#watch this age either like fine wine or milk later today

[smallpwbbles]

Me clenching every muscle in my body if Chris Pratt walks onto screen during the direct or if the first thing I hear is him not doing a Italian/Brooklyn accent for Mario if the trailer drops

[sweeethinny]

Insecurities and loneliness

Summary:

Lily faces problems on her first year, problems that Ginny knows very well and knows that she will need to talk about - almost - everything about her own first year. Things are almost never easy in the beginning.

Thanks to @startanewdream, for the prompt, thanks to @whathefawkes for the incredible help and conversation, I hope you all like it.

No, in my HC all cousins are not best friends, because each one has their own life. Lily is the youngest. She is going to the second year, Albus to the fourth, James to the sixth :)

Read bellow the cut or on AO3

'Can I come in?' James asked, looking a little flustered, his cheeks flushed and his hair a little messy, just putting his head into Ginny's office.

'Sure, did something happen?' Ginny continued to sort the papers into organized stacks, keeping her mind working and still trying to pay attention to what James had to say. It was only a week away for her to deliver that work, and if a comma was wrong, she was screwed.

'Look, I don't like to gossip... well, not like that, at least, but I think there's something wrong with Lily.' As soon as he stopped talking, Ginny had already dropped the papers and stared at her son, big eyes towards him, a little scared.

'What do you mean, something wrong?' James looked at his own feet, seeming to think the exact words, and Ginny hated that he was not as impulsive in these moments as she was, but more rational like Harry.

'Mira realized that... I also noticed... that she is a little alone. Since Rose traveled... She doesn't seem to have friends.' James grimaced, as if he didn't like having to say it out loud. 'I know it's her first year, but Lily seems a little out of place, I don't know. I mean, Louis is out, Rose is older than she, Hugo and she are not that attached, Albus has his friends.. I just want to say that maybe she is feeling a little alone. She was alone all afternoon today, basically, in the living room. Albus is locked up with Scorpion and even when they go to the kitchen, I don’t think they’ll talk to her, and I was with Mira… We asked her out, but Lily said she didn’t want to.’

'I'm going to talk to her,' Ginny assured, thinking that those papers could wait a few more hours. Harry would work until later, and she could take the time to work. Something about her maternal instinct didn't seem to like what James was saying. 'Thanks.'

'You're welcome.' James smiled, waving and running out of her office, leaving Ginny surrounded by silence.

She didn't want Lily to feel alone, Ginny knew what it felt like to be alone and the consequences of that weren't the best. Her daughter was the youngest and her brothers always seemed too busy for her. Lily was the youngest of the entire family. Perhaps the lack of a close cousin and with her age would make her feel more alone than usual.

Of course, Ginny noticed that James and Albus got letters from their friends, but Lily only received a few from time to time from Rose, but she particularly believed that her daughter had found other ways to communicate with friends. Through the mirror, or perhaps, she would send letters but she was only more discreet; Ginny felt like a bad mother.

Leaving her office in the underground, next to Harry's and their wine cellar, Ginny went up the stairs and walked towards the living room, where a loud noise of voices was heard. The room was dark, even though there were still traces of sunlight outside, the curtains all drawn, and the only source of light was the TV on over the fireplace. Lily almost disappeared in the middle of the sofa cushions, lying where Harry used to be. There was a thin blanket on top of her, an empty popcorn jar, empty cookie wrapper inside the jar, and a cup on the coffee table, which Ginny guessed was chocolate milk.

Which made her understand the gravity of the situation and how miserable Lily was feeling, since she only drank hot chocolate when it was miserably cold, or when she was miserable.

The girl's arm was still bandaged, as she had fallen off the broom when she was trying to accompany James on high, and Harry was unable to fully relieve the fall. Lily had been fine, even though Ginny had seen her terrified eyes when the healer said that she would need to put the bone in place and it would probably hurt.

'Hey,' Ginny said quietly, walking around the couch to sit next to the girl, who did not take her eyes off the TV, where now a blonde girl seemed willing to dye her hair black. 'All right?'

'Yea,' Lily murmured, shrugging her shoulders as if she didn't pay much attention to her mother. Ginny smiled sadly.

'James said you didn't want to go out with him and Mira today... did anything happen?' She tried again, lifting the blanket and lying next to Lily, as they used to do before she went to Hogwarts.

‘They clearly didn’t want me to go together. So, I didn't.' Lily continued without looking at Ginny, her glasses reflecting a little of the colored lights that came from the TV.

'Do you want to talk?' This time, Lily turned her attention away from the TV, for a few seconds, looking at Ginny quickly before turning around again.

'No.' Ginny nodded, trying not to take it too personally.

'Do you want to help me make dinner? I thought about cooking that pasta dough that your dad made… Maybe make meatballs?' Ginny knew it was her favorite dish, of course, it wasn't Harry's homemade pasta with meatball, but she could try.

'Why doesn't Al help you?' Lily said, looking at her mother again. 'Or is he too busy?' Lily's sarcastic tone didn't go unnoticed, and Ginny didn't think it was even the girl's intention to make it clear what she meant, but still, it hurt a little inside her. The 11-year-old Ginny seemed to feel the pain that Lily felt.

'Your brothers are very busy, huh?' Ginny tried, stepping on eggs and afraid to end up breaking one, causing Lily not to open up to her.

'Everyone is.' The girl pulled the blanket up to her chin, turning her attention back to the TV.

‘Even your friends?’

'They didn't send me any letters, so they must also be busy.' Ginny wanted to break the main rule that she and Harry stipulated when Teddy started being a tantrum teenager, which was ''give them space to talk when they feel comfortable'', and wanted to hug Lily and ask a million questions and then go up to James and Albus' room and force them to interact with their sister.

But Ginny was steady, taking a deep breath and trying to keep her composure.

'Did you send them a letter?' It seemed that it hurt Ginny more than it hurt her daughter, the monster from the past terrorizing her mind, even if it wasn't real at all.

Ginny knew that eventually it would happen, and that raising a girl would bring out this demon she kept under lock and key.

Dealing with Teddy, James or Albus' insecurities seemed a lot easier now. It was as if theirs didn't hurt as deeply as the ones she shared with Lily.

Ginny knew what it was like to be lonely even with a big family.

'It's just her. I only have one friend,' Lily said, looking ashamed of it. 'And I did, but she didn't respond.' Ginny blew out a breath that she hadn't even realized she was holding, closing her eyes for a second as if she was trying to find the right words.

‘Lily, honey-’

'-It's okay,' Lily interrupted, speaking a little louder, as if she was controlling herself to explode. 'She looked like she was my friend just because of James, anyway.' She shrugged, denying vehemently as if she wanted to forget. ‘Okay, I’m over it.’

‘Lily-’

'-It is true. I'm fine here. Today I saw three good films, and two bad ones, much better than yesterday, that everything I watched was bad.’ She smiled, as if she was trying to be happy. 'Besides, maybe when I remove the sling, I can improve my nail painting technique. The left hand always gets worse than the right.'

‘My love, but are you going to be locked in here?’

'But there's not much to do, mom,' Lily complained, her voice wavering and shaking. 'Rose is traveling, Teddy is away, Albus is always very busy, and James too. Everyone has something to do but me.' Her brown eyes teared up behind her glasses, which was the last straw for Ginny, who hugged the girl as if she were still her little baby, lying trapped against her chest and kissing her forehead.

Her mother's heart, which wanted to protect her children from all harm and pain, broke when she felt Lily's tears wet her white button-down shirt, one arm hugging her back, while keeping the other protected from the grip.

Ginny wanted to be able to feel that pain herself, wanted to open Lily's chest and remove any shadow of insecurity that might arise, with her own hands, to take care lovingly so that she would never doubt herself, and that she would always be happy.

But Ginny also knew that she couldn't do that, not just because of the obvious, but because it would help Lily grow and learn to defend herself. It was necessary if Ginny wanted her daughter to be independent and really sure of herself.

However, it still hurt.

Ginny kissed Lily's head, stroking her red hair, and closing her eyes when the demons themselves seemed to want to visit her, the ones who hardly made any more noise but who occasionally tormented her.

'I didn't have a good first year either,' Ginny started, her voice strangled. 'I also felt lonely and out of place, and a little lost, because I saw my brothers just being my brothers at home and when I got there everyone had friends of their own, and they were famous, and they didn't seem to care much for me.' She laughed sadly, pressing Lily against her. 'But I know they still loved me, they just had their own lives, and I know it hurts when we don't feel inside any group, or when we see ourselves alone, but... You are not alone, Lily. You never will be. It's your first year, everyone who came in with you is also lost, I promise you that, and little by little you will get to know more people, loosen up more, and make friends... This girl? Maybe she really is your friend, even though she likes James.. It’s because he is older, and when we are that age the older boys look much more interesting.’

'But James is ugly,' Lily complained, her voice muffled against her mother's shirt. Ginny laughed softly, thinking about how that sounded a little with a little bit of jealousy.

'Well, maybe your friend doesn't think so. Who knows, maybe she just can't answer the letter? Call her to come here, or to come with us to the Amusement Park next week. What about?'

'What if she doesn't want to?' Lily lifted her head, her glasses fogged and a little crooked on her face, her brown eyes a little red from crying.

'So, when you return to Hogwarts you make other friends. Maybe you meet someone on the train and become friends with that person, who knows? The youngest always go alone, it is a good opportunity to meet someone. That's how I met Aunt Luna.’ Ginny smiled, seeing her smile too. Not a big smile, but a lot better than the crying of before. ‘James was worried about you.’

'James?' Lily's eyes blinked, looking confused by that brother's demonstration. Ginny would have to talk to him and Albus about not leaving Lily alone at Hogwarts, at least for now, while she was still adapting.

'Yes… I know that now he and Albus don't seem to want you around, and I swear, when you get to their age you will also feel that way, but they are still your brothers, and they still love you. Never forget that, okay?’

'Okay.' She nodded, her cheeks a little flushed.

'And me and your father always, Lily, always, we will be here. You can always send us a letter and call us whenever you feel necessary or want to talk. Never think you can't tell us how you feel, okay? Promise me.' The demons who seemed to have woken up with that situation, stirred inside her, as if only the memory of what she lived and the times she thought of telling that she felt something was wrong but was afraid, would make her want to cry again.

It had been a few years since the last time something had reminded her of Tom and made her feel that way.

'I promise.' Lily hugged her, as if now it was Ginny who needed that warmth.

It soothed her in a way, it was like the times when Harry held her after a nightmare, silently promising that it was all over and that she was fine.

'Are you going to make dinner with me? I bought the cookies you like.’

'This is a great way of bribing,' The girl took the blanket off them, dragging herself off the couch. 'But I'm still going to paint my nails.' Lily picked up the whole mess of dishes and packaging, following her mother into the kitchen after turning off the TV.

'Okay, we can do this together.' Ginny smiled, winking at her. 'I love you, my love.' She hugged her once again, taking advantage of the fact that Lily still liked affection, and had not yet reached Albus' age, who seemed to hate showing affection.

‘I love you too, mom.’

'Now, tell me...' Ginny cleared her throat, taking the pasta dough that Harry had made two days ago. 'Mira and James?' Lily's eyes widened, turning away from her and opening the refrigerated cupboard where they kept the meat, looking like she wanted to buy time.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, mom.’

| LATER |

'Hey,' James interrupted the music Lily was listening to, sitting on the bedroom floor as she arranged the new books her father had bought for her, by color. She almost got off the ground with a fright, looking at the door and seeing Albus and James standing there. ‘How are you?’ The older asked, wearing only an old pair of shorts that were stained with paint. Albus looked as if he had been forcibly pulled out of bed, with messy hair and the old wrinkled Muggle band T-shirt, as well as the shorts he wore.

'Fine. Did something happen?' Lily was surprised, they almost never entered her room, Teddy did, but James and Albus not.

'No, we just wanted to be with you,' Albus said, showing the Explosive Snap box he was carrying. 'Want to play?'

'Hm... yes.' She frowned, placing the last book on the shelf and crawling forward, being followed by her brothers who also sat on the floor, not even complaining about the music she heard.

'I brought you cake, I thought you would want it too.' James reached for a plate for her, a nice piece of the carrot cake that Al and Harry had made the day before. Lily smiled.

'Of course, thank you.' She imagined that her mum might have spoken to them, or maybe - and more likely - James had forced Albus to accompany him, but Lily didn't care much, she liked that they at least cared for her, it didn't matter how they got there. ‘Mom asked me about you and Mira today.’

'What?' James turned, his cheeks incredibly red.

'Oh, James, you were discovered.' Albus laughed, pushing his brother's shoulder with a slight provocation.

'I didn't say anything.' Lily swore. 'You're welcome.'

'Thank you.' James was still flushed, but rolled his eyes when she and Al laughed. ‘I don’t even know why she asked if there’s nothing going on.’

'So can I tell her that I saw you two kissing today?' Albus asked, a cheeky smile on his face, eyebrows raised.

'Fuck off, Albus.' James pushed him back, which only made them laugh even more.

Mum was right after all, Lily thought, filling her mouth with cake and watching Albus tease James even more, they were still brothers and her best friends.

[buckys-black-dress]

a fine line, part four

a/n: heyyy! sorry this part took so long :( i was feeling really shitty this past week, so here it finally is! i hope u guys like it :)

wc: 3.7k words

-

This week was going... strangely well. 

And of course, it was because of James. 

