writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

Chapter Seven: Temperature Rising

The Missing Title

Helmut Zemo x Reader | Bucky Barnes x Reader

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Summary: After your friends find out you've been sick, whose to say going to the doctor isn't worthwhile? Once your life is turned upside down, you're left scrambling to pick up the pieces and stick by your choices. Because, who's to judge if not for your friends, right?

Words: 11.3k

Warnings: Manipulation, Talk of Cancer, Medical Talk, Doctor's Office, Talk of Abortions, Pregnancy, Angst, Mention of Sexual Assault, Yelling, Slut-Shaming (from reader's pov),

Mentions of: Bodily Fluids, Unprotected Sex,

A/N: And there it is! The plot I've been waiting for. It's wild because, on one hand, it's only just starting, and on the other-? Well, who's to say where it will go? I definitely have a whole plot after this of what's to come, and no it's not just boring 'guy steps in for father who's not there'. Yes, there may be some of that. But overall? Ahhh! There's so much more.

Last night had been a blur; bits and pieces of memory are there, but you're still recuperating from the fainting spell you'd endured. Just dehydrated, you repeat in your mind, that's all it was. While there was no way to be certain aside from going to urgent care--something Sarah and Sam insist you do--you're almost positive that's all it was. You've never done well with the heat, and Louisiana just pulled one over on you.

The rest of the evening had entailed argument, everyone asserting their opinions and positions on the matter of whether or not you went to the doctor.

It wasn't that you couldn't afford it--you could. While you don't have insurance anymore, which doesn't help the situation, you just don't think there's probable need.

When Sarah disagreed, citing the fact that you'd been displaying symptoms of a stomach bug or possible cold in the past week and a half, you can't argue with that. Ultimately, you cave. The Wilson siblings wouldn't stop their worrying till you agreed, and really, if that's what it took to get them to stop pestering you, then so be it. A doctor's trip it is.

Besides, it's one thing to agree, another thing to do. The closest doctor is what..? Over a half hour away, and realistically, when would you even go?

'Headed to the market w/ Sarah, be back soon.' -Sam

The lopsided signature at the bottom of the note on the kitchen countertop makes you smile. It looks like you're left to your own devices with the kids and Bucky.

You vaguely remember someone mentioning need of going to the store last night, but with everything that'd happened it's hard to recall exactly.

Most of the morning goes smoothly. You'd woken midmorning when the sunlight finally streamed through the lacy curtains and onto your face. The boys had gotten up early, their bodies still accustomed to it from their routine in getting ready for school. So, really, the only one still asleep was Bucky. A rarity, you'd think, considering he was a soldier.

With the boys fed before their mom and uncle went to the store, you decided to go with them down to the dock to inspect the boat and all the hard work the men have been putting in. So far, it's making some real progress. It'll only be a matter of time until it's back up and running in ideal conditions again.

After a walk around the property, exploring the forest and attempting to make a fortress out of sticks for approximately fifteen minutes, the boys tire of that objective and get hungry. With it being closer to afternoon now, you decide lunch is in order.

Scraping peanut butter out of the jar with a knife, you spread it along the three sandwiches you're making. Watching AJ and Cass play fight in slow motion like they're superheroes is amusing, albeit something you'd discouraged considering Bucky's asleep on the couch. You suppose he's tuckered out from the late night work he'd been doing with Sam on the boat last night.

While they'd promised to be quiet and help you make their lunch originally when you'd come in, once they got bored and started playing... there was no reeling them back to the task at hand. Typical, you think. Nevertheless, you can't be mad watching them play Avengers. The silliness alone in their childlike wonder of the world leaves you feeling hopeful.

With the sandwiches finally done, you return the peanut butter to its place on the counter while the jelly gets put back in the fridge. There's still the leftover lemonade you all had made yesterday. That could be good, right? Lemonade and PB&Js? Eh... maybe not, but, you like lemonade, so, why not! Placing the pitcher on the counter, your attention's pulled into the living room.

"Hey!" It's quiet, but a voice you recognize nonetheless. They'd woken Bucky. Great.

"Put it back!" AJ commands his younger brother quietly. You'd been too preoccupied with making lunch to notice exactly what it was they were playing with. It's the Captain America shield. It... couldn't be the real one though, right? "Hurry, hurry!" As Cass slips the shield back into its case and they run out of the room, you're struck again by the way Bucky has a genuine smile on his face.

It's as soon as his fingers drop from the wave he'd sent the boys that you snap back into the moment.

"I think you're forgetting something!" You call after the boys, reminding them of their lunch with a laugh. They're silly, but, you'd expect nothing less from them. Kids being kids? That's something you'll always enjoy. Too often it feels like you've seen more and more of them forced to grow up too quickly with social media or trauma. Knowing Sarah's raising them right just proves that even if it usually feels like the whole world... it's not. There are still good people out there, you just don't always see them.

"'Afternoon," you finally acknowledge the man on the couch. Pouring yourself some lemonade, you debate getting the others a glass.

"Afternoon," he responds, stretching before he sits up, twisting and turning like an old man who needs to get all the creaks and cricks out before starting his day.

Though, you suppose he is an old man. It just hardly ever crosses your mind, something you'd have to make it a point to remember. "Are you hungry? I just made the boys some PB and Js if you want one. Totally get it if you don't though," you chuckle, "not really how I'd want to start off the day."

"No?" He jokes, "what's wrong with starting off with a classic? Gotta have something." Standing, he approaches the other side of the counter.

"So you want one?" You question, raising an eyebrow suspiciously, considering he hadn't really answered.

"Sure," he finally says. It's the giggles and 'shhh's coming from the hallway that elicit both of your attention. "I won't bite, you know," Bucky tosses out placatingly, offering them a smile.

While the boys hide in the partial darkness of the hallway, they finally take tentative steps forward until they're about to grab for their sandwiches. "Ahh!" Bucky finally pounces with his hands up, fingers bent as he chases them back the way they'd come.

It's only after a few minutes of screeching, laughter, and stomps throughout the house that the boys return alone and grab their sandwiches, glasses of lemonade, and head for the table. "He's funny," Cass comments.

While you eat at the counter, not having put away the ingredients you'd brought back out for Bucky's sandwich, you listen to their conversation. "He certainly can be," you add.

"Who's your favorite Avenger, Miss-?" AJ says your name. The two moving back onto one of their favorite topics.

"Mm," you hum in thought, peanut butter still coating the top of your mouth. You think about it for a moment, not truly having a favorite like you know some of the kids and people you've seen online do. Albeit, being around that scene now and having met some of the people, it makes things a lot more complicated. Swallowing, you finally answer. "Maybe Ant-Man? Or Spider-Man," You test. "Saying Falcon would be a bit too on-the-nose, huh?"

"Ant-Man's cool!" AJ exclaims, lighting up as he takes another bite of his sandwich.

"No, he's not," Cass argues, a frown overtaking his features.

"Yes, he is! Think about it- if he can-" AJ continues to prattle on as the sound of a flushing toilet and the emergence of Bucky tells you where he's been.

"It might be a bit too flattering if you'd said that," the Soldier comments, clearly having heard your conversation from the hallway bathroom.

"Ah," you laugh, head hanging as you collect yourself, unaware he'd been listening. "Yeah, that's what I'd think too. I mean, surely Falcon isn't your guys' favorite, now- right?" You turn the question back on the boys, even if you're more than sure you've subconsciously overheard their favorites now more than once over the past week or so that you've been here.

"Hulk!" Cass answers with a bright smile. "He's so cool! He's all like-"

"Thor," AJ answers, "though Hulk is pretty cool too," he shrugs, conceding with his little brother. "You know Thor can go to othe..." The boys converse amongst themselves, and Bucky's eyeing the untouched sandwich on the plate beside yours.

A tacit raised eyebrow from him leaves you nodding as his fingers sneak up and pull the plate toward him. "Didn't know what jelly you liked," you warn, to which he shakes his head.

"It's fine," he assures you quietly.

"What about you?" Cass turns his attention on Bucky, the two of them clearly having warmed up to his presence by now. With everyone's attention on him, he pauses for a moment.

The question clearly sparks a moment of silence as you can see the way it elicits a sort of reminiscence from him. "Captain America," he answers, though his tone feels heavier now. Whatever jovial spark had been there before feels like it's dimmed. A soft smile is tossed the boy's way before he finally pulls out a stool to sit in front of you at the counter.

"Where are the others?" Bucky asks once the boy's have gone off to finish getting ready and packed for their playdate this afternoon. They insisted on taking a new toy or two to show their friends.

"They're at the market. Said they'd only be gone for a few hours," you answer, "asked if I could watch the kids for awhile. They should be back in time to take them to their playdate though," you assure him.

"Ah," he responds, as if that'd enlightened him to something extraordinary. "So what was that last night?" Changing topics flawlessly, as we can see. Back at it again, the Soldier being nosey as ever.

