#what is it with star wars and red wire things am i right

[mithrandirl]

"No don't put the blue one back. Put the red one where the blue one was."

"He said it was a red breaker. Red."

[astxrwar]

drops of blood [2/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: M

Word Count: 9k

CONTENT WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. We have officially dipped our toes into the angsty guilt-ridden stalking territory, and also into the beginnings of the 'yknow what I'm fine with that' realizations. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes all the way down. fruit metaphors abound. I am single-handedly forging the grayfic genre, please clap. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". Thanks for reading!

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Barnes is waiting outside of the building when you lock up, and it startles you; it’s dim, and the lights in the store are off, and he’s standing so still that you nearly don’t see him.

What you should probably say; why are you still here? Why was there blood on the ground outside? What happened to those men? What did you do?

What you say instead–

“You waited for me?”

He blinks. His eyes are the brightest thing about him right now, the blue of them a violent shock of color with his face in shadow. There’s no moon tonight, just the faint pinpricks of stars, like holes in some great stretch of fabric pulled over the sky, made perpetually gray from the light of the city. It never gets truly dark, here. You wonder if it’s always been like that, if it was like that for him, back then. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I, ah, I didn’t want to leave you here alone, in case–” he makes some vague gesture, the movement jerky and halting. 

You get about a third of the way through another thank you before he grimaces and looks away and cuts you off, says, again, “Don’t.” Like there’s nothing to thank him for. Like you should maybe even be doing the opposite of that.

You scuff your shoe against the sidewalk. It’s late, the street eerily quiet; the thing with those guys had kind of set you on edge, and something twisty and hypervigilant and uncomfortable churns in your stomach at the thought of walking home alone.

(You wonder if maybe that’s not what you should be wary of.)

“What part of Brooklyn are you in, now?” you ask, not looking at him. Looking at the ground. You’d swept out here earlier, and there are already new cigarette butts, discarded, stuck between the edge of the sidewalk and the street. Never-ending. Worse, now that half the world’s population came back.

“Uh—  near the bridge,” he says, haltingly, “I should probably—“

“My apartment’s that way,” you blurt out, not entirely sure if you’d meant to say it. It is; an old pre-war building on Jay street, a straight shot down. “Do you want to—we could walk together, maybe?”

“You—“ his voice is hoarse, and it cracks, and he stops and clears his throat and starts again, “You want me to walk you home?”

You look up, at his face, what you can see in the washed-out perpetual twilight of the city. There’s that flicker of emotion, a burst of red, overripened and bittersweet and something that seems like it might be distraught, but it’s gone so fast you can’t hold it still long enough to figure out what it is or why it’s there or if it even had been, in the first place.

“I mean— unless you were going to catch the train, I thought– we’re going the same direction anyways, right?“ Your voice wavers, uncertain, “Sorry, I didn’t— we don’t have to, if that would be weird—“

“No, it’s— it’s okay,” Barnes says, choppy and strangled and so quiet that you’re not sure he’d even spoken at all, not until your eyes are open again and you can actually see his mouth move, “Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong, I–“ He shrugs, helpless, and then shuts his eyes for a second; his brow furrows, pinching together a little, curving up, this kind of plaintive look that flattens back out as quickly as it came. A raindrop ripple across a still body of water.

He opens his eyes. His expression is controlled and inscrutable again. 

“Yeah,” he says, hoarse, “Yeah, I can– I’ll walk with you.”

~

The walk is silent; Barnes says nothing, the whole time, barely even looks at you. He keeps to the side closest to the street, and he never veers closer, that gap so constant that it coalesces like physical barrier, like if you were to try to move into the middle of the sidewalk you might hit some invisible wall of glass. You have to walk a little faster than you normally would to keep pace with him, and you still keep falling a few steps behind; he’s taller than you, and you’d known that, but most of your interactions have been either sitting down or separated by a few feet worth of counter space, so it’s different, this time. Your awareness of it. 

The stiff, impenetrable silence– it feels like how it did those first couple times, before the pomegranate, when you’d try to talk to him and get brooding one-word answers and an impassive stare and nothing else, and it’s weird enough that you wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake. Messed up, somehow.

“You’re still gonna come Friday, right?” 

Barnes is ahead of you, and you can see the line of his shoulders stiffen under his jacket. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yeah,” he mumbles, after a while, his tone stilted and flat, “Contractually obligated, right?”

“Oh, that– I was joking, I mean, I don’t– if you don’t want to–”

“No,” he says, before you can finish, “No, I– I do.” 

 “Oh– okay,” you say, pleased, and not thinking too much about why. “Good.”

He makes some choked off noise that sounds like a laugh, or maybe just a caricature of one. “Good,” he repeats. 

You try to catch up, but it’s like he won’t let you. Which– okay, fine. Guy likes his personal space, you suppose that’s not so surprising, so you settle to just walk a few steps behind him, the angle rendering his expression just out of sight. “Yeah,” you tell him, “I spent like, five dollars on this thing, so if you don’t come it’s totally just a waste.”

Barnes glances back at you, something like alarm flashing across his face, “Five dollars?” he asks, incredulous, and then a frown tugs at his mouth and he shakes his head and turns from you again. “Sorry, it’s– inflation, I’m still not used to it, I guess. That’s– it used to be a lot of money.”

“It’s kind of still a lot of money for one fruit.” 

He glances back at you again and there’s something soft in his expression, but he’s looked away before you can decide whether it’s just a trick of the light, the slow flash of the glow from streetlamps passing over his face as you walk underneath them.

You lapse into silence again.

Soon, your apartment building is ahead, the light from the lobby through the plain glass door carving knife-sharp across the sidewalk, splitting the crumbling cement into pieces. “Mine’s up there,” you tell him, only a block away.

Barnes stops dead in his tracks. 

It takes you a second from when you realize to when you stop yourself, and in that time you end up in front of him, looking back. His expression is the same as ever, flat and impenetrable, but there’s something in his eyes. Wavering.

“Okay,” he says, and then he swallows, and he clears his throat, and he says it again. “Okay.” His hands are still in his pockets, the leather stretched over them, pushed out like he’s got them tightened into fists. 

“I– I’m down this way,” he says, after a moment of strangely charged silence; he tips his head towards the side street, one that heads towards Brooklyn Bridge; it’s a grid system, though, so it’s not like he couldn’t just take the next one after your apartment block. 

Whatever, though. Whatever. He’s always been kind of strange, so you think nothing of it. He doesn’t want to actually walk you to your door, whatever. That’s– fine.

“Yeah, alright,” you tell him. “I’ll see you Friday, then, and– thanks for–”

“Don’t,” he says, before you can even finish. “Please don’t.”

You blink at him. In your jacket pocket, you fumble for your keys, but you don’t move. “Okay,” you reply, hesitating, “Okay, well. Goodnight. Get home safe.”

Barnes looks at you like you’d just said something absurd. Because you had. Kind of. You think about the knife you know he keeps in his boot and the blood in the alleyway and what you’d read of what happened to him– what he’s done, what he was made to do– on some internet blog at like three in the morning. He doesn’t need people to tell him to get home safe. 

“Dunno, force of habit,” you say with a shrug. “Take care, though.”

He laughs. It’s sharp and brief and hoarse and exactly like every other time. Disbelieving, unintentional, like he’d meant to keep it controlled, but hadn’t quite been able to. “Yeah, you– you too.”

~

You’re not afraid of James Buchanan Barnes.

Sometimes you wonder if maybe you should be. 

~

It’s called pitaya, technically, but every store you’ve ever seen carry them just has them labeled as dragonfruit. It’s fitting; the way the little leaves encasing it overlap, bright, vibrant pink that tapers to green at the ends, all facing the same direction, laid over one another like scales. It grows on cacti down in South America; Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, El Salvador. The grocery store only ever has it in stock sometimes, and you can’t find any mention of it being available in the 40s when you google it, though you’re not sure how much that actually counts for anything. 

“I have to wipe down the tables still, but you—“ you dump it out in front of him, having to shake the bag to jerk it free of where one of the little spines had torn through it and gotten caught in the flimsy plastic, “—cut this up, with your definitely illegal knife that I’m sure you still have.”

Barnes blinks at it. “What the fuck is that?”

You’re already one table down, scrubbing at a stubborn ring left over from somebody’s leaking coffee cup, but you still glance back when he says it, grinning, triumphant. Absently, you’re glad that he seems back to normal, now, whatever’d been bothering him last time apparently resolved.  “Dragonfruit. Cactus fruit, from South America.”

You see him in your periphery as you shift down to the next table, leaning to draw the knife from his boot; a part of you wonders if it’s the same one. If he’d kept it. There’s a muttered what the hell and then the quiet thunk of the blade, long and flat and military-grade sharp, cutting clean through the skin, the flesh, the bone of the laminate surface underneath. The sound comes twice, as he carves off both ends; one after another, like a heartbeat. Then once more, when he splits it in two.

You think about the pomegranate. 

(You think about the blood.)

“This is— weird,” he says, out of your line of sight, now, as you wipe jelly donut filling off of the corner of the last table. “How do I— what am I supposed to do with this?”

“People just eat it from the skin, with a spoon. Like a kiwi,” you tell him over your shoulder, “I should’ve brought some from home, but I forgot— we have plastic spoons, in the back, but I don’t know how well that’d—“

“Hold on,” Barnes cuts you off. “Hold on, wait a minute. Like a– what?”

“Oh, my god,” You straighten and turn back and fix him with a flat, disbelieving stare, “You– do you not know what a kiwi is?”

He shrugs, nonplussed.

“Next time,” you say, moving back to take the seat across from him, “That’ll be what I bring— don’t google it.”

“Okay,” he says, hands held up. Mock-defeat. “I won’t.”

He has more stubble today than any other time you’ve ever seen him. Bags under his eyes, too, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. You want to ask, but you’re afraid you might upset him, so you don’t. On the table between you, the dragonfruit is halved, ends cut off, the bright pink skin and the white insides and the black seeds, the colors all so uniform and flawless that it almost looks drawn. Imaginary. Like something from a dream.

“I can just cut the outside off,” Barnes is saying, “The white stuff, that’s the edible part, right?”

You make some vague noise in affirmative. He folds the halves together on a spread-out napkin, upright on one blunt end, holds the pieces still with one hand and the knife with the other. You watch, silent, as he carves the skin out from the flesh in clean, deft slices, the scales dropping to the table, curved stretches of pink like rose petals. Like the curve of a mouth. The blade moves with a quick and hypnotically familiar ease, even with how close it is to his fingers, the tips of them where he holds the fruit steady from the top. He never hesitates, or flinches. Not even once. 

Barnes lays the pieces out and splits them lengthwise, into eight slices, and then wipes the flat of his knife on his jeans and slides it back to the sheath.

“There,” he says, when he’s done. 

You only realize then, like being brought out of trance; you’d been staring. 

More than that. You hadn’t even blinked.

~

The dragonfruit is soft and white and bland-tasting. Pure. When the pieces are gone, the napkin is wet, but the juice is clear, like water. Nothing to stain. Nothing on your fingers.

No blood.

~

Kiwis, as it turns out, used to be called “Chinese gooseberries”. They were native to China, as the name would suggest, but the fruit was grown commercially in New Zealand in the early 1900s, and became popular with American and British soldiers stationed there during World War 2. It wasn’t until after– sometime in the 50s– that they were called kiwifruits, after the bird, and it was little more than a stroke of marketing luck that the name ended up sticking. Fast-forward to the 60s, and the first exports started arriving in the US; fast-forward to 2024, and you can buy like, twelve of them in one of those little snap-closed plastic bins from the grocery store for just six dollars.

That’s what you bring to work, the next week. Or– it’s what you plan to bring, Friday.

He’s there Wednesday, again.

You’re not closing, this time, only pre-closing, which is a totally arbitrary term for the person who leaves at 9:30 instead of sticking around to lock up at 11; you hadn’t seen him come in this time, only notice him as you’re leaving, in the corner of the room, out of the corner of your eye–

You had the door open, and you stand there for a moment, frozen, indecisive, unable to see without turning to look if he’s staring at you, but still sure of it, somehow. Like you just know. 

You let the door fall closed. 

“Hey,” you say, stopping in front of his table. He has a cup of coffee; your coworker must have made it for him, when you were doing the dishes. 

(You wonder if he knew you were working tonight.)

“Hi,” he says. He looks uncomfortable. He always looks uncomfortable, but it’s– worse, now. “Leaving?”

You’d taken off your apron, your uniform sweater, too, had them folded up in your hands, shrugged on an actual non-coffee-shop-related hoodie and your winter coat over it, and you’d been halfway out the door when you’d seen him, so it’s not really a question. “I– yeah, I’m off at 9:30, so.”

He stares. It’s something about how he does it, you think, something about how focused and unrelenting his gaze is, how his eyes never move or waver, just stay there, trained on yours, perfectly still. A shiver, a tiny one— it works down your spine before you can quell it. You blame it on the cold. 

Barnes still hasn’t looked away.

“Are you here in case those guys came back?” you blurt out, and then wince, not entirely sure you meant to ask.

He blinks, finally. Drums his fingers against the table. You think you might be able to tell, now, which hand is which; the metal one is louder. More solid. “They’re not going to bother you again,” he says. Like he knows that for sure. 

You stand there for what feels like a long time, not saying anything, not sure of what to say; a part of you, your gut, maybe, is saying he’s here for you, and then another part that’s probably your actual brain is saying that that’s really presumptuous and verging on self-absorbed. He could just prefer sitting in a coffee shop to sitting at home, and maybe even prefers it enough to say no if you ask him to walk with you again.

You do it anyways.

“Are you— heading out, soon? We could walk together. If you are. If— if you want.”

His eyes go wide for a second, wide and glossy and wavering, and it gentles his whole face— transforms his perpetually neutral expression and eases the tension out of the sharp planes of his features and makes him look suddenly so much younger than you know him to be; young and soft and boyish. Not like those photos you’d seen of him, though, the ones they’d had in your history textbooks and in the movie posters for the revamped docudramas everyone made when they found Captain America; you remember those, and you remember how he’d looked in them, confident, self-assured, a little bit cocky. It’s different, how he seems right now. Nervous. Vulnerable. Kind of— wild.

Just like all the other times, it’s only a second, and then he’s calm, expression controlled, reaching for his coffee cup with one gloved hand. 

“Yeah, I—“ his voice is hoarse and he has to clear his throat to get it to even out again. “You want me to?”

“If you’re done,” you gesture at his coffee cup, as much as you’re capable of doing so with the bundle of your folded-up apron and uniform sweater tucked over both hands, “Then, yeah, I mean, I just thought— y’know, since we’re both on the same side of DUMBO.“

He’d already been standing as you spoke, the chair scraping against the tiled floor as he pushes it back in, and you purposely push down the beginnings of some small reflexive smile at it, how it seems like he wants to. When you say DUMBO, he gets the same look that he did when you’d said kiwi— flat and blank and disbelieving—and your repressed smile becomes a full-blown one, teeth-showing and wide, asking before he can even speak, “You don’t know what that is, do you?.”

“No idea,” Barnes says, with something pleasantly close to a wry smile, “Figure you’re not talking about the Disney movie?”

You’re sure your answering grin is fucking goofy as hell, but you can’t be bothered to care. “You’ve seen Dumbo?”

Barnes grabs his coffee cup and rounds the table and gets to the door a half-second before you do; “I saw it in theaters— came out in 1941. Year before I deployed,” he says, once it’s just the two of you in the vestibule. He pushes on the second door, and when he holds it open for you, it occurs to you that he’d beat you to it on purpose, wanted to do this. Whatever weird and nervous kind of warmth you feel at that realization, you determinedly shove somewhere into the recesses of your subconscious, where you won’t have to think about it. 

“I think they remade it, a few years ago,” you tell him, pulling one hand free of the bundle of your work clothes to flip the hood of your coat up over your head; it’s gotten cold again, and it’s snowing tonight, just a little, the flakes glittering in the beams of the streetlights. “In 3D, so, like, it’s supposed to be realistic-looking, or something.”

His expression briefly wrinkles in distaste, and something remarkably close to a giggle escapes from you before you can contain it. 

“Anyway,” you say, working your winter gloves free from your coat pocket and pulling them on one after another, taking care not to drop your apron or sweater on the wet, dirt-streaked sidewalk, “Anyway, no, not the Disney movie—it’s just what everybody calls that part of Brooklyn.” You go to zip up your coat with the bundle of your work clothes tucked under one arm. “DUMBO stands for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass, it’s just a nickname. Like how there’s SoHo and NoHo and Bed Stuy.” 

Your nametag dislodges from the apron, jostled by your moving, and skitters out across the asphalt; Barnes bends to grab it for you before you can so much as move and fixes you with this look as he presses it into your outstretched hand; don’t say it.

You don’t thank him. He looks strangely relieved.

“It was just part of Vinegar Hill, when I lived here before,” he says, as you affix it back to your apron. “DUMBO. Christ, that’s stupid. I’m not calling it that.”

“Really sounding your age, today,” you tell him, grinning wide, again; his expression brightens even more at the jab, and you find yourself hoping that he’ll stay like this, for the walk, that it won’t end up like last time, with him shut down and closed off from you again. Well— more closed off than usual, because you think he’s probably always a little closed off from you. From everyone, probably. Maybe even from himself.

It’s cold, you realize belatedly, too cold, and even with your coat zipped and your hood up and your gloved hands shoved in your pockets, you’re starting to shiver. 

“C’mon,” you tell him, forcing your limbs out stiff and jumping up and down, trying to generate any amount of body heat, “I can’t stand still, I have to get blood moving or I’m gonna freeze to death.”

He’s still got his coffee, and he finishes it as you watch, then crumples the empty paper cup in his gloved hand and tosses it into the trash by the door. 

When he moves to follow you he’s a little bit closer than last time. There’s still this barrier between you, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, but the distance—it’s shrunk. You don’t talk much, and he still stops short of the actual block your apartment is on, but you don’t mind. 

(He’d been closer, this time, too. Just a little.)

~

You can’t sleep.

Something inside of you is thrumming and alive, like a second heartbeat; even in the dark of your room, blanket pulled up to your chest and your eyes shut, you can still feel it, a restless energy that quickens your pulse and the pace of your thoughts and keeps pulling you back from the edge each time you get close to drifting off.

It comes up in a stupid fucking video compilation you end up watching on Youtube titled Top Ten CRAZIEST Road Rage Incidents of ALL TIME!! which autoplays because you’d watched or at least zoned out for the entirety of Top Ten CRAZIEST ‘Florida Man’ Arrest Reports OF ALL TIME!!, neither of which, you’re pretty sure, are helping you fall asleep, but they’re at least alleviating your boredom.

You stare mindlessly at the screen for incidents ten through two, and then for the last stretch of the video you watch grainy, low-quality dashcam footage of the Winter Soldier landing on the rooftop of a car on the freeway. He breaks through the window of a black 2000s sedan like the heat-tempered reinforced safety glass is as thin and as fragile as a translucent sheen of ice across a pool of water. The video blurs out when the man inside the car is dragged through the jagged hole, but you know what happens, even with the shapes just foggy splotches of color. He throws him across the concrete barrier and into oncoming traffic and the video cuts to black.

Whatever the narrator is saying about it— you’re not listening. 

You don’t know why you’d never thought to do it before, to go looking for what’s out there about that other side of him, the part you didn’t learn about in history books or documentaries on streaming platforms.

In 2014, Captain America fought the Winter Soldier on route 695 in Washington, DC; the highway cuts right through the neighborhood, a main artery shuttling commuters in and out, lifted some hundreds of feet in the air on these massive pillars of concrete. At two in the morning in your pitch-black bedroom you find a video of it on youtube; the creator had released it in 2015, nearly a year after. He’d had to track down all the pieces, he says in the introduction, his home-studio mic setup crackling over your phone speaker; bits of what’d cropped up online in the aftermath and what he’d gotten of private video recordings and security footage. The resulting tangle of evidence had been fact-checked and verified and pieced together, spliced into one cohesive event, and you watch the whole thing with this kind of sick fascination. 

The beginning is replay; the dashcam footage, the driver whispering, oh, what the fuck, the tires squealing against asphalt, the crunch of glass, a scream cut short. The other video had faded out after that, but in this one it just cuts to another angle; a dashcam from oncoming traffic, congesting around the body thrown over the barrier. You can see him, Barnes— just a glimpse as the sedan passes in the opposite lane, the long, dark hair, his arm, the muzzle. He’s staring down, anchored to the car rooftop with the fingers of his metal hand. The stitched-together snippets don’t show everything, there are pieces missing, but you watch as he’s sent tumbling over the concrete, the split second of him slowing to a stop, the pixelated shadows of the rivets he’d dug into the asphalt with just his fingers. 

The video cuts down to Fourth Street southwest, under the overpass; Barnes had shot Captain America with a grenade launcher, or something, sent him crashing through the steel frames of two city buses like they’re made of paper mache. The fight between the two of them in the street is half grainy security footage, half the shaky phone camera of some bystander either too scared or too stupid to run. It’s the brutality of it, you think, that’s what gets to you, makes your heart feel like it’s stopped and your throat constrict until your breathing gets caught; or maybe it’s the speed, all of it happening so fast that it feels like by the time your brain has comprehended anything he’s done there’s already something else. Maybe it’s the knife, how he handles it, how similar it looks to the one you know he still carries. Maybe it’s the strength of him, how his fists dent cars and leave craters in the street.

Maybe it’s none of that.

You watch the video through until the end, and then you shut your phone off and you stare at the black, empty screen, unseeing, your mind running endlessly, frenzied and wild and beyond your conscious awareness, whatever thoughts you have occurring somewhere you can’t reach them. 

It takes you a really fucking long time to fall asleep.

When you finally do, you dream of the coffee shop, the long, gently sloping stretch of pavement leading down to the bridge district. There’s nobody around, no lights on in any buildings, no people, no cars; the perpetual city twilight is gone, and there’s darkness pressing in, full and all-encompassing, except for the streetlamps spaced along the sidewalk. In the dream, you walk the length of the street, alone. Below you, there are holes in the concrete, like footprints; they lead all the way down to the block just before your apartment, and then disappear.

~ On Friday you bring the kiwis and two spoons from home and you rush through the checklist of store-closing tasks and you end up having pretty much everything done by 9:30, which means you have an hour and a half to sit with Barnes at that back corner table in between customers and eat Fruit Of The Week and talk about whatever. 

“The skin on these things is— weird,” he announces, dragging the edge of the spoon around the emptied husk of a halved kiwi, scraping the last of it clean. He’d cut them up with his knife— you’d kind of hoped that he would, had even left yours at home, maybe on purpose— and he’d done this thing with it when he’d pulled it from his boot that you’ve never seen him do before, the handle moving between his fingers and the blade spinning out in this dizzying and dangerous-looking arc against his flattened palm, the whole thing only a couple of seconds, done so easily it seemed thoughtless. Like it was instinct. You’re still thinking about it. He hadn’t worn his glove, today, not on his right hand, and you’re thinking about that, too.

You clear your throat and force your eyes to focus on— something. Anything. “I— yeah, it’s controversial. Some people love them, other people, not so much.”

Barnes picks another kiwi from the little plastic tin you’d bought them in. “I might just cut the skin off this one,” he says, “Dunno how I feel about the spoon thing.”

You swallow. Your mouth is suddenly dry. You’d made yourself a coffee today, since it’s free while you’re at work- decaf, because it’s late— and you reach for it, fumble with the snap-lid, and take a cautious sip. It’d been too hot when you’d brought it over, but it’s at a comfortable temperature now; where you’re sitting is right next to the windows, and it’s colder here than it is behind the counter, especially with the sun gone, and the drink warms you from the inside. It gives you something else to focus on besides the other, markedly more dangerous warmth, simmering somewhere lower. Barnes has the kiwi held up and he’s peeling it with that same unnervingly rapid precision, even with how much smaller this is than the dragonfruit, the knife moving in this fluid and effortless rhythm a hair’s breadth away from his own hand. He’s so calm like this, as calm as you’ve ever seen him, that perpetual tension he always carries melted out as the blade works around and carves the skin from the flesh. He makes quick work of it, and then there’s a beat of stillness, before he splits it into four neat slices. 

“Here,” he says, placing two on a napkin and sliding it across the table. “Half for you.” 

“Thanks,” you reply, automatic and without thinking.

He flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, but you’re getting better at it. Noticing these things about him. 

Later, after working your way through a line of late-night customers, you come back to his table and you sit down across from him and you ask him to walk with you, again, and it’s like peeling the skin off a fruit or a scab off a wound, what it does to him. Just for a second, a drop of blood welling to the surface before it’s wiped clean again, but you’re looking for it. You wonder if that’s him, the real him, the part he doesn’t let anyone see. You think about splitting him open and what might be inside if you did, if it’d be sweet or soft or something else altogether. Some kinds of fruit are solid in the center, and you remember once reading about how they’re poisonous, the pits of peaches and plums and nectarines— Cyanide.

Barnes stares at you.

You stare back.

“Yeah,” he says, after a while, “Yeah, okay."

~

Barnes finishes his coffee and tosses the cup in the trash outside as you lock up, your fingers frozen and struggling to maneuver the ring of keys.

“I don’t know how you can drink that at nine at night,” you say, turning from him towards the bridge and towards your apartment, “I’d be awake for hours.”

When you glance over at him, he’s looking at you strangely. “I, ah— I can’t— caffeine doesn’t do anything. To me.”

You blink at him for a second before it clicks. “Oh. Oh! Really?”

Barnes grimaces in affirmative, awkward and obviously uncomfortable. “Yeah, I guess I just— I like the taste. Used to drink a lot of coffee— before.”

He’s not pulling ahead like last time, but that barrier between you is still there, like a dividing line splitting the sidewalk clean in two, and he’s still sticking firmly to the side nearest the street, hands shoved in his jacket pockets— but the distance has shrunk. Just a little.

“Bet you don’t get cold, either,” you say, half a question and half just an observation, the contrast between you, bundled up and still freezing, and him, just in that same jacket and gloves, walking like it’s a comfortable fifty degrees.

He doesn’t smile, but his mouth does the thing it does sometimes, curls at the edges. It doesn’t look happy. “Nah, I run pretty hot.”

Some small stupid part of your brain turns that information over in your head and conjures up other things you know, bits of himself he’s given to you; your mind brings back the image of him before, the glove off, the knife held in a loose, familiar fist, thumb splayed flat along the edge of it, pushing the blade into the flesh. His hands— rough and calloused and frighteningly agile, the tendons working under the thin stretch of skin, the veins spidering up to his knuckles, spinning the knife like someone would spin a pencil, like he knew beyond a doubt, maybe even subconsciously, that he wasn’t going to mess up. His eyes, the way that he stares, so still that it’s eerie and frightening and makes you think maybe you should feel violated by it, his shoulders, broad and straight, the stiffness to his posture, how he walks, the pace and the rhythm and the length of his stride half military and half— something else. The growing list of things you know about Barnes, the person, things you couldn’t learn from documentaries or youtube videos or history textbooks or wikipedia pages. He runs hot, and you know this now, too, that he’s warm beneath the jacket and the thin layer of his shirt and even underneath that, the blood in his veins, his arteries, filling up the chambers of his heart as it beats in his chest. 

The information all slots together like puzzle pieces, only you’re not really sure what the puzzle’s supposed to look like, once it’s finished. 

Something jolts you out of— whatever your brain is doing, right now. 

Your own name. Because he’d said it. 

(And now you have that, too; how it sounds, from him.)

“What?” you say, pushing out whatever’s going on in your head and feeling somehow like you didn’t really succeed at that in any meaningful way, maybe only managed to bury it. But it’s gone, for now, and your mind is clear, and Barnes is staring at you. “Sorry, I was— spacing out.”

His mouth is pressed into a thin, flat line when you glance over at him, his face lit up in the yellow of a passing streetlight. He’s slowed down, a little, shoved his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, his shoulders tight and bunched up. “I was just— I need to talk to you. About— something.”

“Yeah, go for it. What’s up?”

He’s not looking at you, he’s looking at the ground, eyes set and hard and jaw clenched tight enough that you can see the muscle twitch under the next flicker of streetlight, and it’s almost— weirder than the staring. 

“I see a therapist,” Barnes says finally. “One a week. Fridays.”

“Okay,” you reply, uncertain, “That’s— good, probably, I mean. You’ve been through a lot.”

 “I told her that— I told her you recognized me.”

He grimaces and glances away from you, out towards the street.

“Sergeant Barnes.” You say it mostly to yourself, wry and a little self-deprecating. “Yeah, I watched, like, a lot of Captain America documentaries when I was a kid.”

Barnes screws his eyes shut for a second, a heartbeat. His eyelashes are dark and long and almost brush the sharp straight plane of his cheeks. Another thing you know, a piece of him you couldn’t have gotten from the pages of a book. “That’s not what she thought I meant, at— at first.”