On Monday when you walked into your first ever shared lecture, everything was already set up. There was even a coffee and breakfast waiting for you, which James graciously handed to you with a bright smile upon your entrance. 

“Good morning, Y/N. Did you sleep well last night?” He asks with an innocent smile, but you knew he wasn’t all that clueless. 

“Good morning James. I did, in fact, sleep very well last night. I hope you did too, because we have a long day ahead of us.” You give a tight smirk with your words, looking at the coffee and bakery bag in his hands. “What’s that?” 

“Oh! For you. This is day one, remember?” He says, handing you them and retreating to his desk. “Also, I spoke to Fury about the class sizes. Although he wasn’t much help and basically told me I was on my own, I did send an email to my students about the way they should behave while you’re here. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, or anything.” 

“O-oh. Thanks. I really appreciate that.” You mumble, looking down.

“Yeah, of course. Is there anything else you might need to do this?” He asks in a sincere tone. You felt so weird. 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. Thank you, though.” You smile.

“Well, let’s get started then.” James turns around to open the door, waiting for students to file in until class officially started.

You were extremely nervous, to say the least, but it was comforting knowing that he was trying to make you feel more at home in this space.

Tuesday was more of the same. He, again, brought you breakfast, and had his class in line. But the thing that was different today was the sweet note attached with the lunch he brought.

Y/N, I hope you know how serious I am about all of this. Part of that means paying attention to what you like and don’t like. I know you hate milk in your coffee, large crowds, and when people think English class is a joke. I also know you hate hot coffee, but love tea. And you love grilled cheese, which is what I got you from that café across campus. Enjoy :) -BB

You smiled down at the greasy paper bag, smelling heavenly as ever. Your stomach rumbled after a long lecture with James, and just as you were to plop down into your office chair, a knock sounded from the doorframe, and a large body appearing.

“Hey. Like the lunch?” James asks, his hands in his pockets while walking in slowly.

“Y-Yeah, how’d you know?” You ask, smiling down at the sandwich.

“I mean, I see you there a lot with Nat and Wanda, so I thought I’d treat ya to one. I pay attention to you more than you think.” He says, and your brows pull together as you try not to laugh. “I- that made me sound like a creep.” He looks down in embarrassment.

“It’s alright, James,” you smile, “I really appreciate it. Thank you.” You look down at the warm sandwich again. “Would you like the other half?” You extend it out to him, and he watches with wide eyes.

“Oh, n-no, I wouldn’t wanna impose like that, it was for you-” 

“James, I insist. Please, sit.” You motion to your chair across your desk. 

He sits with you and conversation flows easily between you two, and it was a huge change from where you two stood a month ago. If someone told you a month ago that James Barnes was trying to woo you, to make you accept his apology, then you would’ve laughed in their face. 

But sitting here now, with him, you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. 

That is, until you hear the clicking of heels from the hall, and a certain redhead peeking her head in your office.

“Oh! Sorry, Y/N, I didn’t realize you already had lunch plans,” Natasha says with a smirk, moving to leave your office. You watched with wide eyes, and you knew she was going to have a word with you about this later.

“Great.” You say, hitting your head against your desk, while James is chuckling from his spot.

“Y’know, she’s definitely somethin’ else.” He laughs, looking at you carefully. “It’s not a bad thing, right?” He asks.

“What’s not a bad thing?” You ask, confused.

“That Natasha saw us in here... together...?” He sounds like he’s asking a question, but he’s not sure.

“No... We’re... friends, right? Friends eat lunch together...” You tell him, although you also sound unsure of yourself.

“Yeah... friends.” Bucky feels his chest tighten in a way he’s only felt a few times in his life before.

You both carry on eating, but you don’t see the way he’s looking at you. It almost looks like... longing.

Wednesday was slowly escalating Bucky’s promise to you. After a long day of teaching, there was a bottle of wine waiting on your desk when you returned to collect your things for the evening. Another note was attached to it.

Dear Y/N, 

Here’s a little something to help you get through tomorrow and Friday. Hope you enjoy. :)

- BB

You look at the bottle, and it’s an aged Sauvignon from France. It was a nice bottle, and you know he took his time picking it out. It made your insides tingle knowing he thought of you and what would impress you. 

You picked up the bottle, looking at it for another minute before sliding it into your bag and gathering your papers and laptop.

You wanted to knock on his door to say thank you, but it was already shut, so you assumed he was either already gone or speaking privately with someone. 

You decided you would just text him to thank him, and with that you decided to leave your office for the night. 

Little did you know, James was having a conversation with one of the students he had come to love and whom he had become very close with over the course of their time together. 

“Dr. B, you weren’t being so subtle in class today, y’know?” The boy’s scratchy voice said.

“What’re ya talkin’ about, Parker?” His voice was tired from lecturing all day, but he couldn’t deny the way his heart rate picked up at the boy’s words.

“Well, with Dr. Y/L/N... I don’t know, you look at her like how I look at MJ...” He tells his professor.

“Well I sure hope so, ‘cause I like her... a lot...” Bucky shoves his head into his hands and takes a deep breath, while the student still stares at him.

“Well why don’t you tell her?!” Peter exclaims, hands flailing around with wide eyes. “You guys would be awesome together! Oh man, I can’t wait to tell MJ, she’s gonna love this- You know Dr. Y/L/N is like, her favorite teacher ever?-” Peter starts rambling, but is cut off by Bucky’s gruff voice.

“L-Listen, kid, it’s not that easy. I messed up with her before, and I’m trying to make it up to her. I did some things that... that I’m not proud of before, and now it’s time for me to win her over, but I’m runnin’ short on ideas, here.” He explains to the youngling.

“Oh- Well, what’re you thinking?” Peter asks, ideas already running through his head. 

And once Bucky explains what happened and what he’d been doing this whole week, Peter jumped in his seat.

“Maybe MJ can help! She sees her like, every day anyways, so maybe we can like, ask her to do something. Something subtle, but something Dr. Y/L/N will know is from you. We all know she doesn’t like all that flashy crap.”

And so the two got to planning the rest of the week, and came up with ways to have MJ help as well, just to add that little somethin’ for you.

Thursday went by in a flash, but there was something by lunchtime that you couldn’t shake from your thoughts. 

James hadn’t done anything today, and you were scared.

Scared that he gave up, that he doesn’t care anymore.

Scared that you’re not worth it anymore. 

By 3 PM, you couldn’t help but feel small and like a fool. You were sitting at your desk between classes, trying to work on some grading to take your mind off the events of the day.

Or lack thereof.

Until there was a knock at your door, a knock you’ve known for almost two years now. 

“MJ, come in! How are you today, hun?” You ask in the cheeriest voice you can muster right now. 

One of your most treasured students walks in and sets her bag down on the chair in front of your desk.

“Hi Dr. Y/L/N. I have a message for you.” She tells you very vaguely. You raise an eyebrow at the girl, but allow her to continue with a brief nod.

“Uhm, alright?” You tell her.

“Y/N,” you raise your brows at the use of your first name, “I know I haven’t always been the kindest you. I know that I’ve made you doubt me and my honesty. And I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’d like to change that. I’ve spent the better part of this week trying to figure out how I was going to make you understand just how sorry I am for the way I treated you. I made you feel like you weren’t enough, that you were the problem, but in the end, I had to sit and think.

This was all my fault. I made us this way, but now it’s up to me to fix it. I hope you know, you are one in a million, and I want you to see that. I want you to see yourself the way I see you. So, I have a simple favor to ask of you. Tomorrow night, be ready at seven o’clock sharp in your prettiest dress. Love, James.” 

And before your brain could even process the fact that James was asking you out on a date and calling you beautiful, the door opened once again, and a student you’ve often seen milling in and out of James’ office.

He was holding a bouquet of assorted flowers of beautiful greenery and colors that you’ve never even imagined of. 

“Hi Dr. Y/L/N. These are for you.” He hands them to you, and remember his name to be Peter Parker, MJ’s boyfriend. 

“Oh- Oh my God, thank you, Peter. And you too, MJ. You’re both absolute gems.” You say with a severe blush dusting your face. 

“Of course, Doctor. That’s all we’ve got for our part, have a good rest of your day.” MJ smiles as she grabs Peter’s hand and leave your office.

You wave them off and give them a sweet smile. 

You stare down at the floral arrangement in your hands, and couldn’t contain the wide smile that you had spread across your face.

You had only seen James through class today, and it had gone extremely well. You gave a full lecture, and your lesson plans had been going over really well with the class. Although James hadn’t done anything today, it had lifted your mood to see you were doing well with this lesson. 

But now, you were over the moon, and nothing could ruin your day.

You slowly bounded into James’ office, finding him facing away from the door, murmuring something to himself as he flicked his eyes from his computer to the papers in front of him. 

“Hey, stranger.” You say with another grin that made James’ stomach flutter at the sight. You were leaning against his door frame, bag slung across your shoulder and the flowers in hand.

“H-Hey. How are you?” He asks, standing up from his chair.

“I’m doing great. Better than I was earlier today. I uh... I thought you’d...given up on me,” you try to laugh it off, trying to make it look much less dramatic than you initial thoughts.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” He walks up to you, tipping your chin up where your eyes meet his icy baby blues. “You... You are so important. Especially to me, and don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise. I know I did it in the past, and there’s nothing I wish I could take back more than that.” He looks at you with such conviction, such purpose, that all you can do is nod numbly and stare back.

“I, uhm, Lucy’s waiting for me at home, I have to go. But I’ll see you tomorrow.” You say softly, still holding his gaze.

“Okay, see you tomorrow. Have a good night, doll.” He says, softly smiling and backing away, but still facing you.

“Bye.” You smile, walking away.

“Bye.” James returns, a silly smile on his face.

“Bye.” You say again, laughing.

“Bye!” You hear him yell, but you were already out of his office. 

You hear his laughter mixing with yours, and you couldn’t wipe the stupid smile off your face for the rest of the night. Not when you got home and fed Lucy, not when you put the flowers in a vase, and certainly not as you fell asleep.

Friday was possibly the slowest day ever. You were in class all morning, and you were still giddy from yesterday. The lesson had gone exceptionally well, especially after the breakfast James brought you. 

You ate lunch with Nat and Wanda, having not sat down to have an in-depth conversation with them in quite a while.

“Soooo... what’s up with you and Bucky?” Natasha gives you one of her devious smirks, and she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Well, he’s been doing this... thing this week where he’s making it up to me for... everything, I guess?” You say. “And we’re going on a date tonight.” You don’t meet their eyes, but theirs widen as they share a look.

“And you didn’t think to tell us, you bitch?!” Wanda hits your arm, laughing out a scoff.

“I-I mean, it was a whole deal. He like- you know MJ and Peter? They came in and did this thing in my office, MJ read a whole note from him, and then Peter came in with a bouquet of these beautiful flowers. And then I went to his office to thank him, and we had this... interaction like... like it was magic.”

The way you spoke in awe had Natasha and Wanda confused, but also in awe. They were happy for you, after all you’d been through, it was comforting seeing you like this. You deserved to be happy.

“That’s really great, Y/N,” Natasha gently placed her hand over yours. Her smile was sincere, just like Wanda’s. You were genuinely happy in this moment. Not only with the prospect of your date tonight, but because of the people you were surrounded with. You were grateful for these two, because you didn’t know where you’d be without them. 

“So, are you two gonna help me get ready for my date tonight?” You ask expectantly, to which both redheads say,

“Duh!” And all three of you burst into a fit of giggles.

-

So now, here you were. It was an hour before James was set to pick you up, and you were dat at your vanity while Wanda curled the ends of your hair. Nat had picked out a gorgeous black dress for you, with strappy heels and a short cardigan for some cover-up. You had a robe on while you were waiting for Wanda to finish, so you could do your makeup. That’s all that was left, and the anticipation for 7 o’clock was killing you.

“Y/N, I can practically hear you thinking so hard,” Wanda laughs, patting your shoulder.

“Sorry, I just- I’m nervous. I haven’t been on a date since... since forever. I don’t wanna mess this up, especially with him.” You explain to them.

“Y/N, think of like this... he’s making it up to you. You don’t have anything to worry about. He’s the one doing the impressing.” Natasha tells you, and you understand a little bit.

“Yeah, he’s the one owing it to you. You have nothing to worry about, dear.” Wanda reassures.

“Y-You’re right, guys. Okay, let me do my makeup, and then I’m ready.” You smile, because even though you were nervous you were also excited. This was a surprise, and you couldn’t wait to see what James had planned.

As 7 o’clock rolled around, Nat and Wanda eventually left. You were waiting by the door downstairs, waiting to see a car pull around, but instead what you saw made your eyes widen.

You peeked your head out the door, seeing James.

On a motorcycle.

“Absolutely not, James!” You yell, not even for a second thinking it was funny.

He doesn’t say anything, just moving off the bike and walking up to you. 

“Y/N... you look... beautiful.” He takes your hand in his, completely ignoring how you were not amused by the bike.

“J-James, I’m serious. No.” 

“Y/N, I promise, you’ll be just fine. You’re in good hands.” He leads you to the bike, pulling out a helmet for you. 

“Do you not own a car?” You whine, really not wanting to get on this death trap.

“You know I do, but I like to keep the element of surprise, doll.” He smirks that smirk, and you know you’re not getting out of this. 

“Ugh, fine. Let’s go before I change my mind.” You say, waiting for him to get on first.