You shrug, not really wanting to talk about it. His stare feels all too consuming and it's rather annoying, actually. Picking up your plate and cup, you round the counter to sit at the stool beside him. While he eyes you for a moment, his gaze finally finds a spot in front of him on the fridge across the kitchen. With the litter of kid's drawings and paintings, there's more than enough to stare at.

"I just..." you sigh, shaking your head as you try to come up with a suitable explanation. "-haven't been feeling well at times, and Sarah's chalked it up to be something more than what it actually is!"

"And what's that?" Bucky prods, taking another bite of his sandwich, finishing one half.

"I don't know," you admit frustratedly, finally putting down the last half of your sandwich. Turning to him, he finds your attention, now fully engaged in the conversation. "I mean, I guess because of what happened to her husband, you know, now she's worried about everyone! Like obviously because I fainted and have been tired and nauseous, like, of course it's 'cancer'," you vent, gesticulating wildly. "I'm sure it's just because of the heat. Sam was right, I don't really get out much, and standing under the blazing sun all day without drinking a lot is, I mean--come on--a recipe for disaster."

"But," he counters, “it can’t hurt, can it?” an eyebrow raising skeptically.

"What?" You question.

"Going to see a doctor," he clarifies. "I mean, if you’ve been sick for weeks now- what if you picked up something in Europe?”

"Wouldn't it be gone by now then?" You take his hypothetical a step further before sipping your lemonade. It was one thing if only Sarah was being a worry-wart, but now Bucky too? Why does he even care? It's not like you're terribly close or anything.

"Maybe," he bites, "but would you want to risk that with the kids around?" Oof. There it is. Guilt-tripping at its finest, huh? "If the symptoms aren’t getting better, then aren't you safer getting it checked out than letting yourself fall further apart?" Wow. Way to sound like an asshole. Maybe there was something to John Walker's little attitude about Super Soldier's having an air of superiority.

As your face falls, jaw setting a little, your annoyance is obvious, yet neither of you comment on it. Silence fills the space between you, even if you don't want him to have the last word. "Maybe," you finally concede. The anger isn't hidden in your tone, however. And that's all he'll get.

You wind up playing a game of Uno with the kids waiting till Sarah and Sam get back. Bucky joined, albeit it took a little bit of an explanation for him to understand the rules. Granted, once he'd started playing, you have to give it to him, he picked it up fast!

Unfortunately, a quarter of the way into the game, Bucky gets a call. Excusing himself from the table, you're left with less competition, and with how ruthlessly you've seen the boys play, your luck is about to change!

The somewhat evil laugh falls past your lips as you get Cass out of the game. It's down to just you and AJ when the squeaky sound of the screen door opening captures your attention. "Looks like they're gonna be late. We'll have to take you guys to the Landry's," Bucky informs. Leaning against the doorframe, he crosses his arms over his chest as his vision darts between you and the table.

With a slap of a hand on the table, you turn to spot AJ placing his final move down. "Uno!" He yells, a mischievous look on his face.

"Did you cheat when I wasn't looking?" You ask tauntingly, eyes narrowed at the boy, knowing it's probably not true, but wanting to tease him anyhow. Cass smiles, his hand coming up to his mouth to cover it as he shakes his head, watching the situation ensue.

"Looks like it's your turn," Bucky teases from over your shoulder still by the door. They must be in on it together, you just know it!

"I know... thank you very much," you reply dryly, sparing him a glance to narrow your eyes in his direction. He just smiles in return.

"No problem," he replies sarcastically, "though we've gotta hurry it up if we wanna get them there on time. Sam already said the reception there was pretty spotty, so they had a hard time finding somewhere they could let us know."

"Got it," you reply cooly, calmly... trying your best to calculate your next move. There's realistically no way you can combat AJ's Red Two. You have a singular red card you can play, and it's a Three. No Reverses, Skips, or Draw Fours. A sigh tumbles from your lips as you give a menacingly look toward AJ in hopes of scaring him just a little.

Ever so slowly you place your card on the stack. "Aw!!!" AJ and Cass both erupt into joyous cheer as he places down his final card and wins the game. "You won!" Cass cheers his older brother on.

"Good job," you compliment, "good game." Turning over your shoulder, you ask. "You knew he had that, didn't you?" It's somewhat rhetorical. Bucky had been practically standing behind both of your shoulders, you and AJ having been sat diagonal from one another at the table.

"Maybe," the Soldier answers cryptically, leaving you guessing again, a smirk sat on his lips.

"Now come on, let's go," he urges the boys. You clean up the cards and by the time you're outside, everyone's readied in the blue pickup truck.

"Wait, why didn't they take the truck?" You question as you're slipping into the passenger side seat.

"Don't know," Bucky quips, turning the key in the ignition and starting the vehicle.

It's odd, because the only other vehicle is Sam's motorcycle, which... isn't really practical for going to the market... is it? Nevertheless, here you are, and it doesn't really change what's going on. The kid's need to get to their friend's house, you're already late for dropping them off by a few minutes, and you know it'll be a bit of a drive.

Bidding the kids goodbye, you don't think anything of it when Bucky decides to take a different route back to the Wilson's house. While GPS would keep you on the highway, he's chosen to go through town instead.

"Why'd you get off?" You question. The Soldier doesn't immediately answer, causing you to turn your head in his direction.

"Maybe I wanted to take the scenic route," he says, eyes still glued to the road. You both know it's a lie. When he finally meets your eye, he sighs. "I figured we could stop by urgent care on the way back." At least he didn't continue to lie to your face. That you can be grateful for, at least.

"Why?!" You cry, brows furrowing as this really wasn't in your plans today.

"You said you'd go-!" He argues.

"Yeah, to get them off my back! I didn't think-" You launch into your reasoning.

"Yeah, well you said you'd go-" he interrupts you, "and I promised them I'd take you, so I'm just-"

"-I'd have to get you off my back too! I only said that because you guilt-tripped me with the whole 'you wouldn't wanna get the kids si-" It's then that what he said registers in your mind. Coming up to a stoplight, it offers you the perfect time to fully shift in your seat to look at him face on. "You what?!" You yell. "What do you mean you 'promised them'?! They put you up to this? Is that why we're in the truck?"

Crossing your arms over your chest, you glare at him with a stern look. When the man finally meets your gaze, his face falls in suit. His head shakes as he tries to mentally come up with either an excuse or explanation, you know that much. "Look," Bucky finally says, tone as calm and collected as he can be in this moment. Both of you with differing states of emotion, now trapped in a truck together. He follows it up with your name, and now you know he's serious. "Last night they were panicking with what to do. I offered to stay and help out if they needed, and Sarah took me up on it!"

"Oh, so this is all for Sarah?" You ask sarcastically, knowing the little thing they have for each other. "Got it." Finally tearing your gaze away from him, you look out the passenger window toward the bay, refusing to look at him any longer.

"Wha-? No," he says defensively. There's a split-second of silence before he scoffs. "Okay. Yeah, and even if it was, what does it matter?" More silence follows when you don't answer, and you can physically feel his eyes on you. Then there's that oh so familiar sigh of his. "I was worried about you. Okay? We all are, and they both figured that if it were either of them you'd try to talk them out of it."

"Oh, and what? I'd be too scared of you?" You scoff. "So they send their guard dog? I thought you weren't anyone's guard dog anymore." While your tone is somewhat mocking and meant to jab him, you don't really care about the consequences right now.

There's a slight scoff from him, and out of your periphery as you're tempted to look his way, you see him shake his head again. "No," he answers, whatever semblance of contentment dissolves from his features. "I think they thought you'd be less likely to refute the guy you know least," he corrects.

When your eyes meet again, you're unable to pretend not to notice the way there's a darkness present again. Like a cloud over his whole demeanor. A part of you feels guilty. You knew that people referred to him like that in the past, toyed with him in similar ways by bringing up the things Hydra had done to him. Yet, you'd mentioned it in a vaguely lighthearted way, and that was... not right of you. Even if you were upset.

Eyes slowly falling to your hands that play with each other in your lap, you nod. "Yeah..." you agree quietly. "I guess so." Quiet settles in the car, and you find yourself lost in thought. It feels tense and awkward now, and while you really don't want to have to do this, you know it'll be quick and harmless. Better to just... get it over with. Really, it's only because they all care about you. And that's something you could never truly be mad at, could you?

As you approach the road you know the urgent care is on, having passed it when you'd originally arrived, you speak again. "I didn't mean t..." your words die on your tongue.

"I know," Bucky replies curtly, eyes still on the road.

"I just... I don't see the point in this, but if... you guys think it's for the best, then fine. I shouldn't have been so angry, and I just..." you sigh, feeling like you're botching the explanation of your actions, "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that, and it was wrong of me."

Sparing a glance his way, you're somewhat scared of what you'll see in his eyes, and yet, when he briefly meets your eye, there's a knowing look. An understanding, almost.