You prod at the inside of your cheek with the tip of your tongue. There’s nothing you want to say to that, really. You’d read the news articles, his updated wikipedia page, what parts of the court proceedings haven’t been redacted, whole paragraphs erased under thick bars of black; you could guess what she thought.  She’d thought you’d looked at him and seen the Winter Soldier, recognized him for the ghost of that past, not the other one. Maybe that’s just luck; you’d stopped caring about all that superhero stuff before they’d found him, and none of that had ever really sunk in. You’d seen pictures, the hair, the arm, the expression that made you think of shell-shock, the eyes that were flat and cold and empty. How pale he’d been, like he hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. It just— it hadn’t stuck, or overridden the things you’d known, before. It wasn’t the first thing you’d thought about, the day he’d come in. 

It’s not what you’re thinking of now. You really don’t think of either of them, now. He’s— something different. Something new.

“I— told her, eventually,” Barnes says. Your apartment is the next block away. Your nose is numb, the tip starting to sting, chapped and frostbitten. “She said— I should tell you that I’m— that’s not who I am, anymore.”

You’re crossing the street and he’s following you still, even though every other time he’d have veered off by now, and maybe it’s selfish of you that you don’t want to tell him. “Technically you don’t lose military rank when you retire,” you say, staring down at the pavement. That’s not what he’d meant. You know that.

There is a beat of silence. Your breath when you exhale forms a cloud of condensation in the cold, rising up like ghosts into the sky.

“No, I’m saying he’s dead,” he bites out, harsh and rough and like he’d had to force himself to say it. “And whatever I am now— it’s not— I’m not him.”

It stuns you so completely that you stop walking.

Barnes stills a few steps ahead. When he turns, the heel of his boot scrapes on the asphalt, the sound echoing in the empty street. His eyes are bright and vivid and filled with something you can’t identify. 

Not empty, though. Not cold.

“I don’t think it really works like that,” you say carefully. Your apartment building is right there, the door just up ahead, the light of the lobby spilling out through the glass and onto the road, a glowing block of amber in the dark. “You don’t— the people we were before, they don’t die. We change, obviously, but it’s— we grow around it, right? It’s still a part of us.”

His brow furrows just slightly, and then goes smooth a second later, like he’d caught it. Buried it. “Okay,” he says, “Maybe, maybe you’re right, but what I’m trying to tell you is that it’s still— I’m still— part of me is—“

The knife. The pomegranate. The stare, the stiff, stilted veneer, the cracks in it, the blood. Sergeant James Barnes. The Winter Soldier. 

“It’s alright,” you say. He’s staring at the ground, the spiderwebbed cracks in the concrete, rippling out through the sidewalk like veins under skin. “You don’t have to say it. I know— I know what you mean.”

Barnes looks up at you, and when you look back something trembles in his eyes and twists in his expression and for a second you can see him, underneath everything. Frightened and guilty and grateful, all at once. 

You wonder why he’s afraid.

(You wonder why you’re not.)

“This is my building,” you say, after a while, jerking your chin to it behind him, rows of windows, most of them darkened, a scattered few still bright; on the third floor, all the way on the right, there’s the one that looks in on your living room, lit up a soft, pale yellow, the glow of a lamp you always forget to shut off diffusing out through the slats in your shuttered blinds. “Oh— damn it,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, again. Bad habit, the thinking aloud. “I left the light on again.”

Somewhere to your left in the haze of your periphery you notice Barnes has frozen in place, so completely that even when you look over at him you can’t tell if he’s breathing at all, the whole of his body stuck still and static like he’s been paralyzed. It feels wrong, somehow, sets off those alarm bells in some base and instinctive and evolutionarily conserved part of your hindbrain, the way people sometimes talk about uncanny valley syndrome, things that look human but not, in some essential and viscerally terrifying way. You don’t think normal people would even be capable of this, of being as motionless as he is right now. Like a shadow. Like a corpse.

He blinks and tears his eyes away from where he’d been staring at the far corner of your apartment complex and the spell is broken, he’s alive again, something like panic flashing across his face in the split second before he reconstructs that facade of flat invulnerability. You find yourself taking a step towards him without meaning to, and he flinches back from even that, like it’s— a threat.  

Or— no, like he’s done something wrong.

“I, ah— I  have to go,” Barnes says, stumbling over the words, a pressure to his speaking that you’ve never heard before. 

It’s so abrupt that it takes a second for it to register and for your brain to fully comprehend what’d happened, that he’s leaving and that you must’ve done or said something, something bad, and when you go to speak your throat has constricted and gone tight and your voice comes out so quiet that if it’d been anyone else, you’re sure it would have gone unnoticed. 

“Wait,” you call after him, and he hears it, because he’s not anyone else and his senses are somewhere outside of what’s human. 

Barnes stops at the edge of the sidewalk, near the street, and he turns back to you, his hands shoved in his pockets and the line of his shoulders tense and raised and this kind of stiffness to his body that you’ve never seen. Like an animal with its hackles raised, a distant part of your brain suggests. 

“Will you—,” you swallow, feeling suddenly nervous under the unwavering pressure of his stare, “You’re going to come next Friday, right?” 

You say it outright, this time, no bullshit or plausible deniability, some clammy knot of worry tangling itself up in the pit of your stomach at the thought that he might not, that you’d done some miniscule unknowable thing to upset him and drive him away.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, his voice low and strained and hoarse; it doesn’t make sense, there’s something about this you haven’t figured out yet, and the thought tears at you somewhere like it has teeth and claws and a mind of its’ own, how badly you want to know what’s missing. 

In the tangle of your work clothes clutched to your chest, your fingers have found the knotted strands of your apron, and you’re picking at it with your nails, trying to pry it apart. 

(You want to pry him apart.)

“You know— you know I don’t think any differently of you, right?” you tell him, aware of how you must sound, nervous and uncertain, but— not because of him, not like that.You don’t want to hurt him. You don’t want to mess this up. “I— I didn’t know you, before. I’ve only ever known you how you are now, this you, and— I like you. We’re friends. We still are. Nothing— nothing’s changed.”

He doesn’t reply. Just stares. Whatever’s going on in his head is hidden from you. You think about how he looks at you, like he wants to get inside and open you up and pull all the pieces out.

(You think you must look at him the same way.)

“Please?” you say. In your hands, hidden under your uniform sweater, you’ve finally managed to work the edge of your thumbnail up under the tight bend of the knot in your apron, the strips of linen beginning to unravel. “I still want you to come.”

Finally, his expression slackens. You’re not sure what it is, the way the tension unwinds from him like a thread pulled to snap; relief or defeat or something else entirely.  

“Okay,” Barnes says. “Yeah, okay. I– I will.”

He looks strangely powerless. Whatever crack in his exterior has split to allow this to surface— it doesn’t close, not like the others, not for a while. When it does it’s much slower, more difficult, like the stitching of a wound. Like skin knitting itself back together, painstaking and gradual and imperfect. The kind of thing that leaves a scar.

“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning to the lobby door, hand on the bar to pull it open. “Get some rest, all right? You— you look like you haven’t been sleeping well, lately, and I just— I worry about you, sometimes.”

Something softens in him, and he nods, his eyes flicking down, away from you. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll– I’ll try.”

~

The week drags.

Barnes isn’t there Wednesday. You’d been expecting that, but you’d still kind of hoped, and a part of you is still– stupidly, ridiculously, childishly– disappointed, when your shift comes and goes, and his table stays empty.

You spend most of Thursday thinking about Friday.

There’s something buzzing inside of you, when he comes in. Something that falters, disappointed, when the size of the line at the front counter at 7 is too long for you to even speak to him, busy making sandwiches and an outrageous number of frozen hot chocolates for a mom and her four kids when he comes for his coffee. Your coworker makes it for him and there’s a handful of seconds while he’s standing at the pickup counter and you’re on the other side waiting for bagels to toast that you’re able to look up and lock eyes with him for a second. 

He seems miles more composed than he had been last week, and you hope that’s a good thing. That he’s doing better. Feeling better.  “Busy today, huh?” 

You heave an exhausted sigh. “Ridiculously. Nonstop, since I got here, I don’t know if there’s, like, an event, or something, but— it sucks.” 

Barnes drums his fingers against the counter. Behind him, the mom is trying to corral her kids, who are making a mess of the condiments counter. One of them is eating sugar packets, spilling it everywhere; his face, his shirt, the floor. A muscle in your jaw twitches.

When you look back at him he’s staring at you, and you wonder if he’d been doing that the whole time, even when you’d looked away. You don’t usually mind, but right now you have syrup on the rolled-up sleeves of your sweater and hot chocolate powder all down the front of your apron and your hair is frizzing out with flyaways at the edges of your uniform hat, some of them sticking to the sheen of sweat starting on your forehead from the heat of all three toaster ovens running at once, and you kind of wish he’d— not. Look at you, that is. Stare. Because you look insane. You feel insane, and that kid is fucking making a mess behind him, and you’re going to get stuck cleaning it up, and—

“If you’re— if it’s a bad time, I can— next week, maybe,” Barnes says.

“No,” you tell him, maybe too quickly, “No, it’ll definitely die down at some point, I mean, if you don’t mind waiting—“

“I don’t,” he replies, stilted and awkward and said before you can even finish speaking. “I don’t, I don’t mind.”

 He’s still standing at the pickup counter, not waiting on anything, coffee in hand, and he’s still staring at you, and his eyes are very, very blue, pale and clear and so light they’re almost gray, like the bay of the Hudson on days when it’s overcast, or like once when you were a teenager and it’d gotten so cold that the river had frozen over for the first time in thirty years.

You wonder if he’d ever seen it like that. 

You open your mouth to ask and then realize you fucking can’t, there’s other people around, and you’re not trying to out him as being the world’s least-obvious centenarian just because you have a stupid, inane question—

The timer on one of the ovens goes off, followed by the second one, and the third one, the shrill sounds of the alarms overlapping with one another. 

“Sorry,” is what you say instead, tearing your eyes away and fumbling for the buttons to shut them off, “I have to—“

“It’s alright,” he says, “I’ll see you when it’s calmed down, right?” 

“Yeah,” you reply, distracted again, not sure if it was a question or a statement. “Yeah, ‘course.”

It does calm down, eventually, sometime around 9, which is nuts and totally out of the ordinary. Everything’s a fucking mess; there’s a puddle of  coffee and sugar and half-melted ice cubes on the floor and splotches of flavored syrup smeared all on the counter by the espresso machine and you’d missed the fucking garbage can trying to empty one of the brewing baskets and dumped grounds fucking everywhere, and each fuck-up had kind of built on the others without so much as a moment’s break to even think about cleaning. Your coworker helps you get things back to some semblance of organization behind the counter, but after he leaves there’s still the absolute disaster that is the lobby, and—

God, and Barnes had been waiting for you for like, hours.

You rush through the dishes and the stocking up and finish all that shit by 10:30, and you think maybe you’ll be able to get the lobby straightened back out in about twenty minutes, which’d leave all of a deeply unsatisfactory ten minutes to talk to him.

Except—

Except when you look for the broom in the back you can’t find it, and you remember, kind of vaguely, your coworker having tried to get started on all that way back at 6 before you’d gotten slammed, and when you actually go out to try to find it and eyeball the extent of the damage and the degree of the disarray, there isn’t any. The tables are swept off and the chairs are pushed-in and the floor is free of debris and even the counter with the straws and condiments and things where that kid had spilled sugar everywhere is clean except for some dried coffee spills.

The broom and dustpan is leaned carefully against the trash receptacle. 

Barnes is still at his spot by the window. 

“Did you—“ you make some wordless gesture at the not-destroyed lobby, not even needing to ask, honestly. After the Blip it’d been like all the kindness and empathy people found when half the world’s population was gone had vanished as soon as they’d all reappeared, like both were fundamentally incapable of existing at the same time, and you couldn’t imagine some random stranger had seen two faceless minimum wage nobodies dealing with the cumulative hell that is the entitlement of a bunch of New York strangers and thought, hey, how can I maybe make their lives a little easier?

But of course he would. Fucking— Captain America’s best friend, even way back when Captain America was just some scrawny smart-mouthed five-foot-four asthmatic. The guy who’d stood up for him when he got picked on and protected him when he started fights he couldn’t finish and took him in when his mom passed away from tuberculosis without so much as a second thought. You still know all this, the way you think most people just always kind of know the details of whatever weird fixations they had between the ages of about twelve and fifteen, and you know, more presently, that this guy is not the same guy you know all these details about, but it’s not like people just— stop being who they were, completely, either. It’s not like Sergeant James Barnes and the Barnes that you know are these completely unrelated people, right, it’s not like one of them ceased to exist, he just— got older. Shit happened. He changed.

But— he’s not fucking dead.

Who you are is always made up partly of who you were. Like the way a tree is a tree because it’d been a seed, first. And maybe it’s just really fucking late, right, maybe you’re just really tired, maybe today had just been uniquely fucking exhausting, but your brain just— cannot cope with any of this. The kindness, any amount of it, from anyone, directed at you in any capacity, but also just that it’s from him. The fact that any part of him is like this, still, after everything.

You are not going to cry about his tragic life story and all his obvious and heartbreaking guilt and shit in front of the guy. Jesus Christ. Get a grip.

“The broom was out,” he says,  “And— you were busy, and it was a mess out here, so I thought—“

“That was so nice, you’re— you’re so nice to me,” you reply, steady and not tearful but still a lot more plaintively than you intended, “Thank you, really, you didn’t have to—“

“Don’t,” he says, so abrupt that it’s jarring, “Don’t thank me, it’s— it was nothing.”

You blink at him. He shifts in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

You reach for his coffee cup like the last time, but he has a gloved hand around it before you can even get close. His mouth— the corners, they’ve started to curl up, even with the way the line of it is pressed flat and firm and like he’s trying his hardest to keep himself from smiling.

“Not allowed to thank you, not allowed to refill your coffee,” you say, rolling your eyes, good-natured and sounding a lot more flippant. A lot less in danger of being reduced to a crybaby mess because one person had been nice to you all day. “Unfair.”

“Yeah, well,” it inches closer to a smile, like he can’t help it, the upturn of his lips. “Life’s not fair.”

There’s a beat of silence. You should be used to it, by now, the pauses, the quiet, the lulls in conversation; you are, usually, but today it just feels– strange. Makes your stomach twist and your palms itch with some weird and unfamiliar sort of nervous energy. You suddenly have to fight the urge to fidget.

“I’m glad you came back,” you blurt out. “Sorry if– I know it was crazy busy, before, and I was thinking, I mean, if that’s– if it’s too stressful, when it’s like that, you don’t– I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay–”

“No,” he says. “It’s not stressful, seeing you is–” he looks away from you, just for a second, stares at his coffee cup, and the abnormality of that makes something prickle in the pit of your stomach, sparks that jittery feeling up again. “It’s– good. I don’t care if it’s busy.”

Barnes shuts his eyes, then, and his expression screws up, and he runs his hand down the lower half of his face, “Ah, sorry, that was weird.”

“No, it’s not, it’s– that’s literally normal,” you tell him, smiling, “I like seeing you too.”

He looks back at you. There’s that flash of red, again, a burst of color, something breaking through the mask of his composure. Something sweeter, this time, like maybe he’s pleased by that, just for a second, before he shoves it away. 

He’s still staring at you. Absently, you scrub the heel of your palm against the smear of powdered sugar you know you still have on your cheek; his eyes flick to it, drawn by the movement, probably, and you have a weird and sudden desire to look at the ground. 

“I have— something,” you blurt out, fighting the urge to fidget,  “For you. Something for you to try, I mean. It’s in the back, I’m going to— I’ll get it, and I have to do some other little cleaning things, but I’m almost done.”

You think you feel his eyes on you, from the lobby and behind the counter, all the way until you disappear from view into the back room, but you don’t turn to check. 

The fruit is on the table, beside an unsealed bag full of bills and change; technically you weren’t supposed to count out the register until close at 11, but you wanted to get out of here as fast as physically possible, after the way your shift had gone. There are a few straggler dishes in the sink, a coffee pot and a latte pitcher and a mixing spoon, and you kind of half-ass them and leave them to dry, snag a few sleeves of hot and iced coffee cups to stock up out front, and a new pump for the caramel syrup. 

You glance at your reflection in the stainless-steel side of the ice machine before you head back out onto the floor, and use a wet paper towel to scrub the sugar off the side of your face. 

There’s still one pot of coffee left. Fresh; the last one you’d make before close. You hesitate for a second at the swinging gate that divides behind the counter from the lobby, and then you pour him another coffee and you bring that with you, too. 

When you set it on the table next to his empty cup, Barnes glances at it and then looks away and ducks his head with this long-suffering sigh, like he’s annoyed, like you’re being a nuisance, but you can still see the way his mouth is angled. How it’s upturned.

“Outsmarted,” you tell him, feeling pretty proud of yourself. “Thank you. You have to accept or I’m kicking you out.”

Barnes looks up at you and there it is again; in his expression, or maybe his eyes, a flash of something, less pleasant than before. 

“Yeah, alright,” he says, his voice hoarse. 

Your eyes track back and forth across his face for a moment, uncertain, but whatever it was you’d seen, if there’d even been anything at all, it’s clear he hadn’t meant for or wanted you to, so eventually you just decide to pretend it wasn’t there.

“Here,” is what you say instead. “Guava.”

It’s green and vaguely pear-shaped and the insides are pink and soft when he splits it with the knife; you watch him do it, his steady hands, the glove on his left, the blade, deft and sure. It’d been uneven, the fruit, so the pieces are different sizes even with how neatly he’d split it in two. 

“You can have the bigger one,” you tell him.

He picks it up and moves to try it and you watch that, too; his hands, his mouth. The flash of his teeth.

The doorbell rings before he can take the first bite.

“Oh, my god,” you say, under your breath, quiet enough that Barnes can hear and the person coming in can’t. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s kind of annoying, the people who feel the need to come in at 10:57 at night when a place closes at 11, but the man only wants a standard coffee, cream and sugar, and he pays with a debit card, so he’s out in under two minutes and you don’t have to recount the drawer. 

When you come back to the table the smaller half of the guava is gone. 

“Changed my mind,” Barnes says when you raise an eyebrow at him, “You paid for it, so. Only–”  he swallows, and his eyes break from yours for a second. Something flashes in them, like ice breaking in the frozen Hudson, the churning water underneath spilling out through the gaps. He looks stricken and ashamed and then fine; frozen over, again, the water gone still and solid. He clears his throat. “Only fair.”

“Okay,” you reply, with an easy shrug. 

He watches you eat it. The juice gets on your fingers. You lick them clean.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

“I’ll be out early tonight,” you tell him, after. “If you wanted to wait, we could– walk together. Again. If– if you want.”

He swallows. Your eyes flicker down to it, the column of his throat, the movement. He’d cut himself shaving, or something, because there’s red, just a sliver of it, on the left side of his adam’s apple. Your mouth goes a little bit dry. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I'll walk you home.”

There’s barely any hesitation, this time.

~

Barnes walks you to your building, or just about.

You glance up at the windows overhead; your light is off. “Awesome,” you mumble to yourself. “Didn’t forget.”

You give him a small smile and an awkward little wave before you turn towards your apartment building. You get as far as into the threshold of the lobby before he calls out to you– calls out for you, uses your name again, only the second time you’ve ever heard him say it aloud, even though you know that he knows what it is. Has known, probably since day one; you have to wear those stupid name tags.

“Yeah?” you say, still in the doorway, the heat escaping all around you.

He’s still standing right where he had been, hands in his pockets, posture stiff and frozen and markedly uncomfortable. You wonder when that’d happened. You wish you’d been paying more attention, but work had been hell, and you’re really fucking tired. “Will you— can you do something for me? Just— make sure you lock your door,” he says, and then, as an afterthought, “Windows, too.”

“I always lock my door,” The smile you shoot back is wry and more than a little cynical. “And I’m on the third floor, so unless Spider-Man has decided he wants to start doing crime instead of stopping it, windows seem like overkill.”

He does not seem to find it funny. You think you see his eyes snap closed, his expression tighten and then relax, again, but you’re too far away to tell. Maybe he’d only blinked. 

“Please do it,” he says. “I just want you to be safe.”

You stare at him for a second. Your hands are cold, your face, too. You want to get inside, where it’s warm. You want to go to sleep. “Yeah, okay,” you tell him. “I will.”

~

You don’t.

[lesbiandanhowell]

Sam reacts to: Roasting our own Red Carpet Fashion

I am a dannie through and through but my god Phil took me OUT in this video.

- They keep chucking random videos at us, it is so funny how we keep hoping and predicting certain videos and then we get the most random ones instead.

- THEY LOOK SO GOOD I WANT TO SOB

- I have nothing to say because they look so fucking hot it literally takes me out. I genuinely can not focus on what they are saying because Phil has destroyed my lesbian brain somehow by looking hot af. (Slight sexuality crisis I won't even lie)

- They are so right the teen award outfits suck ass, it just, it is the one outfit we all lowkey make fun of and I am glad they agree.

- THE RED SHIRT WITH THE TOP BUTTON UNDONE LOOKS SO GOOD ON PHIL IT DRIVES ME INSANE

- "I feel like it's one of my favourite things you own" Somehow this pales in comparison to the next 20 minutes of just them complimenting each other but Phil is so right.

- Guys I had to pause the video because I can't focus on what the fuck they are saying because Phil looks so hot who am I.

- Dan being aware of which photos Phil hates is kind of cute, like they are so attuned to each other confidence and journey it is amazing.

- The way they just compliment each other so much makes me happy, like it's just "you look good in this" "you look lovely" all the time.

- The blue shirt with the hearts Phil wore does not do anything for him, I am sorry 2015 BRITs.

- "Whenever Dan wears color I'm like 'aw you look nice today'" OKAY PHIL THANKS

- The barbed wire suit jacket was a slay but the white shoes were awful I can't believe this looked got ranked as high as it did.

- Their Teen Award win was amazing and the looks are just THEM, I know it's not the most red carpet but it feels so authentic you know.

- They have special memories at the Boncas, from the way they talk about this they have some very deep personal connection to that particular one that they aren't sharing and I am intrigued.

- Dan at the Star Wars premier is SO GOOD I AM SCREAMING. This is for sure my favourite fit of the entire video, like the theming is on point and he slays.

- Don't love the Last Jedi slander tho, because that movie means a lot to me and I will defend it forever.

No thoughts actually just Phil looking hot, bye

[invisibleraven]

Friday Friday

#8, dealer's choice

Reggie wheezed as he crawled under the barbed wire maze, hating the feel of the mud underneath him, the jeers of his fellow recruits, just everything about boot camp. But he had been trying so long to go to war, to serve his country, so every hardship had to be worth it.

It also didn't hurt to have the attractive officer Julie Molina appraising him, a smirk on her red painted lips. Of course, she also had Reggie's immediate respect after she decked the smug private who mouthed off at her. What could Reggie say? He liked a feisty broad.

Of course, Reggie always had a thing for spirited people. Why else would he have spent half his adolescence half in love with his best friend Luke? Luke who was already across the Atlantic with the 121st, where Reggie longed to be.

Finally Reggie made it through the maze, and was lead to an open field for a full regimen of jumping jacks. Julie looking on so Reggie tried his ample best not to become overly winded in front of her.

"Grenade!"

Reggie saw the object lobbed to the ground, and on instinct leapt on top of it, shielding his fellow recruits, and more importantly, Julie from the potential blast. He was always one to lay down his life to protect others.

Yet there was no blinding pain, no blast. He looked around, and saw everyone looking at him, huddled on the ground over what was evidently a dummy grenade. "Is this a test?"

Later that night, after many meetings and paperwork, Reggie sat out on the field, tossing the dummy grenade back and forth, the stars shining down on him.

"Was wondering if I would find you," Julie said, sitting down next to him and leaning back. "Nice to see the stars again, I never get to see them back home. Too much smog and light pollution."

"You have to come visit the ranch in Georgia. My MeeMaw said you could see the whole galaxy from there." Reggie let out a sigh. "I wonder what she would make of it, me volunteering to take some super serum to become a soldier."

"I think she would know you are a good man doing hat he can to serve. But you've always done that. Luke today, when you jumped on a grenade to save people... To save me."

Reggie scoffed. "Yeah, I looked a right fool, jumping on this," he said tossing the dummy grenade up in the air.

"You looked braver than any man there, all of whom scattered like little babies at the first real sign of peril." Julie snatched the grenade in mid air. "It's why you were chosen. Because of who you are. MeeMaw would be proud. I know I am."

Julie leaned in, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Just next time... Maybe save me a dance before you conduct any more daring do."

"I-I can do that."

[catatonicdelirium]

On the Run

The ship’s alarm system went off as Jen stepped out of the background check chamber. Lights flickered a red hue, on and off, as the loudspeaker chimed in saying “RED ALERT. FOUL PLAY DETECTED. RED ALERT…” over and over again. Marie was shaking with the plasma pistol firmly in her grip, quivering from the after-shock of the adrenaline rush. The bay was dark other than the oscillating, eery glow of the red lights.

“Holy shit,” Marie said, collecting her nerves after killing Tim. “I just killed a man… I just killed a man and now space cops are probably after us! What should I do?!” Jen came up to her, clutched her hands, and took the pistol from Marie. “Calm down, I’ve been in situations like this before, and I have my PhD in computer engineering. This will be solved in no time.” Jen set the plasma pistol back on the desk, walked over Tim’s dusty remains, and went up to the mainframe. A large obelisk stood in the middle of a circular-shaped desk filled with computer monitors, all flashing warning symbols and a print-out in an alien script that Marie couldn’t comprehend. “Go into the supply closet over there and look for a crowbar, a pair of wire-cutters, and the computer’s logbook.”

Marie complied and went over to the supply closet, which was locked. She tried her key-card, but to no avail. The thing was sealed shut. “Umm… Jen, the supply closet’s locked and the key-card won’t work.” “Shit! He must’ve logged the system as us being prisoners. Do you have Tim’s key-card?” “If it was on his person, it’s turned to dust,” Marie kicked at the dust mote which was Tim, and kicked it, sending up a flurry of particles into the air. “Shit, that must’ve been why the alarm went off in the first place.” “What should we do?” “Use the plasma pistol to brute-force it,” Jen was cussing up and down as she was clattering away on the keyboards to no avail. “God damn! Nothing’s working. The system’s completely locked down.” Marie shot open the supply closet door, and went scrounging around for the materials that Jen requested. “Get a multimeter too,” Jen said as Marie handed her the crowbar. “I need to make sure the whole ship doesn’t blow up.” Jen began to budge open the case of the mainframe computer, and Marie turned to go back into the supply closet, when she heard a click.

A thirty-something year old dude with a beard and a 9mm was standing near the entrance of the ship. “What the FUCK,” he said, “Is this Star Wars looking shit?” The Dude was shaking his weapon in fear, eyes wide and looking visibly confused. Marie put her hands up and dropped the plasma pistol; Jen had just budged the computer case off when she took notice of the man. She glanced over, started to go back to work, and then did a double-take—only to see Marie being held hostage by a common criminal.

“Damn it, the Time-Void was de-activated.” “What the FUCK are you talking about, bitch?!” The Dude pointed his gun to Jen, and she put her hands up, crowbar still in hand. “Drop the crowbar! Now!” She did, and the Dude started to pace the room, waving the 9mm around like a lunatic. “So I’m trying to get this deal to go through, right? The guy shits himself before he finally tells us where the goods are. And then I hear these sirens coming from the basement. Now here I am.” “Look, you shouldn’t really mess with us…” Jen said as the Dude was pacing back and forth. “Why not? I figure I could strip this place down and get me one of them Nobel Prizes.” “Because of that,” Jen pointed behind her, and a guy with a plasma pistol and a gaudy, green uniform (indicative of the Space-Patrol) said, “Drop the weapon. Now!” The Dude spasmed out, and said, “Fuck you, bitch!” And shot the space cop clean through the head.

“What the fuck is this guy doing here?!” The Dude said as the space cop bled out on the floor. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re trying to steal this ship,” Jen said, muttering under her breath some choice words. “How the fuck am I supposed to notice something like that? This is some weird Star Trek shit. I don’t know anything about Star Trek shit.” At that moment, while the Dude was distracted, Marie went for the plasma pistol and pointed it up to his head. “Wait! Don’t shoot me!” The Dude, whose adrenaline was subsiding, dropped his 9mm on the ground. “I can help!” “Help? How?!” Marie said as she pushed the plasma pistol up to the Dude’s temple. “That’s actually not a bad idea,” Jen said, going back to the computer’s mainframe. She was fiddling with some wires while she spoke: “Marie, give him a plasma pistol. This guy’s got good reflexes. He can hold off the cops until we’re off the ground.” “What? This guy nearly killed us!” “Yeah, but he’s got good aim. Listen, guy, if you help us out we can make it worth your while.” “Worth my while? How?” “Riches beyond belief. We’re going to take this ship right to the inter-galactic museum and rip it off.” “Shit, what did I walk into?” “Something big.”

