his father and a doctor his father knew in Shanghai, who had been advising that Cai be put on a high-flow nasal oxygen cannula, a device that allows for a more intensive and stable delivery of oxygen into the lungs. Cai requested that treatment, but the nurses on duty said that they didn’t have the clearance to make that decision. Cai called Hall to ask for help in getting a doctor’s attention. Hall contacted a prominent local doctor, Henry Chen, who oversaw a sprawling network of community-health doctors in New York, in the hope that he could get in touch with someone at the hospital. Chen says he was told that because he did not have admitting privileges, he would not be put through.

Cai had never felt more alone. He repeatedly called for the nurse, and when she arrived, he spoke as harshly as he ever had to a fellow medical professional. “I am not going to sleep until I see a respiratory therapist,” he told her. He wanted closer monitoring; and he wanted the expert care of someone who could provide a higher level of oxygen dispersal. He dropped Chen’s name, even though he knew the name likely meant nothing to the nurse; he reminded the nurse that he was a physician assistant and could judge for himself his risk. Finally, at around midnight, a respiratory therapist arrived with a Venturi mask, providing a treatment that was not as powerful as high-flow but that still provided higher concentrations of oxygen than Cai had been getting. The therapist also took blood for a test that would assess Cai’s lung functioning.

Once he received the oxygen treatment, Cai allowed himself to drift off, though his dreams kept him on high alert. Sometimes he dreamed that he’d woken up — it was morning, and he was alive, which he knew because he was staring at the clock on the hospital wall. Sometimes he dreamed that the Chinese experts were telling him that they had seen the results of the blood test and that the numbers were not good. All night, he drifted between consciousness and slumber, his very dreams trying to make out whether he was going to live or die.

The morning of Sunday, March 8, Cai woke up. He knew he was alive. There was the clock. There was his phone with the photos of his friends and family, the beeping machinery above his head. And yet he was still afraid. He prayed to God; he prayed to Buddha. He bargained: He would save so many lives if only his own could be spared. He would stop working so hard so he could be a better father to his daughter. He read over and over the cards that friends had sent him, tangible objects from the outside world that let him know that he had not been forgotten. He continued to text with Huang, who by then was having his own anxieties. He was worried about his friend, but also about the new cases cropping up every day. “The reality was setting in,” he says. “We will become Wuhan, Milan.”

Later that day, around noon, Hall sat down in the study of his Long Island home to translate the Chinese medical guidelines. It was no small task, but he was not aware of any other translation, and he believed it was important. “No one had any experience here,” he told me. He opened a Microsoft Word document and started translating: the symptoms, the signs of mild cases, severe cases, the course of the disease, the methods of oxygen delivery, the recommendations for follow-up. Just before midnight, having worked for close to 12 straight hours, he sent it off to Arad. His sense of urgency extended beyond Cai’s case. If a health care professional like Cai could not be saved, he explained, his patients — many of whom speak almost no English — would feel they had no possibility of surviving the virus, should they catch it and experience complications.

Around the same time that Hall sat down to work in Long Island, Cai, lying in bed in his room in Hackensack, was surprised when a technician arrived in full P.P.E. He was going to get his second CT scan. Two hours later, when Dr. Balani came to see him with the results, Cai listened to her speak with some fascination and a little bit of fear. She seemed different. She sounded scared to him, but like someone trying hard to sound confident; he had the impression she had rehearsed what she was going to say. She was speaking more quickly than usual. And she was telling him that now it was time to take more aggressive measures. Eventually, Cai saw the scan himself. Instead of just that one white spot on one lung — something with the look of a dandelion gone to seed — there were dozens. The onslaught of the virus could be described as a toxic lava flow of infection that ravages the alveoli, the fragile, thin-membraned air sacs where gases are exchanged in each breath. It looked as if close to 40 percent of Cai’s lungs had succumbed in just five days.

(IMAGE: Cai’s second CT scan showing a rapid proliferation of the “ground glass” spots common in Covid-19 cases. He had lost close to 40 percent of his lung function to the virus in just five days.Credit...From James Cai)

Balani said that they were going to try to put him on a drug called remdesivir. The drug, a descendant of a broad antiviral medication developed a decade ago, was tried in treatment of Ebola with little success. It was more effective in inhibiting MERS in infected monkeys, according to a study published in February in The Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences. The medication, which fools the virus into incorporating a modified building block into its RNA that stops it from replicating, is still in clinical trials. Many doctors have been cautiously optimistic about some promising research, including one case study published in The New England Journal of Medicine in late February. The first patient in Washington State to be found to have Covid-19 was severely ill when Gilead Sciences, the pharmaceutical company that made the drug, provided him with remdesivir for compassionate use — an effort to use a promising drug for people who are gravely ill when no other treatments are available; the patient recovered. Now Cai’s health had deteriorated to the point at which the hospital could apply for remdesivir for compassionate use. Just a few weeks later, overwhelmed by international demand, Gilead announced that it would stop approving new requests for compassionate use but greatly expanded its clinical trials at various hospitals.

That day, Cai was given chloroquine and Kaletra; he was also put on high-flow oxygen, that high-concentration oxygen delivered through the nose. The method allows patients at risk of respiratory failure to stave off intubation and ventilators; but because the patient can breathe and talk through the mouth, the oxygen mixes with the virus in the patient’s nose and windpipe and, especially at highest pressures, can be breathed out into the air. Doctors in the United States have been forced to weigh a medical option that might spare a patient ventilation but could expose medical practitioners to far greater risk. Cai — as the first patient in a hospital that would be, weeks later, flooded by other patients in even more dire circumstances, including their own staff members — received the treatment.