"It's fine," he responds. Pulling into the parking lot, he parks, and just like that, he's out of the car. "Let's just get in there and get this over with, alright?" With a nod, you follow him into the building.

After all the argument you'd conceded. If they're so determined they're right, then you'll just have to prove them wrong. Nothing is wrong with you, you're sure of it, and if going to the doctor is the thing that'll get them to all shut up, then so be it.

Sure, maybe now you're a bit more level-headed about it, but ultimately you'd be lying if you said that petty part of you wasn't still inside too.

Luckily, it seems the urgent care isn't super busy today. As you wait side by side, you do your best to ignore Bucky. To your satisfaction, it seems he's not entirely thrilled to be here either. Yet, considering it was a stipulation to you capitulating to this in the first place, he's owning up to his word.

Perusing a couple magazines in the meantime, nothing truly catches your eye. Most of them are local digests about Louisiana, whether it be fishing, home decor, or places to visit. When they finally call your name, you stand and take a few steps before looking back at Bucky who has his eyebrows raised in question. Waving him over, he shakes his head. When you don't budge, he sighs and stands, following.

"I want you to be right there when the doctor says there's nothing wrong with me," you attest. In which, a quiet displeased groan emanates from the man in response.

A half hour passes; you'd done the pee in a cup test, you'd done the bloodwork they asked for in confirmation, and now you're simply waiting for the doctor to show up and tell you the results. Surprisingly, you didn't think it'd happen this fast, but considering you're on the outskirts of New Orleans, it's not a busy day, and in conjunction, not being a local only aided the rapidity.

Bucky's leg is bouncing in the chair off to the side while you're sitting on the examination table. "Nervous?" You poke, still smug just knowing what the outcome will be.

"Try bored," he rebuttals, giving you a fed up stare. A sigh leaves your lips and you break the eye contact to take in the details of the bleak monochromatic room.

"Well, you are the one who insisted we come here, so..." you point out. With a courageous and slow glance in his direction you find him throwing daggers in your direction before he sighs and hangs his head.

"Yeah," he admits defeat, boot-clad toes tapping the floor repeatedly in that annoying way that you truly wish had the capacity to speed up the waiting. If only.

A few more minutes pass like this, and while you're growing frustrated with the waiting too, Bucky scrolls on his phone. And you want to assume he's goofing off, but you know he's probably checking for any sign of Karli and the Flag Smasher's reappearance. It's then that you open your mouth to ask him what he does for fun, if he ever has any- when the knock at the door causes him to pocket his phone. You both perk up at the sound.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Bell," the man greets upon entering the room. Computer in hand, he places it down on the counter before turning to you. "Can you tell me what brings you in today?"

"Well, I haven't been feeling well the past week or so and my friends thought I should come," you explain.

"How so? What's been going on?" He prods.

"Um..." you try to think, wanting to be honest, "I've been tired, and sometimes a little nauseous, but, I'm also just visiting a friend so, I'm not really used to the heat."

"She passed out last night," Bucky interjects.

"What?" The doctor questions, clearly surprised.

"I was dehydrated," you correct, "and I guess I passed out."

"Well," the doctor takes a heavy breath, "that's not entirely uncommon at this stage."

Both you and Bucky shut up at that. This stage?! What the fuck does he mean 'this stage'?! And it must be obvious on your faces considering the doctor chuckles.

"I suppose you don't know," the doctor states, even if it comes off as a question. "well, then let me be the first to tell you both congratulations," the doctor claps his hands together, "you're pregnant."

"What?" The word leaves your lips before you can truly process what he'd said. Huh..? What? Pregnant? Like... pregnant? Like with a baby? No... no. That can't be right.

"Since when?" Bucky questions, his brows pinched slightly as a look of concentration sits on his face.

"Well, when was your last period?" The doctor asks.

And really... you can't recall. I mean... well, you've been here- what? Almost two weeks. So that's two weeks, yeah. Then you were in Latvia, okay. That was like... two days, almost. Then Madripoor, Germany... that's three days total, but then you also didn't have your period at that time. Oh! But you did have to buy more pads before leaving for Germany, right? When was that? Well, it wasn't right before Germany, but it also wasn't, like, a long time before it either.

"Maybe..." you try to count it on your fingers, "three weeks ago? I think." While it's not concrete, and you no longer have those tracking apps on your phone, it's something, right?

"Well, based off the blood test we did to confirm the urine analysis, I'd say you're about two weeks along," the doctor announces. "We could also take it a further step and confirm if you remember the last time you slept together?" The doctor looks between the two of you expectantly, waiting for an answer.

An incredulous breath leaves you, while Bucky's attention snaps toward the doctor, then to you. "Right," he comments unfazed, "and that was...?" Eyeing you with a determined look, it sends a shiver down your spine. You don't think you've seen him with such an intense look in his eye before. Well, except maybe for people like John Walker and Zemo.

Fuck.

Zemo.

Fuck!

Zemo?

There's no way... right? It couldn't have been. Could it? "Madripoor," it comes out almost as a whisper. The memory flashes in your mind like a dirty movie, the image of him under you, on top of you, inside you. Despite all the precautions everyone had taken on the mission, neither of you had prepared for that. You didn't have protection, and neither did he, yet you risked it.

"Two weeks ago?" Bucky states, as if reiterating what you'd said. It's like he's trying to put the pieces together. Though, there's something in his tone, something ominous, something dark that you don't like.

"Well," the doctor claps again, an excited grin on his face as he garners both of your attention again, effectively snapping you out of it. "I'd say it's definitely certain then. Two weeks along. I'd recommend scheduling a follow-up with your primary care physician, buy some prenatal vitamins, and remember to stay away from alcohol, drugs, and any sort of strenuous activity for the foreseeable future. I also wouldn't be eating any fish, and try to stay away from unpasteurized dairies and such."

Still left in a whirlwind, you zone out as the doctor bids you goodbye and the two of you checkout. Once outside, you find yourself on autopilot, trying to process what you'd just heard.

"Stop," Bucky demands once you're halfway back to the parking lot. You don't listen, even if you do hear him. He calls your name, it doesn't change anything, you keep walking. In the matter of two seconds he's closed the space between you as his hand grabs your shoulder and spins you around, effectively stopping you. "Tell me it's not who I think it is."

The corners of your lips tug downward as your eyebrows follow suit. "That depends on who you think it is," you respond snarkily.

"Are you kidding me?!" Bucky exclaims.

"What?" You protest. For all he knows, it could be Sam's, right? Or some random hook-up's? Ignoring, of course, the fact that Zemo was a random hookup, that is.

"Don't tell me it's..." Bucky starts, but he doesn't finish. His jaw clenches and he tears his gaze away.

"Zemo's?" You question, to which he meets your eye again. The tension sizzling in the air like you'd gone to the precipice of some mountain, the edge crumbling beneath your feet as you both wait. Only... he's waiting for an answer, while you're waiting for his reaction. Both doomed, yet hopeful in their naivety. You choke on your emotions as your eyes start to well up. "It is."

Bucky's hand drops from your shoulder and it comes up to his face, dragging down it as he turns and walks away. "Damn it!" He yells. "Are you fucking kidding me?!" When he swivels on his feet and stares at you, you swear it's the Winter Soldier you'd seen back in Europe. Whatever friendly, kind man you'd witnessed in the past two days isn't here right now. Maybe he never was. "Did he-?" Bucky practically growls.

And somehow you understand what he's asking- implying. "Wha-?! NO!" You yell. "No! Are you kidding me?! Of course not! I wouldn'- he wouldn't-" you argue. "I just- we just... it happened! Okay?" You admit, arms coming up to hug yourself as you turn from him, heading back to the truck.

A scoff leaves his lips, you hear that. "Are you serious? How could y-"

"Please!" You turn, begging, as you give him the time of day again. "Stop acting like this is something it's not! You guys wanna act like he's such a bad person, when he's n-"

"Oh, don't you dare say that he's n-" Bucky argues, pointing at you.

"It was my decision, Bucky! I chose to sleep with him. Is that what you wanna hear?" Yelling, you no longer care who's listening or if anyone is around at this point. You're not holding anything back anymore. "You think I planned this?! That I went to Zemo and was like 'yup, let's do this!'? No!"

"Fine!" He gives up, tossing his hands up in the air. "That's fine! Your decision, whatever. But you're gonna stand there and tell me he's not a bad man?!" His voice continues to get louder and louder as he goes on, whether he's aware of it or not. "That with everything he's done, you sat there and decided to sleep with him?"

The disgust is evident in his voice, the judgmental tone clear as day. His eyes paint you as some tasteless slut with no conscience. You feel it in the way he looks at you, you see it, you hear it!

"God!" You curse, giving up this argument as well. Exasperated, you know there's nothing you can say that would change his mind or excuse what you'd done.