As you climb on, you wait for him to adjust himself, and you hesitate when the time comes to wrap your arms around his torso; your hands were just awkwardly hovering around him.

“Don’t be shy, doll.” You hear him say, suddenly just planting your arms into place quickly.

As James starts to drive, you feel yourself moving closer and closer to his body, eventually hugging up against him.

Bucky feels your body against his, and he can feel your heart beating wildly in your chest and every breath you take. He can feel it when he does something just a little bit risky on the bike, and how your breath catches in your throat.

And maybe he was doing them on purpose to feel your arms tighten around him even further. 

By the time you reach where he’s taking you, you’re sure you look like a mess. Helmet head, mascara smudged under your eyes. But Bucky can’t help but feel that this is the most beautiful you’ve ever looked.

You were perched on a lookout point of the city, and there was a large setup waiting for the two of you. A large blanket splayed across the grass, small lanterns scattered across the expanse of land along with a few baskets of food.

“Wow...” You couldn’t help but stare in awe at the scene. Bucky had really taken the time to arrange all of this... for you.

“Do ya like it? I know it’s not the ideal traditional first date, but I didn’t wanna take you to some fancy restaurant, and-”

“Bucky, it’s absolutely perfect.” You cut off his rambling and take ahold of his hand, leading him to the blanket and you both sit down.

“So, how did you even come up with this?” You ask, watching him pull out the food and a bottle of wine.

“Well, I’ll admit... it wasn’t all me. I had a lot of help from Steve and Sam, because at first I had no clue what to do. I didn’t know how to really make it special, so we sat down and planned this whole thing.” He explains.

“Well, make sure to pass on a thank you to them from me.” You giggle, taking a sip of the wine he poured you.

“You got it, doll.” He laughs, and you two continue to talk and drink until you felt a chill run through you from a cool breeze building up due to the cold air.

And of course, Bucky notices. You watch him pull out another blanket, opening it to cover himself, but he holds up the other end and looks to you.

“C’mon, it’s getting colder, isn’t it?” Bucky asks with a gentle smile.

You nod, scooting closer to him to get under the blanket. And maybe it was the warmth from the wine you had, or the blanket or being so close to Bucky, but you felt very warm and comfortable in that moment.

“The lights are so... pretty from up here. Everything looks so small from up here.” You tell him.

“Hmm... it is really beautiful.” You hear his gruff voice from his chest, and you look up at him from your spot with your head on his shoulder.

He was looking right at you, and you momentarily see his eyes flicker from yours to your lips. It felt like gravity was pulling you two closer together, and eventually your eyes both slip closed and all you can feel is the warmth of his lips on yours. 

And you never usually kiss on the first date, but this was different.

Bucky was different.

When you pull away from him, you struggle to open your eyes again, for the fear that this was all a dream and you’ll wake up if you do.

“Angel, open your eyes. Look at me.” Bucky says, and you do as he says.

You looked like a real life angel to him. Swollen lips, hair flowing in all directions from his hands being run through it and the wind from the motorcycle. Under the blanket, your hands placed on his shoulders, basically in his lap. 

And this is when Bucky knew.

This was heaven. There was absolutely nowhere else he ever wanted to be than with you.

Your eyes searched his, and all you could find was adoration, infatuation, and... love.

And this is when you knew.

You were in love with Bucky Barnes.

[poc-movie-supremacy]

Has life been good to you?

A.N.: This is a future!fic, westallen are elderly people in this story. It’s date night for them. If you have any constructive criticism, tell me, but don’t be mean about it, please. I hope you enjoy this fic! (also I don’t own any characters or setting related to the flash tv show or the comics)  

_______

Her joints ache as she puts away a finished book. She slowly walks around the room, searching for her tablet to play a card game. The room is quiet, lit with the glow of the sun. It filtered through the redwoods surrounding their cabin. This cabin used to belong to Barry’s father, but after the kids proved fine on their own and no one needed the Flash, they retired to it. It was quaint and quiet. It was odd at first, but then it became a gift. She felt more relaxed than she has in a while. Life never became lonely either, not with the ability to portal anywhere. 

Iris found her crossword puzzle and settled down in the big red armchair in the living room. Today is date ‘night’. Well more like date afternoon, Iris is almost 75 she’s going to bed earlier and earlier. Barry had gone out to the store to buy some forgotten stuff for dinner. He was still a lot more nimble than Iris in his old age. On good days he could carry her to their bed, but usually he just threaded his arm through hers and walked her to bed. She was grateful for it, Iris underestimated Grandma Esther when she was watching Iris. Doing most things in her old age was a lot harder than it seems. Barry helped her a lot though which she thinks he likes. It makes him feel needed, she figures. 

After about an hour Iris heard the door opening. “Hey honey I’m back.” Barry entered the house carrying two paper bags filled with stuff.

Iris put down her crossword, “Hi baby, do you need any help with the groceries?” 

“No, I just needed these things.” Barry peaked his head over the wall to give her a sheepish smile. Iris arched her eyebrow curiously at her husband. “I may have gotten more than I needed.” 

Iris gave her husband a look but smiled.  “It’s alright, we probably don’t have to go shopping soon then.”

Barry finished putting away all the groceries. He sped over to his wife. “I don’t think so. I bought wine and mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

Iris’s eyes lit up. “You bought wine and mint chocolate chip! Oh, can we have it for dinner?” Iris squeezed her husband’s hand and pouted at him.

Barry looked at Iris fondly. His free hand swept a loose gray curl behind her ear. “Yeah, but for dessert. I’m making lasagna for us.”

“Need any help?”  

“No it’s ok. Lasagna’s easy to make.” Barry also didn’t want Iris in the kitchen since she couldn’t cook that well even after all this time. She glared at him but stayed where she was. Barry leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. 

After turning on the music, Barry bustled around the kitchen preparing the lasagna. Iris hummed softly to the music as she told her husband a bizarre story that apparently happened to their granddaughter. She had dressed up as a chicken in an attempt to vandalize her rival school, but when she heard of a man intent on ill will towards old ladies, she, in a chicken costume, took her friends, also in chicken costumes, took him down. Thankfully they beat him, sustaining only minor injuries. 

Barry’s eyebrows shot up. “Her first time fighting crime was in a chicken suit?” 

Iris laughed out loud. “Mhm. Joey and Melanie were not amused when they found out. Joey called me almost raving about how irresponsible those kids were. It took a lot of effort to not laugh. Once he realized what he was complaining about he apologized, to both of us.” 

Barry chuckled. “Moments like these remind me why Joe said he couldn’t wait for us to have kids. I’m glad they’re ok. You think Cisco’s fuming that his great-niece went out super-heroing and not only did she not ask him for a suit, but the suit she did go out in was a chicken suit?” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised. It happened last week I think, so we’ll be hearing about this soon.” Iris said.  

Barry's eyes sparkled in mirth as layering the lasagna. Iris shivered and slowly walked around the house closing the windows. “Ok I put it in the oven, in 45 minutes we will be having lasagna.” Barry ambled over to his wife who had just closed the kitchen window. He wrapped his long frame entirely around her. Old age has made them shorter, but he still had a good foot on her. Iris buried her face into his chest and returned the hug.

“Still cold?” Barry whispered.

“Mmm not anymore.”

“Sorry.”

Iris looked up at him crosseyed and pouting. Barry giggled at his cute wife, it did not help change her facial features. She stuck her tongue out at him then continued cuddling her husband. Barry looked at his wife dreamily and smiled dopily. He looked at her like that so much his friends nicknamed his dopey. (Harry got nicknamed grumpy. He wasn’t amused) Barry didn’t mind the nickname though, it was true. He was in love with her, has been since they were kids and she offered him cookies on the playground. Now 68 years later, they survived every damn thing no one could think of, had kids and grandkids, and got married. The song that came on made Iris’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “Do you remember this?” A thousand years was playing on the tablet. 

“That movie was horrible.” Barry groaned. He remembered that day like it was yesterday even though it had been decades ago. It had been a tiring day fighting crime, so they decided to rewind by watching a movie. Iris got them a ton of snacks then Barry curled up into her side. She mindlessly ran her fingers through her hair while she looked for a rom-com to watch. By accident, they watched the fifth twilight movie. It definitely wasn’t their favorite and Cicso definitely didn’t approve of their choice, but the song, a thousand years, was the one thing they liked from that movie. 

“It wasn’t the best no, but the song, this song, was really beautiful,” Iris remarks. Barry is struck with a good idea. He reluctantly pulls a little away from the hug to put them in a waltz form (even though the song wasn’t a waltz to their knowledge). 

He quietly sings Christina Perry's song to Iris. It’s one of her favourite things about him. They slowly sway side to side as they dance in the kitchen. He spins her around and kisses her temple. When the lyrics, time stand still, come up Barry flashes them into flashtime. He cupped her face and kissed her softly. When they stopped, he rested his forehead against hers. She happily sighed, eyes closed and smiling. She felt lucky that they were able to be together this long. She remembers thinking that he was going to die in the future, when she was going to die, and she counts her blessings that neither of those futures came true. 

“I love you.” He whispers, and he looks at her like she hung the freaking moon. Her hands softly fiddle with his thick red sweater with the gold trim. (It was a gift from Kara)

“I love you.” She adores him, she adores everything he does for her, she wonders if she has repaid the favor. 

“You’re gorgeous. You get more beautiful with every passing day.”

“Every hour every minute?” Iris asks cheekily. He laughs and twirls her. She thinks it’s the loveliest sound in the world. 

“Every hour every minute and then some. You are an angel, Iris West-Allen, and I am lucky to have you.” He’s starting to sweat. Using his powers drains him more quickly than it used to. He doesn’t want her to notice, but she does. 

“I am lucky to have you, Bar.” Her voice is quieter when she says this next part. “It’s ok, baby, take us out of flashtime, you’re tired.”

Even though he knows he should, he still tries to argue with her. “No, I’m ok Iris,” 

She gives him an unimpressed look. Some things never change. Barry yields to her good judgement pretty quickly. Now they can hear the rustle of the trees and music from the tablet. Iris leads Barry to the couch and she goes to get some milk and a power bar.

“The lasagna will be done in 25 minutes.” Iris handed him the powerbar and glass of milk. Barry took the milk from her and put it on the nightstand. He pulled Iris to his side and took a bite out of his bar. She rested her head atop his chest and listened to his heartbeat. It was it’s usual quick pace which she found comforting. Barry ran his finger through her hair methodically. His thumb started to caress an old scar on her hairline. 

“Do you ever miss when we used to be heroes, out on the streets catching criminals, helping people?”

“We still do, help people I mean. Playing card games with Cynthia, baking with Kara, trading books with Diggle, meditating with Wally, it keeps us all sane. As for the first part, it was a thrilling life with a lot of rewards, but it wasn’t the safest life. You know we’re lucky to have lived so long.” The green arrow mask on the mantle and other knick-knacks from other dead heroes was a big reminder of that. 

“Time has been good to us,” Barry remarks. He doesn’t say that not everyone has been so lucky, but she knows. He knows she knows when she curls closer to him.

“Time, the speed force, life’s been good to us all, let’s hope the next generation has the same luck.”

“Let’s hope.” The rest of the night was relatively quiet. The lasagna was delicious and completely gone by the end of the night. The wine and ice cream made them a little more giggly than before. After two glasses each they called it quits and headed to bed. After readying themselves for bed, Barry and Iris curled themselves up in bed. A small part of her head was the only thing peeking out from under the mattress, resting by his chest. Blankets were piled on top of her. Barry squeezed Iris’s hand.

“Goodnight, my love.” As he was about to turn off the light he saw a photo on his nightstand. It was a photo of them, their parents, their kids, their spouses, and their grandkids. The other photos around them were of their friends throughout the years. Time has been good to me, he muses. Turning off the light cocooning himself around his wife, they drift off to sleep, at peace.

[shootwinterfest]

Happy Hunting

Shoot Secret Santa Gift by @lizburnz!

The navigation system chimes, “You have reached your destination,” and Shaw mashes on the brakes, simultaneously as she cuts the wheel.

The car screeches to a halt, slanted in a parallel spot, ridden halfway up the curb in front of some apartment buildings and a few startled pedestrians. She slams the gear into park and bolts before the tire smoke even has a chance to settle. Anything else vehicular related is irrelevant now, as she leaves the door hanging wide open and the engine still running. 

Root needs her- needs her help. With what? Specifically, Shaw doesn't know, but the short text with more exclamation points than words seemed pretty damn urgent. And since Root's phone has been going straight to voice mail ever since, she believes the threat to be serious, something that requires a second gun and Shaw's most preferred method of intervention. Shooting. 

But the neighborhood is quiet. Well, not that it shouldn't be, this early on a Saturday morning, but when Root's involved in anything there's usually some degree of chaos. Oddly, nothing seems to be out of place. No smoke means no fire, no screaming means no gunshots have recently gone off. The only person running like their life depended on it, is Shaw, who's starting to wonder if she's even at the right place. 

But it is the right place. 314 Avenue C. And Shaw knows this because it says so. Right there on the door. Behind Root. 

The woman who cried wolf lounges casually at the foot of the stoop, without a scratch on her head or a single care in the world. And though Shaw is somewhat relieved by the sight of neither dead nor dying Root, it doesn't make her any less perturbed, being pulled out of bed at the brink of dawn because someone can't quite grasp what constitutes an emergency. 

