#“𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 10－𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑟“

[whtwclf]

sᴜʙsᴘᴀᴄᴇ ᴛʀᴀɴsᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ : ．．．@fasciinating ．．．

𝙸𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢, 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚊𝚛. 𝙸𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚏 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 & 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎.  𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙴:

𝑤𝑎𝑟 𝑖𝑠 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑑

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚍, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗­𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚜, 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜. 

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛. 𝙰 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜.

𝚃𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 —

— 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 & 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚌;

𝑤𝑎𝑟 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑠

James’ uni­form dangled over the bed, ripped open by M’Benga, who had treated him on the shuttle ride over to their Star Fleet medic base. Clumps of his skin had peeled away, and what was left of it was translucent. He was in and out of consciousness, his eyes stabbing open for a few seconds, to roll and go closed again. “𝑪𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑹𝒐𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔,” M’Benga spoke low when he addressed Steve; a grave tone he’d taken that James had heard cloud the medic’s brittle voice two dozen times over “ — 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆.” James, ever a man who lived inside his own gallows humor, vied to rattle out some quip about not being too quick to stress out his Vulcan - some nonsense about how the stress will make his hair frizz. However, in place of dry humor came a sudden onset of a coppery flavor blooming up the back of his throat, followed with indecent haste by a well of blood pooling in his mouth; and just as quickly as he’d come into consciousness James slipped back into an inky black comatose. It would be quite a while longer before he would come back to the world of the waking [ several days, as it were ]. Be that as it may – without the exceedingly skilled hands ( often referred to as the best in the fleet ) of Lenoard McCoy it is exactly certain that James Buchanan Barnes would not have survived the massive radiation burns and poisoning spewed over fifty-three percent of his body in the way of a concussive blast from a nightmarish explosive that was newly developed between the Kree and Romulans. Moreover the force of the blast with which James had been hit was so hard that the skin of his abdomen burst open enough for his own innards to start sliding their way out of his body.  What would anyone, anywhere, do without the Good Doctor Bones? Fucking die holding their guts, as far as James could tell. Opening his eyes sent a blinding white light of the med bay searing into his retinas; sending an abrupt wave of nausea that had James clenching his eyes closed, breathing slowly to avoid dry heaving. The second attempt was better, a slow opening of each eye that revealed a fairly vacant med bay. James wondered if maybe it was sometime in the middle of the night, but before he could process much of anything else — a presence came into his peripheral. A handy little space iPad ( no one in Star Fleet got this or found it funny, but James was only going to stop saying it when Rogers stopped laughing ) neatly held in those beautifully made hands that, on those alone, James had lost many hours of his life.  He was happy to lose a few more moments to them. Raising a bandaged hand where the thumb was broken and the pinky burned so badly it was entirely bound, but the index, middle, and forefinger were well enough they could brush the smooth, always surprisingly soft, skin of the hand holding that nifty space tablet. They lingered there for as long as his strength and energy would allow, and even those cruelly brief moments of skin to skin was like water to a man on his last breath lost in the desert.  “𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚 𝑰 𝒅𝒊𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑰 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑺𝒆𝒆 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒃 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 — 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑴𝒄𝑪𝒐𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍,” the laugh wasn’t mirthless, but it was exhausted, and more breathy which then evolved into a few deep coughs.  James settled back onto his pillow summoning the eye strength to look upward and hold Spock’s gaze — wanting to tell him he missed, he loved him — that laying in a fox hole a whole world, universe and time from his own; he still thought of Spock endlessly and constantly.  But now the words jumbled in his throat and something hot pricked in his eyes. Finally he looked away to stare abjectly at the ceiling, blinking rapidly to right himself.  “𝑺𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒚,” because James always was — to everyone, for everything, but somehow — especially right now.

[whtwclf]

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 , 𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 his deathbed if not for the keen medical savvy of Bones, it was wild to James how so many could presume Vulcans – or at the very least Spock specifically – were somehow emotionally bankrupt. Emotions hung on Spock like ornaments to a tree, they just didn’t come in the way people – very specifically humans – anticipated or even understood. James did have an edge in that arena; a coded part of spycraft is learning the language of emotions – how to suppress them, use them to lie, hide a truth, cause pain. The otherside of the coin was knowing how to read them on the opposition with equal accuracy and fluency. A subtle art for a specific kind of warfare conducted on an entirely subliminal, even meta, theater. This was an art James Buchanan Barnes was conditioned by the most barbarous of methods and extremes to understand to perfection. It was an art he still had to make use of in the current war. Conversely, in moments like these that bloomed inside the pocket existence he held with Spock; it served as a tool with which he would use to observe art. Because that was what Spock often exhibited to James; 𝐴𝑅𝑇 𝐼𝑁 𝐴𝐵𝑆𝑂𝐿𝑈𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁.

The angular lines of his face that undulated only imperceptibly so or the slight and slow twinge in his left under-eye, faint drops or lifts appearing at the points of his mouth – vanishing as quickly as they came, but above all else was the entire commotion of feeling anyone could find swirling around in dark, earthy eyes looking back at them. It all was there in clear and present sight – a beautifully threaded tapestry of complex emotions disciplined to a unique extreme.

It just required someone to know what they were looking for, possess the patience to wait for it, and a wisdom stoic enough to know what lay exposed when presented.

James wouldn’t have called himself a wise man, but he would call himself a man in love; and while he didn’t believe that love could replace wisdom – he did believe it was the rhythm for the brain to follow so it can keep a harmonious beat with the heart, so together they might allow James to intuit and understand the soft and subtle mysteries of the man before him.

Love also has a habit of eschewing pragmatic threads of thought away; instead allowing a person to simply feel their way through a thing as opposed to thinking.

That moment had James feeling the tips of fingers against his wrist and he did nothing in the way of thinking or thought when his only three functional digits clumsily scrambled to lace themselves through the spaces of the Vulcan’s long, tapered fingers and clamp down firmly.

Something in that igniting spark of touch lent to a piercing ache in his chest that was the ghost of pining left on the field of a ruined planet, the screaming caution not to leave, a sudden and vivid rush of the night spent together knotted-up inside long limbs and hard breathing – it was sight without seeing and only feeling. The rapid succession of emotions felt to such high tiers they serve as a hallmark to navigate memory, and in so many memories that were false and manipulated, it was always a sense of feeling, something in the gut, that was a mile marker for truth.

𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 ; James loved him. He loved him in a way that felt irrevocable.

He wanted to say that. But he didn’t.

Instead he took in a very sharp breath and leveled his eyes to fall on Spock’s, “– 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒑𝒐𝒄𝒌 ,” he couldn’t hide the warmth that layered around his words like honey, “ 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒎 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒊𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆 .”

There was a smile there that walked somewhere between cheshire and wolf, trying to mask the subtext of solemness that was inherent to his sentiment.

“ 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒖𝒙𝒖𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓; 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 [ 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ] 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 ,” it was worth mentioning the lazarus-like vigor of James B. Barnes’ charm.

Even in his own depreciation, he still had time to flirt with his Vulcan.

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝’𝚍 𝚠/ @fasciinating 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