What's worse is the silence that follows. Neither of you moves, yet you stand there in a silent showdown feet apart, emotions broiling under the surface. And then suddenly, he speaks.

"You should get rid of it," he whispers, seemingly calm again like he's gained his senses. Yet, what he's saying would indicate otherwise.

"What?!"

"I- I don't know much about it, but I'm pretty sure from what I've read there's still time. If you're less than two months or something, then you can get an abortion," he explains, stepping closer, now serious and much quieter.

"Are you serious right now?!" You question, still fuming within at even the thought that he'd suggest such a thing.

When Bucky states your name, you can hear the seriousness in his voice. "You know that he won't be a part of your life, much less the baby's. Why would you want that?" He asks. "Sam said you're out of work, you don't have family. What kind of life is that to bring a baby into?" He continues.

This time it's your turn to scoff. Shaking your head, you dodge his incoming pacifying hand aimed toward your shoulder and walk off. Finally getting to the truck, you turn and make your peace with him. "How dare you, Barnes! Are you fucking kidding me?!" Another scoff works its way out of your mouth. "I get that you're not from this century, but you don't get to tell me what to do with my body, or my baby! Alright? It's my choice, and quite frankly, you have no fucking say what I do or don't do."

While your back is turned as you aimlessly try to open the locked truck's door without the key in frustration, Bucky's lips purse. Something darkens in him in that moment as your words sink over him and settle in what this argument is truly about.

"Alright." You hear him say. Internally angry with yourself upon realizing you'd been stupidly trying to open a locked door, you decide to turn and face him. "You're right. I shouldn't have a say on what you do with your body. It's not my choice to make," Bucky concedes, taking a few steps closer until there's only a foot or so between the two of you. "But I don't think this is a good idea," he says your name in a way that you know he means business. "At least promise me you'll consider it? I don't want you to do anything you'll wind up regretting."

Spoken as if he thinks this'll make up for the fact that you slept with Zemo. As if you regret doing so. You don't...

At least... you don't think you do.

Whether or not the baby is a mistake, or a regret is something you can't even begin to consider with the way the news itself is still muddying your thoughts.

Feeling as though you're practically caged against the car door, you slowly meet his serious demeanor only to nod. "Fine," you acquiesce, "I'll consider it, okay?"

"Okay," Bucky responds, stepping aside you, gently bumping your shoulder to get you out of the way of the lock. Once the car's open, he hops inside, waiting for you to round the truck and hop in the passenger's seat. "You... didn't really think I'd let you drive, did you?"

"What? Because I'm such a terrible driver?" You question, trying to guess his assumptions about you- his logic- his line of thinking.

"Sure, let's go with that," he teases, offering a placating small smile your way. With the way a hint of amusement shines through his irises you know that he's attempting to ease the mood between the two of you.

By the time you're buckled up and he's pulling out of the parking lot you finally speak again. "Can I ask you a favor?" Bearing a glance his way, he's concentrated on the road, eyes forward, but you know he's listening to you.

"What is it?" He questions, a hint of coldness and doubt hiding in his tone. As if he's put a wall up to prevent himself from... well, what? You're not sure. Sparing a glance your way, he doesn't look any different, but he's clearly trying to gauge what you're thinking.

And you don't know how to word it. Don't know how to ask... yet, you're mentally trying to put it together first. So, you take your time. "I need you to promise me you won't tell Sam or Sarah," you state slowly, the heaviness of your request clear in your steady and serious tone. While you stare out the window, you're unable to meet the sight of him until you're able to endure whatever his answer is. And right now, you don't think you could bear it if he denies you this.

"I just..." you continue, attempting to explain, "I want to be the one to tell them, and I- I can't have Sam breathing down my neck about Zemo, or what I should do, when... I'm already trying to consider all of this, so... just-" you finally face him, "please don't tell them. Promise me, Bucky. At least, not until I say anything, please!"

While he hadn't glanced your way once yet, eyes still focused on the road ahead, you spot his jaw clench momentarily before he speaks. "Fine," he acquiesces. "But I don't like keeping secrets, especially ones this big. Not when Sam deserves to know."

You know what he means. With how worried Sarah and Sam were... it's only right they know that nothing's wrong. And, technically nothing is wrong. You're just in a different state of being, and experiencing symptoms of it. Pregnancy...

It's difficult enough for you to wrap your mind around, and really, you know weighing your options will be tedious. This might actually be the hardest thing you've ever had to do. Yet, there's another part of you deep down that feels a prick of hope, too. Maybe everything's not lost, after all. Maybe you do have a plan now. A reason. Who knows?

"You didn't say it," the mischievous part of you knows the rules of this game. There's a smug smile on your lips as you stare at him expectantly. You just know he can feel it, because he quickly crumbles and capitulates.

"Agh," he groans, shaking his head before looking your way. "I promise! Fine? Is that good enough for you?" Bucky spits out. And while there might be a little annoyance in his irises, there's also the playful mischievousness mirrored back your way too.

"Yes!" You answer with a smile, happily sitting back in your seat knowing that your secret is safe for now. "That's what I was waiting to hear."

It's weird being back at the house; you know you can't hide this tidbit of information forever. You just can't, Sam knows you too well to have your lying go over his head. And so... that only leaves one option: try to avoid them and the conversation for as long as possible.

Now, how that'll realistically play out? You'll just have to see, you suppose. But for now, it's the only option in your cards, and with Bucky in the know, at least you have someone you can talk to if worse comes to worst.

Even if he isn't your favorite person to talk to.

The night seems to go on forever. There's nothing out of the ordinary, no attempts at questioning you, no arguments, nothing. Yet, you know that the silence might be just that much worse. Because now you're trapped in your mind with your own thoughts; and what's scarier than your deepest darkest anxieties ?

"Are you okay?" Sam asks casually, bumping your shoulder gently to get your attention as you're both on clean up duty after dinner.

You hum at the sudden snap back into reality. "Y-yeah," you answer, offering him a small smile in hopes of placating him and further discussion.

"Alright," he replies, drawing out the word in a way that makes you think he doesn't believe you. "But if you want to talk about anything, you know I'm here for you." It's a nice reminder, really, but the cryptic way he'd offer that after what happened this afternoon makes you suspicious that Bucky's told him.

"What's there to talk about?" You question, trying to trap him into admitting Bucky went behind your back.

"I don't know," Sam answers smoothly, picking up the soapy sponge and starts to scrub the plate in his hand, "but you just seem... out of it tonight. I don't know."

This answer eases your worry. It doesn't seem like he knows, because if he did- he wouldn't hesitate to bring up something adjacent in an attempt to lure the truth from you. Get you to talk about it and probably consider the same things Bucky asked you to. Nevertheless, Sam's showing you he's still a good friend. Even if you'd all argued last night.

After washing up, you spot Sarah exiting the boy's room after presumably putting them down for the night. "Hey!" You call quietly, hoping not to wake them back up. She turns in your direction. "Can we... talk?"

"Of course!" Sarah beckons you over to the living room. Sam works on his laptop atop a stool at the kitchen counter. That's a problem; you're not ready to talk to him yet.

"I... was hoping somewhere maybe just you and me could talk?" You mention quietly.

"Ah," she says in the same hushed tone, "come here." With another small wave of her hand, she leads you out the screen door and onto the porch. The light is on, and a ton of moths and bugs flitter around it. Frogs sing in the trees and crickets chirp around the property, drowning out some of the nerves that'd been working at rendering you into a fearful and catatonic state.

Approaching the old porch swing she sits on, she pats the spot next to her; you oblige her tacit request. "What's up?" she asks, a tired smile on her face as she gives you her undivided attention.

Taking the seat beside her, feet dangling as she pushes the swing back and forth slightly with her longer legs, you mentally work out what you want to say. "I wanted to ask you something, but... I need you to keep it between us," you preface.

Sarah's brows set and she eyes you with concern. "Of course," she states your name, "anything you need, you know that. What did you wanna ask?"

"Really," you urge, hoping to press the seriousness of the subject into her, "I can't have Sam knowing right now. I wanna talk to him myself when I'm ready."

"Okay," she draws out the word, confusion still evident on her face. "I promise, okay? It stays between you and me." She breaks your eye contact and you both sit in silence for a split-second as she kicks her feet back and forth. "But you are scaring me. What's going on?"

A sigh tumbles past your lips, and you know there's no more prolonging it. You have to tell her. You have to tell somebody... somebody you only hope can understand what you're going through. "How'd you decide... know you were ready to have kids?"

The question must take Sarah aback as her head whips in your direction, eyes meeting yours again suddenly. There's a quiet chuckle that pours from her lips as she eyes you skeptically. "What brought this on? A-are you pregnant?" The silence must be enough of an answer as her face starts to contort with an array of emotions from second to second.

"Yes," you whisper in affirmation, hanging your head for a second before your eyes are back on her. "I just... don't know what to do."