Shaw drags her feet the rest of the way, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets so Root can't see how tightly they're balled into fists. She doesn't want to do anything she might regret, like punch a certain grin off a certain someone's face. Not until she has a valid reason at least. 

“Good morning,” Root sing songs in her usual pleasant way. 

“What is it this time?” Shaw asks, bypassing formalities completely. The faster she gets to the point, the faster she can turn down whatever it is and go home. 

“Let's see...” Root glances to the imaginary watch on her wrist. “Fifty-eight city blocks in less than twelve minutes. Wow, Shaw! I think you broke your old record.”

Shaw's eyes flutter into the back of her head. “Why am I here, Root?”

“Isn't that the age old question?” Root ambles to her feet with a large cup of coffee in hand. “Whole milk. No sugar. Just the way you like it,” she says, extending it towards a wary Shaw. 

Whether it's a hot cup-o-bribery or a peace offering, Shaw isn't sure, but she takes it anyway. “You know, this doesn't even begin to make up for-”

“Do you like hunting?” Root asks peculiarly and out of nowhere. 

Shaw just blinks. There isn't enough caffeine in this coffee, or in the entire city of New York, to help prepare her for the roller coaster that is Root's cryptics. 

The first thing that comes to mind is fugitive tracking of course, a literal man hunt. Now that, Shaw could get on on board with. But knowing Root, it's probably nothing so obvious and easy. It's two very different things, what Shaw thinks and what Root actually means. 

“It depends,” Shaw says, reluctant to commit without details first. She's learned the hard way too many times before. “What the target is... if I can shoot them... but mostly, my mood.”

“And...” Root leans in on the tips of her toes, “What kind of mood do you currently find yourself in this lovely day?”

“The pistol whipping kind of mood if you don't cut the crap and tell me what you want.”

Root pouts half-heartedly, slipping a piece of paper from her coat pocket, to which Shaw snatches and unfolds. Written on it, in barely legible hacker scrawl, is a list of addresses that still do everything but answer Shaw's question. 

“They're apartments,” Root clarifies. “I need your help finding one.”

A map could do a better job. Hell, Root's practically got a GPS system and then some squawking in her ear. But maybe it's more than that, Shaw thinks. Maybe there's a bomb planted in one, or a missing person tied to a radiator. Looking closer at the list, she finds a four digit number beside each address. Next to that, some kind of code... 2/1 1700SF W/D... 

But it isn't until Shaw reads the part about “no pets” that she shoves the paper back at Root. 

“This is why you 911'd me? To help you house hunt!” Shaw says, gaping in amazement. “Are you out of your damn mind?”

Root throws her an obvious look. 

“I thought you were...” Hurt. Dying. Both. The potential of either could light a fire of apocalyptic proportions under Shaw's ass, and Root seems to relish the fact. “Do you know how many traffic laws I just broke?”

Root shrugs. “All of them, I imagine.”

Shaw deadpans her for a moment, mystified as she internally debates whether or not she should spoil her knuckles today with an all you can beat buffet of Root's face. Shaw nearly mowed down a group of tourists crossing the street, sideswiped about a dozen parked cars, ran every single red light while doing quadruple the speed limit. For christsake, she car jacked someone at gunpoint. And for what? For the exciting, once in a lifetime mission of finding analogue-interfull-of-shit a place to live?

“Happy hunting,” Shaw eventually says and turns heel in the opposite direction. And of course it isn't the last word. Root follows on her heals and whines in her wake, with things like please and wait and a few pet names she isn't allowed to call Shaw in public. 

“You're bored, I get it,” Shaw tells her in stride. “The Machine gave you the day off, so instead of annoying relevant numbers, you've decided to annoy me instead. I get it.”

“No, that isn't-” Root groans in frustration. “Will you please just hear me out?” and she hooks an arm around Shaw's to stop her. “I called you because, one, I value your opinion. And two, I thought you'd like to be a part of a mutually beneficial decision.”

“How in the world does this benefit me?”

“Think of it like this. The sooner I get a key to my own place, the sooner you can have yours back,” Root says and places an encouraging hand on Shaw's shoulder, which is batted off not a second later when the information is really processed.

“You have a key to my apartment?”

“I made copies.”

“Wait. Copies, plural?” As in more than one? “Seriously, Root. What the fuck.”

“Look, we can stand here, arguing semantics for the next 45 seconds until your stolen vehicle is swarmed by cops, plural, or...” Root jingles a set of car keys like a carrot on a stick. “I'll even let you drive,” she adds, and Shaw doesn't have much time to mull it over, not with all the sirens wailing in the distance. 

“Fine,” Shaw finally agrees, though it was a tough decision to make. The back seat of a squad car or Root's- where is her car? 

She presses the clicker and follows the faint little beep across the street, to where the vintage muscle car sits. Not just any muscle car though, a cherry red, 1967 Mustang twin turbo V8 in pristine condition. And Shaw knows this, because it looks just like the car Harold has, locked in his garage. The one he brags about all the time, having spent years restoring it to near mint. The one he never drives or lets anyone else drive, for the matter. 

“How'd you get Finch to lend you his car?” Shaw asks, quickly realizing how dumb her question sounds aloud. Especially to Root, who just throws her head back and laughs. 

…

The first stop of the list is on the upper east side, to a twenty something story apartment building fitted with a starch press suited doorman and a security guard station, which Shaw deems is more for appearances sake. Armed with walkies, flashlights, and pens for the sign in sheet, they let Root and Shaw breeze right by with their fake ID's and concealed weapons.

It's no surprise when Root hits the “P” for penthouse button in the elevator. She's not exactly the humble type, or one to underplay any sort of small endeavor.

A well dressed blonde woman greets them right off the elevator, shining a permanent smile of all veneer that never lets up even while she speaks. Root gingerly accepts the pamphlet offered, glossing over it as she absently wanders about the main living area, which is two times bigger than Shaw's entire apartment. And white. All white. The carpets, the walls, even the staging furniture. Lord forbid anyone so much as whisper the words red wine or tomato sauce, or in Root's predictable case, blood. 

“Seems nice,” Root says while Shaw shuffles alongside like a bored child. 

“Then buy it.” The sooner Root signs the deal, the sooner she can get back to her regularly scheduled program of having absolutely nothing to do on her day off. 

“The master bath apparently has a built in sauna...” Root gives her a little nudge, “Guess how many settings the smart shower has?”

“Enough to replace me.”

“Not likely,” but then Root lowers the pamphlet in introspect. “Unless I could program it to be mean to me...”

“Ha. Ha.”

“I'm gonna have a look around.”

“And I...” Shaw scans the room, searching for the oasis in this desert of white hell, “...will see you later,” and she branches off towards the refreshment table.

It's probably the best thing about an open house. Well, if you're Shaw and you have no intent on buying anything. The free food. And not just tired old finger sandwiches either. The last time Shaw's seen a spread like this, she was undercover at a political fundraiser for what's his name running for office of who cares. 

Shaw sips a bellini from a flute as she grazes the table, helping herself to a little of this and that. At some point she does make threatening eye contact with the foolish person who tried reaching for the last salmon wrap, but all is pleasant and well for the most part. She get's to explore her pallet, Root gets to explore the apartment. A win-win so far in her book. 

“God! You wont believe the offer that tacky-khaki couple just proposed.”

Inconspicuously, Shaw glances a little ways to her right. The fake toothed woman who greeted them earlier stands with another, conversing in whispers and hushed voices. Well they'd like to believe no one else can hear them.

“An open house... what was Harriet thinking? Letting anyone waltz in off the street?”

“We'll have to fumigate when this is over.”

“Would you look at all the riff-raff?”

Shaw follows the acrylic red finger nail as it not so discretely flicks across the room. Of all the people scattered about the living area, she decides to pick out Root. 

“What do you think her net worth is?”

“If that ugly leather jacket's anything to go by. I saw holes in it.”

“And the hair...

“I like her boots though...”

“So did I- five seasons ago!”

Their annoying laughter eventually fades into the violin music, but Shaw's temper continues on it's high note. In her head, she's already plotted half the steps towards their accidental deaths, because no one – no one – is allowed to talk crap about Root. Except for Shaw, that is. 

And under any other circumstance, she'd just go over there and confront the two women with a lesson in manners. Incidentally, fists are a great learning tool for most people. 

Oh, but where would that get her? Wanted by the police, probably, if that little car jacking stunt didn't already land a warrant for her arrest. But it would be fun, well fun for Shaw, to give those rent-a-cops downstairs a run for their money. 

No, she eventually decides. There are more subtle ways to exact revenge. 

She sidles over to the group of young hipsters first, who have gathered by the fire place pretending to admire the brickwork. 

“Did one heck of a clean up on this place, huh?” she says, cutting into their conversation at just the right moment. 

They turn to her with mixed expressions. “What do you mean?” one of them asks. 

Shaw leans in. “Oh, you don't know?” she says in a hushed voice, so secretive and curious, it demands the group's undivided attention. All but one.

The guy with thick rimmed glasses just scoffs at her. “What? Did some dude die here or something?”

“More like dudes. Plural,” Shaw replies and glasses guy stops laughing. “A few months back, this tech company was having their big launch party here. Well, during the party, one of the partners totally loses it and I mean loses it. I heard, it was because the other partners were trying to cut him out... guess he thought he'd beat them to it.” and she unfolds the rest of the scene, in graphic detail with complementary stabbing gestures. To the point, a few of them turn a sickly shade of pale. 

But glasses guy, the apparent leader of the pack, needs more convincing. 

“Come on! How do you not remember this?” Shaw says, and name drops a famous New York magazine that all the people like them claim to read but never do. 

And suddenly, him and the rest of the group are singing a different tune, nodding their heads and collectively muttering things like: Oh yes, I remember that article and Such a tragedy and It's too bad, I heard they were really up and coming... 

“Yeah.” Shaw gazes solemnly at the fireplace. “That's where they found the head... threw it like it was a bowling ball.”

Like before, they stare at the fireplace. Albeit, in utter silence and for new and morbid reasons now, but Shaw takes it as her cue to move on. 

And move on she does, to the pleasant older couple standing by themselves in the kitchen, which is also bigger than Shaw's apartment as well. They look a bit out of place. Suburban, perhaps midwestern. Shaw isn't sure just yet, but they definitely aren't like the rest of the people who live here. 

“Excuse me,” Shaw says, all smile and cheer. “I couldn't help but notice, you two aren't from around here, are you?”

“Oh, heavens no!” The woman replies. Her accent is unmistakably southern and thick as molasses. “We're visiting our daughter. She just graduated from NYU!”

“Edna, you don't gotta tell everyone we meet,” the husband grumbles. “Hell, half of New York City knows by now.”

“No, it's fine,” Shaw politely reassures them. “You two must be very proud. Are you looking to move here as well, or?”

The woman side eyes the man. “Well, I would like to... It'd be nice to live closer to our little girl. Not  to mention the broadway... But Richard here's an old stick in the mud.” she leans in to whisper only to Shaw, “He doesn't take to change very well.” The man grumbles again. 

“I totally understand. When I first moved here, it took me a while to get acclimated. I mean, the first time I was mugged-”

“You were mugged?” The woman clasps her chest. “Oh, you poor thing!”

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, “You get used to it. After a dozen times or so it's just like muscle memory. Wallet, phone, jewelry, please don't kill me.” Shaw acts it out like a routine. The grand finale, pulling the bottom of her shirt. “I was stabbed a block away from here, wanna see the scar?”

Their southern manners come to a full stop and they leave without so much as a goodbye or a bless your heart. Filled with a sense of crudely gained accomplishment, Shaw blows the smoke from the imaginary barrel of her imaginary gun and sets her sights on other targets. 

One by one, they're taken out. She tells the uptight newly weds the apartment had been used as a movie set for prestigious films such as Gang-Bangs of New York, and One Fuck Over the Cuckhold's Nest, and Forrest Hump. 

The leader of the co-op board has a portrait of Hitler hanging in his foyer. The neighbor downstairs is prone to clanging pots and pans at odd hours of the night because the voices tell her to. The walls are coated with so much lead paint, the apartment could double as a fallout shelter from radiation. And the whole building is haunted by failed venture capitalists, Shaw said to another person, and when his back was turned, she flickered the light switches. 

And alright, that last one was mediocre at best, she admits. But in her defense, the one too many bellinis were starting to kick in a that point and she was running out of material. Thankfully, Root had come full circle by then, finished with her browsing. 

“What do you think?”

“I heard the foundation's crumbling-” Shaw covers her mouth, pushing back the bubbly. “Whole place is gonna level in like a year.”

Root flashes her a look of disbelief, “That's absurd,” and returns to the brochure in hand. “I think it's pretty nice,” she says, and goes on and on about all the nice features and the nice amenities and the nice view.

“You!” 

They look up and see the teethy realtor clomping her heels in their direction. “Aw, shit,” Shaw whispers when the woman turns her pointed red nail to her this time.

“Just where the hell do you get off! I lost potential buyers because of you!”

Shaw blinks, unfazed by this woman practically yelling in her face. However, Root's rather confused, bordering the edge of worried. 

“What is she talking about?” Root asks, one of her hands sliding to the taser tucked in the back of her pants. Hovering, like she's unsure whether or not it's going to be necessary in the next ten seconds.  

“I don't know,” Shaw replies with an innocent shrug at first, until she completely abandons the concept of an inside voice. “Must be all the asbestos in the air!” she shouts and the rest of the room, the few people she hadn't managed to scare off, they all clam up and turn bug eyed in their direction. 

