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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 24 days ago

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pas de deux

to the anon that requested this, i know this isn't exactly what you asked for, but inspiration struck. i hope you like it.

cw: wally certified yearner and loverboy, me not knowing how to describe dancing, allusions to reader being murdered in a very traumatic way by her dance partner but no specifics, sfw

wc: 3k

Wally knows that what he’s attempting to do is misguided at best, and probably disastrous at worst.

The idea came to him a few weeks ago. He’d been sitting with Charley and Rhonda, shooting the shit in the gymnasium before their meeting with Mr. Martin, when he’d asked, “Is it possible to break a ghost out of their loop?”

To Charley’s credit, he’d attempted to take the question seriously. Rhonda had just rolled her eyes, removing the ever present lollipop from her mouth before interrupting.

“Again with this? Come on, loverboy. Not gonna happen.”

Charley sighed, tutting at Rhonda before turning back to Wally, a sympathetic look on his face, “There’s always a chance it could work, but if you’re talking about who we think you’re talking about, I’d say they’re pretty slim.”

“More than slim, I’d say,” Rhonda butts in again, “I’m surprised she hasn’t worn a hole through the floor, with the way she dances. Like a ballerina in a music box.” She spins her lollipop through the air, follows it with her eyes before shoving it back into her mouth.

“Have I ever told you your attitude is annoying?” Wally asked, sinking back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the scoff from Rhonda’s direction, “I’m just saying. We’ve never even tried. What if she’s like, aware in there, like in her mind.” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair - a nervous tick he hadn’t lost, even in death.

“Does it matter? She’s still stuck here like the rest of us. Better to spend eternity dancing than dealing with the banalities of high school.”

Mr. Martin walked in then, effectively ending the conversation. Through the whole meeting, Wally couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d seen you in the auditorium before, looping over and over, stuck in an endless dance for two but lacking a partner. It’s a rare thing for a ghost to act the way you do - there haven’t really been any other deaths at the school that were traumatic enough to warrant a loop like yours, and he’d been determined to break you out of it. Screw Rhonda, he’d thought. He could do it, he just needed to figure out how.

The problem was, Wally knew nothing about dancing. He's not the smartest guy. He knows that, but he’d been brainstorming different ways to break you out of your loop for a while now, with nothing to show for it. It’d been grating heavily on his nerves.

In a moment he’d regrettably look back on, he’d gone so far as to join you on stage to attempt a fake out. When he’d lunged at you, and you hadn’t even blinked in his direction, he started to think Rhonda was right. You couldn’t see him, you couldn’t hear him. You were stuck up there, doomed to spin around the stage for God knows how long and there was nothing he could do about it.

Then one day, something really fucking weird had happened.

—

He’d taken to sitting in the audience, to watch you dance. It was weird, more than a little morbid and slightly obsessive, but watching you move was captivating to him.

He found some similarities between dancing and playing football - the finesse needed to dodge and weave through people trying to tackle him was one thing - but he’d never seen anyone move the way you do. Every move you made had purpose. The lines created by your arms and legs, the softness with which you carried yourself from one end of the stage to the other.

Preoccupied with the pressures his mom applied to him, the weight of the world on his shoulders, he’d never taken an interest in dancing, other than the awkward slow side to side swaying he’d done with his Junior year girlfriend at the prom. Now, he wishes he could dance with you - wishes you could teach him to move like you do.

You’re stuck there, like a spinning top that refuses to fall - unable to fall. Except, as he was watching you, something unthinkable happened.

You were looking at him. Like, looking straight at him.

It took him more than a few seconds to realize what was happening, and even then he couldn’t believe it. Charley had talked to him about dancers having a spot to look at when they’re spinning - how it keeps them from falling over, keeps them from becoming dizzy and messing up. Was it possible Wally just happened to be in the seat you used as a spot?

He couldn’t tell if there was recognition in your eyes, if you were really looking at him or seeing right through him, the way a living person would. But your gaze was fixated on him either way. And your face, it… you just looked so sad. If he didn’t know better, Wally would’ve thought your expression was pleading, looking for help. It only lasted a few seconds, before you turned your head in a different direction and your body followed. It sent him reeling.

He found Charley and Rhonda in the library, and told them what happened. Charley sat up in his chair, struggling to understand what he meant.

“What do you mean she looked at you?”

Wally went to explain it to them again, hoping they’d believe this was out of the norm, “I mean she looked at me, dude. She was up there spinning like she always is, and I was just sitting there watching -”

“You were watching her? Voyeurism doesn’t suit you, loverboy.” Rhonda’s arms were crossed over her chest, legs folded over each other - closed off, like she always is.

“It’s not like that and you know it,” Wally sighed, exasperated, “It was weird. At first I thought she was using me to spot, while she was twirling, but the way her face looked? I don’t know, dude. It was just weird.”

“There’s a chance she was looking at you, don’t you think? We don’t really know how looping works, so,” Charley’s endless kindness is a relief to Wally - especially when he says things like, “I think it’s good, what you’re doing. I wish we could help more.” Charley looks over in Rhonda’s direction, nudging her to say something to Wally.

“Yeah. As much as I give you flack for it, your whole -” Rhonda waves a hand in Wally’s general direction, “boy savior thing, I do wish there was something we could do for her. It sucks. Not having a partner to dance with.” There was a glint of remorse in Rhonda’s eye, more than Wally ever thought he’d see from her.

A spark lights up in Wally’s head, a hidden spotlight finding its mark onstage - landing on you, your flawless form.

“Do you think if I dance with her, that it could break the loop?” Wally asks, looking back and forth between his two friends.

“It’s definitely worth a shot,” Charley shrugs, gaze turning to his left, “Rhonda? What do you think?”

The beatnik pauses for a second, long enough for them to see the cogs turning in her brain.

“Look, I’m not saying it’ll work. Probably won’t. But maybe,” Wally starts to smile, “Just maybe, if you try to connect with her on her terms, instead of trying to force some logic onto the situation, something might change.”

“I don’t know how to dance, though. I don’t even know where to start.” Wally drops his head in his hands, shoulders hunched over. Charley reaches over, splays a hand on Wally’s back and rubs back and forth.

“Think of it like football maybe? You’ve got your plays, right?” Wally nods, sitting up and urging Charley to continue, “Those are like the steps. Formations could be the positions you take, and in dancing, timing is everything. The same way it is in football, at least from what I’ve gathered of the rants you go on. Rhonda’s right. Maybe if you learn how she moves, you can try communicating with her that way.”

Wally sits up, throwing his arms around his two friends, ignoring Rhonda attempting to push him away before jumping up from his spot on the couch. He nearly trips over himself to sprint out of the room and down the hall, towards the auditorium, shouting “Thank you!” behind him.

—

Wally stood in the echoing auditorium, the stage lights illuminating the otherwise dark room. Every day for the past week, he’d come to you - trying to decipher a language he did not speak. He watched you, trapped in your endless pas de deux. Gliding through the same steps, turns, your desperate yearning clear up close.

At first, he’d just tried to mimic you. Clumsy and tripping over his own feet, he’d stumbled through the basic positions, frustrated with himself. His movements were jerky and awkward, a stark contrast to your effortless grace. He felt silly - like a hulking figure trying to copy something delicate and precise, something that took years and years of training.

Slowly, things started to shift. He stopped just watching and copying, instead starting to feel the music that wasn’t there. He began to understand the reasoning behind your movements, the emotions they expressed. He started to see the gaps in your performance, the place where someone was supposed to fit, to complete the cycle you’d been stuck in.

He started to see the places where he could fit.

He wasn’t just mirroring anymore, he was learning the language. Each day he got a little closer, a little less clumsy, a little more in tune with the phantom rhythm that filled the empty auditorium. He was still a football player, and he always would be, but he was learning to use some of that training to become a dancer, too. For you.

Wally knew this might not even work. He’d been in his head about it for a week at this point, and not even Charley or Rhonda could break him out of the loop he’d pulled himself into. He stopped going to the life support meetings in the gymnasium, much to Mr. Martin’s dismay - instead going to spend all of his free time right there next to you onstage.

He put more effort into practicing for this than he ever did for one of his football games, a feeling of true purpose guiding his every movement.

When the day finally came, Wally felt calm. He felt ready.

He walked onto the stage, ready to put his rehearsing to the test. Ready to run the play, to score the winning point. You began your routine, perfect and meticulous and haunting as ever. This time, though, Wally didn’t just watch. He joined you.

He didn’t try to lead, didn’t try to impose himself or change your dance, he simply became your partner. He matched your movements as best as he could, trying to feel his way through the dance. Trying not to be too robotic, but instead trying to move with the same empathy and yearning that he’d watched you dance with over and over.

As you reached the point in your dance where your partner should have joined, Wally was there. He wasn’t a perfect dancer, not by any metric, but he was present. He was the missing piece.

As your movements intertwined, a visible shift occurred. You, you who had been trapped in this endless cycle of longing, suddenly seemed to notice him. Your eyes, usually fixated on some distant point, flickered - focusing on Wally for the first time. Genuinely seeing him. Your eyes filled with tears, and as one of them dropped onto your cheek, Wally went to wipe it away.

The music, which up until this point had only been an idea in Wally’s head, suddenly seemed to fill the auditorium, bouncing off of the walls and echoing around the two of you. Your dance became a true pas de deux, a conversation of movement and emotion.

As the music started to slow, Wally found himself on unsure footing. He hadn’t stopped to think before about how the dance was supposed to end, but it didn’t matter. Grasping his hands in your own, taking the lead and guiding him through the end, the two of you moved in perfect harmony. Spectral echoes of each other, gazes connected and satisfaction blooming.

The yearning in your movements softened, replaced by a sense of completion. The music faded, leaving the two of you in silence. For half a second, Wally thought you’d cross over, leaving him onstage by himself. Instead, you turned to him, a small smile gracing your lips. You didn’t fade. You were still there - as solid as he was.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “You helped me finish.”

Wally stood stock still, surprise still echoed on his features. He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. You looked around the empty auditorium, eyes tracking over the seats before landing on him again, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to finish that dance.”

“I’m glad I could help you,” Wally stutters out, a pink flush on his face, “I know I’m not the best dancer.” You laugh, a sweet, girlish thing. In the five minutes that had passed since the dance finished, Wally swore he could see the weight being lifted from your chest.

“You were perfect.” A flicker of sadness crossed your face, quickly replaced by gentle acceptance, “I… I don’t think I’m going anywhere, I’m still here, but…” you emphasized, palms open and gesturing to the stage around you, “but, I think it’s different now. I’m not stuck anymore.”

“That’s good!” Wally’s face lit up, empathetic and gleeful.