"Wait-wait-wait," Sarah holds her hands up suddenly, sitting up straight. "You and Sam?! You and my brother?! Are you serious?" There's an excitement in her tone, but surprise more than anything. "He never mentio-"

"No! no," you answer quickly, effectively interrupting her as she'd begun to get a little loud. "Definitely not! I just-"

"Oh," she says before another breathy chuckle leaves her lips and she slumps back into the seat seemingly more relaxed. "Then, who? Wait- Bucky?" She shakes her head, a surprised look on her face before a hint of disappointment seeps in. "It doesn't matter. H-how far along are you?" You can visibly see the way she tries to redirect herself and stay on topic.

"No," you assure her, "no, not Bucky." Biting your lip, you attempt to reel your emotions back in as the thought of Helmut elicits an ache in your heart. "Two weeks, apparently."

"But... wait, weren't you-?" Sarah begins.

"Abroad? Yeah," you answer.

"So... that's why you were quiet tonight," she states definitely, piecing the puzzles together. "That's what they told you at the clinic?"

"Yeah, and... Bucky thinks I should consider an abortion with who the father is." Playing with the hem of your shorts, you bring your legs up onto the swing, crossing them underneath you. Sight still on your lap, you attempt to explain. It's a hard line; you don't want Sarah to think Bucky's a bad guy for suggesting it, but you also know that it's not something that'd really crossed your mind before.

"You don't know him?" She questions.

"He wouldn't be able to be in the baby's life."

"Well... what do you want?" She finally asks, and you can feel her gaze on you despite not looking.

A louder sigh escapes your lungs this time as your head falls back and you stare at the ceiling. "I don't know," you admit aloud, "I've always wanted this- to be a mom. I just... don't know." Finally turning to look at her, you ramble. "What if I never get this chance again? What if I wanted this... baby?" As your emotions stir in your chest, still partially numbed, you shake your head to refrain from tearing up. "That's why I wanted to talk to you. I mean, you're a single mom."

This time it's her who sighs. It comes out shaky and she breaks eye contact momentarily. You can see something settle over her face and she bites her lip. "I didn't intend to be," she defends.

"I know," you whisper, the saddened look on her face now mirrored on yours.

"I don't think anybody really intends to be," Sarah continues, a faraway look in her eyes as she stares ahead now. "but, when John passed, I... there was nothing I could do." She looks away, and there's a shaky breath from her before she looks your way again. "I can't tell you what to do," she states your name fondly, "but I can tell you it's not easy. I don't know your situation- if you can afford a baby, or the time it takes to care for them when you also have to find a means of living, but... I can tell you that... I don't regret it." A tight-lipped smile displays itself. "With my boys... I always have a piece of John with me, and I'd never wish for anything else."

Nodding in understanding, you slowly reach your hand out to rest atop hers on the porch. She offers you a brave smile before she's turning that hand over and grabbing yours. Her other hand comes up and she's suddenly holding yours between both of hers. "No one can tell you what to do... what you want... but I think if you know for a fact that the father won't be a part of your lives... then it might be worth considering." Then her demeanor shifts.

"But..." she continues, "just know that no matter what- even if you think you're alone in this. You've always got a family with us. You hear me?" The vibe between you lightens and suddenly you're mirroring her smile as you nod.

The conversation didn't go on much longer. There might've been a few tidbits about Sarah's pregnancy with the boys and another assurance--after your begging--that she won't tell Sam until you're ready. And with that, you'd both gone your separate ways to bed. Yet, while you know the house is asleep, the silence inside reflecting just that... you're still there, lying in bed awake.

Running over the memories in your head again and again, you replay every moment you'd spent with the man.

“Woah, woah! He’s the guy? The one you were talking about- the UN Bomber?!” You'd exclaimed, hands thrown out in front of you as you gauged your friend's expressions.

“The one and only,” Zemo quipped with finesse, a smug smirk on his lips, and an all too casual attitude considered he'd just broken out of prison. Still clad in the stolen correctional guard's clothes.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't intrigued by him then, in the moment that you'd met... yet, you were cautious. There was no reason to trust him, not after the things you'd heard he'd done.

~~~~~~

The jet was taking off, and he reached across the space between you with his hand extended. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced," the Baron stated, a curious look in his eyes as they roamed your face. You were doing the same, both taking one another in.

You remember looking toward Sam, unsure whether or not to indulge the man, considering your past. Your proximity to the serum and its development would surely be something he'd despise. Yet, just before the Baron could retract his hand, you'd decided to meet his confident attitude with one of your own. Determined not to let him rattle you.

Even then there was a reciprocal testing of the waters, a mutual respect you'd seen in the way he'd slightly smirked afterward. Perhaps the unexpected meeting in the middle. Someone unafraid of him regardless of the rumors.

~~~~~~

After you'd put on that gorgeous outfit, you remember him saying something. Everyone had their comments about both their, and others' arranged outfits, courtesy of the Baron, but you remember he'd said something. Of course, you couldn't understand it, it'd been in another language. But you wish you knew what it was. Maybe the look on his face said it all. The awed expression still leaving its imprint on your mind.

Is it weird that you don't remember the specificity of whatever issue you'd had with the outfit? All you remember is that you'd been angry with Sam for not helping you when Zemo had been the one to step up to the plate. "What's the issue?" He'd asked, intrigue and concern evident in his tone as he looked between the both of you. Sam left you in the Baron's presence, and you remember feeling nervous. He was a stranger! And you do remember that whatever the issue was- it was personal. That much you remember clearly.

"How can I help?" He'd asked with that infamous head tilt of his. His hazel eyes had given you a once-over, and you remember trying not to blush. Even if you hadn't known him then, he was still handsome in the outfit he'd chosen for himself. And as you stood there with your hand on his bicep, you remember whispering to him about the problem. To which he'd surprisingly given you an out. A way out of the mission, a way to save your dignity and remain uninvolved in the obviously bloody course of events he must've foreseen coming.

"No, I'll do it," you'd told him. And as you'd parted ways, you remember him sticking up for you.

Maybe that was the first glimpse of his humanity that'd you seen. Maybe it was the unwillingness on Sam's behalf in that moment which created this flap of a butterfly's wings, inevitably leading fate down this path. Was it all meant to unfold like this? Would things have gone any differently if you hadn't slept with him?

~~~~~~

Madripoor had taken you aback. All the lights, the violence, the illegal activity. It was both exhilarating, fascinating, and equally terrifying all at once. In your stupor, you remember Zemo grabbing your hand to drag you along, keeping you close. "Stay with me," he'd instructed, wanting to make sure you were safe. You hadn't expected him to do that.

Then you'd gotten to your location. Standing at the bar, you'd busied yourself by playing with his gloved hand which at some point wrapped itself around your waist. Running your hands over his arm, you remember doing your best to play the part, while another part of you might've been subconsciously self-soothing a bit, too.

Then the fighting broke out. You'd been scared, you'd been worried for Bucky- for everyone. Yet, while you'd questioned the Baron, he seemed entirely unfazed. "You're not going to stop this?" You'd whisper-yelled in the minimal space between you as he'd shielded your body from the attackers.

"Would you rather get what we came for, or be injured, even dead?" He'd whispered in your ear, nuzzling his nose against your throat in a quick turn of passion. That reminder was all it took for you to snap back into character. The notion that'd kept you alive; he remained calm while you momentarily had broken the ruse.

He saved you then, and while he'd been so protective over you, to think what came later... you wouldn't have even thought possible. Going from keeping hands off you, to laying them on you? It's something that still haunts you, even if you know he says it wasn't on purpose.

~~~~~~

Everything that'd happened with Selby felt like a blur. Zemo had dragged you down with him into the chair, sitting you on his knee. You knew you fully had to commit now, and weren't planning on backing out this time. Not after almost messing things up for everyone earlier.

With a sling of your arm around the back of his neck, you'd placed your head on his shoulder and admired his side profile, taking in every beauty mark dotting his skin, each expression that shifted across his face, and his five o'clock shadow.

Then, perhaps, you'd almost messed up again. Speaking out of turn, you remember telling Selby off. Something about being upset at the mention of Helmut's prison time. And yet, he'd gone with it. Patting your thigh, he'd reassured you. "It's fine," he'd said, something in another language tacked on at the end. Another thing you couldn't understand.

Your outburst elicited Selby's attention, of course. Something you probably should've expected, but hadn't. The woman honed in on you, and yet--again--at your defense, Zemo stepped in. "She's none of your concern," he'd said pointedly. Once Selby accused you of being nothing more than a tramp, he'd refuted it. That spawned the sudden grab of your chin between his gloved fingers, the swift press of his plush lips against yours, and... maybe it was then, in that moment, that things changed.

You knew you were playing a part- forced to play along for the sake of a mission. Your lives at stake, and yet, you also remember liking it. You'd let yourself get a little carried away, and maybe, yeah- it was all for show, for the realism she'd needed in order to buy your lie. But... what if it wasn't?