The Dude grabbed the plasma pistol and hunched by the door. Jen continued with her work, and Marie went to watch Jen. Just as Jen was finishing up and the alarms were powering off, the Dude waved over Marie. “It looks like we might have a problem.” “COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP,” a crowd of space pigs had assembled at the entrance of the ship. “LEST WE USE BRUTAL FORCE.” “Shit,” Marie said. “Hey Jen, can we start the ship up now?” “Sure thing,” Jen said, manning the helm of the central computer. The Dude fired a few shots out into the crowd, pegging a couple of the space cops. The ramp was reeling up as Jen flicked a switch, and then suddenly, they were gone. “We’re in orbit now,” Jen said. “It looks like these new ships come with some sort of local teleportation abilities. Marie, flick that switch over there, that’s the cloaking device, we don’t want to freak out any paranoiacs down on Earth.” Marie flipped the switch and checked the radar monitor. What showed up was a series of small dots, circling the Earth… but also a large dot circling the opposite way at a faster clip. “Uh, Jen, you might want to check this out.” Jen went up to the radar control panel and looked at the screen. “Shit, that must be the pigs. Get on the missile propulsion system. We need to get rid of this guy.” Jen flittered away on the radar, tracking the other ship’s location. “Okay, Marie, press that big, red button over there.” Marie did just that, and then after a few clicks, the other dot on the radar vanished. “Cool, looks like we got him,” Jen said, her face brightening up. “But we’re not out of the thick of it just yet, this ship here doesn’t have inter-stellar capabilities, much less inter-galactic ones.” “So what does that mean?” The Dude roused up from crouching by the door, still in a state of shock. “It means… we’re going to have to steal another ship.”

[harmonizingsunsets]

Polin Week Day 4: Prompt - Jealousy

Touching A Live Wire

After dragging Colin by the arm through her and Eloise's flat with one hand, Penelope slams the door behind them with the other.

She folds her arms across her chest and looks him in the eye for the first time since they left her work party early. He'd looked apologetic, following her wordlessly to the car and remaining silent during the entire drive to the flat.  

"You have five seconds to apologize."

Colin sighs, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. "Penelope, this is a misunderstanding."

"Five," she starts counting.

"I didn't mean to say it that loud!"

Penelope's lips curl further in anger. "Four."

"Wait, let me explain why I—."

"Three," she interrupts, tapping her foot loudly on the floor.

Colin tilts his head at her. "Pen, this is ridiculous."

"Two."

"Can't we just sit down and—." Pen opens her mouth, her lips forming the word one, but Colin looks alarmed and puts his hands out to stop her. "Fine, you're right. I'm sorry!"

Penelope breathes in relief. Despite the show she just put on, she didn't know what she would've done if she'd reached one. With Penelope's grade three students, she'd send them to the principal's office or write their names in the infraction book. But, Penelope didn't think those forms of punishment would've worked with Colin.

She moves her hands to her hips, pinning her gaze on him. "Sorry about what?"

"I'm sorry that I got a bit carried away."

"A bit carried away?" Penelope scoffs, causing him to flinch in guilt. "Colin, you yelled at my co-worker, "Penelope is too good for you," and then proceeded to knock over the punch bowl!"

"In my defense, whoever placed it there did a poor job. It was teetering on the edge of the table."

Penelope's jaw clenches. "I placed it on the table."

Colin's eyes go wide, adorably so, which she could appreciate more if she weren't so angry at him.

Well, she still does appreciate it a little. She's human, after all.

"Oh, then it was a lovely job!" Colin exclaims, trying to cover himself. "Perfect placement, angels in heaven would want you to be on punchbowl duty at every party."

"You think angels have parties?"

"No, of course not, but they host them. Can you imagine parties in heaven? Unlimited food, great entertainment, and you could dance with Pablo Picasso and Prince at the same time."

"You really think Picasso and Prince would run in the same social circles in—hey, don't distract me," she interrupts herself, pointing accusingly at him while biting back a grin. "I'm mad at you."

Colin takes a step forward, beginning to smirk. "Then why are you smiling?"

"It's an annoying side effect of being around you," Penelope explains grumpily. "But, I'm still angry."

Colin deflates. "I know. You  should be angry at me." He begins to pace, making Penelope worry that he's going to slip as she and Eloise just polished the floor yesterday. "I was way out of line. I shouldn't have yelled at your co-worker. It was disrespectful."

Penelope exhales, her anger beginning to fade, but confusion still causing her head to ache.

"I don't understand. Why did you yell that at him? And why did you spend the whole evening scowling at him and steering me away from him the entire time?"

Colin doesn't respond, looking down at his shoes. His behavior worries her, as Colin's never been one to avoid telling her something. His eyes are always open, full of honesty and understanding. But lately, they've been clouded.

The clouds are unsettling. Penelope misses the sun's warmth, and she can't take the chill anymore, especially because she doesn't know what prompted the weather change.

"You've been so unlike you the past few weeks," Penelope quickly says before she loses her nerve. "You've been off ever since he started working with me at the beginning of this month."

Colin shifts his feet. "No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have! Whenever I bring him up, you completely shut me out, you've avoided my attempts for you to meet him, and I caught you rolling your eyes when I was talking to him on the phone," she lists, furrowing her eyebrows. "What do you have against him?"

"Nothing."

"Colin, tell me."

He shrugs but with tense shoulders. "There's nothing to tell."

Penelope presses on, taking a step closer. "Obviously, you have something against him."

"No, I don't," he says, taking a step back.

She steps forward, feeling a rook on a chessboard that's slowly advancing on his pawn as he moves it backward one square at a time.

"Be honest."

"I am."

"No, you're not. I know you well enough to know when you're lying."

"Penelope…"

"Please, Colin, just tell me what's really got you so—."

"He's into you!" Colin blurts out.

Penelope freezes, her rook stopping one square before her victory.

Colin grimaces at himself, taking a deep breath as if his words knocked the wind out of him.

"What?"

"He's into you," Colin repeats, his voice quieter than before. "I don't like the way he looks at you. He obviously wants something more than friendship."

Penelope knows she shouldn't, but she laughs. "That's absurd."

Colin's expression drops even further, beginning to frown. "Why is that absurd? "

"Because it's me. Why would he be interested in me?"

"Why wouldn't he be?"

Penelope narrows her eyes at him. "Colin, don't play dumb."

"I'm not. You're the one that's playing dumb."

"Excuse me?"

"Pen, you're intelligent, beautiful, funny, and kind," Colin describes, slowly raising his hands and placing them on her arms. There's something in his eyes as he speaks so vehemently, a gleam that sends a thrill through her body. "You're the perfect package. Who wouldn't want you?"

Something in his words causes her to pause, reassessing the entire evening. Once she does, seeing a supercut of Colin's reactions towards her co-worker and his behavior around the two of them, her mind reaches one conclusion—a conclusion which quickens her heartbeat.

However, it also inspires a newfound sense of motivation to stop tiptoeing at the edge of the cliff she's been on for years.

But, she has to make sure Colin is truly standing on the same cliff as her before jumping.

Penelope swallows nervously. "Alright, let's say you're right and that I'm the perfect package—."

"You are."

"Ok, let's say that I am," Penelope agrees, taking a deep breath before crafting her following words. "So, why shouldn't he like me?"

"It's not that he shouldn't like you because, of course, he should. But—he shouldn't," Colin blabbers, getting a cute crinkle in between his brows as he struggles to explain himself adequately, which only fuels her wonderful but terrifying theory. "Because… he's—that guy is not right for you. "

Penelope inches closer, so her chest brushes against his body. He intakes a sharp breath, and she has to restrain herself from doing the same thing, knowing the gravity of this moment—of getting this exactly right.

"But I'm the perfect package, so I'm perfect for him, right?"

"No—I mean, yes, he'd be lucky to have you. But that doesn't mean you should be with him." His eyes flicker to her chest, and back up at her eyes, and back to his shoes, his face becoming more red with each passing second. "He—he has a horrible laugh, he likes Star Trek over Star Wars, and he took way more than his share of the cheese platter—."

"Those reasons are inconsequential. You know they are."

Colin opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. So, Penelope raises one of her hands, moving up his arm and to his neck.

The path of Penelope's fingertips creates a live wire, causing his skin to brim with electricity everywhere she touches.  But, it doesn't shock her. Instead, she's part of the electrical current and feels a hum of energy in her palm that his touch provides.

"So, there must be another reason you don't want me to be with him," Penelope continues, forcing her voice not to shake. "Right?"

"No," he shakes his head after a few beats.

She bites her lip, trying to hold on to hope. "Really, there's not one reason?"

"Um…no?"

Penelope sighs, dropping her hands from his neck, feeling stupid. How foolish was she to think ahead of herself like this? Clearly, Colin's answer was not what she predicted. Just like always, she got carried away in romantic notions, as she always seemed to, when Colin’s around.

"Ok," she says, clearing her throat. Colin frowns at the sudden distance, but Penelope can't see his expression as she's closing her eyes to try and banish the inclination to cry. "I know, it's been a long day, so let's forget it. I think I should—."

Penelope doesn't get to answer. Because, suddenly, Colin swoops forward, his hands cupping her cheeks and his lips crashing onto hers.

If touching his skin created a live wire, kissing Colin makes a high electricity voltage, one strong enough to power an entire city.

Colin's lips brush against her softly, but there's a desperate edge to it, one akin to the desperation she feels as she clutches the collar of his jacket and pulls him closer.

When Colin breaks apart for a breath, he rests his forehead on hers.

"I was jealous," he whispers.

Penelope pulls her head back a little so that she can meet his eyes. "What?"

"That's why I didn't want you to be with him, because I want you to be with me," Colin confesses, pursing his lips. "I know that's immature. I'm sorry. You should be with whoever you want to be with, even if it's not me. It's my fault that I was too much of a coward until—Ow!" He abruptly yelps, looking down at his arm, which Penelope just pinched. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Penelope ducks her head, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile. "I was just checking to make sure you weren't an illusion."

Colin smiles in the incandescent way that made Penelope fall in love with him in the first place. He tips her chin up, forcing her to meet his bright eyes filled with an emotion that wraps around her heart and squeezes it.

"I'm real, I'm very much real," Colin assures, his thumb skimming her cheek. "I'll prove it to you."

He closes the distance between them again. But, Penelope is the one to deepen the kiss. She feels a wave of heat run through her at Colin's moan. Also, she experiences a surge of confidence, proud that she was the one to elicit such a glorious sound.

Penelope wraps her arms around her neck, finding it slightly annoying that he's so tall, as she has to lean up on her toes to kiss him. Colin must sense her struggle, quickly amending the issue by swiftly raising her into the air.

But, as her legs sweep up as she's taken into his arms, she accidentally kicks the bowl that holds her and Eloise's apartment keys off of the table.

It crashes loudly onto the floor, the ceramic breaking into multiple tiny pieces.

Colin and Penelope's lips break from each other's, looking down at the mess near her feet. Then, for a moment, neither of them say anything, only staring at the floor.

"Well…at least there was no punch in there this time," Colin says, sidestepping the broken pieces of the bowl.

Penelope laughs, smiling against his lips as she pulls him in for another kiss.

While she has a lot of explaining to do about the dramatic scene the two of them caused when she shows up at work tomorrow and will have to answer Eloise about the broken bowl, she can't find it in herself to care.

When he opens his eyes briefly, looking at her and moving a strand of hair behind her ear, she no longer sees clouds. Instead, she only sees the sun, and she wants to bask in its glow forever.

Penelope knows how idealistic that thought is, but as Colin begins kissing down her neck after moving them to the couch, she thinks it's quite a reasonable notion.

[coexiising]

angel of small death & the codeine scene - anakin skywalker

SUMMARY ◆ anakin is just so fucking enamored by you that he can’t take it holding back from professing it anymore. porn with a plot lol. 

WARNING(S) ◆ smut, lowkey public sex but not rly, y’all just fuck in his ship in the hangar, dirty talk, unedited

WORDS ◆ 2.5k

NOTE ◆ this is based off of the song ‘angel of small death & the codeine scene’ by hozier so yeah listen to that if you desire but i can’t stop you if u don’t. this is really short lol im just indulging

»»————-　✼　————-««

“YOU SAID THAT YOU WERE HAVING TROUBLE WITH YOUR SHIP?” YOU ASKED THE GENERAL, WALKING UP THE RAMP. it was later in the day, and just as you were going to call it a day and settle down for the night, you got a call on your comms asking for you to come down to the hangar. that was where the commander told you that they were experiencing some problems with general skywalker’s ship and sent you to do your job. 

you hadn’t been working in tech for super long, still young enough to make a real job out of it. but you joined the side of the republic in the war because you didn’t want to see democracy die, and if you could play a small part in that, that was good enough for you. 

there was a clank of something mechanical from the main control center and no response to your question, prompting you to walk towards the noise to find out if the general was making the problem worse. the second you came within a few feet of him, he jumped and turned around to face you, wrench in his hand. “maker, you scared me,” he stated. 

a small grin made it’s way onto your face. “aren’t you supposed to be able to sense things coming up behind you?” 

generally, you wouldn’t be talking that way to a general of the republic. but anakin was different, more close to your age and really didn’t care all that much for titles or respective ranks. you could see it with the way he treated the soldiers with as much respect he would give to someone like general kenobi or general windu. 

anakin laughed, stepping out of the way to let you see what he was attempting to do. you saw all these wires popping out of place, and one of the pipes completely busted out of its socket. how the hell had he managed to do this? you turned back to face him and cocked your head to the side, motioning at the carnage and saying, “how did this even happen?” 

you allowed your eyes to only look into his blue ones, because you knew the second you let them do what they wanted, you would look over him like he was a meal. and to your defense, anakin was incredibly hot. there was no denying it. but he was a jedi, and a general, and to the most of your knowledge nothing was ever going to happen. 

he cleared his throat. “just a . . . just a mishap that’s all, look, can you fix it or not?” 

“yeah, it shouldn’t take too long,” you replied, setting down your bag filled with tools and beginning to work. and then hopefully you would finally be done for the day and could get some much needed rest. 

“alright, i’ll be back in just a moment,” anakin told you, his hand coming to your waist for just a moment to push past you. you knew that it was just something that he did absentmindedly, but it sent a shock through your body, making your brain hotwire for just a moment. but as soon as it was there, it was gone and you were alone in his ship. 

anakin knew that he was a reckless person. it was evident to anyone that most of the time he did what he wanted, not taking into account any of the possible consequences afterwards. you would think that being a jedi wouldn’t keep that much room for error, since sometimes the weight of the galaxy sat on his shoulders, but there were times where he felt himself breaking away from the jedi code. and that happened the second he saw you. 

he knew that it was wrong to lust over some mechanic that he only saw from afar most days, but you were just so goddamn beautiful he couldn’t help himself. anakin admired the way that you carried yourself, confidently in anything that you did, the way that your hair framed your face every day, and the face you made when you were concentrating. 

at first it just started off as a passing thought, just a brief ‘oh, she’s hot’ instinct that everyone had once in a while, but now he knew that he wanted you. and anakin was planning on just letting the feeling run its course until it was sucessfully gone, but the second you walked into his ship, he could feel the want practically jumping off of you. 

he had to have you, especially now since he knew the feeling was mutual. there was just the tricky task of initiating something.  

you puffed out a small breath, biting the inside of your cheek as your fingers carefully patched wires together. it was getting later and still no sign of anakin again. weird, you thought to yourself, but not so unlikely. it’s not like you needed him to complete your job anyways. you went back to work, wondering what could have possibly happened to general skywalker. 

it seems that devising a plan to get your attention was harder than the man wanted to admit, because he had been standing next to the ramp for almost ten minutes now since he had left for a quick daily briefing. he was probably looking like an idiot just standing there. to hell with it. he would just improvise. like he did most things. 

“you finished yet?” you heard anakin ask from behind you. you shook your head in response, taking a moment to look at him. 

“your power converters are basically fried,” you told anakin, your cheeks flaring up at the way he was looking down at you. sure, there had always been a slight height difference between the two of you, but you were crouching down right level with his hips. you bit your lip and immediately got back to work, pretending like you weren’t just thinking about giving him a blowjob right then and there. 

the problem was that anakin knew exactly what you were thinking and that smirk came onto his face, leaning against the wall closest to you and watching you work. your face flared up, feeling his eyes trail on you. “do you have to watch me while i’m working?” you asked him in a hushed tone, as if you weren’t trying to ask him that indirectly. 

“am i making you nervous?” 

your stomach dropped, you were so flustered by him that the cable almost slipped out of your hands onto the floor. luckily you were quick to conceal it and you hoped that anakin didn’t notice. but he did, he was watching your every move, seeing how long it took before you broke. “no, general skywalker, you are not making me nervous, just tired that’s all,” you said, not daring to look at him. 

though, the next thing anakin asked caught you off guard. 

“when are you just going to admit you want me?” 

you would be lying if you said your knees didn’t feel like giving out right then and there. anakin said it in a deep voice, like he was teasing you for your attraction towards him. your mouth felt dry, like someone was stuffing cotton balls right down your throat. there wasn’t anything you thought you could say to try and defend yourself. 

instead you stood up and crossed your arms, looking into those eyes to decifer what he was thinking. anakin was looking right back at you with those magnificent eyes of yours, yet there was a hint of something else there. he was being mischevious and you knew it, toying around with you all because he could feel the feelings you were giving off. “fine, general, i do feel something towards you, but what does that have to do with anything?” you said, deciding to take the high ground. 

it was like a lightbulb went off in his head, and before you knew it he was walking up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer. woah. this was not the reaction that you thought you were going to get. honestly, you thought that he would kick you out and order for someone else to come fix his ship. this was definitely not that. 

“I asked you,” he started, one of his hands coming up along your back to your neck. you shivered and leaned into his touch. “because i want you too.” both of you were staring into each other’s eyes, almost daring each other to make the first move. 

and that’s all it took before you were leaning in, hesitating for just one second more as your nose brushed against his own. there was still time for you to compose yourself and walk away, leave your desires there and forget this ever happened. 

to hell with it. you wanted him and he was looking at you like you put stars in the sky. the stupid jedi code would just have to be pushed aside for the moment, because you were closing the gap between both of you and kissing him, body intermingling with his own. 

it was a mesh of your gasps from his roaming hands and his groans from your own hands tangling and tugging on those curls of his that were just begging to be ran through. you could’ve sworn anakin tasted like berries and he kissed with so much want and need that it was almost hard to keep up with him. but you did nonetheless, wanting as much as he was willing to give you. these types of things only happened in your wildest dreams. 

your back was soon pressed against the wall that he was once leaning on, one hand on your waist and the other sitting comfortably on your neck to keep you close to him. the air was hot and heavy surrounding both of you and you pressed your body against him, signaling that you needed him right now. 

anakin pulled away, cheeks red from lack of air. “the guards come to check the hangar every 2200 hours,” he told you, forehead pressing against your own. you looked at the clock behind him and saw that it was almost that time, and that you had at least fifteen minutes maybe less if the guards decided to come a few minutes early. 

you were quick to think, your eyes landing on the chair near the controls. he seemed to hear your thoughts, pressing a kiss against your lips before bringing you over there by your hands. you pushed him down onto his seat, pulling down your pants just enough and watching as he pulled himself out of his pants. 

of course anakin skywalker was packing.

you swore that if you could take your time with him, you would already be on your knees for him. oh well, there would just have to be a next time. 

“hurry,” anakin said to you, helping you up onto him so you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his sitting body on the chair. you put your hands against his shoulders for support and once you were ready, you sunk down onto him and your eyes rolled to the back of your head. he filled you up just right and it was better than you could ever imagine. anakin panted below you, head bowing down to nip at the exposed parts of your neck. 

the second the pain began to subside, you experimentally moved your hips forward, feeling a wave of pleasure course through your entire body. it almost stopped you from moving, which was not good for the time constraint. just as you were about to begin again, anakin grabbed your hips forcefully and lifted you up slightly, biceps flexing as his hips raised to meet your own. 

you couldn’t stop yourself from making noise while he continued with this fast pace in the same way, mouth wide open and hands shaking as they tried to keep their hold on him. you were hot all over, every time he pushed into you it felt like he was splitting you open so deliciously. the noise being made by both of you incredibly lewd, though it was on neither of your minds. 

you always thought that anakin looked so good after battle, when there was still sweat on his brow and his hair was all messy. he looked like that now, except you were the person messing up his hair and making him sweat, and that made your heart swoon. you wanted to kiss him and now there was nothing stopping you. your lips attached to his in a hungry kiss, tongue slipping right into his mouth and prodding against his own. everything was hot, sloppy, and messy and you didn’t care. 

“you look so hot like this,” anakin told you against your lips, pulling back and watching your face as he pounded into you. and he wasn’t lying, it was one of the best things he’s ever seen in his life. he made sure that he would remember this moment so he could replay it in his mind over and over again. “if i would’ve known you’d take me this good i would’ve done something sooner.” 

you couldn’t respond to him with words, only moans that came from deep in your throat. you weren’t going to last much longer, not when every time his hips hit your own it rubbed against your clit for just a short moment. you tried to help him with the movement, circling your hips and feeling the release creep up on you before you could compose yourself. 

“anakin,” you moaned out as you hit that much needed orgasm, looking right into his eyes as you fell apart. you were so sensitive that you whined against his neck where your head now laid, making use of your lips by kissing along his tanned neck. 

a few more thrusts and he was there, cumming right inside of you and making you hum in contentment. the two of you caught your breath against one another, his hand coming to rub against your back in a way that was surprisingly really loving. you moved your head so you were facing him and he leaned in to give you one last kiss, pushing away the hair that had fallen into your eyes. 

a new voice in the hangar made you jump, realizing that the cloned guards were here. both of you scrambled to get up, helping each other dress and look at least a little presentable. your legs were shaking with every step and you heard anakin laugh a little from behind you, making you hit his shoulder jokingly. the footsteps came closer and soon enough one of the commanders was looking at the two of you. for good measure, you picked up your bag of supplies. 

“general skywalker, you’re out here late,” the guard said, giving a look at you. “is everything alright?” 

“yes,” anakin responded. “the mechanic here was just finishing up work on my ship.” 

as soon as the guards stepped away, you gave him a look. “you know i didn’t even finish repairments, right?” 

anakin shrugged, a grin on his face. “i guess you’ll just have to come back tomorrow then, same time?” 

“sure thing, general.”

[silkling]

Hi! I remember you said you liked angst. So... Can you write another fanfic on the AU where the rescue bots were found by the Autobots, with the following plot: Blades is forced to repair one of his comrades, who was seriously injured in battle?(either Chase or Heatwave, your choice) 👀

Ooh, I like this idea! Imma do it. I’m going to make it worse though. Just because. Apparently I really like hurting my favorite characters. Go figure, huh? Also, for those who didn’t read the first, this fic is in the same verse as this one.

Also, beware that there will be descriptions of graphic injury, so be wary if that’s something that upsets you.

———————————————————————————————————

The stars were silent. They always were, of course, but during the Ark’s recharge cycle the silence was all-consuming. Blades was in the rec room, sitting in the little viewport alcove that took up a small portion of the wall. They were passing by the same star system where the Sigma had been found by the Autobots, all those stellar cycles ago. 5 vorns or so had passed since then, which felt both like an eternity and like no time at all.

Blades knew Cybertronians lived a long time. In reality, 5 vorns was barely any time at all for one of their kind. But for Blades, who had once only ever known what it was to save lives, the past 5 vorns that he’d spent learning to take them had dragged on and felt almost unbearably long. He hadn’t actually killed yet, but he’d already learned how do so with a blaster, how to do it by hand, and even how to get in close and use a blade. Apparently, he was particularly talented at that last one. Given his name, the Protectobot found it rather ironic.

“Blades? What are you doing up? You do not have any duties this night cycle.”

The motorcycle startled, his engine revving and his processor snapping to attention at the unexpected voice. He hadn’t killed any bot yet, but he’d been in many, many, many battles now, some of which still gave him nightmares. He’d developed battle protocols very quickly after joining the Autobots, and now took being surprised as poorly as most of the others did. His optics sharpened and focused on his unexpected visitor with unnerving intensity, before his sighed and relaxed, tense armor plating loosening once more.

“Chase.” he greeted. “I know. I couldn’t sleep. I was remembering that last battle.”

“Ah.” Here, his friend’s voice softened, and the blue and white bot walked over to join him. He nudged the slimmer youngling aside until there was room in the small alcove for them both, sitting opposite from his friend and letting their pedes entangle. “I understand now.”

And he did. The last battle had been fought on a young planet, one with plentiful energon mines, and where the local species were still primitive. It had been a difficult fight. Blades, like always, had fought on the front lines with Hot Spot, Groove and Streetwise. Chase and Heatwave had been nearby, too. Somehow, they always found themselves fighting near each other. As with most of their battles, Boulder and First Aid had remained behind at the Ark, away from the battle proper. It hadn’t been a very unique battle, at first. Then the Deceptions had unveiled a new weapon. It had destroyed the planet, and every life that called it home had died with it. The Autobots had been too late to realize what was going on. They hadn’t been able to stop it, only flee before they too fell to the new weapon.

Blades had taken it particularly hard. The small motorcycle was a deeply empathetic bot, and it had hurt him to know they they had brought their war to another planet, and that it had resulted in the destruction of that planet and the loss of the lives there. Chase couldn’t blame him. All of Sigma-17 had felt that loss particularly hard. For all they had become soldiers after being awoken from stasis, all four younglings were still Rescue Bots at spark.

“We will simply have to stop Megatron next time and destroy his weapon before he can ever use it again.” Chase said after a moment of silence. He knew Blades wouldn’t be reassured by useless platitudes.

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, distant. “Yeah.” he repeated, sounding a little more present as his optics hardened. “We will. He can’t do that again.”

Blades turned to meet his friend’s gaze, chin lifting. “We won’t let him do that again.”

Chase smiled, nodding. “No, we will not.” he agreed.

Blades relaxed completely then, sighing and shifting until he could lean into Chase’s chest. “Thank you, Chase.” he whispered.

“Of course.” he said, his arms coming around to press the smaller bot to his chest. “I will always be there to support you, when you have need of it. I am your Amica, after all.”

That was another thing that had changed in the past few vorns. Blades and Chase had always been fairly close, since they found they balanced each other out quiet nicely. Even before stasis, they’d been close friends. Blades appreciated Chase’s calm, peaceful logic and found it helped bring him him back from some of his nervous breakdowns, and Chase found Blades’s natural easy-going and sociable demeanor soothing and helpful at understanding situations which normally gave him pause. It had only taken them a couple vorns after coming out of stasis to formally perform the ritus and become Amica Endura.

Blades laughed, his hands raising to curl across the arms pressed to his chestplate. “Yeah, you are. And I’m yours. You can always count on me, Chase.”

A small smiled tugged at his lips, and he turned his gaze to the stars outside the viewport, in his chest, his spark pulsed, warm and fond with affection and belonging. He knew that Blades was feeling the same right now, both younglings basking in the quiet peace and comfort of each others’ presence.

“I know.”

Outside the Ark, the vast expanse of space stretched on. The billions of stars shone brightly, and life moved ever forward. Time ticked on, and though this moment was calm and soft, there would be many moments to come that would not be. What the future held exactly, only Primus knew. All his children could do now was hold on and ride out the storms to come.

——————————

When it finally happened, Blades would later reflect that he was surprised it had taken as long as it had. But then again, First Aid and Ratchet would probably have done their best to keep it from happening, to make sure his own emotional turmoil wouldn’t cause him to falter. They couldn’t stall it forever though, because this was War and at the end of it all that only meant he would have been forced into a situation like this eventually.

The orn had stared out like most other orns. The only difference has been that the Ark had landed on a planet that apparently was fairly rich in energon. The planet was also largely uninhabited, save some plant life, so they wouldn’t have to worry too much about harming the local inhabitants. Everything had been going well. They’d managed to collect energon, enough to halfway fill one of the storage hangars, and had been in the process of mining more when the Decepticon attacked.

Blades still wasn’t sure where they’d come from. Maybe they’d landed the Nemesis on the other side in the planet and travelled the rest of the way themselves. Maybe the Nemesis was still above them all, and the ‘Cons had just made planet fall on their own in order to attack. Either way, Megatron and his soldiers had showed up, and once again a battle had begun. Blades hadn’t been near his team or his brothers when the attack had begun, so he hadn’t been able to join them for the fight. That had made him nervous, but he’d fought anyway, shooting at any Decepticons who got close and using the terrain as cover.

It hadn’t been long before there’d been a call for medical attention, and Blades had reacted on instinct. He’d sprung from behind the large stone he was hiding behind, following the call until he came across Cliffjumper and Arcee. The other two-wheeler was unconscious, a shot leaking energon from her neck. Blades had been quick to get Cliffjumper’s help to drag her behind another nearby outcropping, and he’d settled down to begin triage care. As soon as he’d been assured of her survival, he’d swiftly ordered the red mech to bring her to the med-bay. Usually, he didn’t have the rank to order other bots around, but he’d found that all the Autobots would tend to do what he told them when it came to medical matters.