Your own smile brightened, affected by his sheer amount of happiness for you. You took his hand, solid and steady in yours.

“What do I do now?” you asked, eyebrows turned up and inward, “Do ghosts sleep? I feel like I need to sleep for a month.”

Wally giggled, leading you down the side stage steps and down the rows of seats, out of the auditorium, “We don’t need to sleep, but you can if you want to. You want me to show you my hiding space?” You nod, following him down the hallway.

When he passes the teacher’s lounge, and Charley and Rhonda see whose hand he has grasped in his, he winks at their shocked expressions before continuing down the stretch of linoleum and lockers.

—

Life - or, afterlife, you suppose - has been weird since Wally broke you out of your loop. The first couple of days were extremely rough, spent trying to understand just how long you’d been up on that stage. A new member of Mr. Martin’s life support group, everyone has been extremely welcoming to you.

Because ghosts don’t need to sleep, you haven't experienced any nightmares, something you’re exceedingly grateful for. Even so, you wake up from your naps feeling uneasy. Flashes of the end of your life playing in your mind, reminding you of the circumstances surrounding your death.

You’re not ready to talk to the group about it, but Wally hasn’t left your side since he’d woken you from your reverie. You tell him about it in bits and pieces - about your dance partner, a shy, kind boy, turned cold blooded killer. The specifics of it don’t matter anyways. He can’t hurt you anymore, and according to the computers in the library, he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore - following you into that good night soon after the police had taken him away.

You learn that your family moved out of Wisconsin a decade ago, in an attempt to escape the media following them around and shouting questions at them, about a court case that didn’t happen because there was nobody to put on trial. You hope wherever they were, that they found some semblance of peace.

Wally has been an incredible influence on you, and after settling into what the rest of your eternity might look like, you’ve had the same effect on him. He didn’t expect you to dance again any time soon, if ever, but he’d catch you by yourself sometimes - stretching your legs, sitting on the floor with your arms poised in that certain way.

Then, after a year spent together going to meetings and finding hidden corners in the school to make out like true teenagers, he’d found you in Split River High’s newly minted dance room - sock covered feet gliding over the lacquered floor, hope and joy baked into your movements instead of the grief and melancholy he’d become so accustomed to in your previous routine.

Out of the corner of your eye, when you’d seen him peeking through the window, you’d beckoned him in to join you. You started to truly teach him how to dance - guiding him through Pliés and Relevés and giggling at him when his lanky legs got in his own way.

“You’d be better at this if you were shorter, I think,” you’d said, a smile unable to hide taking over your face, “but you look pretty good.”

“Pretty good? These legs saved you, babe,” Wally scoffed, wiggling his toes to get you to laugh. He always succeeded in that.

“You’re right, you’re right,” you walked over to stand nearer to him, eyes angled upward to meet his honey brown ones, “the prince to my sleeping beauty, how could I forget?”

“Damn straight, I’m your prince,” Wally’s warm hands grasped your cheeks, his mouth lowering to meet yours for a few seconds before gently shoving you away, “now show me how to do that thing again? I think I’m finally getting it.”

—

Rhonda would never admit it, but she’d been especially proud of the effort Wally had put in to drag you from your loop. She knows everyone thinks she’s cold hearted, and she agrees to a certain extent, but she’d known the agony Wally felt when he thought he couldn’t help you. She’d never tell anyone this, either, but she’d snuck into the auditorium the night that he’d broken your loop - woken you up from your neverending nightmare. She’d stood alone, in the back and out of view, a smile etched on her features.

“You go, loverboy.”

a/n: tysm for this request! this was honestly the most fun i've ever had writing something. the inspiration was crazy and even though i know nothing about dancing i hope this is readable and easy to follow because i'm immensely proud of it. anon if you liked it pls lmk! I'm having such a fun time writing for wally so PLS send in any requests you have!!!

also, don't forget to like and reblog!

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 24 days ago

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don't worry baby

summary: you and wally figure out how to keep touching, you spend a day with him at the pool, your mom is putting the pieces together, and she's not happy about it.

wc: 8.4k

cw: gn!alive!plussize!reader, pool scene™, soft smut (? idk, they make out), wally's 40 year reunion, slight angst bc reader has an argument with their mom

don't go breaking my heart: pt. 1 - pt. 2 - pt. 3 - pt. 4 - pt. 5

masterlist

“Wally, this is stupid. And I look ridiculous.”

You’re standing on the football field, sunset washing the AstroTurf in a golden glow, wearing random pads and a helmet he’d found for you in the locker room. There are gym mats laid out behind you, and Wally stands in front of you, knees bent and getting ready to move.

After you’d gotten over the shock of actually being able to hold hands, confusion set in. Why were you not able to touch before, but you could now? How long would it last, and what had you done differently?

The connection held strong for a while, long enough for you to memorize the feeling of your hand in his, before it flickered and cut out. It was jarring, holding his hand one second and in the next, feeling it fade away before it went through your own.

Even though your touches so far had been soft, Wally figured he could cheat the system. Run at you, hard and fast, and the force of it would knock you into each other. You don’t know how he convinced you to do this - his logic is flawed, and even if it works, it doesn’t prove anything, doesn’t help you to figure out the why, but he’d looked up at you with his big brown eyes, and before you knew it, you were standing in the field freezing your ass off.

“It’s not stupid, it’s gonna work, and you look fine. More than fine, actually - this is a good look on you.”

“How do you know it’s gonna work?” Your hands are on your hips, and though you know he can’t see your face through the helmet, you look more than unenthused.

“I don’t, but won’t it be fun if it does?”

“Does getting tackled to the ground feel like a fun first date idea to you?”

He stands then, straightening his knees and lowering his arms from their ready-to-go position he’d held them in a moment before. He tilts his head ever so slightly, a smile creeping up slowly on his face. It is so easy to get him to blush.

“Is this a date?”

“I don’t know, Wally,” you take the helmet off, hold it by your side, “You’re the one that put fairy lights and blankets and pillows everywhere so we could watch a movie together. And then we held hands. And now you’re trying to tackle me.”

“Well one of those things is not at all the same as the other two, but fair point. Now shut up and put the helmet back on, we're doing this.”

You sigh, retaking the position Wally had coached you through. You bend your knees, keep your stance wide, neck straight and head forward. Wally shuffles his feet a few times, does a little hop that you can only describe as bunny-like, and takes off running.

Though he’d told you not to, the urge to close your eyes is overwhelming. As he gets nearer to you, you can feel your heart pounding in your throat.

It’s almost anticlimactic, the way he soars through you. The force of it does knock you over, but the feeling of him going to grasp at you only to literally go through your body leaves you feeling colder than before.

Your butt lands on the gym mats behind you, a soft oof leaving you from the impact of it. With nothing to stop Wally’s fall, he goes a bit further, hitting the ground behind the mats and rolling to slow his fall on the grass.

It’s quiet for a second, as the two of you process what just happened. You thought he might be angry, or disappointed, but instead he just laughs. It makes you laugh, and before you know it, you’ve both dissolved into a fit. He’s still clutching his stomach as he crawls over to you, shuffling on his knees toward the mats.

“That was kinda stupid, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, kinda,” you wipe a stray tear that had fallen during the outburst, “but it was kinda fun, too.”

He sighs, leftover giggles still making their way out, “I just don’t understand why sometimes we can touch and other times we can’t. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“It doesn’t make any sense to me either, Wally. If I could fix it, I would.”

“I know, it’s not your fault.”

He runs a hand through his hair, brushing the strands that had fallen onto his forehead back into their usual position atop his head. You follow the movement with your eyes, and trail them down to stare at him. You don’t know how you ever thought you’d be satisfied just looking at him from a distance.

He’s beautiful. You follow the curve of his cheek, the ridge of his nose to his cupid’s bow, you stare at his pretty pink mouth and wonder what it would feel like on yours.

“Do I really look that good today?”

“What?”

You’re broken from your reverie, and Wally is smirking at you.

“You were staring, so I probably look really good today. Is it the sweat? Is it making me glow?” He brings his hands up under his chin, rests it on the back of them, and tilts his head. It makes you giggle, and you tilt your head to mirror him.

“Yeah, actually, it really ties your whole look together.”

“Oh hush,” he drops his hands, straightens his head, and goes to stand up, “thank you for trying this with me, I know it was kinda silly.”

“Hey, anything is possible. We don’t know how this works so I don’t think anything is a stupid idea. Maybe a little stupid, but,” Wally scoffs at you playfully, “not so stupid that I wouldn't try it if you asked me to.”

As you say it, you know it to be true. You would do anything he asked you to. The admiration you feel for him, the inspiration you get from the giddiness he exudes at any given moment, it makes your chest ache.

It feels more than usual - charged, like a current running under your skin, the static you feel when a limb falls asleep, almost. The confusion on your face shows, and Wally crouches down to your level on the mats.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Yeah, I just,” you look down at your hands, then back up to Wally, “something feels different.”

“Good different?”

You nod, and motion for him to take a few steps back. Moving your hand up and out towards him, your voice is shaky when you ask, “Gimme a hand?”

Wally doesn’t verbally respond - face uncharacteristically serious as he steps forward to reach out and grab you. His hand slides into yours, lukewarm but solid, and he pulls you from your spot on the mat and into his arms. They wrap around you, safe and secure, and when you wrap your own around him, he sighs into your ear, eyes closed and embracing each other in the middle of the field.

In his embrace, all you can focus on is the fact that you’re touching, mind racing to figure out what exactly made it possible. A spark of an idea in your head, half formed and needing editing, you pull back from Wally, eyes wide and smile wider.

“We need to keep doing this.”

“Hugging? I agree.” He goes to pull you back to his body, but you stay firm, hands on his shoulders, chest parted from his.

“No, well yes, but -” you shake your head, “We couldn’t touch each other five minutes ago, but we can now. Something changed in that five minutes, and we need to figure out what. Run experiments or something, I don’t know.”

“Experiments?”

“No more tackling,” you giggle, and Wally sighs - disappointed, “We know that doesn’t work, but I can go home and make a list.”

“Okay,” he nods, head bobbing and smile forming to match yours, “But can we just hug for now though? And you can go all Einstein on me later?”

This time, he does pull you back into him. You don’t know how long you stand like that, and when you part, the sun has made its descent, and the moon is the only thing shedding light on the two of you.

After a while, Wally walks you to the boundary of the school, holding your hand the whole way. When you step off the curb and start the journey to your car, you look back every so often until you’re unable to see him anymore.

You spend Sunday locked in your room, scribbling ideas and questions into a blank notebook you had tucked away on your bookshelf. By Monday, you’re barreling into school, looking for Wally, and when you find him, you make him follow you to your tree by the field.