You'd ultimately wound up straddling him at some point, both of your lips slightly swollen as you'd parted from the kiss, your foreheads resting against one another as you took in each other's heavy breath. Each of you searching the other's eyes.

When things went awry, he reached for you first. "They're gonna pin this on us," Sam had warned. You'd never been so afraid running through the streets of Madripoor. Your heart thumping wildly in your chest as you tried to keep up with the men in the fancy heels Helmut had picked out for you. When the gunshots rung out, you almost froze in place. Luckily, the Baron had been there to grab you. Thoughtlessly following him, you'd found yourself pressed up against a wall, Zemo caging you in with an arm on either side of your head as you both hid behind a defunct outdoor booth.

Even as the gunshots ricocheted, his hand covering your mouth as a precaution, silence settling between you as a bounty hunter searched the area, there was something between you underneath the surface. Then he'd taken you aback, again. "My apologies," he'd broken the silence, "I only meant to-"

"-Save us, I know," you'd finished his sentence. "Thanks," you added, grateful that you were somehow still alive after all this, embedded in your chest.

"Precisely," he'd quipped. And that was that. You'd run into Sharon.

Thinking back on it, you can never be sure--from the moments you'd dwelled on this night--whether it was the danger, adrenaline, or the physical touch that did you in. If you'd never kissed... would you have wound up walking yourself down that long hallway to his room that night?

~~~~~~

Then, the party. You remember Sharon mentioning something about staying out of trouble. Zemo had said something to make you respond, but you don't quite remember what it was. "Yeah, that's what you better not be," you'd teased, sharing a playful smile with one another.

"Well, you know me," he'd responded, the mischievousness mirrored in both your eyes. Maybe there was a shared sense of humor?

"That's the problem," Bucky had commented, to which you'd laughed. It was unexpected, and, while you didn't know him, Bucky did. Zemo definitely seemed like the type to get into trouble often, that much you can admit now.

Next, you'd wound up dancing with Zemo after a few drinks. He'd looked absolutely devilish under the colored lights on the dancefloor. The electronic music thumped in tandem with both the beat of your heart, and the need growing between your legs. And while you might've originally joined him strictly with cordial intent, somewhere between the drinks and the interactions you'd shared along the way, the lines blurred.

You couldn't be sure exactly when it'd settled in your bones, but you knew right then on the dancefloor that you wanted him. Carnally, biblically, intimately. Having used any and every excuse to get closer, feel his hands on you, you'd done it shamelessly, without abandon.

His breath had been hot on your neck, the tingling after you'd kissed him still played in your mind as you struggled with the doubtful thoughts on whether you should visit his room. Yet, he'd seen right through you. Even with the excuse of returning the clothes he'd loaned you, he'd known. Maybe it was because subconsciously he wanted it too, but... he was right.

The minute you'd shown up at the intricately carved oak door in nothing but that white bathrobe, you'd been damned. And while he was respectful, biting at your hypotheticals and questioning, you needed him in a way you can't explain, even to this day.

Whether it was the wise words of encouragement, or the teasing banter beforehand, he'd effectively ripped open your wounds and read you like a book. And there it was again; a mutual understanding. You saw him in a light you're not sure he'd had anyone see him in... in years, from how he'd reacted. He'd seen through you, and didn't judge you for what he saw.

Maybe that's why you did it. Maybe that's why things had felt so seamless and smooth in everything that'd fallen into place afterward.

"Thank you, Zemo," you remember whispering up to him, his hazel eyes already on you when you'd raised your head.

"Helmut," he'd corrected, squeezing your hand gently.

Then he kissed you... and you kissed him back. Everything that followed teetered the line of downright debauchery and something... romantic. The sounds you pulled from each other was voracious, something you'd keened to hear more of. While you'd ebbed and flowed in each other's pace, finally, agreeing to take things slow, the night had only begun.

He let you take the lead, let you set the pace of the evening above him. Then eventually, he was on top of you, and giving you everything you'd asked for and more. After the night bled into dawn, you just remember lying there in contentment within his arms. Conversation occasionally budded between the both of you, but even the quiet moments felt comfortable. It felt... easy.

That's the only word you've been able to think of every time your mind comes back to that night. It felt easy in a way you've never experienced before. Until you finally had to leave and make way to your assigned room before the others woke.

~~~~~~~

You needed to find this Donya. Yet, as each of you failed in your attempts to get the locals to talk, he hadn't. Halfway across the courtyard he was leant over the kids, plopping the candies onto the stool before them. "Turkish Delight," he'd offered. They were his son's favorite. You don't remember when or where you'd heard that, but you remember as much as that.

Seeing him treat the kids with respect, he wasn't horrible with them. Even after all the synonyms you're sure most people would associate with criminals, he was good with them. He got the information when no one else could.

"You just got it, didn't you?" You'd asked him as he strode back to your group, and the sly bastard just tucked his hands into his coat's pockets and shrugged.

"Cute kids," he'd answered, and you knew that was all you were going to get.

Distant images of him with a baby fill your mind. Thoughts of what could be drift through, but you shoo them away. He'd never meet them, he'd never know your baby.

~~~~~~~

Despite all the good moments, despite the obvious spark between the two of you, things still went sideways eventually. As you stood in the basement together hiding behind a congregation of pipes, he'd left your side. There'd been the loud pops of gunfire and as you turned and followed after him, that's when you saw the gun.

He'd been the one firing. You remember screaming for him to "Stop!" Yet, he hadn't. Regardless of all the talk of ethics and morality, you knew you couldn't let him kill this girl. Without thinking you'd jumped on him, and he'd knocked you off. "This wasn't the plan," you'd reminded. In a struggle for the gun he'd elbowed you in the head, and you'd passed out.

~~~~~~~

Finally you met his eyes after he'd woken. While it was silent in the room, there was an unspoken conversation held. All your feelings laid exchanged in the depths of your irises. He'd held a sadness, something akin to regret, guilt... something apologetic. Yet, you also knew it could've only been what you'd simply hoped to see there. Everything in your imagination. The concussion most likely messing with your head.

An ugly tension settled in that room, and you know you were filled with an unspoken resentment. Disagreeing morals, you weren't sure how you could possibly feel anything positive for him at this point anymore.

~~~~~~~

And still... you'd bumped into him on the way into the bathroom. He'd almost beat you there, but you'd managed to slip in the door as he was hurriedly closing it.

"What're you doing?!" He'd cried, a frantic look in his eye. The confusion and surprise written all over his face.

"I don't know!" You remember exclaiming, heart thumping fast as the world spun around you with adrenaline.

He'd repeated the same thing he'd told you in that basement. You hadn't realized it then, but you did when you'd come home and finally processed the trip. "If you're not here to help me, you're in my way." He'd said it in a way that was meant to intimidate you, scare you... that much was obvious. Yet, you weren't either of those things. "Please do not make this harder than it needs to be," he'd practically begged.

"You gonna knock me out again?" You'd stupidly asked, attempting to gauge where he was mentally, yet also lighten the mood. You were done being nice, done trying to placate him. Done letting yourself solely see the image he precariously cultured for the world. Now you had a glimpse of the man underneath.

He'd scoffed in your face. "I did not mean to do that. I was trying to stall you," he explained. Then demanded your help to move the tub. And you did, even if you didn't know why.

"Honest?" You'd questioned him, wanting to know if any of it was real. And he'd repeated the sentiment back in earnest, his tone unlike anything you'd experienced in the days prior. The closest you'd gotten to that authenticity you'd seen in that moment was when the two of you had slept together.

As you both stood there in the silence of that moment, searching each other's eyes, he suddenly broke it. "Unfortunately, there was never going to be another outcome," he'd told you, combing your hair behind your ear. "Otherwise, I would've liked to explore," he seemed to mentally struggle in this moment. You can only chalk it up to him searching for the right word, maybe choked up with emotion- you can't be sure. Yet, his hand cupped your cheek, when he finished his sentence. "this."

"Me too," you'd told him. Sadness grew in your chest and for some reason there was already a feeling of loss. Though you're not sure why. As he'd bid you goodbye he met you halfway, pressing a firm kiss to your lips. You'd grabbed his biceps, an attempt to hold onto him, to memorize that feeling just... a second longer. Yet, he was already gone.

As the door busted open, you jumped in fear, unsure what would happen to him.

~~~~~~~

Remembering the way he'd last looked at you brings a painful ache to your chest. You know that it will never be possible again. You'll never be held by him, touch him, speak to him, see him... and it hurts. That fact in and of itself is conflicting. You'd known the man only, what-? Approximately, maybe, eighty-four hours? Almost three days.

That's not enough time to truly get to know anyone. Yet, damnedly, you still feel as though you'd had some sort of connection, one of the ones you feel on a rarity throughout your lifetime. Whether it's within a good friend who truly understands you, or a lover who's on the same wavelength... it was that sort of feeling. And now, it's gone.