Cai was simultaneously reassured and distressed to see how grave the doctors suddenly looked, how quickly their stance toward his condition seemed to change. Later he learned that the results of that blood test was cause for real concern. They informed him that they had established a plan for getting him to the I.C.U. if need be. They also assigned him a dedicated critical-care nurse. He hated having those conversations about an intubation plan, hated that they had to talk about it as a realistic possibility. If the disease continued to progress at that swift rate in the next few days, he would almost certainly be intubated, his odds of recovery dropping precipitously.

Later that day, March 8, he asked the nurse to bring him some paper. He wanted to write a letter to his daughter about all the things he would want her to know about him if he did not survive this virus. Tearing up, he started to write. He said he was sorry he hadn’t been a better father. He wrote that he understood what it was like to grow up without a father present — his lived in Shanghai — and that he was sorry she would suffer the same fate. He wished he could play with her and her friends, pick her up at school, walk her down the aisle, solve her problems when she had any. He wanted her to know how much he loved her. He carefully folded the paper, slipped it into an envelope and placed it on the bedside tray where he took his meals. He did not have to tell the critical-care nurse what he was doing for her to figure it out. “I’m so sorry,” she told him.

Cai hoped the remdesivir might help. The hospital had made its own request. But he knew that getting approval for compassionate use — which required the manufacturer’s approval as well as F.D.A. approval — could take time, and he was worried that it would be too late. That day, Huang reached out to every Gilead representative he knew and called on all his doctor friends to do the same. His former supervising physician at Mount Sinai, Paul Lee, had already written an unsuccessful email to an associate director at the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases on Cai’s behalf to try to get him access to the drug. Huang posted on a large WeChat group for Chinese and Chinese-American cardiologists: “My name is Yili, great to meet everyone, unfortunately on this occasion,” he introduced himself. “I usually don’t post, but my good friend, only 32, health care provider, became this first case in New Jersey. Please help me with some inputs.” With Cai’s permission, he included a photo of Cai’s CT scan. He also forwarded the scans to another friend, Felix Yang, a cardiac electrophysiologist.

Yang replied with a question: Can I put this up on Twitter to show the severity of the disease? He had been frustrated in the previous days by other doctors’ refusal to take the possible spread of coronavirus seriously. At a minimum, Yang thought, the scan would show his colleagues just how quickly the disease could move. Yang made a quick video that showed the deterioration from one scan to the next and posted it on Twitter, asking people to help get in touch with Gilead, to help this patient with “sudden, rapidly progressing resp failure.”

Within 12 hours, half a million people had watched the video. C. Michael Gibson, the founder of the open-source textbook WikiDoc and a top cardiologist with nearly a half a million followers, helped by quickly retweeting Yang. Hundreds of doctors from around the world shared whatever they knew in comments; one doctor, an American who had been traveling back and forth to China, paged Yang at his hospital to share with him what she had learned. Yang believes hundreds of individuals tweeted at Gilead to try to get the company’s attention on Cai’s behalf.

Balani had already been laying the groundwork with Gilead to apply for remdesivir from the time Cai tested positive. His condition now made him eligible for compassionate use. Less than four hours after the image was first tweeted out, Gilead informed Cai’s doctors that the company was shipping the medicine out. Bill Pulte, a philanthropist active on Twitter, also posted a video of Cai that night that circulated widely; other media soon followed. (Gilead declined to provide details, saying it could not comment on individual compassionate-use cases.)

Around 3 a.m. on March 10, Balani arrived at the hospital. The medicine had come in, and she did not want to wait until the morning to administer it. With Balani in the room, a nurse woke Cai up so that he could sign the legal papers. Soon after, he was hooked up, intravenously, to the drug.

The next day Cai’s fever, which he’d had for at least nine days, finally broke. Even before he received the remdesivir, his oxygen levels started to stabilize. Now they indicated he was on the mend. He was still so weak in the following days that he could barely speak without exhaustion; every time he tried, he was racked by coughs. But the progress was steady, and about a week later, he was able to speak to his wife more easily, to start to feel confident walking around his room; he began to let himself picture himself back at home. His daughter would come running, he imagined, with his slippers when he walked through the door, as she always did. Now that he was recovering, his wife admitted to him that his daughter had been running to the door with his slippers for the last couple of weeks every time she heard a noise beyond it, then cried in disappointment when her father failed to arrive.

To date, there is no known cure for Covid-19. It is impossible to know what elements of Cai’s treatment — the high-flow oxygen, the medications, the passage of time, the sense of wraparound community support, the powerful injection of last-minute hope — helped pull him through. On March 21, Cai learned that he had now tested negative twice in a row for the virus. His lungs would need time to recover, but he was alive — and the virus was dead.

He left the hospital that day, nearly three weeks after he arrived. During that time, the number of known cases of Covid-19 in New Jersey had ballooned from one to 1,914. Twenty people in New Jersey had died. And in the weeks to come, the number infected would rise to more than 29,000, and members of the medical staff, now treating hundreds of sick patients, would fall ill themselves. “I intubated my colleague today,” tweeted David Zodda, a Hackensack emergency-room doctor, on March 27: “a young, healthy E.R. doc like me.”

The next day, at home, Cai would tweet out his gratitude to the staff of the hospital, thanking many of them by name, including Balani and Arad, “for saving my life.”

Before he left the hospital, he put on a soft gray hoodie, sweatpants and clean socks, all of which his mother had left for him. He put on a mask. As he walked out of the room that had been like a prison, he looked back at the bedside tray where he took his meals, where he had placed that letter to his daughter in an envelope. He left it behind. Someone would throw it away and clean the room, and another patient would take his place.

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