You haven’t spoken yet, except to say “good morning,” and “follow me,” and he watches you with amused and concerned eyes as you frantically flip through your full pages.

“You’re skipping first period?” He asks, ducking his head down to try to take your attention from the notebook in front of you.

“Yeah, this is important,” you whip your head up to look at him, turning the notebook around to show him what you’ve written, “I think I figured it out.”

He nods, taking the notebook from you and urging you to continue.

“So, when we try to touch, it usually doesn’t work, except for the other day on the field. Before that, it’s been accidental, or seemingly unrelated to anything, right?” You don’t wait for him to nod before starting to rant again, “Wrong. It is connected to something, but we just didn’t realize it. What were we talking about the first time when our hands actually touched?”

“My death, right?”

“Yes! And what about in the film room?”

“My mom,” his eyebrows furrowed - indicative of slow understanding, not necessarily confusion, “And on the field after? Is it connected to the kinds of stuff we talk about?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but we’ve had heavy conversations before that and nothing happened. So I was trying to figure out what else it could be, and I think it’s tied to our emotional connection. On the field when you went to tackle me, I trusted you but I was scared. Like, really scared. And then after, when we were laughing and I was looking at you, I felt safe, and hopeful, and I think that’s what made me feel like I could touch you again.”

“And it worked.”

“It worked,” you nod, parroting him, “What about you? How have you felt before?”

“I’ve talked about my death so many times before that it doesn’t feel like something that happened to me, if that makes sense,” you nod, “So I wasn’t really all there when we talked about it. And then I looked over at you, and you were crying, and it started to feel more real to me. Like it happened, and I was allowed to be upset about it.”

“What about after the movie?”

He looks away from the notebook, eyes moving over the morning dew still clinging to the grass.

“That one was hard. I’ve never really let myself be mad at my mom, I’ve always just been disappointed in myself on her behalf, y’know? But the movie really got me thinking. And after it was over, I felt like I could let it out, talk to you about it, and you’d understand - and you did, and it felt so freeing.”

“This is my version of going all Einstein on you, by the way,” You lean over to flip to a page full of questions on it, and point to them, “We need to get to know each other better, like on a deeper level, and then maybe we’ll be able to touch more. Plus, it’ll give you the opportunity to talk about things and work them out with someone new, instead of just going over the same shit with the same people.”

“Okay,” he hands the notebook back to you, “Where do we start?”

You smile at him, and get to work.

Over the next few days, you spend any and all free time you have in between classes, or lunch, or during study hall sitting with Wally and actually getting to know him. Not the picture of him your mom had painted for you, or the assumptions made about him by the rest of the student body. Not the version of him that is defined by the way that he died, but the truth of who he was when he was alive, and who he is now.

Not all of it is fun; he talks at length about what it was like to be a white teenage boy in the 80s, how often he stood by and watched as people in lower social statuses than him were mistreated, bullied, and how he never helped them. He talks about his secret love for curating mixtapes, how much he misses body shots.

He learns about you, too. How you’re a gigantic d&d playing nerd, how you spend most of your free time glued to your laptop watching movies and tv shows. He finds it especially interesting hearing you talk about how you figured out you could see ghosts.

You tell him about your grandma’s passing, how you’d seen her essentially stand up from her body, waving to you on her way out the door. That she’d seemed lighter, calmer - happy, almost, as she walked toward something you couldn’t see and faded into the distance.

As your feelings grow, so does your ability to touch Wally for extended periods of time. It takes concentration - focusing on the positive ways you make each other feel, but it does get marginally easier. By the end of the week, after hours spent playing 20 questions and Never Have I Ever, you feel like you really know him, and you’ve let him know you in turn.

As March transitions into April, and the biting chill in the air is soothed into something warmer, your relationship with Wally continues to flourish. Like spring flowers, the feelings in your chest blossom, filling the space in between your ribs with something colorful and bright.

But with the school year winding down, final exams and graduation grow near. Not just looming in the distance anymore, a vague notion of grades and graduation caps thrown in the air, but a real, tangible deadline. An end date to your time at Split River High, and, by extension, an end date to whatever is happening with you and Wally.

You try your best not to think about it - avoidance comes easy to you - and it’s even easier to take Wally up on his offer to hangout when you should be at home studying instead. It’s not his fault he’s confined to the school grounds, and though in a perfect world you’d be able to do normal teenager shit with him, that’s not the case.

He shows up at your locker on a Friday, scaring the shit out of you when you close it to see him standing there, like he’d appeared out of thin air.

“Jumpy today?”

You sigh apologetically, swing your backpack onto your shoulder and slip an airpod into your ear so you don’t look batshit insane in front of everyone at their lockers.

“What’s up?”

“So I was thinking,” he walks next to you in the hallway, “I know you have much more important shit to do, but I miss you, and I think you should hang out with me on Saturday.”

“Wally I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” you tuck yourself into a less occupied space in the hallway, angling your head up to look at him, “I really need to study and in the best way possible, you’re really distracting.”

“It’s my good looks and my devastating charm, right?”

“Yeah,” you whine, softly banging the back of your head against the wall behind you, “You’re too pretty, I won’t get anything done.”

He laughs, halfheartedly teasing but softening into something sweet, and he goes to rub your shoulder. The touches between you lately are becoming more common, a sure sign that your emotional connection theory had been correct. He’s still not as warm as you, but he stands as solid as any other person.

“I think you’re giving me too much credit,” he says, fingers running down your arm to hold onto your hand, “I wanna help you, but maybe a break would be good for you too. Please? I miss you.”

How are you supposed to say no to him? You push off from the wall, hand still holding his, and pull him to walk beside you in the hallway - not caring if your slightly extended arm looks weird or out of place.

“Fine, I guess I can come in tomorrow,” you say it like it’s a hardship, an inconvenience, but you both know that’s a lie, “A break would probably help me. And studying is hard anyways, most of the time I just end up thinking about you and your stupid face.”

“Stupid face?” he uses his non-occupied hand to bring it up to his cheek, affronted, “I can’t believe you.”

He laughs, detaching his hand from yours and moving to throw his arm around your shoulder. As the hallways clear, and you walk together, giggling and tucked under his arm, you think for a moment about what it would be like to actually be with him. If he were alive, if you were born earlier, if the world was different and you didn’t have to hide him away.

The walk from your car to the school is decidedly less miserable now that it’s getting warmer.

Wally is waiting for you by the bus stop again, propped against it like last time. He’s without his letterman jacket today, opting to have his arms showing through the cut holes in what used to be a full sweatshirt. The sun is out, and though he’s partially covered by the overhang, it still shines through his black hair.

He smiles at you, greeting you with his arms outstretched, making grabby hands and prompting you to sprint over the boundary of the school and into his embrace. The sun beating down on him slightly warms his body, a nice change from the tepid temperature of your usual hugs. You stay there for a few minutes, before pulling back and directing his hand into yours.

It flickers, but holds steady as he leads you around the back and onto the field.

“So what’s the plan for today?”

“We’re playing with balls.” He laughs at your wide-eyed expression, and when you round the corner and make your way onto the field, you hum, confused. By the benches, there’s a rack of footballs, probably taken from the backroom of the gym.

“Why are there so many?”

“Well,” Wally drops your hand, goes over to the rack and grabs one, throwing it up in the air and catching it on its way down, “I figure you’re not gonna be the best at this, so instead of running around the field going after stray balls for hours, it’s just easier to have a bunch of them.” He shrugs, picks one of them up, tossing it to you and laughing when you fumble with it and it falls to the ground.

You chuckle - indignant - but don’t correct him, because he isn’t wrong. You’ve never claimed to be athletically inclined. Wally walks back over to you, picking up the ball and handing it to you. Your hands brush as he passes it, and he curls his fingers around yours, helping you hold it correctly.

“Is there a reason we’re doing this?”

“Nah, not really, I just thought it would be fun. Get you out of your own head, y’know? Go stand over there,” Wally takes the ball back, points at a spot a few feet away. You laugh, shake your head, and actually manage to catch the ball when he lobs it in your direction.

“Good! Throw the ball back.”

The rest of the morning into the afternoon is spent just like that. Throwing a football back and forth until the sun is high in the sky, sweat is trickling down the nape of your neck, and you’re begging Wally for a break.

“C’mon, I know where we can go.”

Wally grabs your hand, dragging you through the gym, into the locker room and through the double doors leading to the pool. The main lights are off, leaving the room illuminated by the soft blue glow of the underwater bulbs. You laugh, surprised, and bring your hands up to cover your eyes when he goes to take his shirt and sweats off.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” You hear his footsteps echoing, soft padding of his feet on the tile stopping in front of you, “Wanna go swimming?”

You don’t put up much of a fight when his hands, soft and sure, grab your wrists to pull them from your face. Cracking an eye open slightly, you’re met with the sight of his bare chest. Just like on his face and arms, the rest of him is smattered with moles and freckles, and you connect them with your line of sight.

He doesn’t stay in front of you for very long though, gently dropping your arms and stepping back.

“But I didn’t bring anything to change into,” You shake your head, quietly laughing when he brings out the puppy dog eyes, “Don’t look at me like that, Clark.”

“Look at you like what? You don’t need anything to change into if you just take off your clothes.”

“Is that what this is about? You just wanted to get me out of my clothes?” It’s flirtier than you mean it to be, toeing the line of the PG rating the we’re slightly more than friends but we haven’t done anything about it yet relationship you’ve had so far. And you can always count on Wally to up the ante.

“Yeah, you caught me,” he says, deadpan, “I lured you here, seduced you by standing on the field throwing footballs for four hours, all because I thought I could get you to go skinny dipping with me.”

“See, when you say it like that, I only think you’re half-joking.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s clear there’s no malice behind it.

“You’re stalling. Do you want me to turn around? Would that help?”

When you nod, wordless and shy and chin tucked to your chest, Wally smiles at you. It’s soft, his brown eyes twinkling from the pool lights reflected in them. He turns around, true to his word, and the only sounds in the room are your breathing and your clothes hitting the floor.

You whisper that it’s okay to look now, arms wrapped around your midsection, underwear-clad and self-conscious under the weight of Wally’s gaze. To his credit, he keeps his eyes on yours, not letting them trail any further down.

“So, are we doing this or not, Wally?”

He stalks towards you, glints of mischief in his eyes, and though you’d trust him with your life, it makes you nervous. Your chest is heaving, breaths coming fast and shallow, made worse when Wally picks you up and jumps in the pool with you in his arms. You hit the water at lightning speed, feet kicking the bottom and rocketing yourself back up. It takes you a minute to right yourself, pushing your hair back from your face and spluttering.