He’d turned to rejoin the battle when Sunstreaker had dragged his twin around the outcropping, dropping Sideswipe with a snarled demand to fix him. Blades hadn’t taken offense. They were split spark twins. They shared a spark bond with each other, like he did with his brothers. It wasn’t the same exact type of bond, but it was close enough that he understood the panic. He’d fixed the severed fuel lines, patched up the sparking wires, and welded the gashes in red armor before telling Sunstreaker to get his brother out of the battlefield. Sideswipe wouldn’t be able to fight further with his wounds, even though Blades had managed to repair the damage completely. He’d need to recover.

It had seemed that, after that, the Autobots must have figured out that the outcropping was where emergency triage was being done. They’d probably passed the information along their comm. system while Blades had been working on Arcee. After the Twins, Blades had found himself busy with many bots. Most had only surface level wounds, injuries that needed a quick patch so they could rejoin the fight. Others needed a full field repair and a retreat, like Sideswipe had. Blaster had been dragged to him by his Cassettes in critical condition, and Blades had had to quickly patch the life threatening damage, then order Ironhide, who’d come in to get a leaking fuel line patched, to take the host mech to Ratchet and First Aid immediately.

Once he’d done that and turned to his next field patient, he’d caught sight of blue and white armor. His processor was deep in its rescue and medical protocols, so much so he initially tuned out all his surroundings. It wasn’t until something in the back of his mind whispered that the shade of blue was familiar that he paused, taking in the full extent of the damage. It was bad. The bot’s chest was the worst off. It looked like they’d been hit point blank with an explosion. The metal armor of the chestplate was melted and twisted, with large areas gone altogether. Blades could see into their chest and realized that even their internals were damaged. The fuel pump was dented and had been pierced with a shard of blue armor, there were several sparking wires and spurting lines, and worst of all, the bot’s spark chamber was caved in and cracked. The motorcycle could see the weak glow of the bot’s spark. That wasn’t even all the damage. The poor bot was missing a leg, and it looked like one of their arms had been practically shredded. Even beyond that, most of the bot’s frame was dented or damaged in some way. Blades could barely pick out the paint job under all the damage.

Even so, his processor started screaming louder as he realized that, despite all that, the colors and patterns of that paint were familiar. Blades froze, his spark almost spasming with dawning horror, and he turned his gaze up to the bot’s face. As soon as he locked onto the slack face, saw the darkened optics that he knew should be a glowing amber, he couldn’t hold back the agonized keen as his medical protocols stuttered.

It was Chase.

His next vent came out in a harsh whine, and he couldn’t take his optics off the slack face of his Amica. Blades almost jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Jazz looking at him with a grim expression. The Third in Command nodded his helm at the prone form of his teammate.

“I know it’s tough’.” he said. “But ya gotta take care o’ him. If he don’t get the care he needs now, he ain’t gonna survive the trip to old’ Ratch. He needs you, mechlin’, so don’t spiral now.”

Blades stared at him for a sparkbeat, and then jolted as if he’d been physically shocked. He turned back to Chase, trying to ignore that it was his Amica who was wounded and dying in front of him, and got to work. He took in the damage once more, fingertips transforming into the tools he needed, and with a hard vent he forced his emotional processes to mute themselves in his processor, letting medical response protocols rise to the surface uninterrupted. Abruptly, his previously distraught EM field went blank and numb, making the bots around him wince with the suddenness if it.

Jazz stepped back, a flicker of regret in his visored optics. He recognized what Blades had done. He’d shut down his emotional response core. It wasn’t something the average bot could do, and he suspected the youngling only knew how to because of his medical training. The only other bot he’d seen do that was Prowl, and the Praxian had to do it if he wanted to come up with his tactics without crippling himself emotionally. Luckily, the emotional core could be brought back online later, but he knew it was never a pleasant process for the bot who had done so to come out of the emotional numbness. He only regretted that Blades had found it necessary to do so in the first place. No youngling should have to do something so drastic. It wasn’t right.

In front of Jazz and the other Autobots who were gathered behind the outcropping for minor repair, Blades worked on. He ignored the sounds of weapons fire and destruction beyond the small safe haven he was huddled in, focusing only on the task in front of him. He had to make sure Chase survived. He had to.

Failure wasn’t an option.

——————————

The rest of the orn passed in a haze. Blades was aware of things distantly, but wasn’t processing anything emotionally. He knew Jazz took Chase off to the Ark as soon as he’d ensured his friend wouldn’t die in the next few groons, until Ratchet or First Aid could get to him. After that, things happened quickly. He’d patched up the other bots around his outcropping who’d only needed minor repair, but he’d had no major patients after that. And then Megatron was calling a retreat, and Ironhide had come to guide Blades back to the Ark. None of the older bots seemed upset at the two-wheeler’s numb demeanor. He was in shock. He knew it. They knew it. They didn’t hold it against him.

Once he had been safely delivered to the starship, Ironhide had gone off. Blades wasn’t paying attention to where he’d gone. Maybe some of the others were gathering the last of the energon. Maybe everyone was preparing for take off. He wasn’t fully aware, wasn’t fully processing his surroundings. He drifted along in a haze, until he found himself in front of the medbay doors. That was when his focus sharpened. Usually after a battle, he’d join Ratchet and his brother in the medbay and do his part to help. He needed to go in.

The only thing making him hesitate was Chase. His Amica was in there. He’d done all he could on the battlefield, but had it been enough? Could he face it again?

He would have to. He stiffened his spinal strut and steeled his resolve, then stepped forward and the doors opened. He stepped into the medbay, his optics roving over the occupied berths, until they landed on a trio of berths by the far wall. On one, there was a familiar blue and white frame. Chase. On the second, a red mech lay prone and limp. Heatwave. On the third, a bulky green bot was resting on his side, unconscious and unaware. Boulder.

No.

Blades’s spark screamed in agony. He could see some of the damage from here, but he couldn’t see it all. Heatwave’s lower half looked like it had been crushed under something extremely heavy. The metal armor was dented and almost flattened. Blades could also see that the red mech’s optics were blackened and shattered, if if they’d been hit by a blaster bolt. Boulder wasn’t much better off. His entire back was a melted, twisted mess. Blades could see his spinal strut poking out of the ruined armor. There was so much energon. All three of his teammates were covered in it. It almost looked like they’d decided to incorporate pink into their paint jobs.

An agonized keen tore its way free from his vocalizer, and and medical protocols he had been ready to engage fell away under the onslaught of emotional anguish. He didn’t notice how First Aid had gasped and pressed a hand to his chest plates the second he’d noticed Sigma-17’s damaged states. He didn’t hear his brother call out to him in concern as he keened. He didn’t see Ratchet curse and begin to turn towards him, looking both irritated and worried.

He did, however, feel the hands that clasped his shoulders, the chest that pressed up against his back. He startled, drawing in a rasping gasp, and then he felt a soft warmth wrap around his spark. He knew that presence.

“Streetwise.” he whimpered, twisting to stare up at his oldest brother with wide, over-bright optics.

“Hey, Blades.” Streetwise gave him a small smile. “Let’s go, yeah?”

“B-But I have to stay. I need-“

“Ratchet and ‘Aid can handle it. This was an easy battle. They handled a lot worse than this before you came along.” he cut it. “You won’t be of any use in the state you’re in, Blades. Besides, I’m fairly sure it goes against medical code to come in and treat patients when you’re covered in filth from outside.” he said sternly.

Blades made to protest, but the soothing pulse in his spark from First Aid distracted him enough that Streetwise was able to guide him out of the medbay. He started gently ushering his brother towards the communal washracks, making sure Blades didn’t run into anyone in his shocked state.

“Streetwise, I gotta go back. They need me, I-I can’t-“

“None of that now. You did plenty today. Blades, let them handle it. Your well-being matters too. Right now, that’s actually all I care about. Your team will be fine. Have faith in Ratchet and ‘Aid, yeah?”

Blades whimpered, but he didn’t have the chance to argue further because that was when they came upon the washracks. Hot Spot was there, and he grimaced when he saw the state of his brother, but he forced a smile a moment later and reached out to rub Blades’s audial fins in a way he knew the smaller bot liked. The finial under his fingers quivered faintly, and Hot Spot wrapped a hand around Blades’s wrist to tug him into the washracks. He’d managed to get the others out earlier, and they’d been fairly understanding when he’d explained that Blades was in shock and needed a proper cleaning.

“Come on, bitty Blades.” The largest Protectobot whispered. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah? You’re covered in energon, that can’t feel good.”

Blades went stiff at his brother’s words, looking down at his frame and noticing for the first time that his armor was covered in energon. Chase’s energon. A pained whine was pulled from his vocalizer, and Hot Spot winced when he realized he’d said the wrong thing.

Streetwise shot the bigger bot an unimpressed look, but both knew that talking to Blades now would be useless. The smallest Protectobot, though not by too much, had always been prone to worry and panic. Blades was an anxious bot, it was just part of who he was. It meant that sometimes, his worry overcame him and he spiraled. His brothers could always tell when that happened, because his spark pulsed almost frantically and they could sense the overwhelming panic through the bond. When Blades got like this, he lost awareness of his surroundings. They’d long since learned that the best way to soothe him was to use the bond and send comfort and safety along it, to wrap their brother’s spark in feelings of love and reassurance and peace, and pull him out of his panic that way. Thankfully, Blades didn’t spiral often. He was overly nervous, sure, but he’d never let it stop him from doing what was needed of him, and he’d learned to not let it control him. That didn’t mean his emotions didn’t get the better of him sometimes, though.

Hot Spot gently tugged them all over to one of the cubicles, where he’d already grabbed the items they needed. With all three of them in there, it was a little crowded, but they could make it work. The spray of solvent was turned on, and Blades barely twitched as it hit his frame. Neither Streetwise nor Hot Spot were bothered as their younger brother remained silent. They worked together to clean up the mess that was Blades, using wash rags to wipe away the dirt and energon, and then smaller brushes to get in between the armor plating and into the transformation seams. It took some time, especially with Blades so unresponsive, but eventually they had him fully cleaned and dried, and were tugging him back towards their berthroom.

Blades himself was still in a daze. The energon was gone from his armor, and that certainly helped, but he couldn’t stop thinking of his teammates in such dire condition in the medbay. He couldn’t get the image of Chase’s broken frame on the battlefield out of his processor.

Blades was a gentle spark, perhaps even more so than his easy-going flyer brother. Groove was a pacifist, and Blades was deeply empathetic and his brothers knew that he felt things on an emotional level far more keenly than they were really able to grasp. The rest of the Protectobots had been able to adapt to the War, especially since their introduction to it had been more gradual. But Blades, who had always hated seeing anyone hurt, to the point he’d taken any extra classes he could at the Rescue Academy just to be able to help as many others as he could? The War was hard on him. He’d adapt, in time, but with how sudden his introduction to it had been it would be a while yet before the violence stopped making him so upset.

The trio eventually arrived at their berthroom, and when the door closed behind them Blades felt Streetwise and Hot Spot move away from him. A klik later, he felt another frame press against him, and a pair of arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders. It took only a beat for him to recognize Groove. He whimpered, his fingers twitching and clinging to the copter bot. Blades felt soothing warmth wrap around his spark from the bond, coming from all four of his brothers. Love, warmth, assurance, and peace soaked into his spark, and Blades let out a broken noise as everything from the day crashed into him.

Groove crooned gently, tightening his grip on his younger brother. “Easy, Blades.” he whispered. “We have you. We won’t let you fall, yeah? Just let it out.” he soothed.

Blades shuddered, then sobbed and clung tighter to his brother. He felt Streetwise press up against his back, and Hot Spot’s arms came to way around them all. The four of them stood there for a while, Blades sobbing and gasping as all his panic and worry rushed through him at once. He hadn’t been able to really process it, before. That was the danger of muting ones emotional core, as he had done earlier. It meant that he’d need to handle the emotions he’d blocked off all at once instead of steadily and as they came. So, he was forced to stay in his brothers’ hold, letting them keep him from falling as everything crashed into him. For many breems, he wept into Groove’s shoulder, his own shoulders shaking with the force of what he was feeling.

But, finally, his cries petered out, and then he was just venting harshly, shaking faintly in the aftermath of it all. He felt Hot Spot smooth a hand down his side, then come back up to rub his finial before his biggest brother spoke.

“How about we watch some of that old drama we used to like before the War? We still have the whole series downloaded on the old travel holo-pad. I know you missed a lot of the episodes that came out while you were in stasis, bitty Blades.” he said.

Blades reset his vocalizer, wincing at his staticky and rough his voice was even after doing so. “You have the whole series of But a Chance?”

Streetwise hummed. “You bet we do. We kept downloading the new episodes that came out after…” he paused, trailing off. Blades knew what he was talking about. “Well, we kept downloading the new ones. Never watched them, though. Not beyond the ones that came out before them Purge.”

“Didn’t feel right. Not without you there to make all your little comments.” Hot Spot quipped.

Blades huffed a weak sound of amusement. “You still watched some without me, though.”

“Awe, only a couple, bitty Blades.” Hot Spot smiled. “Not too many. So? What do you say?”

Blades gave another huff. “Yeah.” he agreed,

“Good, because I’ve already got it set up.” Groove said cheerfully.

“Presumptuous.” Streetwise teased.

“Shut it. You’re the one who told me to prepare for a Blades Cheer Up Night.” Groove snipped back.

“We all knew it was time for a Blades Cheer Up Night. Why are you sparklings arguing?” Hot Spot asked playfully.

“I’m older than you.” Streetwise said, frowning.

“Only by half a breem.” Hot Spot sang.

“And I’m not a sparkling!” Groove protested.

“Hush, little brother.” the two older Protectobots said at the same time.

Blades giggled weakly. “Yeah, hush. The big bots are talking.” he rasped.

Groove turned an offended look on him. “We’re all older than you. And bigger.” he sniffed.

“I’m prettier though.”

There were noises of outrage around him, and Blades felt his lips quirk up. Even as Hot Spot tweaked his finial in retaliation, he just felt his smile relax a little more. His spark was still heavy with grief and fear, but already it felt warmer and lighter. He didn’t protest as Streetwise eventually got the other two to simmer down, pushing them all towards the large berth. At the head of the berth, the holo-pad was set up on a small desk. As soon as all four brothers were settled, Groove started the episode Blades remembered having left off on, and they settled down to watch.

Things were peaceful, for a while. They got another episode in, and Blades couldn’t help himself then as he watched the characters go about on screen.

“I’m sorry, Clearview did what now? That’s stupid. She’s stupid. Why would she even do that?”

“Well,” Groove purred. “It could be because she’s actually-“

“No!” Blades hissed, drawing back a pede and planting it firmly in his brother’s hip, sending the flyer tumbling off the berth. “No spoilers!”

Groove cackled, but crawled back onto the berth and flopped on top of his younger brother. “Okay, okay. Have it your way.”

“You two are being far too loud for anyone else to enjoy to show.” Streetwise said blandly.

“Blame Groove.” Blades sniffed. “He started it.”

“You’re the one who kicked me!” Groove squawked, outraged.

“I will not be spoiled! Bots who spoil the show for other bots recharge on the couch, remember? That’s the rule!”

“Well, we don’t have a couch.” Groove said smugly. “So there.”

“We have a floor, don’t we?”

“I’m not recharging on the floor!”

“You are if I make you!”

“Try it!”

“Fine!” Blades huffed, and proceeded to launch himself at his brother.

Groove yelped, not expecting Blades to actually go through with it, and the two wrestled on the berth before their elder brothers pulled them apart. Streetwise grabbed Groove and rolled on top of him, while Hot Spot dragged Blades into his lap and wrapped the motorcycle in his arms.

“Hush.” he admonished. “It’s show time now, not wrestle like feral sparklings time.”

“We’re not sparklings!” Groove and Blades protested in unison.

“Then stop acting like it. Now shut up and watch.” Streetwise said, though they could all hear the grin in his voice.

There were grumbling protests, but the two younger bots obeyed and went still. After another couple episodes, they were released to drape across each other. Time wore on, and the Ark slipped into it’s nightly recharge cycle. By this time, Blades’s brothers were in recharge themselves, curled around and on top of each other while Blades himself continued to watch the drama. He was waiting, after all.

Another groon passed, and the door to their berthroom opened. First Aid trudged in, exhaustion hanging from his frame. He went straight for the berth, tipping right into it and not even bothering to get his legs in. Blades huffed a laugh, gently tugging his younger brother up into the berth. He reached out to turn off the holo-pad, then refocused on First Aid as the youngest Protectobot cuddled firmly into his side. He knew his brother was tired. Pit, he could feel the depths of First Aid’s exhaustion over the bond. But he had to know.

“‘Aid? Are they…?”

“They’re fine.” First Aid mumbled. “They’ll make a full recovery. You don’t have to worry, Blades.”

All at once, the last of the fear and worry left him, and Blades released all tension in his frame with a heavy vent. “Thank you.” he whispered.

First Aid hummed softly. “‘Course. They took care of you when we couldn’t. I won’t let you lose your team if I can help it, Blades. ‘Specially not your Amica.” he mumbled, his words slurring towards the end.

Blades smiled, his arms wrapping around the little medic as First Aid nuzzled into his embrace. “Yeah.” he murmured. They really had taken care of him. “Recharge, ‘Aid. You need it.”

“You too.”

“I will.” Blades agreed. “Goodnight, little brother.”

“‘Night.” First Aid made a sleepy, content churring noise. “Love you…”

Blades blinked, then tightened his grip around him. “Yeah.” he whispered. “Love you too.”

He watched his youngest brother drift off into recharge, then offlined his optics ans let himself drift off as well. Just before he fell unconscious, he felt Groove roll on top of them both, and Hot Spot’s arms coming around all three of them. From the other side of the largest Protectobot, Streetwise’s hand came to rest on Blades’s head, his thumb twitching against his finial.

Comfortable and warm, his frame and spark both surrounded by the peace and love of his brothers, Blades drifted off into recharge, his rest easy and quiet with the reassurance that his Amica and his team would recover. His spark was warm with the sheer joy, adoration, and contentment that pulsed all along the bond, and his rest was easy and undisturbed.

Beyond the walls of the Ark, the stars were silent.

———————————————————————————————————

And here it is! What did y’all think? For those who don’t remember, the Purge that Streetwise mentioned was the massacre of the Rescue Bots.

Also, poor Blades. He has it rough. At least he’s not alone, right?

Let me know how you liked that! If you want more of this verse, I might expand on it after I take care of more prompts. (Or you could request a specific scenario yourself.)

Until next time, folks!

[sassysnowperson]

💖 your angstiest nightmare fic please

Send me a 💖 and I'll share a fic idea I've had but never written.

Oh...dear. This is not my normal playground. But, that said (evil grin and plotty fingers) good excuse to have some fun. 

Alright, I’ve spent some time thinking about universes where Rogue One survives (don’t worry, it’ll get terrible, just give me a second), and those terrifying days when the plans are lost, nobody knows where Leia is. Like, how miserable would that be? You do all that, and then maybe it’s all for nothing, because the person who got your message got scooped up by Imperial soldiers. 

What if she never comes back? 

You see where I’m going with this, I’m sure. 

It got a little long, so the juicy details are under the cut. (TW Death, War Crimes, implied torture) 

Luke, Han, and Obi-Wan die before they ever rescue Leia. Jabba’s men rig the Falcon to explode, their infiltration scheme fails, SOMETHING happens and bam, they’re gone. Last of the Old Jedi, gone, first of the New Jedi, also gone. Leia’s trapped, and Tarkin has a fully functional battle station with no known weakness. 

And just to make it worse, lets say not everyone made it off of Scarif. Cassian’s gotta live, that man is Pain of Survival made manifest, it’s way worse if he doesn’t manage to sacrifice himself. Kay dies. Jyn too. And...Chirrut. Yes, I think that’s the worst combination. We’ve got guilt-ridden Cassian, traumatized Bodhi, and a completely bereft Baze who lost everything and it counted for *nothing.* Jedha’s still gone. Alderaan too. 

They broke ranks, stole half the alliance’s best personnel and then lost half the alliance’s fleet, and they *failed*. The Rebellion tosses them in a jail cell, and figures they’ll decide what to do with the turncoats later. 

Now, the upside is, there’s no Falcon to track back to Yavin, so Yavin has until Leia breaks. It’s enough time to evac, at least. 

Leia does break, eventually, I’m sure. There’s only so long anyone can hold out, when every lie she tells about where the base is means another planet, gone. Mon Cala, Chandrilla, Nab- 

Tarkin changes his mind about Naboo. He’s rubbing at his throat for weeks after. 

The Empire runs the galaxy, and there is. no. hope. 

Except. 

Cassian spends the first four hours of his imprisonment carefully drafting a mission report (on flimsi, they don’t trust him with a datapad). And in there is what Erso reported to him. There is a weakness. Somewhere in the core. The plans would show how to access it. But even without the plans...a sufficient explosion, detonated inside the core, should still do it. 

Cassian throws himself into planning the mission, scribbling it out on whatever he can get his hands on. He looks more than half-mad. Bodhi feels the failure as entirely personal. He feels helpless, he’s only made everything worse, and the universe  didn’t even have the decency to kill him for it. 

There isn’t anything he could do in the universe to do right by himself, but he drags the tattered remains of his consciousness together and helps where he can. Ship patrols, comm codes, standard battle station layouts. Baze, from his haze of grief and rage, spits curses and little else, at first. But eventually he realizes there’s some solace in vengeance, and he joins in. Squad makeup and weaponry and everything he knew from his dealings with Guerra. 

“Could use him, now,” Baze says, sounding almost regretful.

“He knows how to fight,” Cassian agrees.

Bodhi just flinches.  

They look like madmen, and their guards judge them as such. 

They’re not separated, though. And one month later Draven throws open the door of the cell and says, “Come on, then.” 

Cassian just gets up and follows immediately. Bodhi moves like a whipped dog, expecting to be struck. Cassian turns to him and says, his face made of granite and his eyes entirely blank, “If they were going to kill us, they would have killed us. They’re either going to offer us up to the Empire as a peace treaty, or put us to work.” 

“Please don’t say that first suggestion too loud, Andor,” Draven says, sounding pained. “I’ve kept you in the cell this long so they wouldn’t be tempted to lynch or sell you.” 

Bodhi, inexplicably, is relieved by that. It makes the sort of heartless sense he’s grown to expect from his superior officers. 

The Rebellion is almost entirely ship-based at this point. The remnants of the Mon Cal have nothing left to lose, and their fleet is turned to the Rebellion’s purpose. They are jumping frantically to stay ahead of the Empire that’s burning every safe place to the ground, struggling to find food and fuel and allies that would dare to provide either. It’s a desperate, hungry time, as they plan the counter-strike. 

Leia was right, though. The more Tarkin tightened his grip, the more people slip through his fingers. The Rebellion becomes a feral thing, full of soldiers who have already lost all there is to lose. 

The counter-strike isn’t neat, or elegant. It’s an ugly trojan-horse of a ground crew, Bodhi knew enough about the Empire’s transport logistics to sneak the soldiers in, along with enough explosives to blow up the moon the the Death Star wasn’t. It’s a slog of a firefight, but they punch their way through, into the core, and they wire up the explosives as quickly as they can. 

Next to Cassian, a young tech (seventeen when the Empire blew up her world) starts twitching, choking. Cassian looks up to find a black, looming figure silhouetted in the doorway, holding a shimmering red blade. 

Whatever charges they have, they need to set them, now. Cassian is reaching for the switch when a second red blade emerges, this time from the center of the figure’s chest. He collapses with mechanical moan, revealing a slim young woman, clad all in black, behind him. 

“Captain Andor,” Leia Organa calls as she steps into view. “Apologies for the dramatics, I’m afraid I’ve grown accustomed to using what I have on hand. If you can set those on a delay timer, I’ve secured our exit.” 

Leia is gaunt, sharper than Cassian remembers her. Well, they all are, these days. He dips his head. “I’ll remain behind to ensure they go. Please, do take my team.” 

“No,” Baze says, laying his hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “It’s me.” 

Cassian looks at the depth of loss in Baze’s eyes, and the grim determination there too. Cassian knows this is one battle he won’t win. 

“Of course,” he says, inclining his head. “May the Force be with you.” The words feel alien in his mouth, and Baze flinches. 

“Fuck the Force,” Baze declares. “I’ll be with me.” But then he freezes, and Cassian wonders if he’s hearing the same thing, I am one with the Force and the Force is with me. 

“Of course,” Cassian says again, and Baze gives him a crooked smile. 

“Raze their empire,” Baze orders. 

“I will,” Cassian says, and it’s a promise he intends to keep. 

He leaves, the last of his team to go, and Leia guides them all to the shuttles. They escape. 

Cassian hadn’t planned for an escape. His heart is in his throat as he watches the station, still whole, still whole, and then - white sears across his retinas, and he flinches away from the sight, even as he’s sobbing with the joy of it. He hears Bodhi on his right, breathing slow and steady for the first time since Cassian’s  known him. Leia, on his left, just gives a satisfied grunt.  

Cassian doesn’t look up, so he never sees the way Leia’s eyes don’t flinch away from the explosion. He doesn’t ever wonder why, if the light from the death star is so white it’s shading it to blue, Leia’s eyes are burning gold. 

[dokoni-mo]

Far Away, Together || Darth Vader x Reader

(A/N: Hello all! This is my first post on tumblr and I am so excited to share my fic with all you lovely people!!! I used to write alot, but haven’t in some time. Since I am renewing my love for star wars, I thought that I would do a little something for my favorite man of all time: Vader!!! A big thanks to Kenna for helping to inspire me to write again (you know who you are :))) ). This is chapter one of a series of about 10 chapters I plan to write. Please enjoy and feel free to ask to be added to the tag list!! also, not my gif)

WARNINGS: mentions of a TIE crash, some cursing

Key: (F/N) = first name  (L/N) = last name

Word Count: ~3600

Edit: Link to Chapter Two: [x]

Life on the Super Star Destroyer was exactly the same as the ship looked on the outside: cold, dull, and gray. Color? What’s that? Life? Never heard of it. 

No one ever really stopped to mingle with one another, even for a brief, courteous “hello!” or “hey, how’s it going?”. These types of action were seen as unnecessary and not impactful to squashing out the rebellion, as well as to eliminating any sign of hope that one day the Empire will just cease to exist, leaving everyone alone. Everything and everyone had a purpose within the Empire. Everyone had their own job, and heaven forbid that you are somehow unable to do that job. Any failure was seen as weakness, and the Empire had no use for weakness amongst its ranks. These were the fundamental truths of working under the Empire.

Being a mechanic wasn’t so bad. You got to do what you loved to do, so what’s so bad about that? Sure, you had very little contact with the outside world (aside from the occasional news briefing or smuggled-in holovid), you had very few acquaintances, and you were always just referred to as last name only, but all of these could be overlooked. You wake up, put on your drab, gray-green uniform, go to work, then go back to your quarters, rinse and repeat every day of every week. A nice little routine for your nice little job on the nice little imperial vessel. 

To say you blended in with the crowd was wrong. Everyone blended in with the crowd, so to say you blended in with the crowd was diagnosing yourself with special-snowflake syndrome. There was no individuality within the Empire. There was only the Empire, the usage of names only a formality or a way to get one’s attention. Despite this, due to human nature, those serving would often try to attempt some sort of individuality. Female officers would have a signature way of pulling back their hair, troopers would talk in different made-up accents, and some even gave themselves tattoos. You, however, found your individuality within your work. 

When fixing something, you would often put  your own spin on how you bring said thing back to its former glory. Fixing a speederbike? Lets rewire the wires so that they make a nice, pretty zig-zag pattern. This will help it steer a bit better, anyway. Fixing a blaster with a faulty trigger? Why not add a new cooling system just to be nice. Fixing a TIE? Oh boy, the possibilities are endless. 

This may be what has allowed you to rise through the ranks so quickly as a mechanic. There was seemingly nothing that you couldn’t inflict your midas touch upon. Plop anything down on your workbench and it's a guarantee that it will be fixed. 

On the other hand, it may just be dumb luck. This is ultimately what you thought. You were just merely doing your job, trying to not cause any trouble for yourself, just like everyone else you worked with. It just so happened to be you that the Empire had noticed. 

It was this attention that landed you this new assignment.The news had come suddenly and almost unexpectedly. Pack your bags, (F/N), you're out of the Endor research station and now on a one-way ticket to the Super Star Destroyer. Of course, there was no one around to pat you on the back when you got the news, and certainly no one to say congratulations. You did that yourself that night by treating yourself to an extra ration. 

If you were anyone else within the Empirical army, you would be over the moon about working on this ship. But, you felt no emotion towards the subject. It was just another job, what’s so special about it?

You quickly learned the answer to that. 

Him. 

He made the entire aura of the ship much tenser than any other research station or star destroyer that you had ever been on. People were not kidding when they said that his entire presence dripped with authority and power. To defy him, was to defy the Empire. To fail him, was to fail the Empire. It also always meant a loss of your life by the point of his saber. 

You remember the first time that you saw him with your own eyes, not just an image from a news briefing or the picture you formed in your head when you heard the stories. You were lined up along with all of your new fellow troopers, officers, and mechanics, your hands firmly by your sides and your chin held up high, your eyes the only part allowed to move. He had been returning from some sort of escapade, and it was time for another customary formal greeting for him.