You'll never get it back, you won't see him again. All that matters is whether or not you keep this baby, and while you know you want to, it's worth it to think about what that actually might look like.

You spend hours awake imagining this, considering the means you have to provide a stable life for you both, how you'll go about raising them. Ultimately, you scribble down a few pros and cons onto a piece of paper that'd been in your book bag. Eventually, you succumb to the exhaustion once you feel like you've come to at least some sort of conclusion. Tomorrow you'll tell Bucky the decision you've come to.

~~~~~~~~

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[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

I can’t believe this has to be said but… you know Sam is upset at the thunderbolts* because he doesn’t want the avengers to be controlled by the government, right? That’s why he was on team cap in civil war. Do you know that? It’s important to me that you know that.

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

Reblog this to ease the back pain of the person you reblogged it from

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

reblog if you're gay, not gay, slightly gay, or if you just want to launch donald trump into a dying star

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

Just One Good Day - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 3.12k

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“It’s taunting me,” you say, standing with your hands on your hips as Haymitch leans in the doorway, unimpressed. “Every time I open it, it squeaks. Every time I close it, it winks at me.”

“That’s a hinge, honey,” he says. “It’s not flirting.”

“Speak for yourself. This house flirts with me more than you do.”

That gets an actual laugh out of him—low, surprised, genuine.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, pushing off the doorway and crossing the kitchen. He crouches to inspect the cabinet, rattling it like it insulted him.

You drop to the floor beside him, grinning. “Gonna fix it, sunshine? Or just intimidate it into submission?”

He turns his head just enough to side-eye you. “I’m considering hitting it with a bottle. Worked on a few things in my life.”

“You’re not touching my cabinet with a bottle, Abernathy.”

He grunts and waves you off as he starts digging through the little pile of mismatched tools you dumped onto the floor. “Where’d you even get half this crap?”

You shrug. “Most of it came with the house. Or maybe I stole it from Peeta. Who’s to say.”

Haymitch rolls his eyes, grabs a screwdriver, mutters something unintelligible, and gets to work.

You sit beside him, pretending not to notice the warmth of his arm when it nudges yours. The quiet between you feels easy. Familiar. Dangerous.

So of course, you ruin it by saying, “You ever think maybe you missed your calling? Could’ve been a carpenter. Or a handyman.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right. Open a quaint little repair shop in town. Haymitch Abernathy: fixer of cabinets, broken hearts, and emotionally repressed women.”

You grin. “You’d have lines out the door.”

He tightens the hinge with a practiced twist, jaw set, brows drawn in the kind of focused concentration that shouldn’t be this attractive. You watch the way his hands move—steady, careful, precise. And then you’re watching his forearms, because of course you are, because he pushed his sleeves up and your brain just stopped working.

You tear your eyes away like it burns.

There’s no reason for it to feel like this. He’s just fixing a cabinet. It shouldn’t make your heart crawl into your throat. But something about the way he’s sitting there, grounded and solid and completely unbothered by the mess of you—that does something to you. Something dangerous.

He grunts and rocks back on his heels. “There. Good as new.”

You open the cabinet.

No squeak.

You blink at him. “Huh. You actually fixed it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m just impressed you didn’t break it on principle.”

He smirks, then shifts to sit beside you instead of standing. You both lean against the lower cabinets, shoulder to shoulder. The room’s gone quiet again, but not the awkward kind. It’s the kind that feels too full. Too weighted. You don’t know what to do with it.

He nudges your foot with his. “So. Anything else in this place you need me to rescue from your incompetence?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “I’ll have you know I fixed that drawer in the hallway myself.”

“You mean the one that sticks halfway and shrieks like a banshee?”

“…Artfully.”

He huffs a laugh and rests his head back against the cabinet. You catch the motion from the corner of your eye and—against your better judgment—you look.

He looks tired. But not the usual kind of tired you’re used to seeing on him. This is something softer. Quieter. Like the sharp edges have dulled for just a moment. His eyes are half-lidded, hair falling messily over his forehead, lips parted like he’s mid-thought.

And you realize, stupidly, that you want to touch him.

Not like that. Not in a way that makes your skin flush and your thoughts go sideways. No, this is worse. This is the kind of want that sits in your chest like a wish. The kind that says: I want to smooth the line between his brows. I want to see if he’d lean into it. I want to be something soft in a world that’s only ever been sharp to him.

The thought is so intrusive it startles you.

You swallow and look away, pulse thudding. “You, uh… you want something to drink? Tea? Or—I found this weird tin of powdered cider Peeta gave me. Might be expired. Could be an adventure.”

He hums, slow and noncommittal. “I could be convinced.”

You push yourself up before the moment can drag too long. Before you do something stupid, like reach for him. Or tell him the truth about what it’s starting to feel like when he’s near.

You move toward the counter, heart racing, hands suddenly unsure of themselves. Behind you, he stays seated on the floor, leaning back like he belongs there. Like this is normal.

Like he might actually stay.

And that’s the part that scares you the most.

You move around the kitchen on autopilot, filling the kettle, lighting the stove, pretending your hands aren’t trembling slightly from how close he was. From how easy it’s getting to imagine him here. In this kitchen. In your life.

He’s still on the floor when you glance back—legs stretched out, arms crossed loosely over his chest, head tipped back against the cabinets like he could fall asleep there if you gave him five more minutes.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him that relaxed.

Something in your chest clenches.

“Should’ve made you do the whole house,” you say lightly, reaching for the cider tin. “Could’ve scammed weeks of free labor out of you before you caught on.”

His eyes open, one brow quirking lazily. “You really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“You think very highly of yourself, sunshine.”

“You think very lowly of me. The truth’s somewhere in the middle.”

You snort as you pour the cider powder into two chipped mugs. “I’ll let you fix one more cabinet if you keep saying self-aware things like that.”

“Oh, I’m aware. Doesn’t mean I’ll change.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn’t leave. “At least you’re honest.”

The kettle starts to whistle. You pour carefully, stirring the cider, letting the steam rise between you like a barrier you’re too scared to step through.

When you hand him the mug, his fingers brush yours.

Neither of you flinch.

He takes it slowly, eyes flicking to yours just once before dropping. You sit beside him again, legs crossed this time, your mug cradled between both hands. The floor’s cool under your thighs, the air faintly sweet with cinnamon and something old.

For a while, you both just sit. Sipping. Listening to the creaks of the house. The wind outside. The silence that—for once—doesn’t feel like a threat.

He shifts slightly, shoulder pressing into yours. Not by accident. Not quite on purpose either.

And then, without looking at you, he says quietly, “You ever think maybe this could’ve been easier… if we were different people?”

The question lands somewhere in your throat.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t even know how.

Finally, you whisper, “I think about that all the time.”

He hums again. The kind that says me too.

There’s a weight to the moment. A kind of fragile, suspended safety. And even though you know better—even though every part of you is already bracing for the fall—you let yourself lean into him more. Just a little. Just enough to feel his warmth against your arm more fully.

His shoulder stays pressed to yours.

You stay still, afraid to ruin it.

The cider is too sweet, slightly chalky, but you keep sipping it anyway—anything to keep your hands occupied. You catch yourself watching him over the rim of your mug, studying the way his hair falls over his forehead, the way his lashes cast faint shadows under his eyes.

He looks… softer in the daylight. The kind of soft that shouldn’t belong to someone like him. But it does. At least right now.

“You ever think you’re gonna get out of your own way?” you ask, half teasing, half afraid of the answer.

He glances at you, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You asking if I’m ever gonna stop being a jackass?”

“Well, not in those exact words. But yes.”

He exhales a laugh—quiet, but real. Then he looks down at his mug and shrugs. “I dunno. Some habits keep you alive. Then you forget how to live without them.”

The words settle heavy in your chest. You know that feeling too well.

“I think sometimes it’s not about forgetting,” you say, tracing your thumb along the mug’s rim. “It’s about being scared that if you put it down, no one’s gonna pick you back up.”

He goes quiet at that.

You keep your eyes on your mug, heartbeat loud in your ears. You didn’t mean to say it. Not really. Not like that. But now it’s out there, hanging between you like a thread—thin and taut and trembling.

And then he says, softer than anything you’ve ever heard from him:

“I’d pick you up.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Doesn’t move, doesn’t smile, doesn’t take it back. Just lets the words sit there, bare and honest and terrifying.

You can’t look at him either.

Instead, you whisper, “I know.”

And you do. God, you do. That’s what makes it worse. Because the moment is so delicate, so impossibly tender, it feels like it could shatter under its own weight. And some part of you already knows—it will.

But right now, you just sit in it.

The soft quiet. The warmth. His shoulder against yours.

Pretending, for just a little longer, that this is something you’re allowed to keep.