“I am going to kill you!” You splash in his direction, his laughs echoing off the tile surrounding the pool.

“Can’t kill me, already dead, remember?” He swims over to you, wavy black hair plastered to his forehead, golden chain and pendant glittering under the water.

“I could probably figure out how to kill you a second time,” You squeal when he takes you into his arms, hands respectfully placed high on your back and waist.

“I believe it.”

You don’t say anything in response - curling your head forward to rest in the space between his neck and shoulder. You just stand there for a minute, calmed by the sound his breaths in your ear.

“You know, for a second there, I seriously thought I crossed over,” He breaks the silence, nodding at you when you pull back to look at him.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” He smiles at you, tucking a stray wet strand of hair behind your ear, “I’m just really happy.”

“I’m glad,” You giggle, pausing for a moment as a question forms in your head, “Would you? If you had the choice?”

“What, cross over?” He looks off into the water when you nod, “I’m not sure. There’s only been one other ghost that did it - her name was Dawn. She kinda just disappeared one day, like she didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. I don’t wanna go out like that.”

“Do you know how she was able to do it?”

“Nah, not really,” He shakes his head, bringing his eyes back to yours, “We figured something just clicked for her. We felt it when it happened - there was this weird ringing, and all the lights got really bright for a few seconds, and we just knew.”

“What do you think you’re missing, if you don’t mind me asking? Like what do you still need to work through?”

“Why?” He laughs, “You wanna get rid of me?”

“No,” You reach out, fiddling with the pendant attached to Wally’s necklace, “Just curious.”

“I’m not sure. There’s a lot of shit I didn’t get to do before I died, and I think it’s harder on me than I say it is. Didn’t get to go to Prom, didn’t graduate, shit like that. I don’t go anywhere near the football field when they do the graduation ceremonies, I just can’t watch it.”

It makes sense, Wally’s avoidance of the thing he couldn’t do when he was alive. It makes you sad, picturing him, forty years in a row of staying inside all day as the other kids move on to their next phase of life. You’d stay inside too, if it were you. You hum, thoughtful noise lilting through the air around you.

“I’ll tell you what though,” He cups your cheek in his palm, sliding his thumb over the fullest part of it, “Wherever I’m going, I seriously doubt it gets better than this.”

He smiles then, tilts your head back ever so slightly, and brings his face closer to yours - lips hovering, waiting for you. His eyes close, long dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him the rest of the way into you.

The first brush of your lips against his is feather soft, his bottom lip slotted in between yours. When he goes to pull away, you tighten your hold on him, a whine slipping from your throat.

Hungrier than before, he exhales, breaths hot and hitting your cheeks, hands wandering down the expanse of your back - the contact making you shiver. It lights up in your stomach, dizzying and all consuming.

You could stay like this forever, you think, as his hands trail down, stopping above the waistband of your underwear. The touch burns hot on your lower back, and you arch into him.

The water echoes around you, quiet splashes with every movement. You feel weightless, wrapping your legs around Wally’s waist and pulling softly at his hair. His hands slide further down, holding you up by your thighs and under your knees. Your lips part, an invitation, and he accepts graciously, nipping at your bottom lip and tugging at it with his teeth.

You return the favor, hands moving from their locked position around his neck and trailing down the length of his chest. When he pulls his mouth from yours, chuckling softly at the way you follow him, he nudges your head to the side, and brings his lips to the space between your neck and shoulder, a mirror image of the way you’d had your own face there a few minutes ago.

You know he can feel your heartbeat racing under his lips, a hummingbird trapped in your chest, and you whine again when he latches on, tongue peeking out as he sucks a mark into your skin. The pace slows after that, his arms coming back up to wrap around your waist, soft pecks left on the spot where he’d been so harsh a moment ago.

You pull away, softly grabbing Wally’s cheeks and righting him so your faces are in front of each other, lightheaded and reeling, and you rest your forehead against his - breathing heavily, open mouth near to his.

“Was that,” As he talks, his lips still brush against yours, “Was that okay? Too much?”

“Not too much,” You shake your head, a breathless chuckle, “That was perfect.”

You share a few more soft kisses before he eventually lets go of you, playfully splashing you when you protest, and you splash at him in turn, making it an all out water war. You spend the rest of the day like that, fingers and toes pruning from being in the water for so long, floating on your backs together, weightless and relaxed.

You know it’s time to go when you peel your eyes open to see the sun going down through the skylight in the ceiling. Wally helps you out, hand resting on your lower back before he jogs over to the basket full of towels. It’s domestic, almost, the way he wraps one around your shoulders and rubs them, wordlessly, like he’s done it a million times before.

When you get back into your clothes, hair still wet and jeans sticking to your thighs, he pokes at your neck, the mark he left still red and aching.

“I wanna apologize for that but it looks good on you,” He coos when you wince at his touch, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” You shrug, sitting down on one of the foldout chairs by the pool, putting your shoes on, “I kinda liked it.”

Wally walks you to the bus stop, as far as he can go, but grabs you by the waist and holds you there as he leans against the glass. You stand there with him for a bit, stuck in the cycle of trading a few soft pecks, pulling away from him, and giving back in when he whines and says he doesn’t want you to go yet.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” you say, when you’re finally able to put real distance between you, “Not even 48 hours from now. I think you’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that, baby,” the pet name is new, sending sparks through your core when his voice drops, “I might wither away while you’re gone.”

“You better be here when I get back, Clark. No withering.” you turn to walk away, laugh tearing from your throat when he calls out to you again.

“Hey, wait!”

“What, Wally?” you giggle, still slowly walking backwards a few paces from the boundary of the school.

“Do you want to go to Prom with me?” his smile is wide, cheeks flushed and eyes hopeful.

You stop moving, melting under the warmth of his gaze. The urge to run back over to him is overwhelming, and it wins out without much pushback from you. His arms encircle you when you cross the curb, nodding into his chest as he laughs and kisses the top of your head.

He convinces you to stay for another few hours, basking in the setting sun under your tree, soft lips brushing against yours.

When you get home, your mom is waiting for you in the kitchen.

You’d missed dinner; the evidence of it in tupperwares and dishes in the sink. She doesn’t seem mad, but turns around, eyebrows scrunched in concern.

“Where were you? I was getting worried,” she says, rounding the island to meet you halfway.

You don’t want to lie.

“I was studying with a friend, I’m sorry I didn’t text.”

“That’s okay,” she comes over to you, eyes scanning your still flushed appearance, and pausing on your neck. Her eyes widen a fraction, sly grin pulling the corners of her mouth up. She reaches out her hand, poking at the hickey Wally gave you, “Get a lot of studying done? Or was this more of a half-work half-play situation?”

You grumble, embarrassed, and turn to go to your room, mortified laugh leaving you when she says, “Oh come on! Give me the juicy details, let me live vicariously through you!”

She follows you, stopping in your doorway as you throw your backpack on the floor. You’re checking the mark in the mirror on your wall, covering it with your hand when she knocks on the doorframe.

“Are they hot? Whoever gave you that?”

You roll your eyes, making eye contact with her through the mirror before turning around and plopping down on your bed.

“He’s very hot, yes. Do you have any other questions? Or can I start getting ready for bed?”

“Does this mean you’re going to prom? Has he asked you yet? Or are you gonna do the angsty teen thing where you like, go on a date but very specifically don’t go to prom because it’s for people who peak in highschool?” she’s all smiles, playful and teasing, and it makes you chuckle.

“He asked me today, actually,” you say softly, corners of your mouth curling up, “I said I’d go with him.”

“This is so exciting! I remember my prom, but mostly I remember the hotel room Randy Warner took me to afterwards.”

“Oh, gross, Mom,” you shudder, though a laugh peeks out in spite of yourself, “That is entirely too much information.”

She shrugs, and turns to leave before pausing and looking back.

“I’m happy for you, I am. Are you being safe?”

It’s a loaded question.

Looking at Wally, speaking to Wally, making out with Wally all fall under the umbrella of ‘Things I Promised My Mom I’d Never Do.’ Safety, in this case, is subjective. The way she’s implying safety is easy to answer - today is the furthest you’ve gone with him, and you’re not even entirely sure if sex is possible, or if it’s something you’d want to do.

Your heart, though? Or your mind? That’s where it gets tricky. Images of Wally flash through your head; him on the field, in the library, the feeling of his hands on you in the pool, and something in your chest falters, thrumming under the weight of impending loss. Borrowed grief from the future.

“Yeah,” you nod, attempting to assuage her worries, “I’m being safe. I promise.”

The library is uncharacteristically loud today. The usual low murmur of students reading and talking has been replaced by cater waiters, a dj setting up on the stage at the back of the room, and volunteers organizing place cards - a job that had been delegated to you.

You’d signed up for the setup for Split River High’s Class of ‘84 reunion long before you’d actually spoken to Wally; it’s your mom’s forty year reunion, and she thought it’d be fun for you to be there with her, even if it was just as a volunteer.

It’s technically Wally’s reunion too.

It’ll be hard to navigate, having your mom and Wally in the same room. It doesn’t sound difficult on paper - you just can’t talk to Wally, you can’t look at him or acknowledge his presence. You wouldn’t be able to, anyway, with his other ghostly friends being in attendance.

They’d been in here earlier with him, laughing and dancing to David Bowie. It was sweet, seeing them with him. Wally had told you about the dance a few days prior. Forty years of boredom and access to vinyls that the library kept in the back had led to traditions, and though his friends roll their eyes and pretend to hate it, they dance with him at every reunion without fail.

You’re standing in front of the table with the name cards, organizing them according to the list you’d been given when you feel someone press up against you. It’s not hard to tell that it’s Wally.

It’s a test of your resilience, feeling him so close to you and not turning around. Wally teases, fingers touching yours as he tries to rearrange the placement of a couple that had a gnarly breakup that year. You snort when the cards revert back to their original position, and he giggles in return.

It’s most likely the only acknowledgment of each other you’ll get for the rest of the day - as much as you want to, you can’t afford to be seen talking to the air.

When everything is perfect, and guests start trickling into the room, bathed in blues and purples from the lights set up above the stage area, you find your mom and sit with her and her friends. They’re nice, asking you questions about what your plans are after graduation, telling you stories about the kinds of things your mom got up to when she was in high school.

You’re laughing, smiling at your mom when a woman takes the stage, mic in hand.

“Can everyone hear me? First of all, thank you so much for coming to the 1984 class reunion -”

“Woo! Class of ‘84!”