He was hard to miss when the door to the shuttle had touched the cold, hard ground. Everything about him was massive, intimidating. Dressed head to toe in black, his frame resembling a man but his features that of a droid. Despite the layers upon layers of armor and clothing, you could tell his muscles were nothing to bat an eye at. His shoulderspan looked like it could be twice your own, and his hands look like they could wrap around your waist and crush you in to a million tiny pieces at any second. Hot. 

As he walked past you, you could feel the floor vibrate with menacing trembles as he took each step. His breathing was enrapturing, filling up your ears like it was there to live rent-free. When he finally spoke (a simple “Good, admiral”), you could feel the bass right in the middle of  your chest. His voice was encapsulating, surrounding you with it's deep, authoritative, encompassing demeanor. Even hotter. 

Yes, Darth Vader was quite the interesting character. But, he was not the one, you had decided, to try and become buddy-buddy with. Far too risky. Instead, you would carry on as normal: do your job, and don’t get in anyone’s way. You have done this for years, and a change of scenery with a far more intimidating boss wouldn't change that. 

Except when it did. 

The day (you believed that it was day, at least. It was hard to keep track of time in the middle of space on a giant floating mouse cursor) was as simple as ever. You woke up, ate your breakfast rations, then went straight to work. They had you fixing a few blasters and comms that day. How exciting. 

You almost didn't hear the sound of the sirens when they went off, nor how the room suddenly was flashing red. When you had finally came-to, the sound of a highly distressed officer was over the hangar’s comm system. 

“Everyone clear the bridge now! Lord Vader is coming in hot!”

Coming in hot? You wondered what that had meant. Of course, you knew what that meant, but this was Lord Vader we were talking about. He was the best pilot in the whole Empirical fleet. He never crashed, you had thought. 

Despite your judgement, you put down your tools and started to run along with the other mechanics. They seemed just as confused as you were, awkwardly trying to shuffle out of their stations into somewhere safe. Quietly slipping past the small crowd, you found refuge on the other side of the doorway you were in, finding a place to watch within one of the windows. 

Looking up to the stars that made up the tail-end wall of your workplace, you were almost shocked to see that the officer over the comm wasn’t hallucinating. Lord Vader’s TIE was, indeed, coming in hot. A noticeable plumage of smoke followed in his wake, as well as the occasional burst of sparks and the odd chunk of metal falling off. The noise that TIE made when it passed through the barrier was unholy, making you wince right before you had jumped in your polished boots. Lord Vader’s TIE crashed right on the floor of your workspace, skidding along and spinning not before crashing into several unfinished projects and stopping just before the doorway you had been standing in.  

Oh, maker. He’s dead. 

That was your only thought as the smoke and dust around the TIE settled in the air. The smoke was occasionally illuminated by the sparks coming out of the ship. This was definitely not a pretty scene. That TIE was busted. 

A twinge of some sort of odd emotion rippled through you as you saw the tip of a red stream of light pierced through the metal of the broken TIE. It made a large circle motion before shrinking back inside. Moments later, the circle had been thrown off, flying past the group of mechanics that had begun to shuffle awkwardly back into the hangar to inspect the scene for themselves. You had joined them as the circle was discarded off of the TIE, the wind making a strand of your hair raise. 

He stepped out of the burning pile of metal mess moments later. A small amount of smoke radiated off of his body as his boots collided with the ground. His shoulders were raised, his left fist in a ball as his right held on firmly to his weapon. He offered no one any explanation as he marched his way to the medical bay, an air of contempt and loathing following him. 

They had let you off to lunch early that day. The smoke from the TIE could be toxic, and they needed some time to clear out the hangar before everyone could get back to work. 

You ate your ration in silence as everyone around you murmured their theories and rumors about the incident that had occurred about an hour earlier. There was no need to speculate, in your eyes, and the only people you talked with were out on some other assignment. Silence kept you company, anyhow. 

Your peaceful lunch, however, was eventually rudely interrupted by some rude, old geezer. His uniform adorned many different patches and pins, so you figured he had to be some sort of presiding, know-it-all, experienced officer. The lines in his face only made him look more stern and stuck up than he sounded, his lips pursed as he eyed the datapad he held whilst he stood in front of your lunch table. 

“(L/N), I presume, yes? Our newest mechanic from Endor?” the old man questioned, his dark eyes flicking back and forth between you and your glowing blue picture. 

“Yes, sir. That’s me.” you responded, sitting up to offer some sort of respect to the officer. 

The old man turned off his datapad with that, folding his arms behind his back as he addressed you fully. “Well, Miss (L/N), I do hope that your current assignment holds no sentimental value to you. You are being reassigned with a very important alternative, effective immediately.” 

“Immediately?” you questioned, “I apologize sir, I don’t quite-”

“Your new assignment, Miss (L/N), is to repair Lord Vader’s TIE. I assume you bore witness to his entrance earlier today.” said the old officer, cutting you off. “Lord Vader’s ship is of utmost importance to the Empire, and we only assign our best to repair it when needed. We have already removed your previous assignment from your station and place Lord Vader’s TIE in its place.” 

Before you could get another word out, the officer turned on his heel to leave, only giving you a side glance over his shoulder as he continued, “You should be pleased, Miss (L/N). You just became one of our finest mechanics.” 

~~~

You only saw a heaping pile of garbage that was vaguely shaped like a TIE Advanced x1 at your station when you returned. The ship was mangled beyond repair. Aside from the gaping hole in the center of the fighter, the wings were gnashed beyond recognition, many of the metal plates lining the surface either gone or melted, the wires that snaked along the inside of the craft were now on the outside, and it still hadn’t stopped smoking completely. 

You couldn't hide your expression as you walked around the TIE. Why the hell would you even try and repair this hunk of shit? you thought to yourself, Just get a new TIE, I’m sure the Empire can afford it. 

You contemplated on going back and finding that old man that gave you the assignment and asking him to repeat it back to you. Whoever wanted this thing repaired was a madman at best. Sighing, you reminded yourself of your virtues. Do your job, don’t get in the way. And, this was your new job. 

You had no idea on where to start. 

~~~

It was long past quitting hours when you heard the doors to the hangar open. 

You were perched on top of the broken down TIE, your jacket long since discarded. You were left only in your boots, pants, tanktop, and goggles as you heard heavy footsteps draw closer to your station. 

You paused briefly from your welding to listen to the footsteps for a brief moment. You pondered for a short time on whether or not to address the person walking towards you, but decided against it. You figured that they were just some trooper or other mechanic sneaking out for a midnight walk or snack. Although you were loyal to the Empire, you were no snitch to your fellow troop. You resumed your welding after your judgement had ended. 

You continued to listen, however, and noticed how the footsteps had ended very close to your station. Listening past the sound of your welding, your heart almost jumped out your throat and hitched a ride to the outer-rim when you noticed an all-too-familiar sound. 

That breathing. 

To make sure that your ears were not playing tricks on you, you stopped your welding and peeked over the top of the TIE. Sure enough, there he was, staring up at you without a word, without even moving one muscle. Your blood ran cold. 

“L-Lord Vader!” You called down as you scurried to put down your tools, pushing your goggles up to rest on your sweat-gleamed forehead. You landed on the ground with a thunk as you slid down the TIE, hurriedly walking over to address the Dark Lord properly. 

Standing so close to him forced you to notice the height and size difference between the two of you. He was tall, so tall that you had to almost crane your neck to look him in the eyes of his mask. His frame dwarfed yours in every way, making you feel so, so small and weak compared to him. As the sith looked down at you, you couldn't help but feel his real eyes behind the mask bare into you, almost as if he were looking right into the fiber of your being. You swallowed thickly but silently, forgetting that you were out of uniform in front of the Emperor's right hand. 

“I-I apologize, my Lord, I did not hear you come in over the sound-” 

“Is it not past active hours for your department, mechanic?” He interjected, interrogating you. You felt your cheeks gain a touch of rouge out of embarrassment. You had barely even noticed that it was so late, that almost all of the lights in the hangar had gone dim. 

“Yes, my Lord, it is. But, I had-”

“You need not explain yourself to me, mechanic. I have come here for a report on the damage to my ship. If you will so generously supply me with that, perhaps I will overlook your discrepancies tonight.” He said to you, his head tilting to the side. The eyes of his helmet never left your frame as he spoke to you. His authority made a shiver run down your spine, your breath hitch. He could kill you at any moment's notice, and you both knew that. 

“Yes. Yes, of course, my Lord.” You responded quietly. It was then you finally dared to let your gaze fall off of the menacing, tall figure before you. Turning on your heel, you looked up at the broken down craft before you, pressing a hand against the cool metal. “Well, my Lord, I will not dare lie to you. This fighter is in real bad shape. Her left wing is almost completely non-existent, her guns are unrecognizable, and her central computer has been totally fried. Her engine received a great amount of damage as well, and it looks like all of her spark igniters and thrusters will need to be replaced. This is all, of course, not to mention the damage to her framework.” 

You had circled around the TIE absentmindedly as you spoke, your hand gliding over the jagged surface of the craft. Vader’s gaze followed your diminutive frame as you paced about. You could feel the eyes of his mask follow you with every footstep. Were it not for the continuous babbling on about damages, you would be shitting a brick right about now. 

“And how do you plan to proceed with these repairs, mechanic?” He asked you, a hint of his temper and curiosity poking through. 

“Well,” you retorted, looking at him once more, right in the face, “In order to proceed with anything, I have to get the central computer back online and running. That way, I will be able to talk to her better, and maybe even run a diagnostic for any damages that I haven’t caught yet. After that will be the repairs to the wing, which I will likely have to build from scratch from other scrapped TIEs. Once that is complete, repairs to the frame will begin, then onto the guns and engine. This may change, however, if I am able to run that diagnostic, my lord.” 

The way you held yourself in front of the sith lord was certainly a pleasant surprise. Lord Vader was used to his subordinates making a vain attempt to make the situation sound better to him so that he would be pleased. You, however, did not shy away from cutting to the chase and telling Vader how it was. He felt a twinge of appreciation bubble deep, deep down inside him. He always did value someone who truly knew their way around a ship or two. 

Vader took a glance at the mess of his TIE Advanced then back to you before he spoke again. You had refused to take your eyes off him again. 

“I understand,” he rumbled out, placing his large hands on their respective sides of his belt, “I presume that these repairs will take a small while.” 

His words were spoken as a statement, but you knew he was asking. 

“Yes, Lord Vader,” you said, nodding in affirmation, “They indeed will, but I will do all in my power to have her running again just like new.” You couldn't help but flash a small, quick smile at the end of your positivity. 

Vader stared down at you for a brief moment before speaking again, the sound of his steady breath winding around you once again. 

“Good,” he finally said, “I expect no less from you, mechanic. I will come here again periodically, and I expect a full report of progress for each of my visitations. Do I make myself clear? Do not fail me.” 

“Of course, my Lord. I will do exactly as you wish” you replied, giving him a firm nod as you stood at attention. Quickly, you relaxed your pose, letting your gaze fall once more and your body to turn to resume your work. 

Vader, however, stood completely still. He was not done with you quite yet. 

“Your name.” Vader said flatly, with a hint of demand. 

This sent a jolt through you. You shot your gaze back to the sith, your hand gently clutching one of your tools, applying just enough strength to keep it from falling. 

“P-pardon, my Lord?” 

“Your name, mechanic. I wish to know your name.”

You licked your bottom lip hurriedly. You prayed that he couldn't notice your cheeks tint pink. 

“It's (L/N), my Lord-”

“I know that, Miss (L/N). I wish to know your full name. Do not make me ask again.” 

You almost burst out laughing. He had to be joking. This was the first time in years that someone had asked you for your first name. You were surprised that you even still remembered it. 

“It’s… It’s (F/N), my Lord. (F/N) (L/N).” 

Another pause from him, along with another long staring contest between the two of you. Was his breathing always this loud?

After an eternity, he spoke once more, “I have full faith in you, Miss (F/N) (L/N). It is not everyday I have the privilege to converse with one of your skill level and courage.”

With that, he was done. He stepped to the right, turned, and walked to the door, leaving without another look or word. You stared at the door for a long moment before looking at the floor, replaying the past events in your head, letting his words plague your mind over and over like a broken record. 

Was that a compliment?

No, of course not, you had convinced a majority of  yourself. 

With a sigh, you climbed back up to the top of the broken TIE, seated on your perch again. You adorned your goggles once more, telling yourself just a little more before you retired for the night. 

Little did you know, this was only the first interesting night of many to come. 

[heyheydidjaknow]

What is this witchcraft? Me? Not posting after midnight? I’m shocked to my very core. Anyways, this is one of my longer chapters. If you have any feedback, do not hesitate. As always, previous chapter (and next when applicable) is at the bottom.

Chapter 5

“Dude, hear me out here.” You are vibrating like a kid on pixie sticks. You slide your hands apart as if to display written words. “Lightsaber.”

“What’s a—”

“Donnie.” You put your hand up before he can continue. “Imma stop you right there. I am going to take your hand and kindly ask you to tell me that you know of, or at least have heard of, Star Wars.”

“I do not.”

“That is a fucking crime.”

You have been sitting with him for approximately an hour, watching him dismantle a “Kraang bot” as you register for school and start ordering supplies. You are quickly starting to realize his knowledge of anything outside the bounds of science is limited to whatever he read by virtue of his father, which consisted of one book on Greek mythology, one on the Italian renaissance, one on ancient Japanese history, and one on Japanese folklore, or anything he learned via the interests of his brothers. Because of this, he seems to know exactly jack-shit about things you consider common knowledge, such as the concept of foreshadowing or Poptarts or Hitler outside of a general association with the name and emotion of some sort, leading to interactions like the one you’re having right now.

“It’s not a crime,” he defended. “It's just I was never really interested in that kinda stuff.”

“But it’s Star Wars!” You throw your hands up. “How do you not know of Star Wars, at least?”

“Look, you’re saying it’s really good, right?”

“Well, yeah.” Your voice lowered.

“Why would somebody throw out a good movie?”

You sigh. “Yeah, that’s fair. But!” You point at him. “But I need to watch it with you, if only out of principle. Besides,” you settle down, “it’s a very… traditionally plotted story. I still have to give you that lesson.”

“Yeah, but after I finish this.” He pushes his laptop to the side, picking up the soldering iron and moving back over to the pile of metal you know will become Metalhead.

You nod in agreement, leaning forward in your chair to watch him fuse wires. “You know what?” You smile. “I may give you shit, but it is really cool watching your whole process.”

“Hm?” He looks up at you from his lean forward.

“Well,” you shrug, folding your legs on the chair, “I just mean that it’s cool seeing how you go about building all this junk that is just… what’s the word?”

“Untraditional?”

“Revolutionary.”

He has a funny look on his face. “You think so?”

“Oh, totally.” You nod eagerly. “I told you that I thought you were one of fiction’s greatest minds, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t.” His face is turning red.

“Really? I swear I did the day I met you…” Your eyebrows furrow as you try to remember.

“You said something about inspiration.” He smiled softly, voice airy.

“Oh, then I—well, it kinda is the same thing.” You rub the back of your neck, feeling your own face heat up. “Must’ve—uh—misspoke. I do that,” you trail off, “kinda a lot.”

“I think it’s cute.”

You feel your heart skip a beat. ‘Oh come the fuck on. Really?’ “See,” you hear your voice rise a register, “that is so not fair.”

“Huh?” The color drains from his face as he tries to remember what sounds just came out of his mouth. “What did I say?”

“You’re not allowed to just say shit like that.” You cover your face with your hands, feeling your heart swell. “You’re not my boyfriend or anything.”

“Wait, what did I say?”

“Nope. Shut up.” You try to calm yourself down. “You didn’t mean it, whatever it was. It’s fine.”

He blinks, very confused. “You sure?”

“Totally.” Your voice is tight. “One hundred and ten percent sure.”

“You can’t be one hundred ten percent sure.” He looks back down at his project, writing your behavior off. “It’s mathematically impossible

“You wanna bet?” You start looking around the room, prior embarrassment now replaced with a desire to win this artificial conflict. “Got graph paper?”

He scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding right now?” You lean across the table, tilting his head up to face you properly, determination burning in your eyes. Your voice lowers. “I am going to show you one hundred and ten present sure right here and now as a matter of principle.”

He swallowed, face going red again. “One moment, please.” He fumbles around for a piece of paper and hands it to you, along with a marker.

“Thank you.” You smile sweetly, acting as if nothing happened as you start to sketch. “Give me a bit of time and I will show you one hundred and ten percent sure.”

He rolls his eyes, a smile coming back to his face as he calms down. “Sure you will.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “Go back to your transformer while I blow your freakin mind, kay?”

“What’s—”

“Don’t even.”

“Gotcha.”

You chew on your tongue absentmindedly, remembering how much you love spacing out pixels when you hear a notification on your phone. You pull it out, read it, sigh, slide out of your chair. “I’ll be right back,” you promise, heading for the door. “I gotta make sure plot shit happens.”

“You know where to find me.”

“Always do.” You shoot him finger guns as you drag the door closed. You walk over to the brothers, currently engaged in their digital hockey match. You watch, waiting for Raphael’s inevitable victory— ‘Wow, my life is getting pretty damn predictable.’—before clearing your throat to catch their attention.

“So,” you smile, “what’s the game plan for tonight?”

They seem to not understand the question. “Yeah, Leo,” Raphael prompts, shooting a look at him, “what’s the game plan for tonight?”

He paused. “Is there some sort of sport thing happening?”

Your heart drops. “Leonardo,” you ask again, voice lowering, “you have a plan for the thing happening tonight, right?”

“What thing?”

You grab his shoulders. “The spill,” you clarify, voice quiet and sharp. “The mutagen spill. The spill I told you about three days ago?”

His eyes widen. “You said that was happening Friday!”

“Today is Friday!” You let go, throwing your hands in the air out of pure frustration. “That’s why I told you today is Friday! What, did you think I just liked talking about days of the week? That it’s my hobby to keep track of how many days I haven’t died?” ‘I mean, it is, but that’s not the point.’

“Well, it can’t be that important if you forgot about it.” Raphael leaned against the machine. “We’ll just go in and bust some heads. No problem.”

You groan. “Do you guys just have something against planning? I swear everything with you guys has to happen at the very last minute.”

“We don’t need the time to plan. I dunno if you noticed, Y/N, but our ‘plans’ aren’t exactly plan worthy.” He shrugged. “You just have to beat the Kraang out of them and that’s the end of it. It’d be like planning to raid a trailer home.”

You sigh. ‘They’re teenage boys. This is only episode six. Deep breaths.’ “Just… please try to heed my warnings in the future, alright? The last thing we need is for something to sneak up on us.”

“Alright, alright.” Leo focuses his eyes on you. “When is the mutagen getting spilled?”

“Tomorrow. The show wasn’t very specific on times, but some time tomorrow.”

“Then let’s air on the side of caution and assume they mean midnight. What’s the time?”

You pull out your phone. “Seven forty-five.”

“That should be enough time to get there, scope out the place, and be home before dinner.”

You feel the ground shake under you as a metallic clang pierces the air.

That is your cue to leave for fear of getting hit with a laser. “You can’t beat Metalhead. Also, Mikey calls him Metalhead.” You start heading out. “I’d stay and watch you guys waste time trying, but I haven’t eaten today, so I’m gonna grab food and meet you there.” You run out before they can ask any more questions.

If nothing else, all the running has been helping you get in shape. You are not typically the type to take runs, but you also are not typically the type to be pressed to see people. Loneliness is one hell of a motivator, as it turns out, and you were starving in more ways than one. You stop by the first place you see, grabbing some food item with a name you already forget—some sort of burrito, you think—and climb a fire escape belonging to a building overlooking the warehouse in question. You sit on the edge of the building, dangling your legs over the side as you wait for them to get here.

‘Do I like him?’ You pause at your question, mid-bite. ‘I mean, I had a crush on him when I watched the show, but this attachment isn’t romantic affection, is it? I’ve had crushes before, and I’m acting too suave for this to be that.’ You swallow, taking a drink out from your nameless cup. ‘Considering my emotional state? It’s highly likely I’m just latching onto him for lack of anyone or anything truly familiar in my life right now.’ You sigh. ‘But, then again, if that were the case, this feeling what be more familial, wouldn’t it?’ You conclude, whether you are attracted to him romantically or not, it is entirely unfair to both of you to pursue a romantic relationship with him unless he makes the first move. You have more faith in his critical thinking skills than in your own, anyhow. Besides, he acted irrationally enough around April as is; introducing a proper romantic relationship into the mix sounds a bit too risky, especially at such a vulnerable time in his development.

You hear the distant sounds of mechanical joints approaching. ‘Already liking this better than ninja silence.’ You spin around, hopping off the ledge and onto the roof proper as you go to properly admire the metal wonder.

It looks infinitely cooler than the show would have you believe, if possible. Each piece of its hull has a past and you can see it in every scratch, every dent. It wasn’t anywhere near perfect; you can easily see where Donatello had hammered out the shell of the artificial terrapin, where he had had to settle for using concrete, even the faintest ghosts of the pennies making up its chest piece. It was a glorious collage.

You run over, going down on your knees to look it over. “This thing is so fucking cool,” you gush, shuffling around it. “Like, totally fucking awesome!”

You can hear the pride in his voice, the excitement. “I know, right?”

You hop back to your feet, keeping yourself from jumping up and down for the sake of pride. “That is the coolest shit ever!” You grin, sitting back down and taking a drink from your soda. “You never cease to amaze, Hamato.”

“You think?” He sounds almost like a puppy, excited as he is.

“Dude, totally.” You sigh, feeling yourself mellow out a little. “But, more importantly,” you continue, clapping your hands together once, “we should be properly watching the warehouse in case they need backup.”

“Oh, right!” The robot stomped over to you, standing slightly behind you as you dangle your feet over the edge.

You take another drink of soda, feeling the excitement in the air dying down as you look out over the buildings. ‘It’s oddly peaceful up here. Must not have started the attack yet.’ You swing your legs back and forth as silence settled between you two.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I meant to ask you before,” he said stiffly, “but how did you know this was happening today? You never explained it.”

You silently thank him for cutting the tension, turning around to face him properly. “Well,” you start, lacing your fingers together around your cup, “remember when I said that the show Leo watches shows up a lot in episodes?”

“Yeah.” You are not exactly sure why he sounds so interested in a detail like this.

“And you know how you watch on cable?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, as it turns out,” you dig into your jacket pocket, “they release television guides, telling people when certain shows are playing, what times they’re playing, shit like that. So,” you conclude, admittedly smug that you had reasoned this part out, “as long as I know what episode is playing during that episode, I can accurately predict any actions that happen during the periods in which you guys have cable access.”

“So, you map out what episodes are scheduled to play on what days and create a timeline around that?”

“Exactly. Not a bad plan.” You pull up a document, showing him the timeline you’ve created with this information. “As long as you guys are on the grid, and as long as Leo sticks to watching that specific channel, I’ll be able to predict the movements of every major player in the series, which means I’ll be able to determine who we can and can’t fuck with based off how they act later down the line, and I’ll be able to give you proper foresight when the situation—”

Your plan is interrupted by a section of the ledge directly next to you to gain a new hole. You leap to your feet, quickly backing up and almost tripping on Metalhead as you regain your senses and hear Mikey’s panicked yelling.

“That doesn’t look good.” You watch the machine starts backing up. “I’m gonna go in and help.”

Something strikes you. “Donnie, real quick, be careful not to run into anything. The technology you’re using is susceptible to Kraang influence.”

“Relax. I got this.” Metalhead gives you a thumbs up before running and leaping off the building, crashing through the glass roof feet first.

You sigh, getting to your feet. ‘Theme of today’s episode is not to rely on technology. Granted,’ you muse, starting to climb down the fire escape, ‘this probably could’ve been solved by adopting a more intuitive controller and having a bit more experience, but I digress.’ You hop the last few feet down. ‘In any case, I’ve done all I can. If that isn’t enough, so be it.’

You hear the explosion as you start walking back to your apartment. ‘He should be coming here in about three or so minutes.’

If you did not know how this would end, you would be much more concerned. As it stands? You know the score before the game is even played.

You wave hello to the doorman as you walk to the elevator. You tap your foot absentmindedly to the elevator music, walk to your apartment, unlock the door, and step inside, picking a large box off the ground in front of it before locking the door.

You walk over and set the box down on your bed, walking back to the kitchen. You pull a Tupperware box from on top of it, pulling a red velvet cupcake from the container and setting it on the counter.

You had died the first time you had made cupcakes. When you had tried making them again from your mother’s recipe, you had found yourself surprisingly unintimidated as you slid them into the oven. Of course, you had sat directly in front of the oven and stared at it during the entirety of the baking process, but you were hardly going to let the worst experience of your life separate you and the most nostalgic, joy-inducing feeling there was. Who else was going to make cupcakes?

You dry your hands, not realizing you had washed them as you pick the confection off the counter. You peel off a portion of the wrapper, biting into the savory and sweet bundle of joy in your mouth. You moan softly in satisfaction, licking the icing off your lips as you walk back over to your bed, sitting down and reaching for the knife under your pillow. You slice the tape, sliding your baby out of its packaging with a soft smile. You reach back in, taking another bite as you pull out a smaller bag. You set the box on the ground, tossing the now-empty wrapper into it and wiping the excess frosting on your jeans, pulling the instrument from its packaging.

Your father had taught you how to play a couple of years back. You never thought you would get weepy over a musical instrument, and yet, here you are, cradling a hunk of wood costing a little more than one day’s allowance. You purse your lips, running your fingers along the neck as you check for any defects in its construction. You crack open the bag and, after about half an hour of fiddling and research, manage to get the strings onto the violin bass without snapping it. It wasn’t an exact replica, but it was close enough that you feel comfortable holding it, feel joy hearing it come in tune.

You play a scale. It sounds like heaven to you.

You put the rest of the trash in the box, laying down next to the first item you have bought. A stand for it would be arriving tomorrow. That makes you smile.

This is the start of something healthy for you. Ironically, it has started with you eating a cupcake, but, still, you have begun to come to terms with your situation. Granted, you have a long way to go; you still have not deleted your social media, wanting to look out for photographs and clips from the funeral, but this is a step in the right direction. You have to believe that.

One small accomplishment: you have kept your apartment sparklingly clean. It is not as if you have much to do, but none the less.

You find your fingers playing an almost lullaby. You stop yourself, not wanting to fall asleep before getting yourself situated. You set your instrument to the side, getting up to close and shelve your cupcake box for future use. You wash your hands again.

You slide your jacket off and throw it onto a seat, knowing you will likely need it tomorrow. You make it a habit to at least get outside once per day, now. You understand that, even if it is not vital, you need to establish a routine. You must keep moving, if only for your sake of mind.

You check to see the curtains are closed, strip, put your clothes in a hamper. You take a shower, comb out your hair, brush your teeth. You do these things consciously, now. You change into a shirt for sleeping, crawling into bed and turning off the light. Tomorrow, you will have to go down to the laundromat to wash your few changes of clothes. You will eat three meals. You will drink eight glasses of water.

You set your phone on the nightstand, plugging it in. You reach over, fingers curling around the handle of the kitchen knife as you slide it under your pillow.

You close your eyes, feeling your heart pang again tonight.

“Goodnight,” you call to no one. “Love you.”

Silence.

It is better than it was. You do not cry tonight, wrapping your arms around your pillow.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” you mumble, feeling yourself drift into unconsciousness. “Love you too.”

Table of Contents

Chapter 4 Chapter 6 part 1

[captainjimothycarter]

I would love to see a modern AU of Peggy's first Christmas away from home/the 40s! Something where she's feeling homesick and steve finds a way to throw her a 40s styled holiday

SO this is almost 5k again.

*insert your favorite reasons as to why Peggy is alive and young in the 21st century*

--

Peggy wouldn’t say it, even if Steve had asked, but something was wrong. She stared out the windows to their apartment in Stark Tower, she stared longingly at old photos of a lifetime ago that graced their walls. Once or twice he’s caught her muttering in her sleep about traditions. 

And Steve knew what was wrong.

It was the same thing that was wrong with him, to a sense. She was homesick for a lifetime that never came to exist. A lifetime that was yesterday, last week, last month, last year to them, but to the not-so fossils (as Natasha fondly called them) around them, the 1940s was just a lifetime ago. They never knew the feeling of homesickness that you couldn’t cure by being welcomed home or with a drink or photos.

This was a sickness that wore down on you and in Steve’s case (he couldn’t and wouldn’t speak for Peggy), it came with a crushing guilt. Hot and bobbling in the back of his throat, that weighed on his soul and made it increasingly difficult to function some days when he wasn’t busy with a mission.

And Christmas time? That magical year? It just made it all the worst. 

Not that Christmas wasn’t enjoyable in the 21st century, because it was. It was adorable with the twinkling lights, the heavy amounts of snow (even if the pair had an aversion to the cold), the kids running about with Iron Man-themed Christmas outfits, or even Captain America. But with Christmas came crashing memories that were hard to escape.