For a moment, the realtor panics and her fake smile returns to settle the crowd. “You need to leave!” she says through gritted teeth. “Both of you need to leave, immediately!”

“Way ahead of ya, sister.” Shaw says and calls out over her shoulder, “Wouldn't want to get a stupid thing like lung cancer or anything!” At this point, Root looks like she's going to taser Shaw instead. 

“Let's go, Sameen,” she says, perturbed and not in a mild way, judging from grip she has on Shaw's elbow. 

And still... “Really, you think they'd shell out a few extra bucks to remove hazardous materials from the walls!” Shaw manages one last time before she's shoved into the elevator.

Root jabs the lobby button and the doors close. She turns to Shaw with a myriad of emotions, some embarrassment, a little confusion, but mostly anger in her eyes. Shaw can feel them boring into the side of her face.

“What?” Shaw eventually shrugs. “Something you wanna say, Root?”

Root crosses her arms, tightly over her chest. “Something you wanna say, Shaw?”

Shaw rolls her eyes to the top of the door, watching the floor numbers fall on the screen for moment before clearing her throat. “Your hair looks nice today.”

…

Miles later in Midtown...

Together, they loiter the sidewalk in front of the next apartment Root might potentially rent, if the realtor ever decides to make an appearance. They've been waiting over a half an hour now. 

“What's taking so long?” Shaw asks, again. 

“Traffic, probably.” Root shrugs. She doesn't seem to mind the waiting as much as Shaw does. Then again, she doesn't have anywhere else to be. And neither does Shaw, but that's besides the point. Tardiness is just unprofessional. 

“Call them.”

“I've already called five times,” Root tells her. “No one's picking up.”

“When?” Shaw asks. She hadn't seen Root touch her phone at all. 

Root just taps the shell of the cochlear implant hiding beneath her hair. Oh yes, how could have Shaw forgotten, the ethereal blue tooth connection to robot overlord. 

“I still don't understand why the Machine couldn't help you with this,” Shaw says to her. “Seems it'd be a heck of a lot easier. Beep boop beep... an apartment appears.”

Root smirks at her sideways, “You know that's not how it works.” 

“Why not? I mean, she can make up elaborate identities for you, reposition satellites in orbit for you-”

“She can also tell me how many times you've watched Eat, Pray, Love... this month.”

Shaw glares to the side of Root's face trying, and failing to keep the amusement all to herself. But she's distracted for a moment, there's a passerby who's taking too long to pass by Harold's car. “Keep moving! So her abilities fall just short of finding her favorite asset a place to live?”

“She wants me to be more...” Root chews the inside of her cheek, “Independent, was the word she used.”

For once, Shaw's in agreement with Root's girlfriend. 

“I'm pretty sure this is the exact opposite of what she meant,” Shaw teases. That is unless, the definition of independence changed over night and no one bothered to say anything. 

“She also thinks we don't spend enough quality time together,” Root quickly adds, casually with a flip of her hair. 

“Yeah, right,” Shaw scoffs at that. She'd like to know what the Machine would have to say about being  slandered and used as a pawn for Root's own projections. “We spend lots of time together. Too much if you ask me.”

“Numbers don't count.”

“You come over all the time,” Shaw argues. Root just lets herself right in, with all those keys she's made.

“Sex doesn't count either.”

“Then what- Hey buddy! You wanna lose that hand!” Shaw shouts at a particularly touchy admirer of Harold's car. “What does count?” she finally asks. Really, she wants to know, how she can possibly spread her time thinner than it already is. “Does this count?”

Root thinks about it for a moment. “I'm not sure yet. But I'll let you know.”

“Right.” Shaw shakes her head; Root can be impossible at times. The 'issue' can go on the back burner for now, Shaw decides. They've got to move forward with the day, which is no longer dependent on the no-show realtor. 

The front door of the building is locked, go figure, but that doesn't repel Shaw. There's an intercom system right beside it with dozens of names, each having their own call button. Shaw mashes all of them and waits. 

In no time does the speaker crackle with static and slews of voices, speaking all at once in a melody of Hello? Who is it? and What the fuck do you want?

“Time Warner Cable,” Shaw says into the box and almost immediately, a buzzer goes off and unlocks the door. Shaw opens it and turns to Root still waiting on the sidewalk. “You coming or what?”

Root leads her upstairs and down the short hallway. “This is the one,” she says, pointing to the lock for Shaw to pick, which she does so effortlessly.

The inside is just as bland as the outside. The walls are coated in a neutral beige color that matches the carpet in all the rooms. A single bedroom, an eat in kitchen, a reasonably sized living area with a few windows and an okay view of the coffee shop all these midtowners mill about. And that's pretty much it. Though, Shaw thinks that was Martha Stewart crossing the intersection. 

“I don't hate it,” Root sums up, having toured the entire place in less than a minute. 

“But you don't like it either.”

“Eh.” Root shrugs. “It's just hard to picture myself living here, without my things.”

An idea pops into Shaw's head. “Okay, how about...” she thinks aloud and surveys the area. “Your desk can be here, in the living room, since you don't watch TV anyways...” She moves to the kitchen next. “You can put a little cafe table here... coffee pot here... and hey look, extra cabinet space for things that aren't cooking related.”

“I know how to cook, Shaw.”

“Name one time you cooked anything,” Shaw asks, but immediately stops Root the second her mouth opens. “Let me rephrase. Cooked anything that wasn't eventually used as tear gas.”

“Okay, you've got me there,” Root concedes. “Please continue.”

Shaw leads her to the bedroom. “The bed can go here. Nightstand with the lava lamp right next to it. Dresser here. Bean bag- if you still want it, there. The closet's kinda small... you'll have to get rid of a few jackets, but-”

“Wait,” Root interrupts. “Go back to the part about the bed.”

Shaw back tracks a few steps. “The bed goes here and-”

“Right here?” Root asks, edging closer and closer. 

And Shaw's so distracted with her fake floor plan, she thinks nothing of it. She doesn't realize Root's been methodically backing her into the wall until her back actually hits the wall. 

“And, what do you imagine we'd be doing on this bed, Sameen?” Her voice drops an octave in Shaw's ear, tingling like those fingertips skirting the inside hem of her jeans. 

“I can think of a few things...” Shaw whispers, tracing the heat radiating from Root's lips inches away from her own. “On this bed, and then, that bureau over there.”

Root flashes a grin and presses it to Shaw's, briefly though. The kiss was only a ruse to take Shaw's lip between her teeth and tease some more before letting go. “I want you to know...” Root sighs as her hands circle around Shaw's wrists, “I'm really sorry about this.”

What that means? Shaw doesn't know. She barely had time to process anything Root said, because as soon as Root said it, she was spun around and pinned to wall with her arms locked behind her back. 

“Whatthafuck!”

“Just go with it sweetie,” Root tells her, and not a second later do they hear footsteps coming down the hall and a man's voice calling out shakily. “Hello? Is someone there?”

He double takes when he sees them, his face conveying a look of surprise and slight fear for his life. “What's going on here? Who are you?”

“Special Agent Augusta King,” Root announces. As swiftly as she got the jump on Shaw, her free hands whips out a black leather bound badge that says FBI. “We received an anonymous tip about a wanted criminal hiding out in the building.”

“Here? In this building?” the man stutters in shock.

“Are you the tipper, sir?” Root asks, meanwhile, zip tying Shaw's wrists together for the bonus effect. So tight, Shaw thinks she's actually in trouble with the federal government. 

“No, I live next door, I was just going-”

“So you heard suspicious activity from the vacant apartment right next to you and didn't think to report it?” Root says, catching him off guard. “Sir, are you aware that harboring a fugitive of the law is a felony offense?”

Shaw grumbles, “Like impersonating a-” 

Root silences her with a good shove.

“Woah, wait a minute,” the man backs away, hands up in defense. “I had no idea she was- I wouldn't harbor anything!”

“You'll be hearing from my offices.” Root begins escorting Shaw out into the hallway, pausing to glare at the man as she passes. “Don't leave town.”

By the time they exit the front door, Shaw is more than done with the whole charade. Immediately, she shirks out of Roots grip, fuming slightly as she strains for the folding knife in her back pocket. “I can't believe you- no wait, I can!” The zip tie snaps free after a bit of sawing.

“I'm not the one who left the door wide open.”

The few choice words bubbling in the back of Shaw's throat, simmer down. Root's right. She did leave the door open. Like some kind of fucking amateur. She rubs her sore wrists, bitter. “What are you still doing with that thing anyway?”

“I don't know.” Root jogs the badge in her hands. “It does come in handy though.”

Shaw shakes her head. From the corner of her eyes, she notices a suspicious group of hoodlums beginning to circle Harold's car like vultures on a carcass. 

“Gimme that!” Shaw snatches the goddamn badge out of Root's hands and flips it out with an, “FBI! Freeze!” The little bastards bolt in all directions, and Shaw hums to herself. “How come I never got one of these?” 

…

Later and lower on the east side...

Jerri, a fast talking woman from Queens who looks like Fusco's sister, hustles them up the stairs of a run down walk up. The bellinis Shaw guzzled earlier threaten to make a second appearance as they round the landing of floor number six. More so when she sidesteps a ragged baby doll lying in a questionable pool of something awful slicked on the floor. 

“Not much further,” the woman tells them. “Just a few more floors!”

“She said that- three floors ago!” Shaw huffs in tow.

“Try to keep up, Shaw,” Root says, jogging the steps with ease, at a steady rhythm that's utterly baffling. Considering Shaw's never seen her so physically active at something that didn't involve

“Coming...” Shaw grumbles and picks up the pace. She reaches the top floor well behind them, out of breath. “I gotta start working out again.”

Jerri pulls out a ring of keys bigger than a steering wheel and starts sifting through them. “It's gotta be one of these,” she says and tries a few but to no avail. “Doh!” she smacks her forehead. “Silly me, we went too high! It's two floors down!”

Shaw deadpans. “Are you fu-” Root jabs her with an elbow, “Funny! Aren't you just funny!” 

“Down we go!” Jerri cheers, waving at them to follow her once again. Shaw wouldn't follow this woman if she were the most relevant number of her career. But Root insists, so she has no choice but trudge back down the stairs. 

The door, the right one this time, it looks like it was breached with a battering ram and glued back together. It sticks as Jerri tries to push it open. Shaw wishes she hadn't been able to unjar it from the frame, when they finally step foot inside.

Cramped is an understatement. Claustrophobia is an increasing possibility for Shaw as they stand shoulder to shoulder in what the realtor calls a studio apartment. More like a closet. 

“Why don't I give you the grand tour!” Jerri says. 

Shaw turns her head left, then right, then back again. “I think I've just had it.”

“Oh, she's hysterical! Does she do stand up?”

“Only when she can't sit down.” Shaw wriggles free of the pair for more space, but doesn't get much. The square footage of this place barely pushes the three digit realm. 

The detail Jerri goes into as she tries to upsell this apartment gives Shaw the idea, she's either the most optimistic woman in the world or the biggest hustler in New York real estate. And if it's the latter, Root's the most patient mark, letting this con artist finish her entire spiel of blatant lies. 

“Look Root, I'm in the living room, kitchen, and bathroom. At the same time.”

“I think what my friend is trying to say-”

“Her friend...” Shaw interrupts, until she realizes that Root didn't actually put the word girl in front of friend first. For once. “Never mind, carry on.”

“There just isn't a lot of space,” Root puts delicately. 

“Space? There's plenty of space!” Jerri fires back, jazzed and sorts. “What this place lacks in size, it makes for in compartmentalization!” and she goes on to show them, the hidden cabinets in the in the walls, the drawers underneath the diagonal slant in the staircase frame. “And!” she claps her hands together before grabbing the the lonely painting from the wide wall. Underneath is a latch like rope, which she pulls. “Tada!”

A bed flops out of the wall and Shaw stares at it, unblinkingly. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“May we have a moment please?” Root says, and Jerri the realtor goes into the kitchen, two feet away. 

Shaw whispers to Root. “This whole thing is one bad pullout joke. You can't actually be serious.”

“So what?” Root replies. “It's not like I'll be around to mind it so much.”

“Well, I mind it!” 

Root smiles as she bats her lashes. “Planning sleepovers already?”

“Not if I have to unhinge the bed every time I wanna-”

“Want to what, exactly?” Root teases, for a moment, until Shaw's dead serious face hits home. “Okay, okay.” She clears her throat for Jerri to end her fake phone call. “Do you have anything else available?”

“Preferably not coffin-sized,” Shaw adds. 

It's like a light bulb flickers over Jerri's head. She frantically searches through the mess of sordid papers in her haphazardly thrown together briefcase until she finds the one. The holy grail of documents, she holds it up. “Yes!” she exclaims at first, then presses it to her chest, distraught. “No, I don't! Technically, the application's still pending and I can't show you.”

“Come on, Jerri,” Root says, putting on half her charm. “We just wanna look. Where's the harm in that?”

She gives it some thought. Not much. “Oh, what the heck? You've convinced me. It's only three floors down, come on, I'll show you.”

“Let's hope she's got the right building at least,” Shaw says and Jerri bursts in laughter. 

“Honey, if your job doesn't involve a stage and microphone, you gotta change careers because you are-”

“Hysterical?” 

…

The other apartment is nothing like the previous. It's as if they've slipped into an alternate universe on the stairwell, because there's no possible way this is the same building. Root's in awe the moment she walks in, her eyes lighting up in a way Shaw's never seen before, well, when it comes to this sort of thing. 