Your head whips to the side, and you see Wally, Charley, and the kid from your ceramics class. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him not actively doing pottery, and your mouth quirks up in amused confusion. Wally’s changed since you saw him last - a blue shirt under a white suit, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It’s very Miami Vice, but it works on him.

“Hey, you okay?” Your mom nudges your shoulder with hers, eyes following your line of sight but unable to see what you see.

You nod, turning back to the woman on the stage. You don’t catch her furrowed brows, her gaze fixated on you.

“Forty years, can you believe that? Before we get too tipsy, I’d like to take a moment to honor those who couldn’t be here with us today,” The projector screen turns on, a slideshow showing pictures of the people who’d recently passed, “And now, a moment of silence for our 1983 homecoming king, Wally Clark. A shining star taken from us way too soon.”

Your breath hitches in your throat when Wally’s picture comes up. It makes you feel sick. You can’t imagine what it’s like, to be at every high school reunion as a ghost. To see the evidence of your death in other people’s aging faces, to hear them talk about their spouses, their kids. To know you’ll never have that.

He looked so happy - alive. The smile he wears is familiar to you, having seen it so many times over the past month and a half, but the picture evidence of it feels different. Sadder, like you know you shouldn’t know what it feels like to have that smile directed your way.

You’re broken from your train of thought by a voice a table over from you.

“...sat on the lid and laughed for hours. And Captain Homecoming never did anything to try and stop them,” It comes from two men sitting next to each other, the speaker drinking a glass of red wine, “Can’t imagine what they would’ve done if I’d actually come out.”

You exhale, directing your eyes to Wally and Charley at the opposite end of that table. They’re talking, and it seems tense. Charley is trying to brush him off, though you can’t hear what they’re saying. He walks away, leaving Wally solitary in the middle of the room. His eyes find yours, eyebrows turned upwards, like he’s asking you what to do.

It’s subtle, the face you make in return, and you hope it conveys what you mean to say.

I’m sorry. Give him some space, and then go find him.

He nods, and turns to go after his friend.

The rest of the night passes without issue, for the most part. You mingle with your mom, joining her on

the dance floor during her favorite hits, grabbing hors d'oeuvres from trays and sneaking sips of her wine.

“Hey, I’m gonna use the bathroom. I’ll be back in a bit, and then we can go?” You nearly shout to your mom over the sound of the music, and wait for her nod before you turn to leave.

The hallways are empty when you step outside the library, the music and chatter from inside quieting down once you’re a few steps away. You haven’t seen Wally or Charley for a while, and you hope they’re okay, that they’re talking. There’s no excuse for Wally’s past behavior, and however Charley feels about it, he’s well within his rights to do so. You just hope it’s clear how much Wally has grown.

You’re still thinking about it when you finish up in the bathroom, jumping slightly when you open the door to see Wally walking back towards the library.

“Hey!” You whisper, smiling wide when he turns around to see you there.

“Hey yourself!” He whispers back, and it makes the both of you giggle. He walks over to you, hands in his pants pockets.

“This is a good look on you, by the way,” You pat at his chest, “Very on theme.”

“Thanks! I stole it from the costume department.” He’s all smiles, honey brown eyes twinkling under the fluorescents.

“How are you? Did you find Charley?”

“Yeah,” He sighs, “We’re all good.”

“Good,” You laugh, “That’s good.” You pause, reaching for one of his arms and pulling his hand from his pocket and into yours, “I’m sorry we haven’t been able to talk today. I’ve missed you.”

“That’s okay,” He runs his thumb over your knuckles, “We’ve been busy. You look really pretty too, by the way,” You hadn’t noticed him gently pushing you backwards until you’re pressed up against the wall. Your head tilts back, soft giggle leaving you when he says, “I can’t stop thinking about that day at the pool, y’know.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” He brings his free hand up, brushing a stray hair behind your ear, “It just plays on a loop in my head all the time now.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” You pout, and his thumb moves to pluck at your bottom lip.

“Not bad. Really, really good, actually.”

He brings his face down, closer to yours, and you can feel his breath hit your cheeks. It feels like time stops when you’re with him. You’re not paying attention to anything - the music from the library is all but silenced, the click of heels in the hallway doesn’t reach your ears.

You’re just waiting for him to make a move, to close the gap and put you both out of your misery. You close your eyes, feel the slight brush of his lips against yours.

“Honey? What are you still doing out here?”

Your eyes snap open, finding your mom a few paces away by the library doors. She’s holding your things, confusion covering her face. She looks at you, eyes flitting back and forth between you and the empty hallway - like she’s looking for something she knows isn’t there.

You’re so fucked.

It takes a second for you to get your bearings, blood running cold and pulse picking up, thumping in your chest and ears. You know you can’t look at Wally. He inhales, a sharp, guarded thing, exhaling an “Oh, shit,” under his breath on its way out.

“Nothing, I was just…” You brush past him, dropping his hand and not looking back as you make your way over to your mother, “It was really loud in there. I just needed a break. You ready to go?”

She hesitates, eyes still directed at the air behind you where you know Wally is, before she nods and hands you your things.

The drive home is extremely tense. Neither of you say anything for most of it, your mom only sighing when she pulls into the driveway. You don’t know how much of your interaction with Wally she saw, if she saw any of it or was able to put together what was happening.

You try to imagine what she would’ve seen - you, back against the wall, head leaned back and eyes closed. It’s entirely possible you just looked like you were resting, right?

You can’t ask her about it either - you’d basically be admitting to something you hadn’t even been accused of. The silence is deafening, and you exit the car to go inside. You hover in the living room, waiting to see if she says anything to you.

“Mom?”

She’s quiet as she puts her coat on the rack, moving into the kitchen and leaning against the island.

“Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

Your stomach drops at her question, mind racing a million miles an hour to come up with some sort of answer. It’s vague enough, the way she phrased it, but you hear the true meaning. Have you been talking to Wally Clark?

It’s like standing on a tightrope. A breeze from either direction could knock you off, sending you careening into a bottomless pit.

If you tell the truth, solidifying your relationship with Wally, making it real by telling someone else, it won’t belong to you anymore. It won’t be just yours - and you’ll have to face the consequences. If you lie, you jeopardize the relationship you have with your mom. Founded on truth and trust, it’ll start to crack.

“No.” You shake your head, eyes cast towards the floor, stepping off the rope and into the wind. The end result is the same, anyways. Falling towards an end you can’t see yet.

“Are you sure that’s the answer you wanna go with?” Her arms are crossed over her chest, breathing steady and gaze unwavering. You nod, and she sighs again, shaking her head ever so slightly. “Look,” She says, “You don’t wanna tell me the truth, and that’s fine. So what I’m gonna do,” She brings a hand up to her chest, fingers splayed out, “Is lay it out for you. If you’re doing what I think you’re doing, if you’re seeing who I think you’re seeing, it’s a mistake.”

You open your mouth, poised to push back, but she beats you to it.

“It’s a mistake. Of epic proportions. Have you thought this through at all? Have you thought about what it’ll do to you when you graduate next month and you can never see him again?” She drops her hands to her sides. She doesn’t sound mad, only worried. You don’t notice the tears until they’re falling in quick succession - fast, one right after the other. It’s your admission of guilt. “And what about Wally?”

Your breath shudders as she speaks his name, shoulders rising and falling with each inhale and exhale.

“You can’t keep doing this. Prolonging the inevitable, giving him hope where there is none. It’s not fair to either of you - it’s cruel. You should know better. I thought I taught you better.”

“It was an accident, I didn’t mean to…” You’ve never felt smaller, shrinking under the weight of your mother’s palpable disappointment.

“An accident?” Her voice raises, skirting the edge of genuinely yelling at you, “You’re talking to Wally Clark, and he got close enough to give you a hickey. How could that possibly be accidental?”

You flinch, the implication of your stupidity and carelessness hitting you like a ton of bricks. You raise your head, making eye contact with your mom for the first time since entering your home. The guilt is still clear on your face, but there’s a hint of defiance there, too.

“You don’t understand,” you say, “You could never understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” your mom presses.

“He saw me. He saw me. I didn’t do it on purpose, I didn’t ask for this to happen. I ran away from him that first time, and he made me see him.”

“And every time after that? You made the conscious decision to keep it up.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like? To be the only person that sees them? He followed me to class the next day, mom. He kept talking, he wouldn't stop talking, and he was so fucking funny, and I-” You break, sobs tearing from your throat, breath catching and near-suffocating you.

Your mom’s voice is uncharacteristically cold when it meets your ears.

“I’ve been getting notices about your absences and tardies for weeks at this point. Your grades are falling, your test scores are abysmal, your teachers are getting worried. I’ve been worried, too, but I tried to let it go because I thought you were finally having a normal teenage experience, but nothing about what you’ve been doing is normal. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, because I know you, and I know you’re smarter than this.

“From now on, I want you in your car and driving home immediately after the school bell rings. You will not skip your classes. You will not leave this house on the weekends to sneak away to school, you will be under this roof studying your ass off because you will graduate on time. Do I make myself clear?”

You nod, and with nothing left to say, ultimatum issued and tongue lashing over, your mom exits the room, brushing past you without looking back. You don’t know how long you stand there, tears trailing down your face, before you’re able to pull yourself together enough to make it to your room.

Rest doesn’t come easy that night - you spend hours tossing and turning, restless, and when you finally do fall asleep, you’re plagued by visions that leave you more drained than you were before you went to bed. Flashes of your memories with Wally, coated in a dream-like haze, play alongside your mom’s voice in the back of your head - apathetic, detached, echoing with disappointment.

a/n: i am SO sorry it took me so long to update this 😭 school has been crazy, i got really sick and lost the motivation for it for a bit but i'm back!!! this was originally going to be much longer, but i decided to split it into two so you don't have to read a 12k word fic LMFAO. part four still needs some editing and extra writing but i promise there will not be another month gap in between this one and the next one, since it's mostly fully written

also, don't forget to like and reblog if you feel so inclined :)

taglist: @whoopsyeahokay @preparedfruit @lov3bug @awenthealchemist @aquaalanah @calpurnia2002 @badbishsblog @kravitzwhore @fallout-girl219

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 24 days ago

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Zed and Addison are a great ship dynamic because she always looks like she just stepped out of a glamour magazine and he always looks like he was just comical walloped with a two by four.

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 24 days ago

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Zombies 4: Dawn of the Vampires - Zed and Addison parallels in becoming parents to a dozen daywalkers and nightwalkers over the summer.

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 24 days ago

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Please accept this stupid meme (also I have no idea what to replace girlhood with here)

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 27 days ago

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and these are interchangeable depending on the situation...of course

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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What would Birdies reaction be if she saw Bucky pull his arm out of the dishwasher?