The worst were the parties. The mingling they almost were forced to attend because they were Avengers and had to keep up a brave face with the public and attend galas.

The last one was the hardest if you asked Steve.

“Is there a difference from then to now?” A voice at Steve’s elbow asked. 

He paused in his conversation with Natasha and Bruce, seeing the way Bruce’s face pinched as he turned to look at a short reporter at his elbow. The guy wore wired glasses and had his phone in hand, already turned on to record Steve’s statement.

The blonde sighed heavily and looked around the room for Tony, seeing him caught up in the corner with a few of his own reporters. And unlike Steve, Tony enjoyed the spotlight. 

For a split second, Steve wasn’t standing in the 21st century anymore. He was wearing a wool, heavy uniform, clenching a harshly wrapped present as he watched a few reporters talk to Howard Stark and Peggy Carter. He lingered on the edge, just out of the sight of the reporters. Any person with some amount of sense might’ve run away given the chance, considering how bad Captain America was at interviews, but this was one of the last few chances he’d get to give Peggy her present.

It was nothing much, but she’d complained about the rose water she used was about out and she didn’t know how she’d get anymore. He was just so lucky he’d found a shop the other day.

Blinking harshly, Steve found himself back in modern-day, with Natasha holding onto his elbow and Bruce in front of him. He blinked slowly and tried to give Bruce a sheepish smile. “I’m fine. I just...what?”

The reporter was still behind Bruce, giving an annoyed look that he was interrupted in his questioning because how dare Steve Rogers has a flashback when he’s asking a question.

Bruce didn’t look too convinced, leaning over Steve’s slumped form to whisper something into Natasha’s ear. He could hear, his ears were roaring. She immediately disappeared, leaving Bruce to sit him down.

“I’m afraid…” Bruce began, turning to look at the reporter. “Captain Rogers isn’t available for an impromptu interview. If you’d like to schedule one, please see Miss Pepper.”

“No, no Bruce, it’s fine.” The last Steve wanted to do was somehow start a discourse amongst the media. Not that the Avengers would always be in their favor, of course, but he didn’t want to risk it. “Let him talk. What was your question again?”

The man huffed and refused to sit. He still held his phone tightly in his hand. “The difference. What was the difference between there and now?”

“I don’t...understand.” Steve’s mouth opened and closed, his tongue sticking out to lick at his dry lips. “The difference of what?”

“Your life before, to now! What is it like?”

He wanted to groan and cover his eyes, feeling the start of a headache that shouldn’t even be able to exist to come to life. “Look…”

His mouth opened to explain just where the reporter could shove the question but thankfully he didn’t have to.

His wife stepped in.

Peggy dressed in a bright red, cocktail dress. It hung to her knees, white lace just barely seen underneath. She wore a white, fluffy shawl pinned in place by a star broach that looked just about as old as the fossils were. Her hair was pinned back in perfect curls, hazel eyes were boring into the reporter. 

“If you cannot read a situation, Mr. Hynes, then I’m afraid you’re a shit reporter,” Peggy huffed, rolling her eyes. She stepped closer to Steve, laying a hand on his shoulder and giving him a comforting squeeze. “You’re just about as bad as the reporters before you. If you wish to know about how we are struggling to adapt or the difference in times through our eyes, then there are plenty of other blogs, reports, and even Mr. Parker’s little videos that can explain the situation better than us repeating ourselves. Which I tire to do. My husband is just far too polite to tell you to leave so I’ll do it for him. Leave.”

She took a step closer and rather it was the look on her face or the anger that she held in her voice, the reporter bolted. Steve sighed heavily and slacked into Peggy’s side. He smiled at her, reaching to take her hand. She easily fell into him. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here…” Peggy sighed, shooting Natasha and Bruce a thankful look. “I was...lost in thought, but I am told so were you. I think it’s time to retire for the night.”

There were no if, and, or buts as she took Steve’s hand and lead him out of the gala. They both breathed a sigh of relief and he kissed her softly in the little hall. It was brightly decorated with strands of silver garland and lights. Christmas music poured from the room.

“I think…” he began but stopped. She tilted her head to look up at him. “I think we...should talk.”

Peggy’s head nodded sharply, lips pursed together. 

--

“So,” Steve sighed once they were both out of their gala clothes and into something more comfortable. They sat on the couch, a warm tea in Peggy’s hand and a beer in Steve’s. Not that he could drink. “Do you want to talk about what’s been bothering you?”

Her mouth opened, tinted pink now that the makeup was washed off. Her curls sat around her rather than pinned into place. Despite the relaxful atmosphere, she looked tenser than before. He’s seen her look more relaxed fighting the Alien of the Week than with him.

“Peggy.” He turned to face her, taking her hands gently into his own. “Talk to me and d-don’t say nothing, because it’s not nothing. You’ve been out of it and so have I, but you…”

He shrugged, not sure how to finish the sentence without just blurting out everything he was feeling. This was about Peggy, not him. 

“I just…” She started, then stopped and sighed. Her shoulders slumped and she fell into his side. Her face pressed into his side. “I miss home.”

Steve’s face buried into her hair, breathing in the soft scent of lavender that seemed to linger in her hair. His arm tightened around her until she was buried into his chest. He didn’t want to let go, Peggy was home to him.

“I know,” he breathed, feeling his eyes burn with tears he’s fought off for so long. “I know, I know, my darling. I know.”

Her small hiccup turned into a soft sob and her shoulders shook. That broke his heart even more. It should be a crime for Peggy to sob, to have anything to cry over. It made him want to tear the world apart and stitch it back together, but what could be done to fix the problem? How could he fix a problem that he didn’t create?

“I do too,” he eventually whispered, not looking up when she made a sound. “I miss home too but what more can we do than miss it, hm? There’s no time travel. We’re here, but at least we’re together.”

Peggy’s face was tinted red as she pulled back, sniffling into Steve’s hand that cupped her face. “I know you’re right and I-I feel foolish about sobbing over this, but I can’t help but miss it. Our friends, our family, everything. The silly traditions war brought about us. You must think…”

“I think nothing of the sort,” Steve breathed, sitting up so Peggy was back against the couch. “Pegs, I love you. I miss it too but you…you got to live it. I did not. I had the sanctuary of being frozen and I don’t know what’s worst. Being alive and living all the decades or waking up in a new century. And...running through two walls…”

“Three walls, two teams of Agents, a glass window despite a perfectly working door was beside you, and into Time Square. It took me over fifteen minutes to track you down.” 

Her pink lips quivered at the memory of meeting her beloved again. She should’ve been there when he woke up but duty calls when you’re a director and Steve’s timing as usual went against all she had planned.

“Yes, anyway…” The tips of his ears started to turn pink. “Either way, it’s okay to miss what we once had, Pegs. It’s okay, you don’t have to be upset about crying over that. We can’t help it. We can just...bring it here with us.”

Taking the fuzzy blanket, a gift from Tony, she wrapped it around her frame and smiled softly into Steve’s side when he wrapped her into another hug. “Do you remember our first Christmas together...shortly after you rescued Bucky?”

“You mean the Christmas I got both of us into the river? I swore you would’ve been so mad at me…”

“I should’ve been but your immediate need to take care of me despite you were starting to freeze yourself and your constant apology warned it off.”

“Well, it’s not my fault that we’re both terrible at kissing.”

“It is your fault because you tripped!”

“I tripped because I’m an oaf in giant shoes.” He snorted into her hair, feeling Peggy rolling her eyes at him. 

“Yes, well, it seems to become a tradition after that… The next Christmas, you fell into the flooded ditch. Sergeant Barnes had to scrub you clean. No one else would get near you. The next one after that we were on a mission with the...the Howling Commandos and the roof flooded-”

“That wasn’t my fault. Jim chose the farm to take sanctuary in. We didn’t know it was going to storm!”

“And yet, all the water came down onto just you.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “And the last Christmas…” Steve felt his throat tighten. “I was going to ask you to marry me but…”

But Bucky had died, then the Howling Commandos were called on a mission, and he was forced to leave his gift of chocolate cake in Peggy’s tent. 

Then he died…

Peggy’s arm tightened around him and she pressed a long kiss to his jawline. He could feel her heart beating against his. 

“We’re together now, you’re right. I’m grateful for that, please never think that I am not. I just miss it sometimes. The popcorn strings on the trees, the simpler music that isn’t so...so barbiarcly loud.”

“Handmade ornaments, my ma and I used to make them. She’d hand-sewn a tree skirt. Getting Christmas Trees from the orchid. We’d make a fort and wait for Santa. I always fell asleep. We couldn’t afford much - ma and I, but she’d handmake me presents every year. Teddybears, clothes, even one year she worked overnight just to make me a pirates costume.”

“Oh, darling that’s so precious.”

Peggy’s eyes were misty as she imagined younger and skinnier Steve running around in a little pirate costume, wearing it out until he was far too big for it. 

“My brother and I used to turn off all the lights and light candles in the house. An even number so we didn’t have to fight. I’d wear a halo made of candles, fake candles, and a white dress. We’d sit by the fire and read stories. We’d string up the Christmas Tree. We’d have dessert first Christmas Day.”

Steve smiled into Peggy’s hairline again, tilting her head up so he could press a long kiss to her lips. “There’s nothing saying we can’t bring that here.”

--

Pepper and Natasha showed up on their doorstep bright and early the next morning, much to Peggy’s dismay. Be as she may, the greatest agent and director of Shield, Peggy Carter was not a morning person. Not even with Steve. It took half a pot of coffee before she’d even speak sometimes. Not that the pair cared, they just whisked Peggy away, without explaining as much as an answer as to where they were going.

I hate you. PC

Uh-huh. SR

You did this. PC

And what exactly did I do? SR

You had Pepper and Natasha kidnap me. PC

Kidnap isn’t the word I’d use. You willingly went. SR And no, I didn’t. We have some rare downtime, Pegs, hang out with our friends. SR

You’re up to something, Rogers and I want to know what it is. PC

Whatever it is, Mrs. Rogers, you will just have to wait and see. SR

I hate you. PC

I love you too. SR

Steve sighed as he set the phone down and rubbed at the back of his neck. He felt Sam brush by him with a box of items, followed behind an amused looking Bucky and Clint.

“Don’t,” Steve breathed at Bucky. “Don’t you say it.”

“I’m not saying nothing,” Bucky mused. “Just that Pegs is gonna kill you for this.”

“I would kill you for this,” Clint declared, picking up a dusty, plaid, looking ribbon before Steve snatched it from him. “Hey!”

“Careful with this stuff, okay? I know, I know what it looks like but Pegs is just...homesick.” His eyes fell to Bucky, who to a point could understand. His face slacked and he turned over the ribbon in his hand. “I’m just trying to be…”

“A good, devoted husband that’s sickening in love,” Sam commented, making Steve roll his eyes. “We get it, man. We do. It’s okay. Just tell us how to help. Tony is already looking for the music. We got a projection set up for the outside.”

“And Pepper, as of ten minutes ago, has secured the perfect dress for Pegs,” Bucky mused, turning his phone to show it to Steve. “Alright, Stevie, where to?”

--

“Natalia, what is all this?” 

The name purred from Peggy’s mouth as the limo (of all things, of course, a Stark would give a limo ride back to the Tower) came to a stop and Happy eagerly open the door. She was met with the sight of Avengers Tower lit up in lights. 

Christmas lights lined the exterior of the building, lighting up every other floor and frame and while yes, the bright white lights and the flood lamps were beautiful, what caught her attention the most was the red carpet, the trees lining the walkway to the normally heavily guarded entrance. The exterior looked…

“The Stork Club,” Peggy gasped, covering her mouth with a shaken hand. A date that would never come to be, somewhere she had foolishly waited for her date. Howard had walked her home after a brief dance with her and Dugan. 

Bittersweet memories.

The air felt colder around her as Happy’s hand curled around hers and she was eased out of the car, feeling her legs to be made of ice. A figure was walking towards her, the lights surrounding him almost made him look like a walking shadow. She’d know that build anywhere.

Steve stood in front of her, wearing a beautiful, cashmere suit. The dark blue in the jacket lit up his eyes and the soft blue of the tie brought out the green flecks in them. Compared to him, she felt underdressed almost. Her dress was the shade of red she’d once worn in a bar in the middle of a war. It flowed around her ankles, a soft trail left behind her as she was spun around in his arms. Her hair was pinned up perfectly, Pepper had carefully studied hair tutorials, as did Natasha with the makeup. 

It seems Steve got a little sense of fashion from Sam and Tony. Lord knows Bucky and Clint had none.

“St-Steve,” she breathed, nearly falling into his chest from shock alone. “What is this? What’s going on?”

“A night to remember,” he purred in answer, bending down to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Would you care to join me, my love?”

Her arm looped around his without hesitation, shooting one last look at Natasha and Pepper, both women looking pleased as she was lead inside.

It was the music that caught her off guard. Shortly after Thanksgiving, the tower started to be filled with obnoxious Christmas music. Too loud for her taste. Now it was filled with soft jazz, the music and trombone sounds made her heartache more than Peggy could describe. 

Inside the lobby, everything was gone. Gone were the desks, chairs, plants, and even the large Christmas tree. It had been replaced with a much smaller receptionist desk, a red curtain blocking their entrance. She could hear the sounds of a fountain nearby. A small Christmas tree awaited in the corner and behind the desk sat an amused looking Clint.

“Name?” He asked as if he hasn’t saved Steve’s life or hers a hundred times over. 

“Mr. Rogers,” Steve replied, squeezing Peggy’s hand. “And Mrs. Rogers. I know we’re a bit early for our reservation…”

“For once,” Peggy snorted, making Clint snort into his hand.

“Better late than never,” Clint replied, waving them through the self-opening curtains. “Your diner reservation is just in the elevator.”

Behind the desk, Peggy saw the large fountain. It was made of marble, carved into angels blowing trumpets, so the trumpets spit the water onto the fountain. A Christmas tree decorated elegantly sat behind it, a few presents wrapped in burlap or even newspaper, old newspaper at that, sat tucked underneath it. She barely had time to admire it before she was whisked away and towards the elevator.

This is the only thing that remained the same, smooth panels with no cranks or loud noises. She can understand why, both she and Steve were sensitive to loud noises. 

Her mouth opened, taking a step back to admire Steve’s look and the smile on his face. “I-”

His head shook and she felt her shoulders slack. “You don’t have to say anything.”

Thankfully (she’s still unsure if so), the doors answered for her and opened up to what would’ve been their common dining room. Instead, it still held the floor to ceiling windows that welcomed them to a night sky. Not the normal skyscrapers, New York skyline, but instead one that looked...well, 70 plus years ago. The floor had been replaced with a hardwood that made her heels click and clack as they were lead deeper inside the room. The spot where their living room had been with comfortable couches and tv-sat a dance hall with couples she’s seen around the Tower weaving back and forth, in each other’s arms. They were dressed similarly and even a band played a few feet away from them.

Instead of being caught up on that, Steve whisked her towards the communal kitchen, a few tables sat out and one with the name Rogers on a placard sat for them. He held the chair out for her, Peggy still a bit stunned as she sat down. He had barely just sat down before Sam walked over in his little, dapper suit, a tray in hand.

“You look dashing, Sam,” Peggy purred, feeling her cheeks flush. “Did you cook?”

“Do you trust anyone else to cook? I wasn’t about to let Stark hire some foolish chef. Besides, I owe ya’ll a favor.” He pulled the top of the tray off and smiled at the delightful look Peggy had. “As requested, dessert for dinner. My mama’s homemade Chocolate Cake, Cheesecake, Carrot Cake, Chocolate Mousse, and well...the list goes on and on. Steve did say you loved chocolate. Oh, yes, and sticky toffee pudding. That is if a certain James didn’t eat it.”

“He was fond of it years ago,” Peggy chuckled, helping Sam take the plates off to spread across their table. “Really, Sam, none of you had to go through this trouble for me.”

“Of course we did, Pegs. You deserve it. Now, for dinner, there’s pecan-crusted, honey salmon or duck with roasted potatoes and greens.”

“The duck, for both of us,” Peggy answered, sharing a look with Steve. “The last time Steve had salmon, he choked on it, so he avoids fish.”

“It’s not my fault Pinky didn’t clean it right,” Steve grumbled, shooting Sam a thankful look. “Again, thanks, Sam.”

Picking up a fork, he held a forkload of Sam’s chocolate cake to Peggy’s lips. His eyes were on those lips as she took the heavenly bite and sighed with relief at the taste exploding on her tongue. 

“Steve, what is this?” 

She pulled back to look at his face, unaware that a bottle of wine and glasses had been set between them. 

Steve’s shoulders shrugged, busying himself with pouring them a glass of wine. “You said you missed...back then. I missed our date. I wanted to make it right. I...I know what you said, that by being alive I’ve more than made it up but still…”

Peggy had to blink hard to clear the mist from her eyes, reaching out to caress his hand and bring it to her lips to kiss the knuckles softly. “And you went through all this trouble for me?”

“You’re worth it.”

Lord, she was going to sob by the night was over, wasn’t she? Steve was determined to make her cry.

--

Their meal was wonderful, as always when Sam cooked. Even the duck that he had brought out with a too-happy of Bucky’s help. It was excellently cooked and moist and the flavors, Peggy could’ve kissed Sam for how good it was and she was sure Steve was in an agreement.

Bucky came back around to help clean the table off, returning once more to take Peggy’s hand. She gave him a skeptical look as she was taken off of her seat and lead onto the little, dance hall. Instantly the band started to play something sweet and slow. Something she shouldn’t be dancing with James.

“What are you doing, James?” Peggy asked, her head laid on his shoulder as he held her one hand, the other wrapped around her frame. They swayed gently from side to side. “Tryin’ to make Sam jealous?”

“That man doesn’t get jealous,” Bucky snorted, rolling her eyes. “No, dollface, Steve always felt bad how you avoided dancing because of him, so…” He shrugged and for God’s sake, he was blushing.

James Buchanan Barnes was blushing.

“So you decided to fulfill that for me. Thank you.”

She was spun around the second her lips touched his cheek and right into Sam’s arms. She laughed as he dipped her before swaying with them. Bucky had disappeared up the elevator and she could’ve sworn he said Steve’s floor. 

“Sam, I wanted to thank you again…”

“Nothing to it, Pegs. You deserve this little night out and I think we all had our own fun planning it, especially Steve. You should’ve seen him, getting all Captain-like, giving out orders. I think Bucky was close to knocking him out, he was stressing us all out. The guy just wants this to be perfect.”

“It is. Even without all this...every last detail, it’s perfect.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The voice purred behind her. A hand was held out in her vision and Peggy took it, being lead right back onto the middle of the dance floor.

Steve dipped her lower than Sam and kissed her. A soft, loving kiss that made every inch of her nerves scream to life. She sighed into his lips as she was tilted back up and swung back to her feet. A giggle escaped her as they swayed.

They’ve danced more than a few times since Steve being found but this was different. This was a man trying to play to make up for lost time and she loved him for it. She loved him even if he didn’t try this. 

“So, what do you think, Mrs. Rogers?”

The way he purred her surname still made her toes tingle, a shiver running down her spine. 

“I think you’re an absolute madman for dragging our teammates into this. I think you’re an idiot for crashing the plane, but…” She pulled her head back from his chest to look into his eyes and smiled, feeling the tears start to burn her eyes. “I know that I love you and this is amazing Steve, so...so lovely, so beautiful. I-”

She started to tear up again and Steve held her tightly, kissing her cheek. “I know,” he breathed. “Let’s not make tonight about lost time and just enjoy this because I know the guys are going to make me pay hell for this later.”

“You deserve it, don’t you?”

“I...might’ve gotten ahead of myself, but it’s worth it for you.”

--

“Steve, what in the world are you doing?”

Peggy’s laugh was addicting, it caused a rush to flood his system. Steve couldn’t help his own snorting chuckling as he kept his hands securely over Peggy’s eyes and marched them slowly into their shared living space. 

“Keeping a surprise from you. Bucky, Bruce, and Thor helped finish this last minute.”

Removing his hands, Peggy finally got to see what was behind curtain number three.

A fort sat in the middle of the living room. Huge blankets drooped over chairs and the couch cushions. Inside was large blankets and pillows. It was surrounded by fairy lights, the same fairy lights decorated around their apartment. Garland and tinsel decorated the walls. A large Christmas tree sat in the corner, adorned with even more garland, homemade ornaments, and popcorn strands. A projector displayed from the ceiling, a movie already waiting to play. 

“Steven…” Peggy couldn’t help the soft sob that escaped her lips, her hand covering her mouth. This looked like her childhood dream, just more modern. He’d taken the time to take things out of her life and to bring it to life.

“I know it’s not much, especially compared to before but…”

He was silenced with a heavy kiss on his lips. It made him want to faint into her arms. 

“You stop that. It’s everything I could’ve hoped for and more. You even have the fireplace up and look, JARVIS has prepared us books to be read to us. Hot cocoa.” Even outside, despite the weather, it projected a blanket of snow in some English cottage. 

Steve’s face was a bright shade of red. He made a shrugging motion and rubbing a hand over his neck. “Tis nothing...Why don’t you go change into something comfortable and we can relax after that night of dancing?” Steve never thought he’d be thankful for two bathrooms, normally they shared one, and shared one shower together but he wanted to give Peggy time to calm down. He emerged later with wet hair, sweatpants, and a t-shirt thrown on. He wasn’t surprised to find Peggy already waiting for him in the fort, curled up around hot cocoa. She passed him a mug and crawled into his waiting arms.

“Thank you, Steven,” she yawned into his shoulder. “For giving me one last night of our past. Thank you for understanding everything.”

“I told you,” he breathed, setting his mug aside and kissing her hair. “You’re not alone in this. I’m glad I could give you a night to remember.”

“Mhm..”

Steve chuckled at the sound of a sleepy Peggy, laying them back amongst the covers. JARVIS switched the lights off without asking, the only light in the room was the fireplace. He yawned and kept his arms around Peggy, rubbing up and down her backside.

“JARVIS, can you play the first book?” He asked, keeping his voice low. 

“Of course, Mr. Rogers. Now playing The Night Before Christmas. T’was the night before Christmas…”

[alphascorpiixx]

Another Dream

KHUX Week Day 7

You return to Daybreak Town as darkness spreads across the world.

Ao3

Characters: Player, Chirithy, Ephemer, Nightmare Chirithy

Gen, 2427 words, written before last update, second person pov

Warnings: death mention, drowning

Shadows play on the copper wirings inside the cables. Your adventures in the data worlds are over, the darkness banished and Candy Kingdom saved from destruction. The tunnel echoes with the metallic clack of your footsteps. You carry your Keyblade in your hand, ready for any remaining Heartless lurking in the shadows. The data worlds may be safe, but the Darkling’s presence still uneases you. Who could be their real target?

So wrapped up in your thoughts you are that you almost miss the brief flicker of the cable lights. You stop and look around. No Heartless appear, but the shadows loom on all sides. Something stutters in your peripheral vision, like the edges of the world are being pulled apart.

You pick up your pace.

The tunnel ends at a point of light. The portal back to Daybreak Town ripples with bursts of static. This isn’t right, it should have stabilized since you cleared out all the bugs. The glitched gateway twists and contorts more violently than before, at risk of closing any second. You sprint the last few steps.

You emerge where you and Ephemer started in the clocktower’s computer room. You catch your breath and look around, expecting Ephemer and the others to greet you. But the room is empty. The monitors, once displaying glimpses of all the various worlds, reflect you on their dark screens.

“Ephemer?” you call out.

Chirithy pops up beside you. “They’re probably in the Foretellers’ room. Let’s go report back.”

You leave the computer room and take the elevator down. Chirithy sits at your feet, and you rub your arms. The air in the clocktower is so cold, like something leached away all the warmth. 

The ride is silent, save for the clicking of the giant gears. You cast a sideways glance at Chirithy. “How do you know where that is?”

“I—uh.” Chirithy’s ears curl in, and they won’t meet your gaze.

“I know I’ve been here before, in the memories you’ve been suppressing.”

“I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.” You bend down and rub Chirithy’s head. “I know you just want to protect me. But I can protect myself, too.” You give Chirithy a soft smile, and they press their nose against your leg. “You’re my friend, and friends don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“I know,” they murmur against your calf.

You give their head one last pet and straighten up. After a few minutes, the gears click into place, and the elevator shudders to a stop. You hurry to the Foretellers’ room, shove the door open, and find the remains of a battle.

The stained glass window is smashed, and the grand table is splintered into pieces. Books strewn on the floor, their pages torn and scattered. Shattered vials, broken chairs. In the chaos, you almost don’t notice Ephemer leaning against a toppled bookshelf.

“Ephemer!” You run to his side. His jaw is bruised, and he gives you a lopsided grin.

“Hey, you made it back all right. Everything go okay?”

“Me? What happened to you?” You cast a Cure spell, and a soft green light washes over Ephemer. He closes his eyes for a second and exhales. You help him to his feet, and he explains as you two head to the elevator. 

“We were attacked by a creature, calls itself Darkness. It had possessed Ven to get inside this world, and then came after the rest of us. It escaped out the window,” he nods to the remains of the glass, “so Brain and Lauriam chased after it. Skuld’s looking after Ven, and that’s about it.” He gives a dry laugh. “Usual stuff.”

Your mind reels with questions, but Ephemer grimances and rubs his side. Questions can wait. 

The two of you make it to the elevator when the walls glitch. Black tendrils spread over the gears and extinguish the lights. They twist and surge, something between smoke and shadow.

“It’s back,” Ephemer whispers. He pushes you toward the exit. “Go! You have to get out of here!”

“Not without you!” You reach out, but the shadows separate the two of you. A flash of light accompanies his Keyblade summon, but it’s not enough to break through the darkness.

“Ephemer!” you shout, but the storm swallows your words. You throw your arm in front of your face. The shadows coalesce into something vaguely humanoid. A Darkling?

It advances toward you. You summon Starlight and draw on your lux reserves. A familiar burn runs through your veins as lux dances around your body. Walking through the clocktower’s halls sparked something in your mind. Memories swirl in your head—pouring rain, a muddy battlefield, the burning light at your fingertips—but you push them away. You want to remember, but you can’t be distracted now, with the darkness bearing down.

“It’s you,” the figure in the dark says. “The last of the Dandelions.”

“What did you do to Ephemer?” you demand. Your body glows like a star against the dark.

“He’s lost now. Adrift like the others.”

No. He can’t be. 

You blaze up the room with a Firaga spell, but it doesn’t burn away the darkness. Tendrils rise out of the floor and slice at your face. You hit them away with your Keyblade and lunge at the figure in the shadows.

They shy just out of your reach. “This fake world is nearing its end. You may have survived the end of the world once, but I wonder if fate will bless you a second time?”

Shadows gather at your feet, restraining you to the floor. The tendrils cling to your body and force you to your knees. You can’t raise your Keyblade, and the last of you lux snuffs out. Someone calls your name. Chirithy, still by your side. 

“No! You can’t take my friend!” Chirithy cries.

The Darkness lashes out at Chirithy before they can flee. Shadows bind their little body, and pain strikes your heart. 

You scream, and everything goes dark.

*

“Hey.”

You blink. Sunlight fills your eyes.

“Get up.”

Your back is wet. You roll your head to the side and see you’re lying on a shallow ocean that stretches out to eternity. Your eyelids close again. You can’t find the energy to stand up. The sea is so peaceful, and you just want to sink beneath the surface.

“Hey. You’re not dying here. So get up.”

A paw prods your ribs. You grit your teeth and force yourself to stand up. Water ripples at your feet, but you remain standing on the surface.

You finally see the speaker, and your hand extends for your Keyblade. But nothing comes, and the Nightmare tilts their head.

“What are you trying to do? You don’t have any power here, you know.” Red eyes stare at you from an emotionless face. You remember when that face transformed into a monster bent on your destruction.

“I defeated you. What are you doing here?”

“I’m still bound to you, unfortunately. And then you went and died like an idiot fighting the Darkness, so I found what’s left of your heart and brought you here.”

“I’m—” Your heart stutters, and you can’t finish your thought. You look down and notice yourself in the water’s reflection. You’re barely a figment, a translucent form as fleeting as the clouds above your head. You hold your hand in front of your face and see sunlight pass through. 

“Oh, and I couldn’t save your body. Sorry,” the Nightmare adds, almost as an afterthought. You drop your hand to your side and look back at them. They haven’t made a move, but you long for the heft of the Keyblade in your grip.

“Where am I?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady. “And where is my Chirithy?”

“So I guess I’m not good enough for you?” they grumble. They turn away and look up at the sky. “This is called the Final World, where fallen hearts go when they can’t move on. And like I said, you’re dead, so your Chirithy’s gone, too.” They look back and see your stricken expression and roll their eyes. “Your other Chirithy is still around. Wielders and their Dream Eaters are not separated so easily. They still exist as part of your heart.”