Crown molding lines the walls, coated in a scheme of rich blues soft whites. The long paneled windows that stretch from the living room all the way to the kitchen fill the spacious interior with honest light. And the view, Shaw's never considered Midtown to be a scenic place. Then again, she wasn't looking through this window. 

“You've been holding out on us, Jerri,” Shaw tells her. For the first time today, she approves.  

“About that other application,” Root says, “What if you accidentally misplaced it?”

“Say no more, sweetheart.” Jerri bats a hand. “My family's from Sicily. I know all about that sort of thing. We'll go to my office, lose some paperwork, sign some paperwork, have ya in here in no time,” she says, and starts ushering them towards the door. Quickly, adamantly. Suspiciously. 

“Wait,” Shaw says. There's something missing, something she's not telling them. “What's the catch?”

“Catch? What catch? You two look like a nice couple, I wanna cut you a break, that's the catch.”

“We're not-” Shaw rubs the bridge of her nose. “Look, no offense, but this is all too good to be true.” There's got to be something wrong with it, Shaw can feel it in her bones. Shit plumbing, rats in the walls, a weird smell that only comes around during certain times of the day. Something. 

“Listen, I got pristine records going back thirty years on this place. You can take a look for yourselves, but we gotta go down to my office fir-”

“Shh!” Shaw holds a finger up, silencing the room. “Did you hear that?” Her ears keen to the faint, muffled noises. “It's coming from the living room.”

“Yeah, you know what,” Jerri hastily explains in Shaw's wake. “I know what that is. The neighbors are redoing their kitchen. On a Saturday, can you believe it?”

Shaw ignores her and presses her ear to the wall, listening for the noise that seems to have gone away now.

“See? What'd I tell ya? Now if you don't mind, I-”

There's a loud crash suddenly. Something had smacked against the other side of the wall with such force, it rattled the hanging lights and shook the floor. 

Shaw slowly backs away as more, lesser thumps follow. Steadily, like a beat from a drum. And not seconds later, the moaning starts. Unmistakably from a man and oddly, a very strict sounding woman who seems rather disappointed in him.

“And...” Shaw turns to Root with her I told you so face. “there's the catch.”

“Rent controlled nymphos...” Jerri hisses and then smacks the wall, “Hey! Some of us are trying to work over here! Not that you care! Can't go one minute without screwing each other's brains out! Literally!”

“Are they?” Curiosity in her eyes, Root steps closer to have a listen for herself, and it's completely unnecessary. With walls so thin and neighbors so loud, she could stand in any room and still hear all the graphic details of their sexcapades. So it's really a bit extra of Root to flatten the whole side of her face against the wall like that. “Oh, Jerri, you have been holding out on us.”

Shaw rolls her eyes, “Come on, we're leaving,” and takes Root by the arm.

“No, Shaw wait! It's getting better!” Root protests as she's literally dragged to the door. “Shaw, I heard a paddle!”

….

The end in East Village.

“I don't think I've ever heard the word charming used to describe so many not charming things in my life,” Shaw says. She fiddles with the butter knife at the table while she waits for her order. They decided- well, Shaw insisted they stop for a late lunch, and the Russian owned deli on 7th was the closest eatery that wasn't a letter grade away from being quarantined. “How is a giant water stain on the ceiling charming?”

“Depends on how you look at it,” Root replies, her head in the piece of paper lain on the table top. She's been scribbling on it since they sat down. The list from earlier today looks nothing like it did, crumpled up, torn at the edges and for some reason, wet. Nearly all of the address had been crossed out, angrily by the look of it. 

Shaw twirls the utensil in her fingers. “I thought it looked like Margaret Thatcher.”

“I'm not getting sucked into this argument again.” Root draws another x over something and brings the pen to her lips, chewing at the end. “It was Barbara Bush anyway...”

Shaw snatches the paper from Root's unsuspecting hands. 

“Hey I need that,” Root says. Her attempts of retrieving it are all in vain. “Shaw, I still haven't decided which one I- where did you get those glasses?”

“Glove box,” Shaw replies, lifting the shades from her eyes to squint at the paper. “Didn't think I could get a hangover before I fell asleep.”

“Can I have it back, please? It's important.”

Shaw throws the glasses aside. “Root, these are all crap. You know this.”

“But I need to pick one.”

“Seriously, have you never gone apartment shopping before?” Shaw asks. Judging from the look on Root's face, she hasn't. “Root. Just make a new list.”

She sinks into the booth, whining pitifully. “But I hate this so much, Shaw. Can't I just live with you? Please?” 

Root smiles, full charm this time. And Shaw jumps when she feels something crawling up the length of her thigh. Luckily the waiter comes with the food, so Shaw has a valid excuse for evicting Root's foot from her crotch. 

“Independence.” Shaw reminds her before grabbing the sandwich off of the plate. She's about to take a bite, but pauses midway. An odd feeling had struck her, a feeling like she's being watched and not by a secret system.

Leaned against the wall, slumped in her seat, is Root, staring at Shaw's sandwich with a weird lust in her eyes. If she was hungry, then she should have ordered something. So tough, Shaw thinks, bringing the sandwich to mouth again and goddamnit!

Shaw cuts the fucking thing in half and slides the plate across the table. Root smiles to herself and takes a nibble and then just- chomps down. Shaw can't believe what shes seeing right now.

“This is the best sandwich I've ever had,” Root says, at least that's what Shaw thinks she says. Root's mouth is so full, and yet, she keeps trying to fill it. 

“As a person who's had a lot of sandwiches, I-”

“Shut up and eat it, Shaw!”

Without further protest, Shaw takes a bite. Her eyes roll into the back of her head. “Oh my fucking god.” It is the best sandwich she's ever had. Why is Root right all the time?

“So, tomorrow...” Root manages to swallow the rest without choking. “New day, new list, perhaps a new car even? I heard Harry's got a viper tucked away in cold storage.”

Shaw chews on it. As fun as it was gallivanting around this charming city with Root... she'll have to pass. “Sorry, you're on your own for round two. I'm busy.”

“I checked. You're not.”

What is this? Slow season for criminal activity? “I'm taking a personal day.”

“Fine,” Root says, dabbing with the napkin before it's surly tossed aside. “I'll be wandering Hell's Kitchen tomorrow if you change your mind.”

“Okay, Root.” Shaw snorts, almost choking on her food. “Give your taser a good charge before you do.” She'll definitely need it for that side of town- if she were actually going. 

Shaw's not stupid, she recognized the pattern as soon as she saw the list. All the stops they've made so far today were along the 4 train, which lets off near Subway HQ and coincidentally, right by Shaw's apartment.

They step outside the deli and Shaw gives the place a nod as she slips the glasses back on. The sign is in Russian, and unfortunately, none of it involves the ten words she knows. “Goodbye restaurant I don't know the name of.”

“Actually,” Root says, glancing up at the sign. “It think it says sandwich, well, bread meat bread, but you get the picture.” 

“Hmm.” Shaw shrugs. She's halfway to the car, that better not be stolen, when she notices Root isn't behind her. Doubling back, Shaw finds her standing at the deli's window, staring at a sign that says For Rent – Inquire Within. 

…

They inquire within. 

The owner of the deli; a burly, grey bearded and rather abrasive gentleman named Vlad, throws his dirty apron over his shoulder and yells something wild in Russian to the cooks behind the counter. 

“Come! We go!” he then yells to Root and Shaw, and leads them out and around the building, through several locked doors and up a rickety old freight elevator, all while cursing in his native tongue. And Shaw's sure of this because most of those words he's using, are the same ones she's used to start bar fights overseas. 

“You go, I wait,” Vlad says, and shoos them off the elevator. 

It's was an industrious space converted to a loft by the previous owners. The concrete floors were replaced with dark hard wood for a more domestic feel, but the steel pillars remained. Carved out to one side, the obvious kitchen accustomed with marble counter tops, a range, and a classic style refrigerator. And in the far corner, the porcelain bathroom with the large clawfoot tub, partitioned by a wall of glass blocks. 

Root turns circles, marveling the expanse of open floor plan. “I have no words, Shaw.” 

“I'm shocked,” Shaw replies, but it has nothing to do with this rare real estate gem they've stumbled upon by sheer luck. Root's non-stop motormouth has suddenly run out of fuel and hell has actually frozen over. 

But in the weird trend of today's events, Shaw checks and double checks everything. That the light switches turn on and the water runs from the faucets. She test the sturdiness of the steel beams and the thickness of the walls. She stomps around in her steel toed boots for weak spots in the floor. In the end, everything seems to be in working order. The radiator is blasting heat, the toilet is flushing, and yes, the refrigerator is also running. 

The second Shaw mentions roof access, Root's falling over to make a deal. 

Vlad may be limited in English, but he understands the universal language of money and the giant wad of cash Root suddenly pulls out of her pocket. He shoves a set of keys in her hand and goes off on Russian tangent as he counts the money.

“He says...” Root pauses to listen. “No checks, no cards, rent is cash only...”

“How the fuck do you know that?”

“I did some work for the Russian mob- long story,” Root tells her before she's back to translating. “I'm supposed to put the money in an envelope and slip under his door... on the first of the month, not the second, or... well that doesn't sound very pleasant.”

Shaw's eyes widen some. She tries to ask what the she means by that, but Root shushes her with a raised finger.

“There is one rule... don't bother me. If you do not bother me, I will not bother you and everything will be... cookies and cream?”

“What does that mean?”

“Sorry, I'm a bit rusty.” Root tunes back in, nodding profusely at the last part before he shakes her hand and leaves. 

“What did he just say to you?”

Root turns to her. “He said, My name is Vladimir Baronov Petrovich, and I fix nothing.”

…

A week later... 

Shaw picks up a bottle of wine on the way to Root's. A house warming gift of sorts, or a present depending on how you look at it, though Shaw prefers it as a celebration of mission completion and good things yet to come. 

The days of Root living out of satchels and crashing on couches are finally over, and for some reason, Shaw takes comfort in that. It means things are changing, for the better, she believes. Having a safe, permanent place to lay your head, it means something.

Shaw can hear the faint music playing as she lifts the elevator gate. She expects Root sprung for a decent sound system, something to listen to while she cranes her neck over a computer for hours on end. And maybe she found a nice desk and a comfortable chair like Harold's to sit in while she does, Shaw wonders, as she rounds the corner, quietly. 

Sneaking up on Root is a hit or miss, depending on the Machine's mood. But Shaw hopes she gets to catch Root doing something weird for once, even though she has no idea what that might entail. 

Root's barefoot, sitting cross legged on the floor with a soldering iron, humming to herself. And Shaw thinks it's actually kind of cute- maybe, at least until she finds a better word for it. Which is never. The feeling becomes short lived, the nameless word is moot when she realizes why Root's sitting on the floor. 

She has no goddamn furniture. 

“Love what you haven't done with the place,” Shaw calls out, announcing her presence to Root, who flinches and then smiles bashfully to the wires in her lap. As it turns out, the Machine was in Shaw's favor this evening. It's a rare occurrence to find Root so off guard, with her hair pulled into a loose bun, with little smudges of soot on her shirt and holes in her blue jeans. 

Her walk is still the same, smug saunter as it always is though. Root lets her hair down as she approaches, on purpose Shaw thinks. 

“Welcome. May I take your coat?” Root offers, and Shaw does a bit of casing as she slips her arms free of the sleeves.

It was inaccurate to say Root didn't have any furniture; there's a mattress lying in the middle of the floor beside a steel column. Root had thrown some sheets and pillows on top and called it a bed. Next to that, her other Root things. A laptop, a bag, a few articles of clothing and a cell phone playing the music Shaw had heard earlier. 

“Is that for me?” Root asks, nodding to the bottle of wine in Shaw's hand. 

“Yeah, but uh,” Shaw rubs the back of her neck, glancing again at the great empty space. “I feel like I should have brought a plant or something, or a chair.”

“Busy week,” she says, internally debating where to hang Shaw's jacket, for a moment, until deciding to just throw it on the floor. “Haven't been home much lately-” and then Root laughs, lightly to herself. “It's strange isn't it?” 

“What is?” Shaw asks, halfway to the kitchen for a pair of drinking glasses before she realizes, Root probably doesn't have any of those either. 

“This place, my place... It is supposed to feel this weird?”

“Don't worry, the charm wears off pretty quick. Eventually, it'll be just another Tuesday night where you store all your things.” Shaw flops down on the edge of the mattress. “Correction, thing.”

“Awfully presumptuous of you.” Root teases. 

“Awfully rude of you, not owning a couch.” There are worse problems than not having a proper place to sit. “I'd guess you don't have cork screw either, or is that me being presumptuous again?”

Grinning, Root ambles to the spot next to Shaw on the mattress. “You'll have to use your imagination, sorry. I didn't think you'd bring anything fancy.”

The label is the only fancy thing about this wine, an Italian sounding word, Shaw thinks it means something like hat. The price tag said twelve, but she got it for six. 

Shaw flicks open her pocket knife and stabs it into the cork with a twisting motion. 

Root leans back and lounges on her elbows. “I did buy something yesterday, now that I think about it.”

“What?” Shaw asks, straining with the knife and the cork that wont budge.

Root nods. “That.” and Shaw looks in the direction. Hanging on the opposite pillar is a crudely sketched portrait. Of Shaw.

“Um, where did you get that?”