Asfgjkl that would be hilarious 😂 She'd be watching him with wide eyes and go like,

"Uh, Bucky?"

"Hm?"

"Why was your arm in the dishwasher?"

"It got dirty. It's a pain to get out the stains from between the plates."

"...I have one thousand questions. Number one, how did you know it was waterproof?"

"Experience with water. And blood. And it's Wakandan tech, Shuri said it'd be fine."

"The princess of Wakanda said you could put your arm in dishwasher?"

"She said the arm is indestructible, so I figured dishwasher was fine."

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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fun fact nobody asked for, PTSD sucks ass

I can’t chop radishes at work without seeing this guys rat-tail lookin pony tail (and him) bc of the stringies at the end of them. it’s been four years.

I’ll be writing more eventually (Bucky Barnes omgggggg) but smth reallly bad happened recently so I’m just trying to float for now.

#ptsd vent #men suck

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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Alright, I’m callin’ it a night. Gotta be up early for work tomorrow—some of us still punch a clock, believe it or not.

It’s okay if you don’t have everything figured out. Life’s not a straight line, and most of us are just tryin’ to get through the day without fallin’ apart. That’s not failure—that’s being human.

You’re allowed to take your time. To rest. To feel lost sometimes. Doesn’t mean you’re not going somewhere. Doesn’t mean you’re not growing.

Get some sleep if you can. And if you can’t, just lay there and breathe. That counts too.

Goodnight.

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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going on a date with bucky barnes and it all goes so nicely, so sweetly, so smoothly. you both had so much fun, chemistry and a good time. he's charming, witty and he keeps flirting and complimenting you at every chance he gets. he held your hand all night long, neither of you even noticed it, it just happened naturally, your cheeks hurt from how much you're smiling and both of your hearts are at ease.. that's until the date comes to an end, it's time to pay and you ask him if he wants to go 50/50.

that would be the first time he lets go of your hand that night, it's unintentional just happened out of pure shock. "50... what.." the confusion on his face, you'd think he's an alien seeing earth the first time.

"you know.. 50/50.. we'll split the bill between us"

"split the bill?" he asks and you just nod, he'd blink at you, "50/50.. splitting the bill.. what is this about, i asked you on a date"

now it's your turn to be the alien seeing earth for the first time, "we are on a date, bucky. this is a date"

"no, it's not a date."

"it is a date"

"you're asking me to split the bill, this is not a date"

"oh my god sam was right, you can be such a drama queen." you laugh, he just stares at you, blankly. "it might've been a while since the last time you went on a date so let me break it down for you.. these days, people who go on dates split the bill, they go 50/50" you shrug, "it's normal"

"it's normal? you've done it before?"

you nod, "every date i've been on has been 50/50 yeah"

bucky nearly flips the table. bucky who spent all of his three dollars in the 1940's trying to win a teddybear for a girl he had a crush on, bucky who used to save up most of his income in an old shoe box underneath his bed so he can take his girl to a nice diner, bucky who went to the florist to get you a bouquet of roses and didn't even ask for the price just handed his credit card because to him your smile is priceless, bucky is about to have a stroke.

"you've never been on a date" he says, face still blank.

"yes i have"

"no you haven't. this is your first date." he says, "i'm your first time." he smirks and you blush at the possible implication. "50/50.." he scoffs under his breath, "what else are you gonna tell me next? i should walk on the inside of the sidewalk? keep my jacket on when you're cold? sleep further from the door? not open doors for you? jesus sweetheart what has the world come to?"

you hide your smile, you love it when he rambles like that, he's so calm yet so offended all at once somehow, it's funny and endearing. "what's wrong with walking on the inside of the sidewalk?" you joke and he rolls his eyes making you laugh, "so.. no 50/50? are you sure?" you ask one last time, hands on your purse on your lap.

he keeps his eyes on you as he pays the bill, glaring playfully, gets up and pulls out your chair before putting his black leather jacket on your shoulders, "no doll," he offers you his hand which you quickly hold, intertwining your fingers with his, and opens the door with his metal hand, "no 50/50."

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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Seeing all those posts that say "despite it all I remain kind" are so inspiring and I'm so proud of those people but I can't be them. At least not now. I just hope that one day I can be.

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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PSA ABOUT CONSENT

CONSENT IS:

Given willingly

Given while fully conscious/sober

“Yes, that’s okay”

“I like that”

“Yeah, keep going”

CONSENT IS NOT

“I don’t know”

“I guess so”

“Not here”

“Please stop”

“Not now”

Being unconscious

Being in a relationship

Being drunk

Being pressured

Being coerced

If you haven’t EXPLICITLY asked to touch them in a certain place and they haven’t EXPLICITLY SAID YES without being pressured, you are NOT ALLOWED TO TOUCH THEM THERE

“But it’s awkward!” No, it’s respect. Wake the fuck up.

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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Tw mentions of SA

Real talk, I think a great comparison against the “you orgasmed/felt pleasure, that must mean it was good” is tickling.

Tickling will make you laugh and giggle, even when you have told someone to quit it. It’s something that almost everyone can relate to.

You can be giggling and laughing while your stomach is hurting. Maybe you’re angry with someone because they did something unforgivable, and they decided to tickle you til you’re out of breathe, that doesn’t mean you’re now happy with them and that they’re forgiven.

The point is, your body response does not match what your brain does. You didn’t want to shit yourself or vomit in elementary school when you were sick, but your body dispelled your waste anyway. No one likes having their body act on its own accord, but that’s just your body.

Your body’s response doesn’t mean you’re happy with it, nor did you want it.

The only one forcing your body to get diarrhea or puke is the bad food or the virus and bacteria that infected you.

In this case, the only thing causing your body to unwillingly laugh against your will or better judgment… is the person tickling you.

#i needed this tbh

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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don't listen to them i still think you're as pure as a dove

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 2 months ago

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Declassified [11] - Warning Shot

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support my loves, you are so amazing🩷 I hope you like this chapter as well! 🥰 And please let me know what you think! 🩷

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Summary: Some dances look more than just friendly.

Warnings: Explicit language, yearning, mentions of sexual acts.

Word Count: 5.5k

Series Masterlist

If it were any other time, this gala would be exciting.

It was the perfect opportunity to meet more politicians, get some inside information, and overall a good place to make an impression. However, your love life was a mess, you dreamt about Bucky every night while keeping your distance from him all day, so you had no idea how to even begin forming a game plan for the gala, or care about it.

Also, Bucky looked like he had one thousand questions about why you started avoiding him all of a sudden out of nowhere yet again but you had to admit, he was being very understanding and did not push you.

Then again, maybe his girlfriend played a part in it.

“Can I just skip this one?”

You and Kelsey exchanged glances and she rolled her eyes while you heaved a sigh, then checked your lipstick on the mirror.

“Caleb, get in here.”

“No seriously, DC has a bunch of charity galas I can join some other time—”

“Get in here!” You both called out at the same time and he huffed, then stepped into the living room, still fiddling with his bowtie. One simple observer would have thought he was being forced to go to war instead of a gala from the miserable look on his face, and you stifled your laugh while Kelsey walked to him to bat his hand away so that she could fix his bowtie.

“I look like a waiter.”

“You look like a handsome guy in a suit.”

“Handsome waiter in a suit.”

“Caleb,” Kelsey said patiently. “I will be Bucky’s shadow in that ballroom and running around the place on stilettos. I think you and your bowtie will be fine.”

“I can give you my shoes at the end of the night if you want,” Caleb said and Kelsey smiled at him.

“Not gonna turn down that offer, thank you.”

“Birdie?” Caleb turned to you and you winked at him.

“You look like a handsome PR manager in a suit.”

Caleb let out a breath and ran his hands through his hair.

“Anyone else feel like this is prom night?”

“I lost my virginity on prom night,” Kelsey mused, checking her phone and you raised your brows.

“Really?”

“Yeah, at the back of the limo my date rented.”

You grinned. “Classy. I’ve never had sex in a car.”

“You’re telling me Five Minutes Comma Max wasn’t adventurous?” Caleb teased you. “Shocker.”

“I should make a list or something.”

“A sex list?”

“Yeah for like places and stuff.”

“Uber is here,” Kelsey said and you grabbed your purse off the coffee table while Caleb rolled his shoulders back. “Ready?”

“Yep,” you said. “Let’s go to prom.”

This was not prom.

This was prom West Wing edition.

There were so many important people everywhere that you didn’t even know where to start. You could see your father talking to a senator at the corner of the ballroom, and the sight was enough to make your stomach do a nervous flip, but you cracked your knuckles, searching the room for—

Oh there he was.

It wasn’t like you expected him not to look good in a suit but this was another level. For a couple of seconds, you let yourself stare at him; your heartbeat getting faster while he gave a curt smile to something Hazel said, then made a face and shook his head, making her laugh.

Jesus, they really did make a hot couple.

Jealous burned at the pit of your stomach but you frowned to yourself, trying to focus. Kelsey made her way to him while Caleb walked to one of the journalists he knew, and you took a deep breath, then approached him.

Professional.

You were going to be just professional and get through tonight, and then go home where you could whine all you wanted.

“Good evening Mr. Barnes. Miss Brooks.” You offered a smile to her which she acknowledged with a nod, but you made sure not to look at Bucky, instead lowering your glances to your phone in your hand. “Mr. Barnes, I think it could be a good idea to talk Congressman Murray tonight about the veteran bill proposal once you get the chance. He has military background, he supports getting more financial support to veteran families especially after the Blip, and he has already contacted us for next week, so it could be the first step to breaking the ice. I sent you the main points of the latest bill he proposed a couple of months ago, so if you’d like to take a look, it could help.”

Silence.

You pulled your brows together and looked up from your phone to find him staring at you in awe, making your heart skip a beat. You could feel your cheeks burning but you shot him a quizzical look, which made him clear his throat, trying to pull himself together.

“Sorry, I zoned out,” he managed to say. “Can you repeat that?”

Oh this was not going to help this situation with Hazel.

She narrowed her eyes at him, looking between you while Kelsey bit back a smile, and you took a deep breath.

“Congressman Murray could help with the veteran bill, I sent you the details.”

“Ah,” he said. “Right, yeah. Which one is he?”

“That one.” Kelsey pointed at the man subtly and Bucky nodded like he was trying to focus.

“Okay.”

“I’d better go and see who else is here,” you said and walked away from them in a rush just so that you wouldn’t be alone with Hazel. You looked around and made your way to one of the waiters to grab a champagne flute from the tray he carried, then thanked him and took a huge sip of the champagne, closing your eyes for a moment.

Tonight was going to be a long night.

“Wow.”