The Nightmare’s words bring relief. You’re still wary of their intentions, but you press your hand to your chest and feel your heart stir. In this world you have no Spirit or Dream Eater materials to give Chirithy a new form, but you take comfort in the knowledge they are still with you.

You walk around this empty world, water splashing with every step. “Ephemer and Skuld are in trouble. I need to get back to Daybreak Town. How do I leave here?”

The Nightmare skips behind you. “I dunno, I just saved you from passing on. You’ll have to figure the rest out yourself.”

“You could still help me. If you’re a part of me, you can’t go back to the real world either.”

“Actually, I can.” And without another word, the Nightmare flips into the air and vanishes. You wait for them to return, but they don’t. 

*

In this world you can’t even tell how much time passes. You walk on and on but never come to any shore, only endless ocean and sky.

You stop and sit down. The memories that overwhelmed you before now feel like an age ago. You remember the war between the unions and your own battles against the Foretellers. In your incomplete state, every emotion is dull and hollow. You should be angry. You should scream and rage and mourn the loss of Chirithy and the unknown fate of your friends. You bite back a hollow laugh. These are the memories you longed to recall, flashes of a battlefield strewn with broken keys, and they barely stir any shadow of grief.

You press your forehead to your knees and stare at the water. The ocean reflects the eternal sky, a mimicry of Daybreak Town’s seaside. The ocean of your home was a living thing, mostly calm but rising like a wild beast in the occasional storms. The sunlit surface rippled green and blue, never a single color and always hiding secrets in its depths. This world, despite the reflection of the sun, is stagnant. A mirror to hold lost hearts, not a sustainer of life.

But it might still hold its own secrets.

You place your hand on the surface, and your fingers disappear under the water. So there is something lurking under the ocean. You push your hand down. The water comes to your wrist, and you can’t see past the reflection. Your hand meets no resistance as in sinks deeper.

Sink down and down and—

You stand up. Ripples disrupt the reflection. You lift your head to the sun and close your eyes.

Then you fall backward. Water crashes around your body and closes over your head. Your eyes blink against the pressure. Bubbles race past your face and disappear into the blurry sunlight. That light’s warmth fades the further you fall, until the last trace of the surface vanishes and leaves you cold.

You sink.

Down.

And.

Down.

The weight of the ocean presses against your body, and your chest begins to ache. Air bubbles escape your lips, and your lungs seize up. You scramble for something to cling to, but there’s nothing but water.

“You’re finding all sorts of new ways to die, huh?” The Nightmare’s voice enters your mind, undisturbed by the water bearing down on you.

Help me, please.

“You got yourself into this mess. Why should I help you?”

Because you’re part of me. You reach out with your mind for the Nightmare’s presence. You feel them at the edge of your awareness. You know the truth of your words, and so do they. No matter where they go, they are part of you and you will find them. And if I pass on so will you.

The Nightmare doesn’t answer. You gulp for air but swallow water instead. As your arms flail and you sink into the depths, you realize the Nightmare was wrong earlier. You couldn’t be dead because of how hard you are fighting to live.

Something solid brushes your hand. You reach out and grab fur. You wrap your arms around the body of a beast and let it carry you back to the light. Your head breaks the surface, and you gasp in air. The creature drags you to the shallows, and you fall onto the sand of a dark shore, coughing up a lungful of water.

Nightmare Chirithy settles beside you, still in their beast form. Their fur dries unnaturally quick. You lie on the sand and let the waves wash over your legs.

“Where are we now?” you murmur. The black sky reminds you of the corridors of darkness you’d often travel within to fight Heartless. But the shore is empty of monsters, and the shadows don’t writhe.

“The Realm of Darkness,” they state. You sigh. “Well, at least you’re not dead anymore,” they add, and you raise your eyebrow at the touch of optimism. 

“So if I’m not dead but I made it here, am I part of the darkness now? Am I going to turn into a Darkling?” The possibility doesn’t scare as much as it would have before. A creature of darkness is the reason why you lost yourself in the first place, but another one saved you from the abyss.

They shrug. “I guess you’ll find out eventually.”

The Nightmare’s body contorts and transforms back into their usual form. They fix their red eyes on the sea, and you can’t help but think of your other Dream Eater. In the faint light of the distant sun, you almost convince yourself it’s you and them sitting on the hill watching the sunset.

You muster the energy to sit up. “We’ll have to help each other now, if we want to get out of this.”

Nightmare Chirithy huffs. “You’re the one who got us here. And I’m not doing this for you.”

“I know.” 

You place your hand on their head. Chirithy tenses for a second but relaxes as you scratch their ears. They lean into your side. Eventually you’ll have to find a way out of this realm and look for Ephemer. You know in your heart he isn’t gone, and you hold onto the certainty that you will meet again.

But for now the two of you listen to the slow hush of the waves.

[dorevenge]

where ignorance is bliss - chapter 2: where grass was green

SUMMARY: Obadiah is off to Washington to assist with the war in Vietnam, and Peggy and Maria grow closer, as Maria learns something she wishes she didn't. [AO3 LINK]

CHAPTERS: 1 [2] 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 ☆

November 15, 1959 – Bronx, New York, Obadiah’s Apartment

Struggling to find ways to pass the time after the war, Peggy frequented my apartment. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division (or, S.H.I.E.L.D., as everyone says to save precious time) has been involved in the fight with Vietnam for a few years now. Obadiah left for Washington right after the Stark Expo to give weapons consult in the war, and I haven’t seen him in almost three months. We would write letters sometimes, and phone even less. I moved into Obie’s apartment to take care of the place while he was away for an indeterminate amount of time, and Peggy crashed in the living more times than she would care to admit.

“Did you love him?” I ask, fixing the two of us another round of Old Fashions. The empty Chinese carryout containers are scattered across the coffee table before us. There’s a good restaurant between the S.H.I.E.LD. Headquarters and the apartment, and Peggy will frequently grab something on the way here.

“I only knew him for a couple months,” Peggy replies, taking the glass. I curl up next to her on the couch, our heads leaning in towards each other. “So it’s hard to say. It could have been. We were both young, thrown together during some of humanity’s darkest days. We were all looking for something to believe in.”

She swirls the glass in her hand, lazily watching the whiskey fall back down the side before continuing.

“What about you and Obadiah? Is this love?”

“I don’t want to talk about him.” The corners of my mouth curl downwards on their own. Peggy notices. Peggy always notices.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“It’s more like paradise when he’s gone rather than when he’s here.”

“Why is he your boyfriend if you don’t even like him?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I take a large gulp of my Old Fashion, the whiskey burning the back of my throat. “He’s my fiancé.”

Peggy sits up, and my head slides off her shoulder to the cushion of the couch.

“Your what?” She takes my left hand into hers and finds my ring finger bare.

“I keep it in my sock drawer. Whether out of safekeeping or embarrassment, I’m not sure.” I sit up.

“When did this happen? And why did you say yes?” She looks at me with a tight expression, concern and worry on her face. Her red lipstick is all but gone, a faint imprint of it left on the rim of her class, and her usually tight curls hang loose around her neck and chin. If she weren’t so upset, I’d reach out to tuck one of them behind her ear.

“The last day of the Expo. He… He’s comfortable. We have our routine. We play chess together, I straighten his ties, I smile at the men he wants to invest in his company. I get some of the profits for my charities, and we make each other look good.” I frown at the empty glass in my hand and contemplate fixing another.

Peggy sets down her unfinished drink and looks at me. She has a way of effortlessly shifting her gaze from disapproving to comforting in a second. I never know if I’m going to be talking to the “unrelenting founder of S.H.I.E.LD.” Peggy or the “let’s go shopping and day-drinking” Peggy.

“I’m sure there’s a man out there that complements you and makes you feel good. You just-”

“-haven’t found him yet,” I finish her sentence. I’ve heard it from everyone – my parents, coworkers, strangers who learn I’m 23 and still unwed. 24, I remind myself; my birthday was on the fifth, less than two weeks ago. I feel the effects of the whiskey settling in, my eyes growing heavy and my weight shifting to my stomach. “You’re lucky to have experienced two great loves.”

“Daniel is far from a true love, hence why I stay with you the majority of the week. I’m also fourteen years older than you and have had more time to find them. I was 24 when I met Steve; there’s still plenty of time.”

“There doesn’t seem to be many men like Steve left.”

-

Peggy was gone without a word the next morning, and I am left alone with a pounding headache. By the time I wake, its well past noon on Saturday, and the mail’s already been delivered under the door.

I rifle through the envelopes once my toast is done, the coffee pot almost full, and the majority of the mail is addressed to Obadiah. Bills and letters of interest from inventors that I’m supposed to forward to him in DC. There’s a letter addressed to me in his precise, meticulous handwriting, but the one that interests me most is from Roxxon Oil Company, a large, thick packet with “CONFIDENTIAL” stamped across it. Naturally, I open it.

Maybe it’s the lingering hangover or the knowledge that Obie would forgive me for anything under the sun, but I rip open the envelope as I sip on my morning coffee, pouring all its contents out on to the table.

Most of the information doesn’t interest me, talking about drill efficiency and rigs and pipelines, until I find the balance sheet and investing information. I did get my master’s in accounting, as Obie tends to forget as he relegates me to a trophy wife. As I drift back into sobriety, the pieces start falling into place. Roxxon isn’t investing in Stane International; Stane is investing in Roxxon, and they were already profiting, working together, inventing together. The copies of the blueprints are of Obie’s design, seeking to create clean energy to replace gasoline down the road. In the last two years, Obadiah has made hundreds of thousands of dollars, with deposits and withdrawals from countless accounts, and reinvesting it, the paper trail deliberately as confusing as possible. I’d call it embezzlement if it weren’t his own company.

I get a scratch piece of paper and start doing the math. It isn’t adding up. Nothing is adding up, the dates and locations, let alone the cash, with several documents addressed from Russia. I sit up, my heart in my throat, pulsing so hard it feels like the world around me was shaking.

Obadiah is not a sneaky man by nature. I knew that he was interested in me before he realized it; I knew when he was going to ask me to go steady with him; I know when he is on the brink of a great new idea. He tries his best to hide things, but every move of his body betrays him. I’ve caught him sticking things in the back of his closet and under his bed more times than I could count, and I’ve never had the opportunity to check with him there. But seeing as he’s away…

Kneeling, I fumble underneath the bed frame until my fingers find purchase on a briefcase, and I slide it out. I wrestle with the knobs until I realize there’s a four-digit code keeping it locked. Before I mess with the dials, I notice the number. 0213.

“Oh, Obie. Do you have to be so predictable?” February 13th was our first date; he chose the day before Valentine’s Day because he believed the holiday of romance should be reserved for people already together, and he made a spectacle on 14th because we were together at that point, by his logic.

The top of the briefcase pops open at my touch, and inside I find numerous telegram slips, copies of both those sent and received. I sift through them quickly, none of them really catching my eye, filled with code words that I didn’t have the motivation to try to decipher. One of them caught my eye, and this is one of the only times Obie’s over-organization paid off because the telegrams were in chronological order.

RECEIVED

September 21, 1957

To: Stane, O.

O., I am glad to hear you secured the trust-fund. Let me know what day you’ll tie the knot, and I’ll tell you where to wire the funds. I might just send you a gift to celebrate.

NEFARIA, G.

SENT

September 28, 1957

To: Nefaria, G.

I’ll be traveling for work extensively the next four months. Please send files to Location 2. She can’t know anything.

STANE, O.

RECEIVED

September 30, 1957

To: Stane, O.

O., safe travels. Remember the end goal – the reactor that threatens our future. It cannot be manufactured by anyone but us, for our sake.

NEFARIA, G.

Prior, my heart had felt like it was running a mile a minute; now, it feels still in my chest. Dead in the water, like a stunned minnow tossed in to attract larger fish. “The trust fund.”

I had been courted before for my parents’ wealth. In college, a boy had pursued me relentlessly. He made me feel beautiful, special, and like the only star in his sky. He had convinced me that love was this roller-coaster rush of emotions, one collision after the other, until his dormmate clued me in on his intentions. That’s why I try to keep Obie in the dark about what I’ll inherit, how big my trust-fund really is. Growing up, I was unaware of how good we had it; all my friends in boarding school were from the same social and financial class, we all vacationed at the same spots and shopped at the same boutiques. It took a lot of eye-opening experiences at university for me to realize life was different for others, and it honed my ability to detect insincere motives. Too little, too late, but I won’t let it happen again.

With shaking hands, I put the papers back in their order, and I snap the briefcase closed, pushing it back under the bed with a force. I return to the kitchen table where I had spread the other documents out, collect them, and place them back as they were. I’m not sure if I need to try to seal it to make it look unopened, or if I should destroy the whole thing. He hadn’t asked me about forwarding this one specifically, so he might not be expecting it. Under the documents, I find the letter addressed to me again. Obie’s handwriting hits me differently now. How well do I actually know the sender?

Mar- (God, I hate it when he calls me Mar.)

I am writing to you with success here in Washington DC. We have made valiant efforts with the war. We expect Vietnam to concede soon. Our troops are vigilant and the best America has to offer, and their farmers pose no threat to us or the hope of victory. I expect to return home to you Friday the 15th of November. I’m sorry, darling, that I missed your birthday, but perhaps I can make it up to you.

See you soon at home,

Your Obie

Friday. Today was Friday.

The living room was a mess. Peggy’s and my drinks and dinner dishes scatter the room, the mail on the table, and I look equally disheveled. I know Obie would be disappointed, as the apartment is always speckless when he’s here.

I am a flurry around the house, collecting garbage in the bin and dishes in the sink. I tie the heaping garbage bag and leave it by the door, and rush to check my appearance in the bathroom. A scarf around my hairline will make the windswept, frenzied style look intention, and I change into a simple blue sundress. Obie didn’t have a dishwasher, so I put an apron on to protect my dress from the dishwater.

As I was setting the last glass out to dry, a knock resounded from the front door. I could feel it reverberate in my chest, and my heartbeat pulsed in every finger in my hand. Shaking, I set the glass down, wiped the water off my hands, preparing myself to smile and wine-and-dine the man I’ve already committed myself to.

[isolaradiale]

When the final wire was cut, the entire city went black. The power grid was not tied to the network, but the outage was NULL’s only shot at preventing Ofiuco’s retrieval after she fell from the sky. The entire city fell still for five minutes before power returned, but this light only served to illuminate the next phase. It wasn’t like GPU had been without a backup plan. If they didn’t have a way to leverage the arrest of the Stars, then at the very least they could throw a wrench in their operation. 

However, the light of the moon and stars that shone down on the city in the dead of night was obscured by a sudden apparition. A floating island that existed beyond the flight limitations of the city obscured the view, almost the same size as the city itself and becoming a constant and looming darkness over the cityscape. It cast things into uncertainty, and all of the Shades remaining on the ground flocked up and into it... before a loud rumbling began. 

The island suddenly dropped and it inevitably looked as if it was about to crash into the city itself before stopping in a convenient location: just below the maximum flight limit. Beams of light soon extended from all around the floating island’s perimeter to Spirale below, their uses initially unclear.

That was, until, people began to step out of them. These weren’t NPCs nor agents, their ranks instead populated by the monstrous and the villainous. Enemies and rivals gathered from the worlds the characters had all been taken from, their sights set on razing the city. Chaos immediately unfolded where they landed, structures and people alike targeted while some of these foes sought conflict with their greatest nemesis. 

LISTEN TO ME PEOPLE OF THIS ISLAND CITY.

If it was a device capable of receiving a signal, this distorted voice boomed over it. Many believed the speaker to be an enemy at first, probably one of the agents that had turned their world into disarray. Thankfully that wasn’t the case.

I AM AN EX-MEMBER OF THE GPU AND BOTH MYSELF AND ONE OTHER HAVE BEEN WORKING WITH YOUR ISLAND STARS FROM WITHIN THE ORGANIZATION FOR THE LAST SEVERAL DAYS. GPU WILL DESTROY YOU REGARDLESS OF WHETHER THE STARS TURN THEMSELVES IN OR NOT, AND BY THE TIME THE MAINTENANCE DROID IS ABLE TO CONVEY THIS MESSAGE TO YOU THE PROCESS MIGHT HAVE ALREADY BEGUN.

YOU AREN’T DREAMING. THE ENEMIES THAT HAVE LIKELY POURED OUT OF THAT FLYING STRUCTURE ARE ALL VERY REAL AND VERY POWERFUL. SOME OF YOU MIGHT RECOGNIZE THEM BECAUSE THEY WALK, TALK, OR GROWL LIKE FOES YOU’VE ENCOUNTERED IN YOUR OWN WORLDS. DON’T BE FOOLED, THEY ARE IMITATIONS MADE COMPLETELY UNDER THEIR CONTROL. HOWEVER THEY ARE VERY DANGEROUS, AND POSSESS THE FULL RANGE OF ABILITIES YOU KNOW THEM TO.

MY PARTNER IN THIS ENDEAVOR TOLD ME THEY’LL BE MAKING SURE THE ISLAND IS LOWERED ENOUGH THAT IT CAN BE REACHED, AND WE’LL ENSURE THE LIGHT LIFTS CAN BRING THOSE WITHOUT WINGS TO THE SURFACE. IF YOU WISH TO KEEP ON LIVING YOU NEED TO NOT ONLY PROTECT YOUR CITY, BUT BRING THE FIGHT TO THEM AS WELL.

Whether these words inspired or not depended on the listener, but there was no denying the immediate threat of the invading force as well as the personal nature of some of these opponents. 

“To those ends, a gift!” This time the speaking voice was a familiar one as a dot of pink light zipped up from the depths of the hole, a familiar android plastered across every screen in the city. This time though her eyes weren’t red. A wave of light reverberated across the city from the flapping of Ofiuco’s wings, granting all it touched their weapons and abilities back for the time being. “Don’t forget there are people from the city itself still working with NULL. I know this is all hard to understand. You don’t know why you’re fighting nor do you know what you’re fighting.”

She exhaled before looking at the floating island above. “I guess there will be some explaining to do when all is said and done, but go! You need to reclaim the starry sky!”

INFORMATION

Welcome to part 2 of Security Breach! There’s a lot to cover here so we’ll try to be as specific as possible. But as always if you have a question don’t be afraid to send it to the ml!

What has happened? With the network shut down thanks to all the cut wires, NULL has wordlessly moved into their backup plan: completely razing the city from within.

To those ends they have summoned a floating island that eclipses the city, and from it enemies pour down from both the top and the light elevators that extend to the city from the floating island’s surface. 

These are not normal enemies however. They are villains and monsters from the worlds of your muses (more information including guidelines in the FAQ section). While they walk, talk, and hit as hard as the real things, they are completely under NULL’s control and share their goals.

This is a grand battle that will be fought on two stages: on the island below and flying structure above. 

Ofiuco has granted everyone their powers and abilities back, but is also enforcing a cap so the enemy forces can’t use game breaking powers. Since this is universal it will also affect the characters within the group (more information in the FAQ section).

For those that are powerless: you will be able to access your Fantasia avatars via the Spirale Alternate World Life app. This feature will be removed at the end of the event, and it will not work for characters that already have powers. 

We will be running this poll until 12:01AM EST on May 1st. Based on the results the story and aftermath of the event will change. 

FAQ

Everyone’s powers are unlocked but are there limitations like in part 1? Yes there are! Abilities used must be tier 6 or higher by vsbattlewiki standards. Obviously these could easily destroy an island, but while structures can be destroyed the island Spirale is on and the island in the sky are both impervious to damage from these attacks. If your character possesses an ability that exceeds this ranking you can tone it down, but some things are strictly off limits like conceptual abilities in certain instances (conjuring items or allies en masse, erasing existences, etc are not allowed). These guidelines are consistent between both sides so as not to break the world.

What’s this about Fantasia and the Spirale Alternate World Life app? Last summer we held an event called the Fantasia War where characters were placed in a fantasy setting with fantasy avatars. At the event’s conclusion we made Fantasia into an MMO game that can be accessed in the Intraspace, and everyone’s avatars have been preserved there. The SAWL app is an app we introduced to allow MMO characters (like from SAO) to be able to switch between their normal and game forms at will, and it is having its functionality temporarily  boosted to let people use their Fantasia avatars, including the attached powers, during the event. This app will not show up for anyone that has powers of their own. 

If your character was not present during Fantasia you can still create your own avatar! You can still find the list of available races here and list of available spells here. 

Villains and enemies are pouring out of the flying island? What does this entail? Essentially what it sounds like. You will have the unique opportunity to bring in villains, monsters, or machines as agents of NULL. They will act as they would in canon, but are dedicated to their cause of destroying the city and killing off its citizens. There are, of course, limitations:

only one boss-tier enemy per mun per series can be brought in. you can bring in as many trash mobs (generic monsters, grunts, etc.) as you want, but you can only choose one powerful opponent. you can just say what kind of mobs might be running around for others to deal with in their threads, but the boss-tier foe must be controlled by you.

boss-tier enemies can be sentient, but they don’t have to be. if you want to bring in things like giant machines that are piloted by grunts, these still count as boss-tiers however.

you cannot bring in an enemy that exists on the masterlist

enemies, including boss-types, can be overlapped throughout a cast to avoid the possibility of someone claiming a boss just to deny other cast members from interacting with them. however do not have these duplicates interact / in the same thread.

The best way to keep this in order would be to make a post introducing the kinds of trash mobs you’d see running around as well as the boss-type you plan on controlling. People can then use the mobs in their threads if they choose, or approach you to interact with the boss. Likewise, you can keep the boss for more personal threads or drabbles. It’s really up to you!

I don’t really have any enemies in my series and I’m not comfortable using mobs from others. Are there any other options for what I can fight? Yes! The Shades are still around, as are a plethora of generic fantasy monsters for you to fight!

Are the weather conditions from part 1 still ongoing? No, those have come to a halt! However the island above blocks all of the weather in general.

Speaking of the floating island. We can go to the top, right? What’s up there? To put it simply: it’s a mess. Whether NULL had difficulty importing code or if it was just a big error, assets from every series imaginable compose the landscape. Maybe you’d see a building from BLEACH, but then one from Naruto right beside it. Some assets have even been merged together. Pieces of it glitch out and redesign constantly, so it’s almost a depressing mockery of Spirale in a way. There are hills and rivers too, but even those are constantly shifting position.

While tons of enemies have poured onto the streets of Spirale, there are plenty waiting on standby atop the flying island. To go it alone would be a terrible idea.

Can we destroy the flying island itself? No! You can destroy the structures on top but new things will eventually sprout up in their place. The ground and undersides seem to be protected by an impenetrable barrier. But even if you could, do you really want it crashing onto the city below?

Where should we put big, newsworthy posts during this event? Please use the tag ‘#isola sb2 news’ as opposed to the regular ‘#isola news’ tag during this part of the event. We anticipate a lot of people are going to want to do cool and interesting things that they want everyone to see so we want you guys to have a space for this, but we also do not want to clutter the regular news tag.

I have an additional question! Feel free to send it to the masterlist! Due to the nature of this part and all of the potential moving pieces we’re sure people may have questions or concerns that haven’t been covered.

When is part 2 expected to end? A week from now on May 1st at 12:00:01AM EST. We’ll likely be polling around the middle of the week to see if people would like an extension however! 

[kashimos-hajime]

soldier | amaranthine (1/6) | b.b.

summary: a boy and a girl went off to war. they fell in love and the devil laughed.

WARNINGS: swearing, MAJOR angst, more fluff than usual wow, heckie doo dah they kiss, blood and vomit mentions, a lot of pain, guns, needles, trains pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 7.5k

a/n: written for @the-omni-princess​ and their writing challenge! i really couldn’t help it, i loved bucky and this reader so much i turned it into a series. my prompt was soldier by fleurie. gif not mine. this series will have a happy ending ON GOD

amaranthine masterlist

Head in the dust, feet in the fire Labour on that midnight wire Listening for that angel choir You got nowhere to run

Sunlight filters through dust and Bucky Barnes thinks it’s too fucking sunny for a day in the trenches. His feet blister as he shifts against the wet mud wall. His stomach is hollow and he closes his eyes. Chains wrap around his bones, tying him to his mud post. Mud caked beneath his nails and a strange crackling feeling festering between his legs and his gut, Bucky Barnes tries to sleep for the first time in three days. All he can feel is the mud through his soaked uniform. Yesterday, it rained like Hell’s flames had reached earth, and beneath molding wood, Bucky had tried to keep his soldiers as warm as he could.

He can’t remember the last time he was dry.

“Sarge, it’s your turn,” a soldier calls and his eyes open as he raises his head from the mud wall. Dried mud crumbles from his head and he grabs his helmet, wedges it beneath his arm and lets his muscles scream. His stomach wails and his head spins when he stands but he blinks the dust away and instead sends a nod to the soldier who begins to lead him through the maze. Hand dragging along the crumbling trench wall, he heads through the pits he knows too well to where the rest of the 107th are waiting. They mumble him greetings as he walks between their legs and bodies, some of them groaning when he steps on mud that leaks out dirt water. They’ve yet to see them yet, then. 

Every soldier that’s gone in has come out remarkably brighter, and these men look more ashen than death.

He doesn’t know what to expect. Suddenly this medical corp was doing a standard health check while not in combat, and safe to say, it raised Bucky’s suspicions. He continues walking and walking, his blisters bleeding and he’s sure he has some trench foot or some other shit. His feet have been swimming in water and mud for days.

His eyes scan the back of the soldier’s head. Clean helmet, new uniform and boots. Lucky him.

“They’ll take good care of you, Sarge,” the soldier announces all sudden-like and Bucky’s head rings. “Get you into right fighting shape.” 

From then, it’s a blur. Hands take him and pass him on to other hands. They take off his clothes, pour warm water over his head and clean him inch by inch. The water turns dark with red and brown when they’re done and he’s sure he can feel the lice in his hair jumping ship before they show him to another tent and then another, each one doing something different. 

The last tent is when his mind finally plays catch up. 

“Sergeant Barnes?” a voice calls as his blue eyes drift warily around him. Beside him are other soldiers, countless rows of them. Some of them are bleeding through their bandages, there are three crowded around one bed playing cards, and he’s alone in his bed. He glances down at his hands, tough with calluses and scrubbed clean of dirt before raising his head. 

“That’s me.”

“Perfect.” 

The voice. His eyes find the voice and then he sees her. Her mouth moves and he hears her say her name, but all he can think of is one thing: angel. She isn’t wearing white, and she doesn’t have wings or a halo. Instead, she has dark half-moons imprinted on her face and messy hair and a fixed smile, and she’s anything but an angel, but it’s the only word Bucky can use to describe her. 

She has the inexplicable draw, and when he blinks, a little too stunned for words, her fixed smile softens.

He sits up a little straighter, and his heart beats a little louder, and for the first time in days, weeks, months, Bucky Barnes doesn’t feel the cold or the wet or the pain.

“Ma’am.” He clears his throat and she laughs as she sets down a tray of food in his lap. His hands instinctively reach to grab and when her fingers brush his, a jolt sends shivers up his spine. She’s the warmest thing he’s touched in days. The woman wears a uniform similar to his with tough stains along her front and in the creases of her jacket and when she bends over to pull the blanket away from his feet, he can spot the dirty rags stuffed into her pockets. A trained nurse, doctor maybe. “Ma’am, you don’t need to worry—”

“You were written down as potentially suffering from trench foot, Sergeant. I’m just going to take a look, treat it, and then I’ll be on my way,” she says, her voice lilting and soft, different than the sound of screams that seem to echo from tents away, the sound of soldiers cheering whenever they win a game of cards.

Bucky looks down at the tray of food. A bowl of hot soup, dry bread with cheese and a steaming cup of coffee has never looked so delicious. As he picks up the spoon to dip into the soup, he glances at the nurse who takes hold of his ankle. Quickly grabbing a hold of his tray, he steadies it and she sends him an apologetic look down the way. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” He smiles and his face stretches strangely. 

It occurs to Bucky he hasn’t smiled in ages, and the woman’s tiny smile in return is enough for him to keep his own grin going.

“Where are you from?” he asks even though it’s painfully obvious. He only speaks because it’s almost humiliating to eat and watch her inspect his feet, especially when he can occasionally catch the glances she sends his way; it’s almost as if she hates the silence as much as he does.

“South London,” she says, slowly setting one foot down. “They soaked your feet, correct?”

“They did. Never been so dry.” She chuckles and the sound is music to Bucky’s ears as she sets down the other foot. “I’m alright to leave, ma’am?”

“You need to be treated first,” she cuts him off, shooting him a narrowed glare. “Talcum powder is extremely helpful. It’ll keep your feet dry for longer and reduce the chafing between your socks and your feet.”

“A miracle.”

“Hardly.” She sends him a quick glance to see if he’s eating before beginning to pat the powder down over his skin. “You need to keep your feet as dry as possible, and expose them to the air, or you’ll be losing more than skin.”

“Hard to do in the mud, ma’am,” he says with a shrug, chugging down his coffee and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth as she pats white dust over his other foot. He wiggles his toe against her palm and she shakes her head with half a smile, gently nudging his foot with a stern rub. “The rain gets everywhere.” 