“From the man in the park,” Root replies, like it's supposed to mean something to Shaw. “Fun fact, he used to be police sketch artist until he injured his hand in a tragic trout-fisting accident. Anyways, if you pay him twenty dollars, he'll draw anyone you describe.”

Thankfully, Shaw gets the bottle open by then. The horrible taste of it helps her forget she ever heard the words trout-fisting back to back. “Hope you like cork in your fancy wine,” Shaw says and passes it on. “My eyebrows are off, by the way.”

“Hmm...” Root cocks her head the side, “I still like it.” She takes a swig from the bottle and grimaces almost instantly. 

“You know, you don't have to drink it,” Shaw says, laughing at the sour look on Root's face from the cheap wine. She has to run to the kitchen sink to wash her mouth out, it's so bad.

“Wanna see something cool?” Root asks when she returns and Shaw throws her a wary look. The last time Root tried to show her something cool, she ended up with stitches. 

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“No?”

“Then no.”

“Just close your eyes,” Root insists. “Please..”

“Fine.” and Shaw covers her eyes, however, she checks for any sharp objects in Root's hands and in the immediate vicinity first. Patiently, she waits on the bed, listening to Root as she scampers around in her bare feet, for a moment until there's a loud click and the main lights go off.

Shaw opens her eyes... winding up the steel columns and along the rafters high above the bed, Root's hung strings of lights. Of all shapes, sizes and colors, they're arranged in way that makes Shaw feel like she's sitting inside a Christmas tree. 

“So this is what you've been doing?” Shaw smirks to herself. The order of Root's priorities are a mystery to her.

“Livens the place up,” Root says, looking up with a kind of awe in her eyes, or maybe it's the light glowing from the red bulbs. 

Root joins her on the bed again. Their legs hang off the edge, their feet occasionally running into each other.  

Shaw takes another swig of the wine, biting at the taste. “So um, does this count?” she asks, and when Root turns to her mixed, she has to awkwardly clarify. “Is this part of that quality the Machine says we don't have enough of?”

Root says nothing, she just grins.

“Why not?” Shaw goes on the defense. She showed up, she brought the wine, she looked at the pretty lights and they're talking. If that isn't quality time, then what is? “I really think you should reevaluate-” and suddenly, Shaw is rendered speechless by Root, who grabs her face and kisses her. 

“That's why,” Root says, giving Shaw a quick peck on the lips before pushing her down on the bed and climbing on top. 

And Shaw doesn't protest either, when Root starts unbuckling her belt, she's beginning to think this may fall under another made up category in Root's head. Something along the lines of fun time. 

“But if your so worried about it, Sameen,” she says, leaning in as she pins Shaw's wrists above her head, “You can come by tomorrow. I'm going to Ikea.”

[dunmerofskyrim]

46

“We looked for you,” said Tammunei.

“No need,” said Simra. “I came back.”

Noor kissed her teeth. “From running some gauntlet? Throwing yourself down some gorge?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s what it looks like,” she said. “You look broken.”

“You’ve made that abundantly fucking clear, thank you.”

Simra traipsed the last brief distance between them, across the soft black sand and into their camp. A stone lined fire-pit. The yurt with its canopy furled out from the entrance like some long-muzzled mouth mid-yawn. Both Tammunei and Noor knelt beneath it, shielded from the fine cold mist of rain.

They’d been talking as he approached. Working, crushing roots and seedpods with the flats of their use-knives, paring slivers of things off into bowls and pouches of paper. Alchemy. Some imp-small caprice in Simra half-hoped they’d been talking about him. How long had they searched? How long until they’d have given up if he hadn’t returned? But the rest of him dreaded it. Wanted to sink to nothing into the silt of the beach. Even the way they looked at him was more than he wanted to bear.

His lip was fat, stiff with dried blood. It split open again if he grimaced or tried to smile; made him taste blood if he spoke in anything but a monotone. His one open eye was bloodshot – clots and streaks of black like spider’s legs trapped in amber – lined round the lids and tired and dark. The other side of his face was bruised wine-dark, split open and scabbed at the brow and swollen halfway down his cheek. The bruises continued on under his scarf, under his clothes. Hidden, but they showed in the way he walked. All the worse in the way he sat down, wincing, a hiss in the back of his throat. Not crouching onto his haunches; no care for the sand or dirt as he’d already spent the night wallowing in worse. Just a slump. Like he couldn’t get back up now if he tried.

“Any water?” he grunted.

Noor rose and ducked inside the yurt to rummage. That left Tammunei, knelt in the coat he’d given them. On a day like today it was more sea-coloured than the sea. They angled their head on one side and gave Simra the fullness of their stare. Red-pink owlet eyes, like blood stirred into milk.

“Did one of them butt you?” they asked. “The guar. Kick you?”

Simra coughed up a dry laugh and looked at the ground between his knees. “Not them, no.”

“I could help. Your eye doesn’t look good. You’ve lost it under all that bruise. Is it even still there?”

That was them trying at a joke. Striking bright sparks to feed a dying fire; breathing life over its embers. And that was worse than pity or anger. They said they’d searched. Not ‘where were you?’ Not ‘you had us frightened.’ Just that he’d made them search. And that was worse somehow. When Tammunei Ereshkigal asked around, who and where did they ask? Braving the alleys of Davon’s Watch or searching inside themself, calling in favours from spirits and ghosts to say: Have you seen Simra? He’s gone again.

“Hope so,” said Simra. “I’m done losing bits of myself for shit reasons.”

What if he just hadn’t come back? In the highlands, when Simra came back perfumed huss-heavy with the reek of smoke from setting a piece of horizon ablaze to purge his mood, Tammunei had asked him: Is this why you do it? So that when you come back they’ll be so thankful you’re not gone for good that you won’t ever have to say you’re sorry?

Noor came back from inside the yurt and creaked into a kneel once more. She held out a half-empty skin of water. And when Simra drank it was leather-stale and warm, but sweet for how bad he’d needed it.

“The guar are gone,” she said. “Did you at least get a good price?”

Simra shook his head. The sway and bother of his hair sickened him as it touched his neck, his cheeks. He wasn’t clean. “No.” He drank again, deep, til his mouth felt washed and his voice came easier. “Twenty-eight in glass. A farmer. He took them for draft.”

He jutted a thumb over his shoulder and towards the saltrice paddies that lined the shoreline. Tammunei twitched their gaze about to follow where Simra pointed.

Bulkheads and wavebreaks of piled stones barred off the fields from the sea. Staves of wood, warped with years of wind and salt, struck up from the barriers at intervals, carved with names to say who owned what field. Sometimes a pennant streamed from one: a farmer’s prayer written on scrapcloth. The harvest was long finished, and the fields were nothing but mud, shallow black water, the brackish scent of salt.

A long silence, all three of them waiting for someone else to break it. Tammunei was still, staring out at nothing. Noor worked on, scraping, slicing, mashing with her use-knife. She placed a scrap of shell in her mouth. A moment later, the crack and grind as her backteeth crushed it to paste, and she spat it out into a bowl, pale pink and smelling of colours, pigments, the husked-out old shops and vats of Dyer’s End.

“I fucked up,” Simra said at last. “Lost our money. Not all of it, but most. Twenty-eight drams for the guar and I come back to you with ten…”

“You spent it?” said Tammunei.

“Sort of. No, not really.” The idea made him wince. What would you even buy with all that glass? He hardly knew for how seldom he’d even considered buying something that dear. He remembered Shora on the crane above the water in Riften, spitting when he’d tried to buy her forgiveness with thirty-two pieces of silver. That was the first time he’d spent even close to this much, and in all his life he’d spent more only once. “I fucked up…”

“What happened?” Noor’s voice. Hard to tell if it was gentleness or a simple lack of scorn when he deserved it, but it broke in on him. Too tender. His words stuck thick in the back of his throat and then fell like an avalanche out.

“In town. Sold the guar, so I was feeling alright about that, and when I stopped at a cornerclub for a drink I asked the date, right? My Signing Day, so I stayed for another… And then I was out and I was coming back, going through town to get to the beach, to here, and there was this—… I picked a fight. Not cos I was drunk. I was, but I’d’ve picked it sober too, and done a better job of breaking that fucker’s stones…”

“Why?” said Noor. She had stopped working now.

Simra shook his head. Couldn’t make himself say it. “The townlaw broke it up. Locked me away. Confiscated my…my fucking affects...” He stared into his lap. Closed his eyes a long moment and rubbed at his wrists, firm with his fingers, still raw from the walls of the cell, still scraped from the cuffs he’d worn. Only the copper snake bracelet was coiled round his forearm now. Beads and bangles, all gone. “Gouged me for everything I wanted to get back. Two drams just for my satchel and bookbag. Another five yera for my fucking swordbelt. But I couldn’t get it all. Didn’t wanna come back with nothing for us, so I…yeah…I had to leave some things.”

“You sacrificed the sword but kept the swordbelt?” said Noor.

“Yeah,” Simra murmured.

Swords seldom stuck around. There’d been some he’d sooner have kept, but in the end they all broke or he’d find a better. They weren’t his like the belt was his. Bought with his own coin, made for him, he’d had it longer than it had held any one blade. Swordbelt, spearhead knife, wand, mantle, scarf, he’d kept what he couldn’t stand to lose. Fisherman’s knife and heavy-bladed dagger; boots and jacket, one crude pewter ring; an arrowhead pendant, and necklace of beads and glass. The rings in his left ear they’d shown some small mercy in not pulling out. The gathersack he’d left with the yurt, thanks be. Spear gone, though; sword too. It sounded different when he moved. An empty quiet of cloth and leather.

“They took eight drams maybe on top of that. Not a fine, that. Just theft. Went into my bags fishing for purses…”

Tammunei was frowning, looking over at Noor. “Will we still have enough? For a boat?”

“If we can sell what we’ve made,” she said. “How much more can it cost to cross saltwater than fresh?”

“It’s a long way. I remember that from my mother. Longer than you think, and on bad waters,” said Tammunei. “The Inner Sea has a bad temper. Maybe that will make it cost more…”

“Ghosts and bones!” Simra said, louder and harder than he’d meant to. “You still want to do this. Fuck…”

Tammunei’s face lined deeper, like they were ageing before him. Looking more their age. “Why would we turn back now?”

“Why wouldn’t we? Things’ve gone to shit. That’s what happens when I take the lead. Dunno why I expected any different but I thought maybe just this once…”

“I tried this journey once,” Tammunei said. “Leading people to Vvardenfell. Leading you. That didn’t work out any better, I think. It’s not a journey that’s easy on anyone, but it helps to have the right reasons.”

“And you didn’t? You were a new fucking Veloth after Bodram. A saint leading pilgrims to a new land of fucking promise. Me? I’m just scared of dying. If the right reason didn’t help you, I’m fucked, aren’t I?”

“Don’t play with words you don’t understand,” said Noor. “Your thoughts are stuck in the West. The gods here, and the ghosts that make the land holy — they know that only the Empire say ‘right’ and ‘good’ and mean the same thing, as if there’s no better reason to act than to act for others. But the gods and the ghosts look laughing at that. It’s a dream that makes farmers farm and soldiers fight and die. The good reason is what ought to make you act. The right reason is what will. This is the truth. That the good belongs to the many; the right, to the self.”

“At first I was trying to go home,” said Tammunei. “Like you are now. But even then, I was answering a call. What the dead wanted; what the people following me wanted — I lost myself in that. Being what they needed me to be. Who was I if not for that? But…Noor and I have been talking. She’s…trying to help me find out.”

“Then why help me? Either of you? Clear as anything you’ve got better things to do. Talks to have. Wise thoughts to think.”

“I am someone who helps.” Tammunei shrugged like it was simple. “I can’t stop that. That’s how I know it’s the right choice. And I help you because I want to.”

“But why me? I’m shit company half the time, and what am I the whole rest? I don’t better anything. I don’t help anyone, least of all myself, though fuck knows it’s not for lack of trying… Fuck is it makes you think I’m worth helping?”

“I owe you. And Tammunei won’t leave.” Noor put down her use-knife, hard, on the board across her knees. Her eyes flashed. “Listen. In deep Winter it is easy to forget that Spring will come, but Spring doesn’t need your belief. It’ll come, like it or not, ready or not. Be thankful when it does, and don’t ask why.”

Simra felt like she’d struck him. He breathed out and tried to gather himself to himself. The taste of blood where his lip had split. The heat and flush of not being able to cry. Fucking sophistry, he thought. But instead he buckled, voice broken, sick of fighting them, and sick of fighting himself to win nothing but leave to hate and wallow. He was tired.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m the way I am.”

He drank again from the waterskin, washing the inside of his mouth. Cool water over the frayed inside of his cheek, where it had scored against his teeth. He spat a stream of pink out onto the beach.

“Boats, then,” said Noor.

“Right…” Simra felt round the inside of his mouth with his tongue a moment. Gather, Mend what you can. Then talk. “Right. Chance we could charter something if it comes down to it, rather than wait for passage. Might be we’ll have to. Still got the money, spite of my best efforts.”

Tammunei’s eyebrows twitched a question.

“I made some enemies. A boatload of them, could be. And unless they’re already gone on the first good tide out of Davon’s Watch, might be more than our lives are worth to hang around waiting for a better price…”

[eggoleff]

GUMMY GAME

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: fluff/ romance

“No I’m not doing it.” Yoongi declared from across the couch. “Why? It’s fun.” You whined, hoping you could get your boyfriend to cooperate. “Because I don’t feel like doing it. It’s too much of a hassle.” 