You stay like that longer than you should. Not saying anything. Not moving. Just sitting there with the weight of that one sentence—I’d pick you up—echoing in your head.

And for a little while, it almost feels real. Like maybe you’re not just fooling yourself.

But then the silence stretches. Starts to feel too long.

He shifts beside you, pulls in a breath like he’s about to speak, then exhales instead. His body moves away slightly—barely enough to notice, but you do. Of course you do.

You glance at him, cautious. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says.

But he doesn’t look at you when he says it.

The air feels different now. He’s retreating—you can feel it. That awful, slow retreat you’ve come to recognize too well. And you’re already bracing for it before he even opens his mouth again.

He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. “Don’t let this… get confusing, alright? I’m not—” he pauses. “This isn’t something you should count on.”

Your stomach drops. It’s not even what he says—it’s how he says it. Careful. Measured. Like he’s trying not to wound you but already knows he has.

You blink, the warmth in your chest gone in an instant. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was counting on anything.”

He winces. Just barely. “That’s not what I meant.”

You let out a quiet breath, eyes fixed on your mug. “It’s fine.”

He opens his mouth again. Probably to backpedal. Maybe to soften it. But you cut him off before he can.

“People don’t stick around for me anyway. You’re not breaking any patterns.”

The silence that follows is different than before. Heavier. Unforgiving.

He doesn’t argue with you. Doesn’t rush to reassure you. Just sits there.

And that’s what hurts most of all.

You don’t move. You just stare at your mug, your breath shallow, your chest tight.

Of course.

Of course it was too soft. Too easy. You should’ve known better.

Your mind is already folding in on itself, twisting the moment until it cuts.

This isn’t something you should count on.

The words echo. They latch onto every old scar and burrow in deep.

He didn’t mean it to hurt—maybe. But that’s never really mattered, has it? Fiza and Dewydd didn’t mean to come into your life and then disappear. They didn’t mean to leave you behind, aching and full of everything unsaid. And those men—the ones who looked at you like an opportunity when you were too drunk to think straight—they didn’t have to say anything at all. They took what they wanted and let you carry the weight.

Intent never mattered. The result was always the same.

They leave.

They lose interest.

They pull back the second you let yourself hope for more.

You grip the mug tighter, like that’ll stop your hands from shaking. It doesn’t. Your fingers feel cold, even with the warmth seeping through the ceramic.

Why did I let myself think this was different?

You should’ve seen it coming. The way he couldn’t look at you. The way he said “don’t get confused” like you were the one making this complicated, like you hadn’t spent every second of the last few weeks trying to keep your feelings buried under jokes and bruised smiles.

Your throat burns. You swallow it down.

I’d pick you up.

Maybe he meant it. Maybe he didn’t. Doesn’t matter now.

Because he said the one thing he always would, eventually. The one thing they all say in some form or another.

Don’t count on me.

And god, you didn’t. You swear you didn’t. You were so careful. You never asked him to stay. Never said the quiet things out loud. You just wanted this—this one day—to be real.

Was that too much?

Was that always too much?

You want to get up. To laugh it off. To say something cruel and detached and self-protective. But you don’t.

Because some part of you—the worst part of you—still wants to be near him. Still wants to hold onto the warmth, even if it’s fleeting. Even if it’s not yours.

Even if you’re already grieving it.

So you stay.

You don’t speak. You don’t move.

You just sit beside him. Quiet and breaking.

Because this is what it’s always been. This is what you know how to do.

Hold still. Pretend it doesn’t hurt. Pretend you don’t care.

Because if he leaves now… at least you’ll remember what it felt like to sit beside someone and believe, for a little while, that maybe—just maybe—you were worth staying for.

The silence between you stretches until it frays.

You can feel him beside you, motionless. Tense.

And then, without a word, he moves.

He stands. Slow, careful, like he’s trying not to make a sound. Like breaking the quiet might make this more real.

He doesn’t look at you.

He crosses the kitchen, pours what’s left of his cider into the sink. The liquid hits the basin with a soft splash that sounds too loud in the stillness.

He sets the mug down.

You look at him. You don’t say anything.

You wait.

Wait for him to say something. Anything.

But he doesn’t.

He just walks out.

The door clicks shut behind him, gentle as a whisper.

And then it’s just you.

Still sitting on the floor. Holding a mug that’s gone cold in your hands. Staring at the door like it might open again. Like he might turn around.

But he doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

You stay there for a while. Long enough for the quiet to settle into your skin. Long enough for your body to remember how to breathe through the ache.

Then, on shaky legs, you stand.

You leave the mugs where they are.

You don’t put on shoes.

You just walk across the street.

You don’t knock.

You just walk in.

The house is warm, quiet, filled with the faint smell of something sweet—probably leftover from breakfast. The light through the windows is soft and golden, too gentle for the way your chest feels like it’s splintering apart.

Peeta’s in the kitchen, humming something under his breath as he rinses a bowl in the sink. He doesn’t see you right away.

And for a second, you think maybe you can do it. Maybe you can just stand there and breathe and pretend you’re fine. Pretend you didn’t just lose something that was never really yours.

But then he turns.

His eyes land on you.

And your lip wobbles.

Just once.

Barely.

And then you’re moving before you even know it, crossing the room in three unsteady steps, arms lifting like it’s instinct—like your body remembers something your mind’s too numb to name.

You don’t say a word.

You just hold your arms out for him.

And Peeta—sweet, steady Peeta—doesn’t ask why.

He just sets the bowl down, reaches for you, and pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you without hesitation.

Strong. Warm. Steady.

You press your face into his shoulder and breathe him in—yeast and cinnamon and something faintly floral, probably from one of Katniss’s soaps. It makes your throat tighten all over again.

You don’t cry. Not really. Your eyes burn, and your breath stutters, and your hands fist into the back of his shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real—but the tears don’t fall.

Not yet.

Peeta just holds you, one hand rubbing slow, grounding circles against your back. “Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t—” Your voice cracks. You pull back just enough to look at him. “I don’t think I am.”

His expression shifts, all gentle concern. “What happened?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Your lips tremble as you try to find the words. They feel stupid in your mouth. Heavy and childish.

“I didn’t even ask him to stay,” you whisper. “I didn’t—I didn’t ask for anything. I was so careful.”

Peeta frowns, brushing your hair back from your face with the softest touch. “Haymitch?”

You nod.

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays calm. “What did he do?”

“He left.” Your voice breaks like glass. “I said one thing. One thing that was too close, and he just—he just left. Didn’t even look at me.”

The tears finally spill.

You don’t sob. You don’t wail. But they fall hot and silent, running down your cheeks like everything you tried to hold back has finally caught up.

Peeta pulls you back in.

You go willingly, crumpling against him.

“I don’t get it,” you mumble. “I wasn’t asking for forever. I wasn’t even asking for him. I just… I wanted today. I just wanted one good day.”

Peeta doesn’t tell you it’s okay. Doesn’t tell you Haymitch didn’t mean it. He just holds you tighter and says, quiet and sure:

“You deserve more than just one good day.”

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

get okay with being some level of burden on others, seriously

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

free my girl. she did all that but so did a male character and nobody cared

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

You can have unreasonable hatred in your heart for a piece of media for no good reason at all. As a treat.

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

By the end of the year she had taken to talking to herself, and had come to have a deep aversion to the color green.

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

perhaps ripping this one little piece of skin off my lips will at last render them plump and moisturized

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

told my mom my feet are cold & all my wool socks are dirty & she said “how about THESE” and pulled out of her pocket a pair of wool socks that apparently took 3rd place in the Delaware State Fair, which I know because the ribbon is still attached

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

Listen my dudes Ancient Egypt existed for a really fuckass long time. Literally just Pharaonic civilization lasted 3,000 years. That’s not even including predynastic civilization and Roman rule. If you lump that in you’re looking at more like… 5,000 years. Like. If you want a comparison of how long that is: THE YEAR IS CURRENTLY 2018. TWO THOUSAND. TWO-THIRDS OF ANCIENT EGYPTIAN PHARAONIC CIVILIZATION HAVE HAPPENED SINCE THE ‘BIRTH OF JESUS CHRIST’ We comparatively just entered the Third Intermediate Period. The Greeks will not take over for another 700~ years. Cleopatra will not be born until the year 2931.

It’s a really long time guys.

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

no matter how hard i try i will always be that little girl wondering why everyone is better friends with eachother than her and begging to be loved

[writing-is-my-guilty-pleasure]

i thought my laptop was on its last leg because it was running at six billion degrees and using 100% disk space at all times and then i turned off shadows and some other windows effects and it was immediately cured. i just did the same to my roommate's computer and its performance issues were also immediately cured. okay. i guess.

so i guess if you have creaky freezy windows 10/11 try searching "advanced system settings", go to performance settings, and uncheck "show shadows under windows" and anything else you don't want. hope that helps someone else.