You looked over your shoulder, then smiled at Lucas and turned to see him better.

“Hi.”

He let out a breath, eyeing you up and down. “You look amazing, Hurricane.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” you said, your smiling growing bigger. “Hey, how come you know my nickname and I don’t know yours?”

“Because I came to the Capitol before you.”

“Oh that’s how it works?”

“Mm hm,” he said solemnly. “Not to look like I’m pulling rank but…”

“But you are pulling rank?”

“But I am pulling rank,” he repeated with a nod of his head. “Sorry about that, but technically you’re a freshman and I’m a senior.”

“You’re a sophomore at best,” you deadpanned. “And in case you forgot, this freshman is helping you with that mess you call a draft.”

He let out a laugh. “Oh that’s how we’re gonna play this?”

You shrugged your shoulders, inspecting your nails nonchalantly. “Just saying.”

“I mean I wouldn’t call it helping,” he teased you back. “More like I’m showing you the ropes.”

You let out a hum, swirling your champagne in the glass.

“I’ve seen first graders with better text cohesion.”

“Ouch.” He grinned. “That hurt.”

“It shouldn’t,” you said calmly. “You know Lucas, there’s nothing wrong with being bad at things. We all have to start somewhere.”

“Is that right?”

“Mm hm,” you said. “For example, I was just like you when I was in college.”

“Oh, in college?”

“Lost…” You waved a hand in the air. “Clueless. Amateur. Poor in vocabulary.”

He made a face. “No you weren’t, you were the top of your class.”

You tilted your head. “And how would you know that?”

“I have my ways.” He motioned at you to keep going. “But back to dragging me.”

“Oh yeah,” you said. “And then I worked very hard and then…here we are. It might take you longer but you’ll get there.”

“We should’ve called you Viper instead of Hurricane.”

“That does sound more badass than Hurricane—” you started but Lucas’s eyes found someone over your shoulder, his smile wiping off his face immediately, and you frowned before you heard your father’s voice.

“Do you mind, Lucas?”

Lucas looked from your father to you, then shifted his weight and heaved a sigh.

“See you later, Hurricane.”

Your father gave you a small smile as Lucas walked away and you turned to glare at him.

“Dad,” you said through your teeth. “That wasn’t nice.”

“Let’s be serious here, you can do better than a glorified assistant.” He scoffed. “Would you like to dance?”

“I’m working.”

“Oh come on,” he said with a chuckle. “You used to throw fits whenever your mother and I took you to events if we didn’t have our father-daughter dance.”

“Well in my defense, I was like eight,” you replied, keeping your eyes on the people who were dancing in the ballroom. “And half of the government wasn’t in the room. And I wasn’t working.”

“And how is it going at work?” he asked. “I saw Barnes talking to Murray just now. Let me guess, they’ll work together on the veteran bill?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Yeah. And after Bucky is done talking to him, I’ll talk to Congressman Riley about our project for the education of children in low income families.”

“What’s next?” he asked. “We start handing out stacks of money on the street?”

“You have more than enough. Why not?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“At the risk of sounding like a hopeless idealist, I happen to think some of the government money should be used for people in need instead of your buddies buying yachts,” you snarked. “I know it’s a little difficult to understand it for you, the idea of helping people.”

“We do help people, you know.”

“Oh yeah, the world is a much better place with your help.” You snorted and raised your glass in a mock of toast. “They don’t thank you enough.”

“Pumpkin, you know how it goes,” he said. “Some win and some lose. Don’t blame me, I didn’t come up with the rules for this game.”

“No but you keep rigging it,” you growled through your teeth, looking him in the eye. “And for most people, dad, it’s not a game. A lot of people are in need of help. Real help.”

“And you want to be Robin Hood.”

“I want to make a difference in the world,” you insisted. “I’m going to—I’m going to help people—”

“Before or after going on a date with your boss?”

That made you shut up immediately and you pulled back a little, searching your mind for the right words.

“I already talked to mom about this,” you managed to say. “That’s just lies.”

He hummed and took a sip of his drink.

“I don’t appreciate getting my name dragged into tabloid gossip,” he said, his voice void of any emotion. “Any more than I appreciate seeing my daughter put herself in that situation.”

This—

Alright.

You could feel the familiar knots in your stomach, your throat tightening. This was exactly how it would go when you were little, your father’s voice turning into this, and the moment you opened your mouth to explain yourself, yelling would start. Panic was already giving you nausea but you managed to keep your expression flat before you downed your drink and put it on a tray a waiter was carrying just so that you could cross your arms to hide the trembling of your hands.

“I don’t control what the PR comes up with,” you pointed out. “And I didn’t put myself in any situation—”

“I’m not interested in excuses,” he cut you off, his voice low but stern. “I’m interested in solutions. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

With that, he walked away from you, leaving you there dumbfounded as you felt your breath hitching in your throat.

No.

This was not happening, not right now and especially not here.

You darted through the ballroom as subtly as you could without getting any attention on you, then stepped out into the hallway to rush to the bathroom. You slammed the door open, then ran to the nearest stool to throw up, pushing the button to flush it before you put the lid down, and sat on top of it.

Your hands were still shaking and you closed your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing under control.

This was just nonsense. You weren’t a child anymore, your father couldn’t yell at you without you yelling back, and there was no way he would’ve tried to yell at you surrounded by all those people in the ballroom but—

But the fear of disappointing him was still enough to make you throw up.

It took you almost half an hour to pull yourself together. You massaged your temples, willing the headache to disappear before you stepped out of the stool, then walked to the sink to keep your hands under the cold water.

The girl next to you gave you a sympathetic smile. “I hate these things too.”

“You have no idea,” you muttered. “Any chance you have mints?”

“Oh yeah, here.” She reached into her purse to pull out a pack of mints and you took one to pop it in your mouth.

“Thanks.”

“I’m Mel,” she said. “I work for Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.”

“CIA.” You whistled. “Badass. I work for Congressman Barnes.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh, I knew I’ve seen you somewhere, in that—”

She stopped herself mid-sentence and you heaved a sigh.

“That gossip piece, yeah.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude, sorry.”

“You weren’t rude,” you said. “No worries.”

Her phone buzzed in her hand and she checked it, then turned to you.

“Gotta go but it’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” you said and turned to check your makeup in the mirror, then grabbed a tissue to dab at your eyes.

“Get your shit together,” you muttered to yourself and threw the tissue into the garbage can, then walked out of the bathroom. You slowly made your way toward the ballroom but when you felt your throat tightening, you huffed out and turned the nearest corner to another empty hallway, then sat on the stairs.

Fine, you apparently needed more time.

You didn’t even have the energy to check your phone that kept buzzing because that meant you needed to go into the ballroom, so you kept it in your lap while you wrung your hands, then cracked your knuckles one by one. Counting in your head, you took a deep breath, and leaned your forehead on your knees to focus before you exhaled.

“Here you are.”

It was almost funny how with just his voice he managed to pull you out of the spiral of your thoughts. You could feel your lips pulling into a small smile and you took another breath, then lifted your head to look up at him.

He was way too handsome.

“You okay?” he asked, his blue eyes searching your face and you scoffed, waving a hand in the air.

“Drinking champagne on an empty stomach isn’t the best idea.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah,” you said. “Just gonna take five and then go back. How about you, why are you here?”

“I don’t really like the whole…” He motioned in the direction of the ballroom and you raised your brows.

“Socializing in order to manipulate people?”

“That and just—people,” he admitted, then nodded at the stair you were sitting on. “Got room for one more person in there?”

You scooted over and he sat down next to you, making you let out a giggle.

“You do know that we’re supposed to be in there working people?”

“It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

“Still,” you said. “I doubt many politicians or employees are hiding from the crowd sitting on a staircase.”

“Well, you’re the only person I actually want to sit with tonight,” he said with a shrug, as if that didn’t make your stomach flutter. “What’s your excuse?”

Focus.

“How did it go with Murray?”

“He wanted me to share stories.”

“From the front?”

He nodded and you scrunched up your nose. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it.”

You fell silent for a couple of seconds, then turned sideways to see him better, resting your chin on your fist.

“I wonder about that too sometimes, you know?”

He frowned. “The front?”

You shook your head. “Who you were back then. I mean I saw the footage with the Howling Commandoes and Steve Rogers, and you were…” You paused for a second and sat up straighter, grinning at him. “Tell me who you were.”

“You know who I was,” he said as if the answer was obvious and you shook your head again.

“I’m not asking about Sergeant Barnes, or the Winter Soldier,” you told him. “I’m asking about James Bucky Barnes before the war.”

He raised his brows like he hadn’t thought about that in a long time. You had seen that look on his face before, a mixture of curiosity and longing as he fell into silence, trying to dig up a memory that wasn’t full of trauma or bloodshed, a memory that was warm and pleasant and carefree.

“Well, things were difficult even before the war,” he started. “But I think I was happy. Me and Steve, we basically grew up together. My mother would always put a plate on the table for him on Sunday breakfast.”

A soft smile warmed your face. “That’s sweet of her.”

“We would get in trouble sometimes, which she hated,” he said. “Me and Steve, we once went to Rockaway Beach, and had to come back to Brooklyn on the back of a freezer truck.”

“Wait, why?”

He let out a chuckle. “Well, Steve spent our money on hot dogs, and I was trying to impress this girl, Dot.”

Your grin widened. “Ah?”

“So I spent 3 dollars trying to win a stuffed bear for her, which meant we had no money to go back, so we hitchhiked.”

You pulled out your phone.

“I need to check something, give me a second,” you said and quickly typed it into google, then gasped.

“3 dollars back then is— Bucky, you spent 70 dollars on a stuffed bear to impress a girl?” you exclaimed. “During Great Depression?”

“Mm hm.”

“Please tell me you did win the goddamn stuffed bear.”

“I did actually,” he said with a smirk. “And she was impressed, so money well spent.”

“So in your order of priorities,” you said, motioning with your hands, “impressing the girl was higher than going back to Brooklyn safe and sound? And comfortable?”

“Yeah, she was pretty.”

“And that’s enough reason?” You gawked at him. “She was pretty?”

He nodded his head. “Yeah. And she wanted the stuffed bear.”

You bit your lip to contain your smile and heaved a sigh, then leaned back to narrow your eyes at him playfully.

“I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

“That it wasn’t just a rumor. You really were a charming ladies’ man back then.”

He let out a noise of disagreement. “That’s not exactly…”

“Bucky, you looked like this.” You gestured at his face. “And I saw you in that footage, with Steve Rogers and The Howling Commandos. Come on, you were popular with women, it’s very obvious.”