 You scoffed at his words, “You can spend hours writing songs and dancing, but you can’t even take some time to wiggle your nose and eat a gummy worm?…..Lazy.” Your last word; barely audible, but still clear enough to pass through yoongi's ears, in return he gives you the look, his look. 

“I am not lazy. I’m just unmotivated to do so.” His reply audacious and filled with attitude; somebody was cranky today.  “Laaazzyy!” With your eyebrows furrowed and a pout painted upon your features, you weren't having any of his excuses. You wouldn't normally call him "lazy", considering you knew how hard he worked all the time but this-you thought was ridiculous. 

 After that, yoongi didn't say another word and you started to walk off into the kitchen to make lunch, leaving Yoongi who was sitting on the couch while lazying - about. You mumbled to yourself whilst opening the fridge,“Seriously, why does he have to be such a damn potato?” 

 “Excuse me?” Yoongi appeared from behind the fridge door, erupting a cute little squeak from you that 'almost' distracted him from your previous statement. You turn, now face to face with a cute-offended potato. “I am not a potato!” The blonde semi-shouted, as he wasn't entirely offended but slightly amused. “Oh really? Then why don’t you play the gummy worm game with me?” You questioned whilst raising one eyebrow, with slightly pouty lips and puffy cheeks. 

 Yoongi paused, replaying your words over and over again in his head. 

'Should I?', he questioned himself in thought. Maybe he's coming off as being...lazy? He doesn't want y/n to be upset with him, and he especially doesn't want to be called a 'potato' ever again, so one round shouldn't hurt. Should it? “Fine”. 

 You smiled wildly as the word fell from his soft lips, making your way over to the cabinet to fetch the bag gummy worms. “Under one condition.” Yoongi suddenly added, causing you to stop in your tracks and release a frustrated sigh. You spun around facing him once again, and once you were-your boyfriend began to speak. “You call a me a swaggy marshmallow for the rest of the day, and...”  A devilish smirk now plastered on his lips, followed by a subtle lip bite. "Play a little game of mine later, sound good?" 

 As long as he plays, you didn't care if he wanted to "play a game with you" around the members. You nodded and turned back around to fetch the gummy worms. Yoongi also turned the opposite way, walking out of the kitchen. Now waiting for you on the couch.         

 After a couple minutes of waiting Yoongi then realized that you hadn’t been back for a long time. So he headed to the kitchen, not expecting to see one of the cutest things he had ever seen in his life. There, standing before him was his super short girlfriend trying to reach the gummy worms up in the cabinet.   The sight of you with your leg draped over the counter top-hair a mess, reaching up as far as your little arms could go was by far the greatest sight for Yoongi. He knew that he was short, but not that short. You know you are short too, you just prefer to do things yourself, all the time. You are a stubborn shorty.       

 Yoongi couldn’t help but giggle at the sight, you were just too darn cute! However, right when you were about to get the bag of gummy worms, literally an inch away-you slipped. Your boyfriend noticed this and immediately went to catch you, to save you. As you braced yourself for the pain that was about to come you had opened your eyes to see that it wasn’t there, you were expecting to feel hard, cold wood against your back, but you didn’t. Instead you felt the warm soft embrace of your boyfriends arms. 

“Dammit y/n why do you have to be so stubborn. All you had to do was come and get me.” He set you down gently, making sure you were alright, “I’m sorry Yoongi, I didn’t know that the gummy worms were so high up. I just wanted to get them and get back to you as quick as I could.” You batted your eyelashes at him, swaying side to side as your cheeks were now dusted with a rosey shade from your boyfriends manly and heroic actions. “Well” Yoongi reached over you to grab the gummy worms, “Next time let me get them okay?” The boy begged, worry still present within his expression. “okay” You flashed him a warm smile right before placing a soft peck upon his lips. 

Afterwards you quickly snatched the gummies from his hands and headed towards the living room. Yoongi followed soon after, sitting on the soft cushions of your comfy, toffee colored sofa right beside you. “So what are the rules of this game?” Yoongi watched you open the pack of gummies intently, taking one of the worms out to shove in your mouth. “There aren’t exactly real rules, basically you take a gummy worm.” You state, puling out a gummy from the bag. “Place it on the bridge of your nose like this.” placing the worm on the bridge of your nose, you begin to speak again. “Then use your facial muscles to wiggle it into your mouth, trying not to drop it.”  

Once you start to wiggle the gummy on your nose, you start wiggling your nose carefully yet frantically, your boyfriend chuckled at your cute attempts of getting the worm into your mouth. At the same time, paying close attention to your movements. “So that’s it?” Yoongi cocked his head to the side, still paying close attention to your every movement. Responding with a hum, you were so close to getting it into your mouth, but unfortunately you're in the same boat as Yoongi. You both have short tongues. 

Yoongi’s tongue isn’t exactly short it’s just he has what’s called being 'tongue tied'. Basically being 'tongue tied' is when the web under your tongue is attached to your tongue either to the tip of your tongue or close, this causes you and Yoongi to be unable to stick your tongue out all the way. So the worm drops to your lap, earning you an amused chuckle from your boyfriend. “It’s not funny! You have the same problem to!” You pout, reaching for the gummy that fell from your face so you can throw it in your mouth. “I bet I could get it into my mouth.” Yoongi challenges cockily as he pretends to flip invisible hair like a prissy high school girl. 

 “Oh really? Ok, do it then, but if you don’t then you have to buy me two more bags of gummy worms.” Yoongi gives you a smug look before agreeing “Deal”. He then takes a worm from the package and places it on the bridge of his cute little nose, taking a deep breath before he starts to wiggle his nose violently up and down. You watched him intently as he wiggles the worm closer and closer to the tip of his nose- leaning his head back, face full of concentration you bite your lip. 'Maybe he could win this'.  

Both nervous and anxious you couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt in your chest for partially hoping for him to lose. Yoongi wiggles his nose one last time in an attempt to get it into his mouth, unfortunately for yoongi he was unsuccessful in trying to get the gummy into his mouth. The both of you watched as the worm-almost in slow motion fell from yoongi's face to the floor. 

The pout slowly but gradually made it's way upon yoongi's features, he wasn't necessarily upset because he lost. He was mostly upset because he lost in front of you. He didn't know why but yoongi always wanted to seem like a god to you basically. He wanted you to believe that he could do no wrong and that he'll always be a "knight in shining armour", but yoongi wasn't perfect. 

 No matter how many times you say it or feel your heart ache from within your chest whenever you even think of him. He isn't perfect, but he's pretty damn close. "Yoongi? Hey it's alright, you were really close, and you don't have to get me two packs of gummy worms. All you have to do is flash me that beautiful gummy smile of yours and I'll be more than satisfied." You chirped while softly poking his side, knowing just how ticklish your man actually was. Erupting an angelic, cutesy giggle from him. "Stop! Stop! This isn't enjoyable....so why am I laughing?!" Your boyfriend conversed with himself as he was being attacked by the tickle monster known as his own girlfriend. 

 The man literally looked like a fluffy little kitten with his legs and arms bent in the air, whilst laying on his back, while you tickled his tummy. You halted your administration's for a moment, this was the perfect opportunity for yoongi to pull you down onto him. Your chest pressed against his, legs on either side of his waist, his hands rested in the dip of your back. Silence filled the room as the both of you just stared at one another. Your gaze shifting from his eyes to his lips, yoongi's doing the same. 

 After almost a minute went by yoongi finally pressed his lips against yours, enjoying the warm softness of your chap-stick smothered lips. Milk and honey, yours and his favorite chap-stick. Yoongi's lips were always bittersweet, like divine-aged to perfection red wine. You didn't know what he used or if it was just him but you were sure that if you were blindfolded you'd be able to tell if they were his lips or another's. 

 You pulled away once you became short of breath, the both of you flashing each other cheeky grins shortly after. Yoongi slowly licked his lips as he kept his eyes locked with yours, clearing his throat before breaking the intimate silence. 

 "Round two?"

Authors Note: I would just like to state that this was my very first fanfic, I wrote it back in 2015 shortly after bts did this little gummy worm challenge. I did touch it up slightly but I know I could do better. Anyways thank you all for reading if you did, I hope you enjoyed it~

[artfulmatters]

Sitting in the Kitchen with Tedd: The Traberts’ Recipe for Getting Snookered on Nine-Month Aged Eggnog

Yes, I know what you are thinking . . . It is only April and these crazy fools are talking about Eggnog, but at the Traberts’ home it is never too early to start planning for the holidays.

You see, when you reside in Florida as Tedd and I do, it constantly feels as if you were living on the face of the sun, a perpetual endless summer, and tends to lead one to miss the majesty of a winter’s day.  There is nothing like a snowy day to force you to snuggle up on your couch with a holiday cocktail in hand – sounds like heaven!  However, it is not for the lack of snow that has Tedd and I talking Eggnog today, but rather, it’s the time needed to prep this delightful holiday cocktail.   To perfect this complex cocktail, you will need about NINE-MONTHS in the aging process.  Let me just say that this is the only thing I am waiting nine-months for in this house. (just saying)

But enough chit-chat . . . Let’s all join Tedd in the kitchen, as he lays out his perfectly crafted Aged Eggnog recipe for us all to enjoy.  Now get busy whipping up your own batch, because the holidays are just around the corner!

Prep Time – about 10 mins.

(Unless you keep drinking the ingredients, then it takes a bit longer.)

Aging Process – Minimum of 30 days

(The longer you let it sit the better it tastes – “like a fine wine.”)

Serving Size – about 1 gallon

(Minus the sipping amount.)

****IMPORTANT – Before you get started, I must share with you a saying Tedd and I have and live by when doing anything, “The cheap will come out expensive.”  Use only the best quality ingredients when cooking or risk a faltered or altogether horrible final result, which could cost you more than in the end.

Trabert Nine-Month Aged Eggnog Recipe:

The Eggnog Mixture:

12 – large eggs (We prefer cage free but not required.)

2 Cups – granulated sugar (Opt for the real sugar and skip the fake stuff – it’s the holidays you deserve it.)

1 Cup – heavy cream

1 Quart (or 4 cups) – whole milk

1 Liter (about 4 cups) Bourbon (We used 1792 Ridgemont Reserve, Kentucky as our choice, but personal preference.)

1/2 cup – Dark Rum (Tedd prefers – Brugal Añejo Superior Rum)

1/2 – 1 cup of good Cognac (Hennessey Very Special) or other brandy

Pinch kosher salt (Why Kosher? – Not sure but that’s what he said, so in it goes.)

1 whole nutmeg

2 Tablespoons – Vanilla extract

Making the Nog:

First, separate the egg yolks and whites – Tedd uses this handy dandy yolk separator from his grandmother that makes the process super simple.  But wait . . . Make sure you don’t just throw out the egg whites.  Please use them and create an omelet or frittata with the whites – hate to create waste.

Second, combine the yolks and sugar in a large mixing bowl and whisk them (which is different from mixing I learned – watch our YouTube video for explanation) until the components are blended and creamy.  Transfer the egg mixture to a larger vessel to complete the process.

Third, mix in the cream, milk, Bourbon, Rum, Cognac – (the most important ingredients) and the spices, vanilla and salt.  Mix thoroughly until blended well.

Fourth, make sure you go ahead and bottle it right after you make your batch and the refrigerate it until it’s ready for consumption.  Tedd used 3 separate jars to store our batch for the summer.  He recommends separating them into different containers allows you to open them one at a time over the long holiday season or sample one earlier without ruining the entire batch.

Fifth, I am told there is a tradition to wrap the containers in aluminum foil, the shiny side out of course, with a cinnamon stick or nutmeg tucked into the foil for later. Now, Tedd says this tradition is to help keep the air out and have a cinnamon stick handy to grate over the drink upon serving.  However, I am convinced it is simply a way to see if I am sneaking any sips before serving in nine-months.

Lastly, you need to keep the batch refrigerated for a minimum of 3 weeks to allow the alcohol content to sterilize the raw egg for consumption.  However, it is best to let it rest for up to nine-months or a year if at all possible – I know it will be hard but try to maintain composure and not crack the seal until then!

FAST FORWARD – 9 Months Later . . .

It’s cold outside and you have a house full of guests.  Now you can open your containers and serve your fabulously aged eggnog to family and friends.  This is one gift you get to unwrap early.  Take the foil off the container.  Please set-aside the cinnamon sticks, you so carefully tucked into the foil, as you will use them in the instructions below.

To serve (optional):

10 egg whites (Not the ones from the original batch, new ones.

1 ½ cups heavy cream

INSTRUCTIONS:

Whip the 10 egg whites with the 1 ½ cups of heavy cream so that it has a soft peak consistency and then fold them into your eggnog.

Tedd likes to serve his aged eggnog chilled in a holiday rocks glass with some freshly grated cinnamon or nutmeg on top.  You could also opt to serve in a holiday or silver punch bowl if you are using the entire batch in a single serving.  Either way, your guests are sure to love this cocktail recipe.

Please Join Justin as he sits in the kitchen with Tedd on our YouTube page (Justin Trabert) to see our hilarious video.  We look forward to seeing you over the holidays!

The post Sitting in the Kitchen with Tedd: The Traberts’ Recipe for Getting Snookered on Nine-Month Aged Eggnog appeared first on Artful Matters with Justin.

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