“I know. It’s advice I still have to give, though.” She claps her hands, white dust springing into the air in a cloud. Waving it away, she bends over to grab pillows and shoves them beneath his legs, exposing his blistering feet to the other soldiers who care to look his way. Wiping her palms along her pants, white streaks down the dark green before she pulls out clean socks and sets them by his bedside. “Put these on when you’re discharged. I hope I don’t have to see you again, Sergeant Barnes.” A sort of yawning ache splits Bucky down the middle as she brushes hair out of her face and turns to pick up a second tray of medical supplies.

“Any siblings?” he asks suddenly just to keep her around. She blinks, turns to check if anyone needs her, and then perches on the edge of his cot like a pretty little bird. Her tray balances in her lap, tools glimmering against the stark-white of a roll of bandages. He brings a spoonful of soup to his lips and it warms him all the way down to the belly. A bit of it dribbles down his chin and she reaches over with a thumb to wipe it off. 

“Three brothers,” she says, withdrawing her hand. Bucky’s lips part and he sucks in a soft breath as she smiles again, this time wide enough to dig into her cheeks. It changes her—makes her younger and softer. Against the grey of everything, she is enchanting. “Twin older brothers and one baby brother.”

“That must’ve been the worst.” He smirks, eyebrows raising and she hides a laugh unsuccessfully. Bucky’s been told he has an infectious smile and he’s glad war hasn’t taken that away from him. She scoots closer to the head of the bed as he eats and as she nears, he can almost count the stars in her eyes.

“My brothers never stopped getting into trouble and I always got caught in the middle of it. They taught me how to fight and we fought all the time…” Her voice fades away and Bucky frowns, eyebrows furrowing together. “Until the war happened.” Her smile slips away and her eyes no longer bare the bravery to meet his. A muscle in her jaw ticks and Bucky almost reaches for her hand. Almost. He cocks his head, letting his drying hair fall into his eyes and she looks at him again, this time not as warmly, this time with emptiness.

“My brothers fled to America a few months after they declared war,” she says. Some nameless, faceless men in Bucky’s head appear and he tilts his head, lips pressing together in a firm line. He could try to imagine a selfish man with her features, or maybe a man hiding under a hood as he boarded a ship with the same eyes, but he can’t. Not when his sister sits right before him. “Because in England, they can’t conscript the last son of a family.”

His thoughts crumble to ash.

“But you’re here,” he whispers and she looks down at his tray, unseeing. 

“I am,” she agrees, wistful, regretful. When their eyes meet again, Bucky wonders if she feels the heat, too. “And you? Any siblings?”

“Three.”

“And you’ve left them behind, too.”

“You’ve been at war much longer than I have,” Bucky points out and she tilts her chin up. The grey sun that streams through the tent flaps hits her face and she’s almost blindingly radiant in a way that breaks a man’s heart. Shifting in his seat, he blinks and tries to keep that image of her, an angel in grey light before it’s gone. She ducks her head to tuck away hair from her face and he twists to set down his tray of food beside him. “You know, I used to braid my sister’s hair before school,” he says and she looks at him, eyebrows shadowing her eyes. “Can’t be rusty when I get back.”

She laughs, almost incredulous, and very, very tired, and Bucky can see the minute the weight seems to lift off her shoulders. She sets down her tray and leans back on her hands, lip caught between teeth as she tries to bite her smile down. It only makes Bucky smile wider.

“Sergeant Barnes, would you please braid a girl’s hair?” she asks, dewy sweet, and Bucky nearly melts in his bed. Mouth dry, he clears his throat and pulls at his blanket. 

“What would I get in return?” He plays for keeps, and the angel grins, leaning towards him. His eyes fall to her lips as she brushes hair out of his face. Bucky can barely breath at the featherlight sweep of her fingers.

“Would my everlasting affection suffice?” She cocks her head and waits for his answer, fingers stilling on his cheek as his eyes flicker from her lips to her eyes. He wonders what it would taste like, to kiss her. Maybe it’d taste like coffee and cough syrup, or gunpowder and ash. Whatever it is, Bucky wants to know. So he nods 

“I s’pose it would.”

.

The cell reeks of dead rat and rank shit. With the wet drip-drip-drip of water leaking from a crack in the ceiling, Bucky digs his shiv into the cement. Scratching the tally mark, he lets the ugly grating of metal against the wall ring in his ears. A mind-numbing pain rests in his veins and just the mere effort of dragging his arm up the wall to run the point through the mark again is nearly too much. His mind swirls in a twisted knot, one that only tightens with every waking moment.

Whatever they did to him—lacing fire and ice into his blood, carving him from the inside out and sharpening his every sense until he can hear the roaches crawling on the walls—has changed him. Somewhere inside him knows he’s different, disfigured on a level he cannot understand. 

He lets his hand fall to the cot as the sound of rusted metal echoes down the hall.

“Let go of me! Bastards!”

Blinding candlelight streams into his cage and Bucky raises his head wearily, twisting onto his side to watch as German soldiers haul a furiously struggling figure between them. Muffled grunts and the sound of fabric rustling catches his ear as he blinks away the stars in his eyes and drops his shiv, hiding it beneath his ratty blanket.

“Herr Schmidt promised you your life for your compliance.”

“Let him choke on my compliance!” The voice rings in his ears as he pushes himself to a sitting position and his metal cell opens before the sound of a body colliding with the floor fills the silence. Bucky blinks hard, trying to get used to the golden light before it shuts him in the darkness once again, but the guards are already closing his gate. The person splayed on his floor gets up, rushing to the metal bars and slamming their first against the shaking thing as the soldiers laugh.

“What the hell?” he mutters, rubbing his eye and one of the soldiers look to him.

“You have company, Sergeant Barnes. Enjoy.” The sneer that seeps into the parting word causes an unwanted shiver to crawl up Bucky’s spine as the body crawls into the middle of his cell and collapses, letting out a sob. Propping himself on his hands, Bucky tries to remember where he’s heard this voice before. 

His brain feels burned, and the harder he thinks, the more it seems to whine. 

“Barnes?”

His name, whispered harshly and echoing in his four walls of prison, is the answer to his prayers, the answer he least desires. 

“Angel,” he utters, breathless as he slides to the floor. The rough cement crates against his weak, bony knees and hands take hold of him as a wet face presses against his cheek.

“Sergeant Barnes.” She all but melts into his embrace, and she burns with the heat of ten million stars, all too hot for his own feverish fingers yet still he digs his nails into her back hard enough that his bones ache. “What did they do to me?” she whispers, shaking, and Bucky pulls her back by the shoulder, one hand cupping her head gently.

“How long have you been here?” he asks carefully and she searches his gaze. “Where were you?” Her breaths shudder against his palm as he wipes away the tears from her face and in the grim, fading light, he can see blood leaking from her ear, dripping warmly onto his knuckles.

“After Azzano, they attacked the hospital.” Her breath, hot as summer rain, chills him to the bone. “They managed to evacuate all but the last few tents and they caught me.” A disgusted twist in her lip, her eyes unfocus. Bucky cups her face, feels something thrum in her pulse and she looks up, looks through him. “They said I was to be put under tests, and I’d be lucky to survive.”

Bucky’s hand on her shoulder trails to the collar of her shirt, gently hooking a finger and tugging. Colourful smudges of purple, blue, yellow, and green smear her skin. The effects of needles, huge and plunging and painful. If he looks close enough in the dark, he can spot the entry points, stabs that haven’t healed.

A flicker of fire burns brighter in his belly than the one that already soaks him in its heat.

“I don’t feel very lucky, Sergeant Barnes,” she whimpers. Bucky’s eyes flash back to hers, and when she blinks, fresh tears run over his skin. “It hurts everywhere.”

“You’ll be okay.” He brings her into his embrace, a hand on her head and the other wrapped around her back as he closes his eyes. Her arms slither around his waist and he presses his cheek against her temple. “You’re going to be okay, angel.”

She is silent. Two weeks and they’ve already beaten hope out of this place. Perhaps she isn’t quite used to the freezing agony set in her bones yet or the ache of ligaments tearing and building again as every fiber of her turns to steel. Bucky wants to tell her it’ll get better, but he doesn’t know himself. 

“You’ll have the bed,” Bucky promises and she pulls back immediately to protest but he shakes his head. “My ma would smack me if I didn’t insist.” He half-smiles and his muscles stretch pleasantly in his cheeks as her arms draw away slightly. Her hands rest on his hips and he nods to her. 

“You’re my patient,” she protests and he chuckles quietly. It’s a raspy kind of sound and it sounds hollow the more it echoes, but he means it. “I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“Angel, you took care of soldiers for years before I came around,” he starts, and something in her eyes flickers. He cups her cheek, the dim light barely lighting her features. The swollen bags beneath her eyes have only grown worse since he’s last seen her, and she’s lost what little healthy glow she had that coloured her face. “I think it’s time someone took care of you.”

“Sergeant Barnes, I—”

“Bucky,” he says, brushing limp hair away from her face. He can hear her thunderous heart, or perhaps it is his beating between his ears, louder than the ocean. “My name’s Bucky.”

.

“Where are the rest of the 107th?” she asks that night as they feed on cold soup. Bucky’s fingers tremble but the pain has receded into a tiny knot at the base of his skull. His arm feels like it’s about to drop off his body and with every move of his neck, heat and bruising pain spreads into his chest. She drops her spoon too loudly and they both flinch.

“They separated me from them after they began the tests,” he mutters, letting the cold broth slither down his gut. “No one came back from the isolation ward so I thought for sure I’d be dead.”

“Well, neither of us are.” She’s leaning against the metal frame of the bed, her knees tucked to her chest. Her scrappy uniform is scuffed with dirt and wet from the mold growing beneath their feet but Bucky merely smiles softly. His back against the wall, his feet are outstretched before him. He’s quite sure if she stretches her legs too, their boots would touch. “How many doses have they given you?”

“Two.” He sets down his bowl in his lap. She looks into her own, stirring, the metal cup perched on her knees. “You?”

“One.” Something in Bucky’s arm begins to tingle, as if the injection sites open wide at the sound of her voice. He lets his head tilt back until he knocks into the stone. “They kept me in another part of the factory to treat workers before they decided to use me like some lab rat.” Fabric rustles and a presence looms near him as he closes his eyes. Something warm is set in his lap and he lifts his head wearily as she settles in beside him. “You should eat.”

“What?” He picks up the one fresh ingredient to their meal, a slice of warm bread, and shakes his head. Picking it up, he tries to hand it back to her. “No, you need to eat—”

“You’ve been here longer, Sergeant.” 

“Angel—”

“I get the bed, and you get the warm bread.” She seems to sag into her shoulders and he frowns slightly. “It seems only fair.” Her hair is slick with dirt, sweat and oil as she rests her head on his shoulder and he tilts his head until his cheek presses against her scalp. Her boot knocks into his as he rips the bread apart.

“Fine. Can’t deny you a thing,” he whispers and she shakes with a silent chuckle, weak and tired. “How’re you feeling?”

“I don’t want to move away from you,” she murmurs blearily, her eyes closed as she turns her head to him. Her nose brushes his jaw as he swallows. “Tell me a story.”

“About what, sweetheart?” he asks, and the warmth of her is so comforting he could cry. Human touch that isn’t sharp and painful and terrible has caused his body to soften. Her body has twisted towards him, her knees bent and her legs hooked over one of his. “I can tell you ‘bout Brooklyn, I guess.”

“Would you?” she asks, exhausted, small, fading. She loops her arm through his, curls herself around it as he bites into the cooling crust. He swallows quickly, feeling it lump together on its way down to his stomach.

“Yeah, and I can tell you ‘bout Steve. He’s my best friend and I made him ride the Cyclone once on Coney Island. I gotta bring you there, the lights at night on a warm summer day… it’s the prettiest sight…”

He can tell the instant she slips away from him, the subtle change in her breathing and her heart rate, the peace that overtakes her face, the tender warmth that seeps into his own bones. He gently brings the slice of bread to his mouth, devouring it in two or three bites before picking up his bowl of soup again. Sipping quietly, he is careful not to disturb her as she squirms against him, seeking something warmer than what he can provide. He carefully sets down the bowl and wraps his free arm around her, squeezing gently in hopes that it’ll give life to her frigid skin.

His own heart thuds in his throat when she lets out a soft sigh and melts into his body. He tilts his head, nose in her hair as her breath puffs against his neck, soft as snow. He closes his own eyes and his mind wanders as her arms, wrapped around his arm, hold him even tighter to her own chest.

A small bomb explodes in his chest and he smiles even though no one’s looking. 

Bucky Barnes has never really loved a girl before, but in this moment, as her body fits into his like it is meant to be and he sits, rots, in an Austrian prison with poison running through his veins, he is sure he will gladly die for one.

.

It’s by the third dose for her do they understand best how to take care of one another. Bucky can usually tell when they’ll take one of them away by the meal they present. It’ll be warm, almost hot, and rich with nutrients their bodies crave, and in the mornings, fresh towels and ice will be shoved into their cell like they swelter from the heat. 

They toss her into the cell with a rattling slam with a promise to return for him soon but Bucky doesn’t say a word in return. An agonizing mess, his angel lets out a soft moan as he scoops her into his arms. The smell of clean soap and sweat clings to her skin, her hair slightly damp from the shower they always force upon them before the doses. Dark, reddening marks imprinted into her temples, her eyes stare sightlessly ahead as he lays her down on the cot. He dips a towel into the bowl of freezing water.

The soft clack of ice against the metal bowl echoes in his head as he numbly wipes away the sweat, gently cleaning her tears and soothing an ache he knows festers between her temples.

“Doctor…. Prisoner… 56899…” The words slip between her lips, soft and jumbled as she turns her head away and the pit inside of Bucky widens as he tries to catch her eye.

“Angel,” he whispers, running his hand over her cheek. “Come back to me.” Turning her face towards him, he lets out a sharp breath as her eyes stare through him. “Hey, hey, hey.”

“Bucky?” It’s like magic the way a soul seems to fill her body in a moment’s notice. Life pours into her eyes, and a hand grips at his sleeve.

“Hey, angel.” He dips the towel in ice once again and she raises a hand gently to touch his face. Her fingers tremble, clammy with sweat, as he blinks. A strange smile stretches her face and he thinks she’s laughing at him as he wipes away the blood from her ear once again. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re crying, Sergeant Barnes,” she whispers fondly and Bucky blinks again, just realizing the heat that floods his face is not from the factory that works around them. Her cold fingers swipe away the wetness from his cheeks, spread it over his face and he resists the urge to press a kiss to her palm. Instead, he uses his free hand to hold her palm to his cheek. A shiver runs down his spine. “Who’s gone and broken your heart?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he says. She laughs again, painful and quiet, and this time her eyes flutter shut as she slips away from him. Despite how much stronger she appears with muscles that flex and wane beneath his arms, he sees the cracks they split into her soul. He hopes the love he harbours for his angel is enough to seal every single one.

He knows it is not.

.

Bucky Barnes doesn’t tell her he loves her.

He doesn’t think he can bear the thought of telling her and disappearing the very next day, but perhaps it’s the little things that count.

“There’s enough room on the bed, Sergeant Barnes,” she had said, and they started to sleep together on the small little cot barely fit for one, Bucky slightly hunched over her as they fell asleep in each other’s arms. Their legs entangled and more often than not, it ended with one of them squished against the wall and the other flush against them, but it was always worth the morning blush.

“Have my blanket,” he had insisted as autumn swept over their prison cell and warm food was more and more of a necessity. Even though they didn’t need to eat and hunger no longer clawed at their stomachs, Bucky always remembered to share the slice of warm bread with her as their fingers turned numb and chattering teeth filled the silence at night.

“Hold my hand…” as fingers entwined with fingers.

“I’ll take care of you…” accompanied the sound of blood dripping onto the stone floor.

“When we get outta here…” followed by a million promises and the scratch of the shiv against the stone wall.

It’s the little things that count.

.

“You’re upset.”

Her voice is soft, gentle as snow as Bucky runs a towel raggedly through his almost-dry hair. He twists on his bed to see her standing there, in a new uniform and hair damp as it falls around her face. He thinks she’s never been more effortlessly gorgeous. Life has returned to her cheeks and her eyes spark.

“Angel,” he says with a smile and he scoots over to allow her room next to him. After a wash, he can almost imagine feeling like a new man. He tosses the towel onto the pillow behind him as she sits down. “Did they feed you yet?”

“Just had a quick wash. I was planning on eating with you,” she chirps, sliding an arm around his waist. Tugging him towards her with extraordinary strength, she smiles as Bucky ducks his head underneath her chin. Wrapping his own arms around her middle, he closes his eyes.

“I’m not upset,” he mumbles as her hand trails up his back and runs through his drying hair. “I’m just relieved we got out.”

“I know it’s more than that,” she whispers, gently tugging his head to meet eyes. When he finds her gaze, he feels boneless. A warmth floods his blood and a smile overcomes his face, small, tired. “You always let your guard down when you think no one’s looking.” But I’m always looking are the words that hang between them.

Bucky swallows and cold flashes over his body. 

“Let’s give it up for Captain America!”

“You think Steve’s gonna last till next week?” he asks quietly, hands falling away from her. He flinches back when her hands reach for him and he doesn’t see the hurt that settles on her face. “We saw soldiers die, friends bleed out, and you think Steve is gonna be different?”

“He is different.”

“Yeah, so they’ll have him fight the good fight.” His words are bitterly strung out and he wants to put a hole through the wall. “They’ll have him on the front lines and I’ll be right beside him because I can’t abandon my best friend. A best friend who I can barely recognize, and—”

“Bucky, he’s still your Steve.”

“I’m supposed to protect him!” Frosted silence pools into his heart as his breath comes in rattled gasps. His heart hammers against his ribs and he can hear hers, a gentle beat. “And I failed. So that’s the rest of my life; that’s what I’m going to do. Make up for every time I wasn’t there for him and every time I couldn’t stop him from getting hurt—”

“Steve’s changed. Even you can’t protect him from war,” she says and Bucky, with a humourless smile and darkness in his cold blue eyes, shakes his head.

“I can damn well try. If not me, who?” A hollow where his heart should be swallows him whole and he only sees the darkness of the Austrian factory, the vomit and blood after every session. The soft sobs as he whispers he can’t remember his ma’s face. Rebecca is nothing more than a fading memory. “I’m not letting this war take more from me than it already has.”

“Neither am I.” Her hands are folded in her lap and despite how desperately he wants her touch, he feels like he’s just seconds from falling apart. Sucking in a deep breath, he brings his shattered pieces together and silently tells her not to disrupt the broken glass. “If you spend your whole life protecting him, who protects you?”

“I don’t need protection.”

“Bucky.” Her sigh sweeps into his ears as she reaches for his arm and he jerks back, standing sharply. His knees shake and he feels the soreness in his feet as he meets her eyes. Her eyes glisten as she blinks against the fading dusk and he turns away to the tent exit. He barely takes a step before she pipes up again. “Does he know?” 

Turning around, he barely utters, “What?”

“What we went through. Does he know?”

“That’s not important.”

“Like hell it isn’t!” She storms up to him, face an effigy of wrath as she grabs his arm. Turning it over in her fingers, she pulls up his wrist so he is forced to stare at his own veins. They run, bulging and blue-grey, and he can hear his own blood flowing. “We got fucked over, Sergeant Barnes. You don’t even remember what your mother looks like and you say it isn’t important?”

“It’s war! I’ve been gone too long.” Bucky rips his arm from her grasp as something in him slants.

“I never forgot my brothers’ faces until I went in there.” She throws an arm out, points to some distant corner of their tent but her glazed eyes do not stray from his. “Sometimes, I can’t even remember their names and you’re no different, and right now, it isn’t about Steve. This is about you and what happened to us back there!” 

Heat bubbles underneath his skin and when she does not speak, it’s almost as an avalanche rushes through his body. “I’m trying to forget what happened to me in there! I have a job to do and I can’t… I can’t be distracted because that will get Steve killed. People die every day and I’ve gotten used to it, but I won’t let my best friend be someone I have to leave behind in No Man’s Land. I thought you of all people would understand.” Sticky, humid air clouds his face and his vision blurs as he collapses to his knees. Hands immediately land on his shoulders, slide down his back as he’s pulled into a spine-crushing embrace.

“Oh, Bucky, I do,” she whispers. She pulls him back, cups his face and the suppleness of her skin causes his shuddering breaths to hitch. He sucks in a huge gasp as he continues to crumble. He slips between her fingers as he desperately tries to pull himself together but with her every swipe of his tears, he only shatters. “I promise I do. Just let me take care of you when you can’t do it anymore.” Her thumbs brush underneath his eyes as his hands on her hips squeeze and she lets out a gentle sigh. “You can fall apart on me. I promise I’ll protect you.”

“It’s not worth it. I’m… I’m… not worth it.”

“It’ll always be worth it if it’s you,” she promises and his eyes close. Another rush of tears spill over her fingers as gentle lips press between his eyebrows. “Besides—” Her voice whispers over his skin as she tucks her chin in to look at him. His forehead presses into her sternum as he melts into her body. His hiccuping breaths shake his shoulders jerking as she runs a soothing hand through his hair, down his back—“if you’re not worth saving, then neither am I.”

At this, Bucky raises his tear stained face to his angel and shakes his head, stubborn as they come. His heart slows in his head and cool wind kisses his wet cheeks. Their lips almost brush and his breath shudders in his throat.

“I will always save you no matter what.” 

She smiles, a soft exhale that could almost be a laugh puffing against his cheek as he shifts against her, sitting up straighter. She pulls back, wiping her hand along his jacket and he sniffs, a small, watery grin cracking over his face.

“You’re quite the romantic, Sergeant Barnes.”

“How many times do I gotta tell you? My name’s Bucky.” He can hear her heart quiver as he touches her face, spreads his fingers along her cheek and gently guides her closer until he can taste the smoke and lime that clings to her skin. He can hear her breathe his name, a gentle sigh before their lips meet, and he thaws underneath her touch. 

Her fingers brush his jaw as he closes his eyes and the feel of her mouth, chapped and warm against his, is ecstasy.

Their first kiss is everything and nothing Bucky has ever dreamed it would be. A desperate clash of tears and lips and teeth, yet softer than anything he’s ever known, he knows one thing is certain in his life now.

He has found the love of his life, and only Death will do them part.

.

The wind is knocked out of him the minute he sees her. His angel has managed to steal his heart all over again and Bucky wonders how he’s going to survive the night when his eyes are glued to her. Clean, soft, and radiant, she stands there almost bashfully, waiting for him to notice her. Her smile splits her face as he remembers to close his mouth.

“Sergeant Barnes,” she greets politely as she looks up at him. In her heels, she looks as if she could rule the world. Bucky barely manages to greet her before clearing his throat. His cheeks pool with heat and he looks down at his shoes, running a hand through his hair. “Where are you off to?” 

“Captain Rogers invited me to the Whip and Fiddle for an important meeting.”

“How strange. I was invited as well.” She grins as he extends an arm and she leans over to kiss the corner of his mouth. Bucky’s cheeks flare up and he turns to look at her. She loops her hand through, holding him close as they walk down the street and Bucky places a hand on top of hers along his arm.

“Who’s the lucky man?” he asks as if he isn’t walking the most gorgeous dame in all of London to some bar a few minutes away for their first date. 

“A very brave soldier,” she replies. Her heat seeps through his jacket and he turns to look at her, trying to come up with a compliment adequate enough to express how much he adores her. “You look very handsome, Sergeant Barnes.”

“Can’t compare to you, angel.” Her smile becomes tender under his gaze and she pauses just outside the pub. Inside, the frosted glass glows with the heat and with every swing of the door, merry singing and the beginnings of Dum Dum telling a story sweep into the cool air. Words pound at the back of his teeth as he stares down at her, looking so pretty in the warm lamplight of London. “How’s your family? Did you have a chance to see them?”

“Mum’s doing okay. Dad was out with my brother so I was a nice surprise to come home to.”

"It sounds like a warm welcome, doll.”

“You know, they would love to meet you, too.” He blinks, hand stalling from where he’d been brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “I told them about you, if that’s alright…” 

“They know about what happened to us?” His voice is tight, just the mere mention of it burning down his arms. 

“No.” She looks guilty and Bucky wonders if the weight on her shoulders has always been there. “Mum’s got enough on her plate with my brother leaving and all. He’s, he’s actually travelling to Oxford soon so it was necessary for me to say goodbye and Dad… I don’t think he can take it. He’s lost two sons already.”

Bucky runs his thumb down her cheek, planting a tender kiss against her forehead. 

“When this war is over, we’ll find them,” he promises and she smiles, pressing her lips eagerly against his. He can’t help the huge grin that spreads across his face and he chuckles into her mouth as she plants her hands on his cheeks and holds him there, kissing him again and again. “Give me a chance to show you Brooklyn ‘n’ Shelbyville, where I was born, Coney Island… We can take the Railroad and everything.” 

“Too many places for a time like this,” she teases, pulling back. “First the Whip and Fiddle, then I show you around London and then we go to America.”

“Deal.” She smiles up at him, like they’re not in the middle of war, like they haven’t just escaped prison with blue serum running through their veins, like they’re still the boy and girl they were before.

“Let’s go in. Steve’s probably waiting,” she whispers, turning to look at the warm, fogging glass. Bucky turns, glaring at the door. Suddenly, meeting Steve doesn’t seem so inviting. Her hands trail down his face and rest on his chest as she sighs longingly. “I don’t want you to go back in there.”

Turning around again, he takes her hand from his chest and kisses her fingers tenderly. “I’m staying right here for a while longer,” he murmurs, knowing that this is not what she meant at all.

A cool chill sweeps between their bodies and Bucky tucks her into his body, wrapping her in the tightest embrace he can manage. She’s all supple muscle, carbon bone, and she’s taller than before yet all Bucky can think of is protecting her.

I love you. I love you. I love you, he thinks, eyes closing as he rests his chin in her hair. He can feel her heart beating like a soft drum through her back as she drags her hands up his shoulders. 

“You’re the only one who understands,” she whispers into the wind, yet his ears still catch it all. She buries her face into his chest, her fingers digging into the ridges of his back as he brings a hand to cradle the back of her head. “Please don’t leave me.”

His eyebrows furrow together and he doesn’t even feel the wind bite at his skin until his fingers turn purple. His chest aches and everything inside him cracks like glass under pressure. Winding, and winding, long and elegant in a catastrophic kind of way.

Never, never, never. I love you more than anything. How can I ever leave you? He wants to scream it into the night, tell her until she understands. 

I love you, I love you, I love you.

.

“A zip line?” she says dubiously, the snow dotting her hair as she sits by the fire. Heat and frost play at her face, bathing it half in white light, and half in blazing orange. “It doesn’t sound very enticing.”

Bucky forces a smile and kisses her for what he doesn’t know is the last time. She tastes like beef jerky and mountain water, and he can hear Morita making some wise crack about how gooey the Sarge is being. “You won’t even notice I’m gone.”

“I always notice,” she retorts.

It sounds an awful like a confession Bucky can’t bear to hear right now.

.

They leave at dawn. 

The last thing he does is slip an envelope into her rucksack and he prays that he’ll be back before she can open it.

.

When his fingers slip, there’s a moment in time that freezes. He teeters on the edge of life and death, and he can see Steve’s outstretched hand just before his.

And then he falls and a million and one thoughts fly from his head.

All he can think of is broken promises and the Coney Island lights. The wind that rips away at him is like the way the Cyclone had tossed him through the air, safely bound by the metal bars, but this time, there is nothing holding him back. 

He throttles through the air, collides with something sharp and jagged before rolling down, through snow and ice, and his vision swims in inky black as he struggles to breathe. His lungs are paralyzed and his skull splits open as he tumbles over and he thinks the blood is coming from his head? Or maybe it’s his nose or his throat or how can he still think with all of winter’s wrath surrounding him? His head is buried in snow as he tries to remember what it was like to breathe again.

Snow falls softly around him, landing on his face like tiny kisses and it is almost as if his heart leaps to his throat. Blood bubbles at his lips, his whole body wracking with agony. He sinks into the snow, ice the pillow beneath his head. It dribbles warmly down his cheeks, leaking from the corner of his lips and the snow melts in the heat of his essence.

Wind caresses his face gently and he swallows a thick glob of blood that catches halfway as a sob pushes its way up his throat. 

He wonders how long he will stay here, broken and dying, until Death comes to collect him, but then something grabs his boot and his eyes jerk open.

Wolves. Wolves will eat me alive, he muses, too tired, too dizzy from pain to fight. The blurry grey-blue canvas above him stretches above him, brighter than anything he remembers seeing, as he raises his head blearily. Men take him by the legs and pull, something he can barely feel as his bones click into place.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Angel?” he mumbles beneath his breath, eyes rolling back into his head as it slams back into the snow and he thinks he can hear her laugh echo in the ravine above him. “I’m sorry…” 

For every promise I’ve broken, for every day I won’t be here, for every time I never told you I loved you. For loving you and leaving you. For leaving you. For loving you.

I’m sorry.