That boyish smile pulled at his lips again. “Someone had to make sure Steve got a date, and double dates were all the rage back then.”

“Oh I’m sure you did all that for him.” You played along with a pout. “Of course. Did you use to dance as well?”

“I did, actually. Steve hated it, I didn’t mind.”

You hummed, fixing the silky skirts of your dress as you crossed your legs and he eyed you up and down, then leaned in so that you could hear his teasing tone.

“Do you wanna dance?”

That made your head whip around and you gawked at him before you snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, let’s go dance in the ballroom full of people we work with, and the media,” you said. “After that PR disaster? Terrible idea.”

“I didn’t say it had to be in the ballroom,” he said and stood up to offer you his hand, awakening butterflies in your stomach.

“Bucky…”

“It’s a waste of music if a pretty dame like you isn’t dancing to it darlin’,” he said with that old Brooklyn accent, a laugh spilling from your mouth before you scrunched up your face in embarrassment, then took his hand, a fire spreading from your fingers to your whole body.

“God, no wonder why Dot was impressed,” you said as he pulled you closer and wrapped his vibranium arm around your waist, smiling down at you.

“Is that right?”

It felt like your heart was trying to climb out of your chest and a giggle bloomed in your throat as he twirled you, then pulled you closer again.

“So this is James Bucky Barnes,” you mused. “I like him. I’d probably work for him back in the 1940s if he decided to get in politics.”

“He didn’t have any plans for politics, trust me.”

“Yeah well, it wouldn’t stop me. I’d talk him into it.”

That managed to coax a laugh out of him, the rare sound making you smile wide.

“I’d make him hire me,” you said. “Through Dot, by the way. Convince the wife and get the husband situation.”

He chuckled, shaking his head.

“Yeah I don’t think he would up with Dot.”

“Because he’s a ladies’ man?”

“Because he is an idiot,” he said softly as you both swayed with music. “He messed things up with her.”

Your eyes snapped up to his and you gulped.

“Beyond saving?”

“Feels that way.”

You scrunched up your nose. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Well, he backed himself into a corner,” he said, sadness etched on his handsome face. “Right person, wrong time.”

You could hardly hear him from the rush of blood in your ears, but you managed to shrug your shoulders, taking a deep breath.

“Maybe,” you said. “Or maybe it’s just another excuse for him to torture himself. I mean, time has to give him a break at some point, so they just need to find the corner their lines cross.”

A slow smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, but before he could say anything, you both heard the sound of heels on the marble floor and you pulled your hand from his, stepping out of his embrace even if your body urged you not to. You fixed your hair just so that you could keep your hands busy and Kelsey appeared at the corner, then pulled her brows together.

“Hi,” she said after a beat. “Bucky, Caleb was looking for you.”

Bucky nodded and turned to look at you. “Are you…?”

“I actually need to borrow her for a moment,” Kelsey said and you motioned at the ballroom.

“You go, I’ll be right there.”

Bucky walked past Kelsey to make his way into the ballroom and Kelsey approached you.

“Anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Long story,” you said. “I’ll tell you when we get home. Is everything okay in there?”

“I just saw Hazel leave,” she said. “Caleb thinks it’s an urgent business thing, she’s been here all week.”

“Does Bucky know?”

“That’s what Caleb wanted to ask him I think,” she said, linking her arm with yours. “Now come on. You can’t leave me alone with those assholes, and I think I’ve been flirting with a journalist so you need to tell me whether he’s hot or just tall.”

Apparently, Hazel had left without letting Bucky know, so he had left as well to make sure she was alright, which meant you and Kelsey and Caleb could go home.

“We should’ve stolen a champagne bottle or something,” Caleb said while he laid on the floor on his back and you played with the corner of the pillow you were sitting on.

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time we go to a gala. So the journalist, Kels?”

“He is kinda cute,” Kelsey said. “Like a puppy.”

“But he’s a journalist,” Caleb said. “I mean, can he be trusted?”

“Caleb, this is yet another instance we have to remind you that we work in politics,” you said, motioning between you. “Journalists think the same about us.”

“You work in politics, I work in communications.”

“Communications in politics.”

“That’s a detail though—” he started but was cut off when his phone started buzzing.

“At this hour?” Kelsey asked as Caleb sat up and answered the phone while you leaned in to hear what it was about.

“Hello? Yes, this is he.” Caleb said and listened to the other line, his eyes widening.

“What?” you whispered and he motioned at you to be silent, standing up to pace in the room. He ran his hand through his hair, letting out a breath.

“Uh, Mr. Barnes didn’t bring me up to speed I’m afraid,” he said, his gaze snapping to you before he mouthed ‘What the fuck’ and nodded as if the other person could see him. “Yeah that sounds like a great idea. Do you have my email address? Okay, great, I’ll check it out right now and get back to you, and we can put it out. Thank you, have a nice evening.”

He hung up and whirled on his heels to look at you and Kelsey.

“What the fuck?”

“What’s going on?”

“That was Hazel’s PR team.” He held up his phone. “They want to check in with me to see if their statement is in line with ours.”

“What statement?”

“Their break up statement.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you gawked at him, disbelief crashing down on you while you reached to hold Kelsey’s arm.

“What?”

“I—what happened while you two were in that hallway?” Caleb asked you and you shook your head.

“We just danced,” you insisted while his eyes darted on the lines on his screen. “I swear. We were dancing and joking about his past—”

“Right before Kelsey found you?”

“Yeah!”

Caleb gritted his teeth and turned to Kelsey.

“And you found them right after Hazel left?”

A look of realization dawned on Kelsey’s face. “…Yeah.”

“No that’s not related,” you insisted, jumping on your feet. “I would’ve noticed if she saw us, or Bucky would—”

“A bunch of people were coming and going to the hallway next to it, he easily could’ve chalked it up to anyone else passing there.”

Your heart was pounding in your head as you covered your mouth.

“Good news is, there’s literally nothing about you on this statement,” Caleb murmured, his attention on his phone. “And her team said nothing about it either—shit, did we have her sign an NDA?”

“Knowing Bucky? I doubt it,” Kelsey said while Caleb touched his screen, then put the phone to his ear.

“Bucky,” he said, making your head whip up. “Hey. Yeah she’s fine. Yeah, I’m fine too. Uh…so friendly reminder, you’re supposed to tell me if you broke up with your girlfriend so that I can put out a statement before her team calls me. Because—” Caleb threw his hand in the air in exasperation. “Because that’s how it works. No, forget what I said about the Bachelor. Did you have her sign anything?” Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you didn’t. Okay, I need you to tell me what happened in detail.”

You rushed to your room to change into a t-shirt and jeans as fast as you could, then stepped into the living room again.

“Are you going to Bucky’s place?” Kelsey whispered while Caleb kept pacing in the room, trying to convince Bucky that privacy didn’t exist in a situation like this, and you shook your head, making her frown.

“Then what—Birdie, no.” Her voice was stern as she realized what you were about to do. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“What hotel is she staying at, Kels?”

“You’re the last person she wants to see, you do realize that?”

“And I owe her an explanation, you know that,” you said. “There’s no way she is at Bucky’s place, so what hotel?”

Kelsey pulled out her phone with a sigh, then touched the screen for a minute before your phone vibrated.

“There, the location, and the room number,” she said. “Bucky went there the other day.”

“Thank you,” you said, grabbing your coat on your way to the door. “I’ll text you.”

With that, you slammed the door behind you and rushed outside, raising your hand for a taxi.

You knew Hazel didn’t want to see you.

You couldn’t even blame her. You had a pretty clear idea how that dance would look to an outsider, much less to her.

But you knew you had to explain yourself, and apologize.

You cracked your knuckles nervously as the elevator door opened, the door at the end of the hallway greeting you. Letting out a breath, you rolled your shoulders back and forced yourself to approach the door, then raised your fist to knock on it and stepped back, clasping your hands to stop the shaking.

Hazel scoffed a laugh when she opened the door.

“Oh this is gonna be fun,” she said, her voice calm despite her red-rimmed eyes. “Finished your dance?”

You closed your eyes for a second before you opened them.

“Miss Brooks, I’m really sorry,” you started, making her raise her brows as if she was amused. “I know how it looks like, but I swear to you nothing happened. I was feeling bad, that’s why I left the ballroom, but there’s nothing going on between us.”

“Yes there is.”

“No, I assure you—”

“Oh, you guys aren’t sleeping together.” Hazel waved a hand in the air. “But there is something between you. You know it, I know it, and Bucky also knows it even if he likes to pretend otherwise. He knew it throughout the time he was trying to make himself fall in love with me.”

You pulled back slightly, straining your mind to find the right thing to say.

“Miss Brooks—”

“I’m not going to say anything to the press,” she said. “So if that’s why you’re here, you can go away.”

You shook your head. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To apologize.”

Hazel held your gaze in hers as if she was trying to find any sign of dishonesty, then let out a breath.

“Listen, I’m going to show you this courtesy only because I’m not proud of how I treated you back in that bathroom,” she said. “I was still pretty angry, but blaming you makes no sense. That’s not the type of person I am, or the type of person I want to be.”

You wrung your hands, staring at her.

“I mean I asked him to fire you,” she said after a beat. “Not my proudest moment.”

“I get it,” you rasped out and she took a deep breath.

“And I hope you understand what I’m about to say doesn’t come from a place of hostility,” she said. “But from woman to woman? Don’t do it.”

Your eyes snapped up to hers, your throat tightening.

“You know how it goes,” she said, her voice almost sad. “You’ve seen how quick the public was to forgive him for everything. His PR was good but no PR is that good, they want to love him. The guy is a superhero, he could walk away from politics today and it wouldn’t make any difference. They will still love him.”

You sniffled and wiped your nose, nodding your head.

“So you know what will happen,” she said. “This is one of the rare things that hasn’t changed since the 40s, no matter what anyone says. He will be their hero, and you will be the whore.”

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, tears blurring your vision.

“I need you to understand that,” she told you. “Doesn’t matter if I like you or not, I wouldn’t wish it upon any woman. They will fucking tear you apart, and trust me, not even the big bad Winter Soldier can protect you from that.”

Don’t cry.

Do not cry.

“And he doesn’t even see it.” She scoffed a laugh. “But you do. You’re smart, something inside you has to be warning you against this. You know the moment he steps out with you, he will be throwing you to the wolves.”

Your hand shot up to wipe at your eyes and you nodded again, heaving a shaky sigh while she gave you an apologetic smile.

“Good luck,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”

She closed the door and you balled your hands into fists, digging your fingernails into your palms to focus on anything other than the tears falling from your eyes. You slowly made your way to the elevator to step in, watching the doors close.

And then you started sobbing.

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